Outline for Murder

by Anthony J. Pucci

  Ever since that phone conversation with Lieutenant Hodge, Bishop found himself returning to that nagging question of motive. From his extensive readings in literature, which is as Shakespeare put it, “a mirror” of nature, a motive for murder usually involved love, hate, revenge, greed, anger, or jealousy. Greed. Don’t they say that money is the root of all evil? How did Zappala get that kind of money? It certainly was possible that he could have acquired it through careful saving and frugal living. Yet, there were his expensive cars and those regular trips to Atlantic City. His Holy Trinity salary certainly covered basic expenses. Although no one at school knew of his wealth, his family knew that he had more than enough to help them save the bakery. Bishop couldn’t believe that he was a Mafia hit man or that he was dealing drugs. His drug of choice had been alcohol. He realized that as his executor, he was going to get to know Albert C. Zappala much better after his death than he had ever known him in life. It was a good example of situational irony, but not one that he planned to share with his students.

  Was it possible that Zappala had a jilted lover? From everything that Bishop had heard, Zappala treated women as second-class citizens. They were there to be used, not loved and respected. Who might have been hurt or angered enough to kill? Chris Delaney might have been incensed by his benching, but he was an unlikely suspect. Delaney’s parents were also furious with the coach for jeopardizing their son’s chances for an athletic scholarship. One or both of them might have sought revenge for their economic loss, although Chris’s chances of receiving a free ride for college were still good. Rocco might have wanted the money to save the family bakery, but he was in Connecticut when the murder took place. Bishop didn’t know Russ Chandler and Doug Sanders very well at all, since neither of them actually taught at Trinity. It was evident that they both badly wanted the Zappala’s job, but would either of them be willing to kill to get it?

  Bishop’s tea had gone cold while he entertained these fragments of possibilities. He hoped that the trail that would lead Hodge to the killer had not gone cold as well.

  ***

  Bishop decided that he really needed to put in a few solid hours on his papers. He opened several windows to let in the refreshingly crisp air, settled in at his desk, and pulled out a number of folders. There was an unfinished set of Moby Dick essays that took priority over all the rest. Normally, students were clamoring for results before the ink was dry, but no one had asked him about those essays. They probably figured that he had been too busy to grade them or perhaps, their thoughts were understandably elsewhere.

  He took a moment to look through the papers trying to recall each one that he had graded sporadically over the last week. He preferred to read an entire class set of papers within a day or two so that he could establish and maintain a consistent and fair grading rubric. He reread Colleen Snyder’s paper on Ahab as a tragic hero. It was beautifully written, well organized, detailed, and convincing. Colleen was a gifted writer to be able to accomplish all that she did within the class period allowed for writing. He had been pleased to give her an “A” and was looking forward to her reaction when he returned papers to the class. Chris Delaney’s paper was the next one to capture his attention. Chris had written about the internal conflict faced by Starbuck, the first mate in the novel. Starbuck understood that Ahab’s monomania would lead to the destruction of the ship and its crew. He had challenged Ahab’s authority and then backed down in awe, and perhaps fear, of the great Ahab. Chris argued in his paper that Starbuck would have been justified in shooting Ahab in order to save himself and the rest of the crew. Bishop recalled that Chris had also made this point rather vigorously in class discussion. Ahab was asleep in his cabin as Starbuck contemplated shooting him through the wall rather than confronting him directly. Ultimately, Starbuck decided that he could not commit this murder, and in doing so, he sealed his own fate. Ahab would ultimately be responsible for the loss of the crew (minus Ishmael, of course). Suddenly, the veteran English teacher felt flushed as that disturbing thought came up again. Could Chris have been so upset with his coach for benching him, and for jeopardizing his chances with the scouts in attendance at that game, that he would have killed him? It seemed ridiculous; Chris wasn’t a coldblooded murderer. For some reason, he could not get such thoughts out of his mind. One phone call from Lieutenant Hodge, and Bishop had become a reluctant sleuth.

  ***

  Bishop found it hard to concentrate on the Sunday paper the next morning. Again, his tea went cold as he was absorbed in the articles concerning the murder of the coach. For a small town such as Groveland, this story was understandably big, big, news. The police had no comment on the progress of their investigation into the murder. They said they had been given a number of anonymous tips and that each one would be examined. There were rumors that the coach had left ten million dollars to the school. The dollar amount was way off, but the idea of a bequest was accurate. Did Sister Ann know that Zappala had included Holy Trinity in his will? Was it ludicrous to consider a nun as a murder suspect? Her school did stand to gain a sizeable amount of money just as they faced some difficult financial decisions. If not Sister Ann, might greed have overcome her ever-faithful companion, Sister Pat? He envisioned Sister Pat Meehan, known among the students as “Sister Meany,” being led out of the school in handcuffs as the students cheered. Bishop tried to reign in his overactive imagination. Another article mentioned that he had been named executor of the estate. This was one of those instances when he was glad that he had always been very judicious in giving out his cell phone number. Then he remembered that his number was listed in the faculty directory which meant that, in reality, his number was readily available to the entire staff. After all, Lieutenant Hodge didn’t seem to have had any difficulty getting it. Determined to have some quiet for at least this Sunday morning, he reached for his phone and switched it off.

  Chapter 9

  Just as he was about to leave for school the next morning, his cell began vibrating. He had decided not to answer, but when he saw that the caller was Stephanie, he picked up before it went to voice mail.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mike. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I need your help.”

  “What’s the problem?” asked Bishop with a tone of genuine concern.

  “My car won’t start.” Her frustration was obvious. “If it were the battery, I could probably ask a neighbor to give it a jump, but that battery is only a couple of months old. I think it might be the starter.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Well, I have a towing service, but by the time they get here, I’ll be late for class. I was hoping you could swing by here and give me a ride to school.”

  “Sure, no problem,” he said. He wanted to tell her to call Ron Jennings instead, but it wasn’t the right moment to play matchmaker. “But that still leaves you with a car you can’t start.”

  “I’ve already asked my landlady, Henrietta, if she wouldn’t mind giving the key to the tow truck driver when he arrives.”

  “Good enough. Where exactly do you live?”

  “I’m on the Westside. It’s 103 Glendale, off of Lowell Street.”

  “Okay. I should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Great. Just toot your horn when you get here. Thanks so much!”

  Bishop had no problem finding the house, but after sounding his horn a couple of times, Stephanie was nowhere to be seen. He kept the engine running and hopped out of his car. He rang the bell at 103 Glendale. Located on a quiet road, the house was a well maintained two-story with pale yellow siding and green shutters. A long driveway led to a single-car garage near the rear of the small city lot. When a well-dressed elderly woman with white hair and half glasses hanging from a thin chain around her neck, answered the door, he stammered, “I’m terribly sorry. I must have the wrong house. I was looking for Stephanie Harris.”

  “Sorry. What did you say?” As she cupped her hand to her ear, Bishop remembered that Steph had told
him about her landlady being somewhat deaf. He increased the volume as he repeated his request, and suddenly, the old woman smiled. “You must be Mr. Bishop. Stephanie told me that you were giving her a ride this morning.”

  “Yes, that’s right. And you must be Henrietta Avery.” He extended his hand to her. “Nice to meet you. Do you know where Stephanie is?” Henrietta explained that the entrance to Stephanie’s apartment was actually on the side of the house. As he walked to that entrance, Steph opened the door before he had a chance to ring the bell. “Sorry. I thought I would be ready before you got here.”

  “That’s okay, but we better get a move on before we’re both late!” Thoughts of getting stopped for a speeding ticket on the way to school surfaced again, and having Stephanie in the car would only provide that much more fodder for everyone.

  As Bishop drove, they engaged in some idle chitchat. Still bothered by Chris Delaney’s essay and his overactive imagination, he decided to share his thoughts with Stephanie so that she would tell him how foolish his theory was. He felt that he could tell her this in confidence, and he really did want another opinion. He was jumping to conclusions that were totally unwarranted, wasn’t he? Steph immediately felt that Chris could not have committed such a crime.

  “How could you think such a thing about Chris? He seems like such a nice young man. You’re going to accuse him of murder on the basis of a paper he wrote for class?”

  “No, no, of course not. I don’t know why I even mentioned it. Certainly, his thoughts on a novel we discussed in class are just that – thoughts on a novel. I guess I was just reading too much into it. I tend to see too many connections between literature and life.”

  She suggested that being overtired and stressed could explain his flawed thought process. “You know, I was observing your class that day. I remember Chris suggesting that Starbuck should have killed Ahab to save the ship and the crew. However, I also recall that several other students also made the same argument. Are they suspects, too?”

  “No, of course not. You’re right, I’m sure.” Still, Bishop noted to himself that none of the other students were counting on a football scholarship to a Division I school and none had been benched by Coach Zappala. And then he remembered the anger and disappointment of Hamlet when he realizes that “one may smile and smile and be a villain.” He decided to keep that observation to himself.

  As he pulled into the faculty parking lot, he knew that they had just enough time to get in the door before the first bell rang. They hurriedly gathered their bags and rushed into the building to be greeted by Sister Pat.

  “Well, well, well. I’m so glad you could make it,” she remarked, putting emphasis on each word, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “You have exactly one minute to get to your homerooms. Those kids shouldn’t be hanging out in the halls.” It occurred to him that if she were that concerned about the students, she might have managed to get herself up the stairs and open the doors herself. He knew that it was best to say nothing. He hoped that Stephanie would also refrain from making a comment at such an insensitive greeting. Even the kids knew that “Sister Meany” was much better at creating a scene than she was at actually trying to solve a problem.

  Between classes, Steph stuck her head in the door of his classroom. “Mike, I need another favor,” she said sheepishly.

  “What is it?”

  “I called the repair shop and they said that they didn’t have another starter on hand and that my car won’t be ready until tomorrow. Would it be possible for you to give me a ride home tonight?” Before he could answer, she added, “And another ride to school tomorrow morning?”

  “Just as long as we get here way before that bell. I don’t want to give Sister Pat another reason to make a comment.” Stephanie shook her head in understanding exactly what he meant.

  “That was a rude way to be greeted, wasn’t it? How did a person like that ever become an administrator?”

  “Steph, I have to say that I have asked myself that question many times, and I have yet to come up with a good answer,” he said as the first students of his next class began to arrive.

  ***

  His day at school was uneventful, but to say that it was like any other day would not have been accurate. Dealing with over one hundred students, Bishop found that no two days were ever alike. When he checked his mailbox at the end of the day, a small pink slip was on the top of the stack. That meant that he had a phone message. That also meant that Terry, the office secretary, knew who had called. If she happened to mention the caller’s name to Sarah, half of the faculty already knew that he had received a call from Maria Santorini asking him to return the call as soon as possible. He decided to do just that.

  “Bishop. My son, Rocco, tells me that you have control of the money left by my bruddah-that-bastard-may-he-rot-in-hell Al.” She was wheezing a bit by the time she finished that sentence.

  Ignoring her unsettling characterization of Zappala, he replied, “I am the executor of your brother’s estate, Mrs. Santorini. What can I do for you?”

  “What can you do for me? You can give me da money my bruddah had, that’s what you can do for me.”

  “Mrs. Santorini, I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’m sure that Rocco explained to you that you were left fifty thousand dollars and no more,” offered Bishop in as pleasant a tone as he could muster. “If you want my opinion, your son must have had some reason to specify that amount.”

  “Well, I’ma not want you ‘pinion,” she screamed. “That’s shit is what it is. Is not enough to save my bakery. I waste my money to send Rocco ova dehr.”

  “I’m very sorry but there is nothing I can do.”

  “Yes, there is,” insisted the old woman.

  “What is that?”

  “I’ma want dat money now, unnerstan’? I want you send it right away.”

  “Mrs. Santorini, I’m sure that Rocco explained to you that I can’t do that. The will has to go through probate. All of your brother’s assets have to be liquidated. All of his debts must be paid. Only then will I be able to distribute money to the beneficiaries. I’m sorry, but that is the law.”

  Mrs. Santorini told him what he could do with the law and hung up.

  ***

  When Bishop and Stephanie pulled into her driveway on Glendale Road, it was after four, and there was a chill in the air on this mid-fall evening. On the way over, he told Stephanie that he wouldn’t be able to give her a ride the next morning. He remembered that he had agreed to an early meeting with Zappala’s attorney to discuss some estate business. “Why don’t you ask Ron Jennings for a ride? He doesn’t live too far from here, and I’m sure he’d be glad to do it.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks for the suggestion,” she replied. Bishop noticed Henrietta Avery standing to the side of her front window with the curtain slightly pulled back. Apparently, Henrietta had a lot of time on her hands and paid close attention to the comings and goings of her tenant. Stephanie asked Bishop if he wanted to come up for a cup of hot tea. He declined, citing the need to get home and finish his preparations for tomorrow’s classes. She admitted that she really did need the time to do the same. As he drove off, he congratulated himself on his quick thinking. He would have to remember to call Andy White as soon as he got home to arrange that early morning meeting for tomorrow. “Ron Jennings, you owe me big time,” he chuckled to himself with satisfaction.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning Ron and Stephanie arrived at Holy Trinity well ahead of most of the other faculty. Steph had shared with Ron the encounter that she and Bishop had had with Sister Pat the previous morning. They were both relieved that Sister Pat was not at the door ready to pounce with some obnoxious remark.

  When Bishop walked in forty-five minutes later, he was certain that Sister Pat would be in her office working on her second breakfast and scanning the feeds from the numerous security cameras place around the campus, looking for some infraction. He wondered if that duty was actually written into her
job description. For that matter, he wondered if her job description even existed.

  “Wait a minute!” he said out loud to no one in particular. When several students stopped in their tracks, he quickly motioned for them to move along. Sister Pat constantly watched those video feeds. Was it possible that she had seen the killer before the tapes had been erased? Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Was his age catching up with him? Was he simply unaccustomed to thinking like a detective? He made a mental note to have Lieutenant Hodge question Sister Pat regarding the tapes.

  Of course, if she or Sister Ann had been the one who removed the cyanide from the storeroom, she wouldn’t be much help. She might even intentionally cast suspicion on someone else. He could almost hear her telling Hodge that she remembered seeing Mr. Bishop in that area and wondering what he was doing. If Sister Pat was a quick thinker, he could easily become a “person of interest” again. When he considered the probability that she was a quick thinker, he began to breathe easier.

  When he arrived at the copy room, a small room that housed the only copier the teachers were allowed to use as well as the faculty mailboxes, it was, as usual, a scene of controlled chaos. Some teachers were queued up for the copier, and there was some trading of positions based on whose need had greatest priority. Early on in the semester, Bishop always advised new teachers to make whatever copies they needed a day in advance in order to avoid the mad scramble for the copier at the last moment. Just then, there was a collective groan as Mary Nickerson had a paper jam. Bishop quickly removed from his mailbox another pink slip that must have been placed there either late the afternoon before or early that morning. He hoped that Mrs. Santorini had not called again.