“Like a witness protection program?”
“Well, I don’t think that you are going to need protection. What you’ve heard might not have any bearing on the investigation at all. But let’s let the Lieutenant hear what you have to say. He’ll take it from there.”
The lunch period was ending and everyone was getting ready to move. Aaron seemed to be frozen in place. He was obviously wondering whether he should have kept what he had heard to himself.
Bishop looked directly into Aaron’s troubled eyes, “Aaron. You did the right thing. Don’t worry about it. It’s probably nothing, okay?”
Aaron agreed to meet him in his homeroom after school as long as Bishop cleared it with Coach Chandler that it would be okay for him to be late for practice. Aaron seemed even more afraid of the consequences of missing practice without permission than he was of his impending interview with the police.
***
In the cafeteria, students from the same class tended to sit together. A freshman would not be allowed to sit with the seniors unless the freshman was a particularly cute girl or a geeky boy who didn’t understand the difference between laughing with others and being laughed at.
In some ways, seating arrangements in the faculty room were similar. Male teachers generally sat together, talking sports, and female teachers sat together, talking about the students, their own kids, or shopping. All that changed, however, if Sister Ann or Sister Patricia — or both as usually was the case — were in the room. In that event, most teachers were more interested in eating their lunch and getting out of there as quickly as possible. The preferred seating was as far as possible from Sister Pat who considered all meals serious business. Her girth suggested that some serious health issues were in her future, but nothing stopped her from inhaling whatever was on her plate. Whatever comments she made were usually made at someone else’s expense. Even Sister Ann was not immune to her friend’s caustic remarks.
Therefore, it was a great relief for Bishop to find that the only occupant of the faculty room as he entered that day was Sister Pascala.
“How are you, Sister?” asked Bishop as he took a seat across from her and opened his lunch bag containing his usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“I should be asking the same of you. I haven’t had much of a chance to talk with you these last few weeks. It must have been awful to walk into a murder scene.”
“Well, I didn’t know it was a murder scene at the time,” he explained, thinking to himself what he might have done differently had he actually known that then. “But it was still quite a shock.” Sister Pascala, Trinity’s version of a curmudgeon, was pushing her macaroni and cheese from one side of the plate to the other. The only other item on her tray was a small container of milk. She looked as if she had lost a few pounds recently which was more noticeable in someone of her petite stature. She reached up several times to adjust the way her rimless glasses rested on her nose. It seemed to Bishop that she, like Aaron moments earlier, was debating whether or not to tell him something.
“Sister, are you feeling all right? You’ve hardly touched your lunch.”
“Oh, Michael!” she said as she sighed deeply. “I feel like such a fool!” Bishop was startled by her obvious distress. Admitting mistakes was not exactly ingrained in her genetic code.
“Why? What happened?”
“I keep thinking that if I hadn’t kept that cyanide in my lab, Albert Zappala might still be alive today.”
It was hard not to feel compassion for this crusty, old veteran whose aura of invincibility had been shattered by her sense of guilt. Bishop tried to find the words to put her conscience at ease. He told her that she was being unreasonable in blaming herself. She had kept the cyanide in a locked cabinet, and the lab storeroom also was locked. Even if the cyanide had not been there, if someone was intent on harming Zappala, that person would have found another way to do so. Nothing that he said seemed to have the desired effect.
Since no one else had yet come in for lunch, she continued to explain the source of her agony. “You don’t understand. Yes, anyone with a classroom key could open that storeroom, but I was the one who practically put the poison in that person’s hands.” As she said this, her lips quivered as did her voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you ever been in that storeroom?”
Bishop had to admit that in his forty plus years at the school he had never had occasion to do so. “That’s just the point, don’t you see? I’m the one who goes in there most often, and half the time I couldn’t find the key to that cabinet, so I decided to place the key on a little hook right next to the cabinet. I practically put the poison in the hands of the murderer!” As she said that, she pounded the table with both of her fists, making the tray jounce.
“Sister, that’s nonsense, and you know it. No one could have anticipated that outcome. You’re being much too hard on yourself.”
“And I worry that whoever it is might use that poison again.” Her eyes became moist with suppressed tears.
“I don’t think that you need to worry about that. I’m fairly certain that we don’t have a serial killer on the loose. Zappala was clearly the target. The man had a lot of money and a lot of enemies. As the one who found the body and as the executor of the estate, I’ve been pulled into this situation more deeply than I would have imagined. I can tell you, in confidence, that I am doing whatever I can to help Lieutenant Hodge find the person responsible. And that certainly isn’t you.”
“Oh, Michael, thank you, thank you!” Allowing the old nun to vent her concerns was a gift that she deeply appreciated. “You’re a good man. I hope that you find the truth.”
“I’ll certainly do what I can, but don’t expect miracles. After all, I’m only a Bishop.” With that line, Sister Pascala smiled, squeezed his hand gently, picked up her tray with its unfinished contents, and left the lunchroom.
***
As soon as his last class of the day ended, Bishop rushed to the main hallway, dodging students looking at their phones, and hefty backpacks being swung over shoulders as students rushed out for their rides. He was appalled at the amount of time these young people spent looking at those screens. A few years earlier, he had given in and purchased a smart phone for himself, but he still preferred actually talking with someone in person as opposed to texting.
He had to find Russ Chandler and he guessed that he might be hanging around as the final bell rang, waiting for his players to make their way to practice. The word from some of the players was that the newly appointed head coach was so intent on trying to prove that he was as good as Zappala if not better, that he was pushing the kids too hard. Some had even talked of quitting the program for next season. Practices were longer, and the hitting was punishing. Anyone who was late for practice ran laps to the point of collapse. Apparently, he didn’t realize that such tactics would doom his chances for success. No one claimed that he had been a Rhodes scholar.
Russ was standing in the middle of the hallway with a clipboard in his hands. He was wearing sweat pants, and a tee shirt that emphasized the results of his hard work in the gym. He was chewing gum so forcefully that the pencil he had tucked behind his right ear moved to the rhythm of his chewing. “Hey, Russ. Got a minute?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” Bishop noted that Russ could talk and chew gum at the same time, but kept that observation to himself.
“I need you to excuse Aaron from the first half hour or so of practice tonight.”
“Look, we’re preparing for the final game of the season. What do you need him for?”
Bishop couldn’t tell him the truth and hadn’t thought out an explanation. He hadn’t anticipated resistance. He had to think fast and be convincing.
“I have my suspicions that Aaron plagiarized part of his paper on Mark Twain. If he can’t convince me that it was entirely unintentional, he may be lost to your team for a lot more than a half hour.” He surprised himself with the ease with which he had
lied.
“Okay, but keep it as short as possible, hear?” Russ’s confrontational tone seemed to melt away. Bishop thought that the reference to plagiarism might have sparked a painful memory from Russ’s own educational journey. He made a mental note to be sure to find Russ the next day to explain that he had been mistaken about the charges of plagiarism against Aaron.
“By the way, congratulations on being named head coach.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I hear that you have a new assistant. What happened to Doug?”
“He was pissed that he didn’t get the head job, so he quit.”
“That’s too bad. He seemed like a good guy,” offered Bishop. He had hoped to nudge Russ into further comment, but his silence told him otherwise. He couldn’t help wondering how far Russ might go if he were ‘pissed’ badly enough.
“I’ll send Aaron to practice as soon as I can.” As he began to walk away, he added, “And good luck with the game this weekend.” Russ didn’t bother to respond, but his pencil moved up and down.
***
When Bishop returned to his homeroom, Aaron was in a front row seat doing some math homework. After closing the door, Bishop used his cell phone to call Lieutenant Hodge. He briefly explained that a student had approached him earlier in the day with some information regarding the Delaneys and Coach Zappala. He then gave the phone to Aaron. “Tell the Lieutenant what you told me in the cafeteria.”
The conversation between Aaron and Hodge took less than three minutes. Aaron told the Lieutenant exactly what he had told Bishop earlier that day. Hodge mostly listened, but must have asked for a few quick clarifications that Aaron provided. When he was finished, he gave the phone back to Bishop. “He wants a word with you.”
“Okay. Thanks. You can head down to practice now. I cleared it with your coach.” Aaron breathed a sigh of relief. Bishop wondered whether it was relief that the conversation was over, relief that he had told the authorities what he felt obligated to tell, or relief that he would be able to get to practice without getting laps for being late.
After Aaron had closed the door, Bishop asked Hodge, “Well, what did you think?”
Hodge replied that Aaron’s account of Mr. Delaney’s encounter with the coach was accurate. In fact, his own investigation had already led him to talk with Mr. Delaney. It seems that a number of other people had heard similar remarks. Hodge was convinced it was nothing more than talk. Delaney had been very cooperative and apologetic. He just wanted his son to be treated fairly. “That scholarship means a lot to them. Otherwise, they can’t afford to send Chris to college.”
“I see,” said Bishop, not convinced by Mr. Delaney’s words of contrition. He had had more kids than he could count pull that act on him over the years. He then switched topics. “Did you have a chance to question Sister Pat about the tapes?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. What a piece of work she is!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, this is just between us, but she became very defensive, almost belligerent. She claimed that she was much too busy to pay anything more than cursory attention to the security cameras, and that she never saw anything unusual in the lab area. She actually accused me of accusing her of withholding information.”
“I should have warned you that overreacting was in her DNA.” He thought Gertrude’s response when Hamlet questions her innocence: “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
Before he ended the call, Hodge added, “And by the way, you know you were right about Rocco Santorini.”
“In what way?”
“I called a Detective Scalera in Connecticut, and asked him to see what he could find out about Rocco. As luck would have it, a number of officers frequent that bakery. Rocco practically lives there, but the officers say that they remember Rocco was noticeably absent for about a week around the time of Zappala’s murder.”
Did that mean that Rocco might have been in Groveland before he showed up for the funeral? From his brief encounters with him, Rocco struck Bishop as a man with a volatile temper. Might he have killed his uncle in an attempt to save the family business? Even if he had been in town at the time of the murder, how would he have gotten the cyanide? Could he have had an accomplice? After thanking the Lieutenant, he ended the call and packed up the books and folders that he needed to take home that night.
Chapter 12
With the sun setting earlier and earlier, Bishop decided to use the fireplace in his living room for the first time that season. It took only a few minutes to feel the warmth of the crackling fire. Staring into the flames, he was thought of how much Grace enjoyed sitting by the fire with a good book. It was moments like this that reminded him of how much he missed her.
He had been able to catch up on his grading, so he decided to take advantage of this time to examine the contents of one of the boxes that Andy White had given him. This box had originally held a ream of multipurpose printer paper that Zappala had probably salvaged from the copy room at school. Bishop often did the same thing, although in his case, instead of storage, the box served as a makeshift podium. He simply placed the box on a desk in the front row and placed his book on the box. That served a dual purpose: one, it brought him much closer to the students, and two, it enabled him to refer to his book at a distance he could manage comfortably with his bifocals.
The box in front of him had a bit of a musty odor having been stored in a closet. Zappala had not placed any identifying marks to indicate the nature of the contents. As he flipped open the top, he found the contents in a jumble. Reaching in, he pulled a fistful of papers out and began skimming through them. Zappala had attended a football clinic at Penn State University and had kept an itinerary for the event and a certificate of attendance. There were a bunch of handouts with such titles as “Seven Strategies for Success” and “Concussion Protocols.” He must have been bored by some of the presentations as his notes contained a lot of doodling. He had written out and highlighted a quote by Vince Lombardi, “You never win a game unless you beat the guy in front of you. The score on the board doesn’t mean a thing. That’s for the fans. You’ve got to win the war with the man in front of you. You’ve got to get your man.”
Lombardi was undoubtedly one of the greatest coaches in the history of the NFL. Bishop was certain that Lombardi had used those words to motivate his players to play their best. Could the same be said for Zappala? How many times had he won the war? It didn’t matter. The words lingered in Bishop’s thoughts, “You’ve got to get your man.” Someone finally did. If he could figure out why it was done, he would know who had done it.
After putting all of the papers back in the box, he put the lid back on, and set it aside. He placed another log on the fire, causing a burst of embers to escape up the chimney, taking with them his frustration.
Just then his cell phone rang. It was Ron Jennings.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” asked Ron, obviously hoping that he had not.
“No. Not at all. What’s up?”
Ron was speaking a little faster than he normally did, reflecting his excitement over the news he wanted to share. First, he wanted to thank Michael again for setting him up to give Stephanie that ride to school. It seems that that was just the jumpstart that he had needed. Bishop realized that he hadn’t had much of an opportunity to speak to Ron privately. Even when they happened to see each other in the halls and stopped to chat for a few minutes, there was inevitably a student or teacher or an open classroom door within earshot keeping any exchange to the most mundane pleasantries. Ron had met Stephanie after school for a coffee at the Bean Tree. He had also asked her if she would accompany him to the Halloween dance and she had readily agreed.
“Ron, I’m really happy for you. Steph seems like a very nice young lady.”
After giving Ron a chance to extol all of her wonderful qualities, Bishop decided to steer the conversation in the direction of the Zappala investigation as he had come to label the thoughts th
at consumed more and more of his time. “Ron, do you remember the question Mary Nickerson asked Lieutenant Hodge at that faculty meeting?”
“Who can forget the questions that that woman comes up with,” he said with a laugh, “although asking about the tapes from the cameras was a good question.” He paused, then added, “for a change.”
“I’ve been wondering about the security cameras for the outside entrances,” said Bishop as he sought a way to confirm a theory that he had developed. “Do you know if those cameras work on the same 72-hour loop?”
“Those cameras were installed earlier, I’m afraid. They run on a 24-hour loop. Why do you ask?”
“Well, it’s possible someone outside of the school population walked into the building, used the signs to find the science labs, found the storeroom unlocked, and walked out with a murder weapon.” Ron listened as his friend played out this scenario.
“Unless the person drew attention to himself in some way,” Bishop theorized, “most of us would simply assume that the individual was a parent or had some business at the school.” It was true that if someone looked lost, most of the students and staff would certainly ask if they could be of assistance, but what if they acted as if they belonged?
“Maybe now the Board will decide to provide the funding for a buzzer system at the main entrance,” Ron said sarcastically. It was a sensitive topic with some of the faculty who had been asking for some sort of security system at Holy Trinity given recent national tragedies. Bishop had been one of the most vocal advocates for such a safety precaution. He recalled the way Sister Pat had put the idea down. “This is Groveland,” putting exaggerated emphasis on each word. “Nothing like that is going to happen here,” she stated with the certainty that only revealed how clueless she really was.
“You know, Ron, there is some question as to when Rocco Santorini first arrived in town. He could have very easily walked right into our building with the pretext of looking for his uncle if he were questioned.”
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