Then there was the fact that Doug had been carrying a large amount of cash, the source of which was a mystery since he hadn’t had a substantial paycheck in months. Just as he was about to take the first bite of that submarine sandwich, Bishop remembered something. When he had looked at Zappala’s checkbook register, he had noticed that the coach made rather regular cash withdrawals of $2,000 and sometimes $3,000. He had always assumed that that was Zappala’s gambling money. But what if it wasn’t? What if Zappala was giving the money to someone? Or paying someone off? But who? And why? If he were paying Sanders off, why would Sanders kill him and stop the gravy train? Could Sanders have been there that night asking for more? Had Zappala threatened to stop payments? And then he remembered the cash withdrawal for $25,000 made about three years earlier. Who or what was “HJ”? That was something he hoped to learn on his upcoming visit to Madison.
Chapter 18
The next day Bishop and Stephanie pulled into the faculty parking lot at the same time. Since they both preferred to get to school early, most of the faculty had yet to arrive. If the usual pattern held, to the great annoyance of Sister Pat, the keeper of the gate, a good number of the teachers would arrive within a minute or two of the first bell. They would each receive a frosty glare from her as they arrived. She saved her wrath for the unfortunate soul who might have been stuck behind a school bus, thus arriving after the first bell.
Steph gathered all of her belongings and hopped out of the car with youthful energy. She greeted Bishop warmly, and made a comment about the cold morning temperatures that were becoming the norm. She was wearing a light blue sweater, charcoal gray pants, and an unzipped jean jacket. She slung the strap of a large carryall bag over her right shoulder, followed by her book bag slung over her left shoulder, and her handbag on the right. Her walk was a bit charliechaplinesque as she made her way to the entrance. She chatted about the weather as if her appearance as Catwoman and the incident with Connie Goldblatt had both been erased from her memory. Bishop knew that the ability to let such matters go was essential in the teaching profession, and he had no plans to mention either of those events to her. However, he did want to question her about something else that had been bothering him for a few days.
After checking their mail, they both headed upstairs to their rooms. Some students who were unlucky enough to ride an early bus were already in the halls. Some were seated on the floor making a desperate attempt to complete last night’s assignments or cramming for a test. Others were just wandering around looking for someone to talk to. After getting settled in his room, Bishop went across the hall to talk to Stephanie. She seemed a bit surprised to see him since they had just walked into the building together.
“Got a minute?” Bishop asked.
“Sure. What’s up?”
He sat in one of the students’ desks opposite her desk. He explained that someone (and he wasn’t going to identify who that someone was) said something about her that he didn’t necessarily believe so he wanted to ask her about it. Not having any idea what he was referring to, Stephanie urged him to go on.
Bishop wished that Sarah Humphries had never spoken to him at the dance, but since she had, he needed to get a straight answer. Ultimately, it was none of his business, but what if it were true? Somewhat sheepishly he asked, “Did you ever go out with Coach Zappala?”
All of the early morning cheerfulness drained from her face. “How did you know about that?”
He reminded her that he was not going to name the source. “Let’s just say that it’s a small school, and people talk, but they don’t always have all of their facts straight.” Then he added, “You don’t have to answer the question if you don’t want to. I’ll understand.” He wasn’t sure that that last statement was entirely correct. If she didn’t want to talk about it, perhaps there was something to what Sarah had observed. Stephanie couldn’t look at him directly. She hesitated for a moment and then began to explain.
“It was within the first week or so of school. I didn’t know much about him or any of the rest of the faculty for that matter, including you. He said he wanted to talk to me about possibly helping to coach the cheerleading squad. He guessed that I had probably been a cheerleader myself and suggested that it would be a good way to get to know some of the students. I agreed to meet him at the Blue Moon after his practice one afternoon.” She stopped there, lost in thought.
The Blue Moon was one of the seedier restaurant/bars in town. It was a place he might expect Zappala to frequent, but not Stephanie. He prompted her to continue. “Well, what happened when you met him? You obviously didn’t accept his offer.”
She was staring out of the classroom windows as if there were something there that demanded her full attention. Bishop felt that what she was about to say was going to be difficult for her. He wasn’t sure that he really wanted to hear it, but it was too late now. She took a deep breath, turned her focus back to him, and began to tell her story in a soft voice.
“I got to the Blue Moon around 6:00 p.m., but he wasn’t there. That place is a real dive. I felt so uncomfortable being there alone. I ordered a coffee and pulled some papers from my bag to grade. He showed up about half an hour later. He apologized, saying that practice ran late ‘because those morons can’t remember plays’ to use his words. He ordered a coffee and after the waitress left, he told me that he thought I was….” She hesitated before the next words as if they brought back a painful memory. Her voice began to quiver as she fought back tears. “He wasn’t interested in me for cheerleading. He was interested in me! He said that I was ‘… a good-looking broad.’”
Bishop urged her to say no more. He did not wish to cause her any further upset. They both sat quietly for a few moments until she had gathered her composure. He asked her if she was going to be all right, and she assured him that she would be fine. Bishop said, “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “It’s really none of my business.”
“I didn’t want you to know…ever. I was so ashamed.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of. You didn’t know what he was like. Apparently, that’s how he operated.”
“Please don’t tell Ron.”
“No, of course not. There’s really nothing to tell. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
As he went back to his room, he was ashamed to admit to himself that he was glad that Zappala was dead. What a bastard!
***
The remainder of the day was thankfully uneventful until last period. His group of twenty-three freshmen were discussing the importance of the author’s choice of point of view in telling a story. Bishop explained that an author’s decision to tell a story from a particular point of view changes the story that is told.
To help them understand what he meant, he posed these questions to the class: “What if Mark Twain had not chosen Huck as the narrator of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn? What if Jim had been the narrator? How would the story have been different?”
Heather Sanders raised her hand, displaying a collection of about ten bracelets of varying widths dangling from her wrist. “Jim wouldn’t be able to tell us about Huck’s experience in that feud between the Grangerfords and the Shepherdsons … not unless Huck told him about it first.”
“That’s a good example of a limitation imposed by the choice of narrator, Heather, and that works both ways, doesn’t it?” She scrunched her face suggesting that she didn’t quite follow. “Well, if Jim were the narrator, he would be able to give the readers information that Huck couldn’t. Can someone give me an example of that? What about it, Jamie?”
Jamie Rogers often had good ideas but was usually hesitant to contribute in class. Bishop wanted to encourage her to be more involved, not only for her own sake, but also for the benefit of the class as a whole. She thought for a moment and then replied, “I guess Jim would be able to tell us how it feels to be a runaway slave. Huck couldn’t possibly understand that.”
“You’re exactly right!” She seemed pleased with herself fo
r coming up with that example, and Bishop was glad that he had given her that chance to shine. “An individual narrator can only tell the story from his own perspective. It’s the same in the real world. If there were a fender bender in the parking lot, each driver would tell what happened. They may not tell the same story even though they are discussing the same event. Even eye witnesses might disagree about what happened.”
Greg raised his hand. “Then how do you know who is telling the truth?”
“Good question. Each of them may be telling the truth as they understand it. They also may be trying to put a ‘spin’ on the story to make the other person look guilty. That’s exactly why it’s so critical to look at the author’s choice of a narrator. That narrator is putting a ‘spin’ on the plot, and ultimately, the theme of the work.”
Bishop noticed that two students in the back of the room were grinning about something. Perhaps they saw the irony in Bishop using Mark Twain’s work as an example so soon after having made his appearance at the dance as one of America’s most beloved writers. “Do you have something to add to the discussion, fellas?” He assumed that they didn’t, but that they would get the message to get back on task. He was surprised when Pat Hanrahan spoke.
“It’s like at the dance on Friday.”
“Excuse me?” Bishop should have seen this coming, but he didn’t.
“You know. The fight? I guess it depends on who you ask if it’s true that Chris pulled a knife on Eric.” Suddenly, the classroom became extremely quiet. They were waiting to see how their teacher would react.
Bishop’s face flushed, and he was tempted to launch into attack mode but regained his composure quickly. He defused the tension by simply saying, “If a narrator isn’t credible, no one is going to pay attention. End of story.” Luckily, it was also the end of class.
***
As he packed up his bag for the evening, he was still seething over the comment made by Pat Hanrahan. How did such rumors start? How could students be so unfair? Of course, he had been teaching long enough to know the answers to both questions. It happens all the time. It simply is human nature to want to embellish stories. It was also typical that people often did not consider the harm that their words might do.
He had barely managed to unlock his front door when his phone started vibrating. He dropped his bag on the floor and fished out his phone. It was Ron Jennings.
“Sorry to bother you again, Mike.”
“No problem. What’s on your mind?” Bishop had not talked with Ron during the day. He assumed that Ron wanted to share with him the results of his conversation with the impudent Connie Goldblatt and her parents. Did Connie try to deny that she made that comment about Ron and Stephanie sleeping together? That would be ludicrous as the entire class had surely heard her remark. Were her parents refusing to admit that their daughter’s comments were inappropriate and disrespectful?
“It’s about what Connie said in class about me and Stephanie.”
“Go on,” urged Bishop. This was exactly what he had thought had prompted the call.
“Sister Pat got wind of it somehow and …”
“Sister Pat?” Bishop said in disbelief. His guess as to the nature of the call had only been partially correct. “What does she have to do with it?” Knowing her as well as he did, he could almost anticipate what Ron would say next.
Sister Pat had barged into Ron’s office, slammed the door shut, stood across from his desk, and launched into a verbal attack. She expressed her outrage and shock in learning of his immoral behavior. Gesturing wildly, she told him that if he didn’t stop seeing Stephanie, she would see to it that the two of them were fired. She concluded her diatribe by spitting out the words, “This is a Catholic school. We are held to a higher standard!”
That comment made Bishop cringe. Catholic school? Higher standard? Was there no limit to that woman’s hypocrisy? Didn’t she realize how often she and the principal had failed to live by those higher standards? Words from the Bible came to mind, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
“Ron, I hope that you didn’t let her get away with bullying you that way.”
“No, I didn’t,” he answered proudly. “I may get fired when Pat reports back to Sister Ann, but I wasn’t going to take that sitting down. As a matter of fact, I stood up, and that made Pat take a step backward. I said, ‘First of all, you are assuming that Stephanie and I are having an affair. Where did you get that information? Did you bother to confirm that with either one of us? No! Instead, you accept rumor and innuendo as fact. And secondly, even if that were true, what business is that of yours? Steph is a single adult. I’m a single adult. What we are or are not doing is frankly none of your business.’”
“Good for you, Ron! I agree with you one hundred percent!”
Ron explained that Sister Pat just stood there, obviously regretting her decision to start the conversation, and unable to think of a good response. Before she left the office, he had also reminded her that it was common knowledge that more than a few teachers had engaged in some “extracurricular” activities over the years. He reminded her that a former faculty member, Jerry Dunlap, had had an affair with the mother of one of our students, and the administration did not have one word to say about it because that woman just happened to provide some very generous financial support to the school.
“Sounds as if you handled the situation perfectly,” Bishop said. It was time that Sister Pat was put in her place. “Did you tell Steph about this?”
“No, not yet.”
Bishop advised Ron to tell Stephanie everything so that she wouldn’t be blindsided if Sister Pat tried to pull that holier-than-thou act on her.
***
When he finished that call, Bishop saw that he had one unheard message from Andy White, the attorney. He tapped the button to hear the message. “Hello, Mike. Andy here. I just wanted to let you know that I received a phone call from a Vito Petrocelli. He’s been hired by the Santorini family to contest the will. Call me back when you get a chance. Thanks. Bye.”
As he mulled over the implications of this news, he kept asking himself, “Why did that man ever name me his executor?”
***
Just as he was about to go to his bedroom to change into some casual clothes, there was a knock at the door. Normally, he would have heard a car pull into his driveway. As he approached his front door, he caught a glimpse of the car in the driveway, and he knew who it was. “Lieutenant Hodge! What are you doing here?”
Hodge had left the engine of his cruiser running, and he was still in uniform, so this wasn’t a social call. “One of my boys was patrolling through here this morning, and he noticed that the windows at Zappala’s place were soaped pretty bad. I’d like to borrow your key so I can take a look inside, just in case.”
Bishop’s face registered his concern. As executor, he felt responsible for that place. “Sure. Let me grab the key. It’s in the study.” When he returned, he asked Hodge if he could tag along. He didn’t have a good feeling about what they might find.
It took only a few moments to drive up the hill. Bishop, who had never been in a police car, sat quietly, partially fascinated by all of the electronics, and partially reliving those moments not that long ago when he had driven up to the coach’s home at the request of Sister Ann.
Nothing much had ever happened on this road before Zappala had been murdered. After his death, Bishop had noticed an increase in the number of cars slowly passing up and down the hill. They were drawn to the scene of the tragedy, needing to gawk at the house, imagining what had happened there. None of them would have dared to actually stop at the house. It was as if the yard had still been cordoned off during the actual investigation phase.
As Hodge pulled into the driveway, Bishop exclaimed, “Oh, my!” Every window on the front of the house had been soaped. He wondered who might have pulled such a prank. The houses on Pleasant Hill Road were so spread out that he hardly ever had a trick-or-treater at his
place even though Grace had always insisted on buying bags of candy just in case. The few that did come were driven to each house by a parent.
“I’m lucky that these knuckleheads didn’t pick my house,” he said with a faint smile as they both exited the vehicle. “I was at the dance that night and didn’t leave the outside light on so as not to disappoint the little tikes.”
“Let’s take a look inside,” as the Lieutenant gestured for Bishop to unlock the door. He placed the key in the keyhole, turned it to the right, heard the lock release, pushed the door open, and held it as Hodge entered first.
“I just have a feelin’ that …” Hodge stopped in mid-sentence as he glimpsed the look of absolute shock on Bishop’s face. They both surveyed the place from where they stood. It looked as though a small twister had passed through. Furniture was strewn about. Cabinets had been opened and their contents scattered. Every box that had been neatly packed and taped had been cut open. Articles of clothing and pieces of paper had been flung in every direction. As they began to make their way through the rest of the house, Hodge cautioned, “Watch where you step. And don’t touch anything.”
Bishop felt fortunate that the intruder, or intruders, had not decided to burn the house to the ground. “Does anyone else have a key to this place?” Hodge wondered.
“I’m pretty sure that Andy White does. At least, I think he does. I got my key from him. Why do you ask?”
“There’s no sign of a forced entry. That lock on the front door hasn’t been tampered with. None of the windows that I can see are broken or unlocked.”
“Then how did they get in?”
“That’s a damn good question,” Hodge said as he exhaled deeply. “That and why,” he added.
When they reached the study, they saw that every certificate had been ripped from the walls. The frames were bent and twisted. There was broken glass everywhere. Papers had been tossed around the room like confetti. Trophies had been smashed. Some had been thrown against the wall where they left gauges. Pieces of trophies lay on the floor like broken toys. The desk had been thoroughly ransacked.
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