“Try to stop him.”
Jail Park wasn’t what I had envisioned. Instead of a few trees, well-trimmed lawn, playground equipment, maybe a baseball diamond, I found what resembled a wilderness preserve. I knew it was bordered on all four sides by narrow city streets, but the streets were far apart and I was unable to estimate its depth. It could have been as vast as Sherwood Forest for all I knew. There was a wide boulevard between the street and the trees, but no sidewalk. What looked like a path began about a hundred yards from where I had parked in front of Coach Testen’s house and bent into the park, disappearing among dozens of trees and high, thick brush. There were areas like this in the Cities, too, I reminded myself. Pockets of wilderness, hidden, isolated, yet only five minutes from the nearest pizza joint.
Coach Testen lived in one of those newer homes designed to appear much older, larger, and grander than it actually was. It had a brick front, eccentric angles, high windows, pronounced gables, vaulted ceilings, and exposed staircases. It would have gone for $350,000 in my neighborhood, probably twice that in John Allen Barrett’s. Even so, its dominant feature was an attached two-car garage and the wide asphalt driveway leading to it, the black of the asphalt in sharp contrast with the snow piled on either side. I walked up the driveway to a narrow concrete path that led to the front door and used a knocker that resembled brass but seemed lighter. Coach Testen opened the door as if he were expecting me and I wondered if Suzi Shimek had called him.
Testen was closer to seventy than he was to fifty, yet he looked as well preserved as Suzi. There must be something in the water, I decided. His eyes were bright and he still had plenty of light-colored hair that seemed to suit the sunny smile and aw-shucks demeanor he presented the moment he found me standing at his front door. I suspected the smile and easy manner were part of a carefully constructed facade, but it’s already been established that I’m cynical.
Testen seemed overdressed for just hanging around the house—black loafers with tassels polished to a high gloss, neatly pressed black slacks, a brown, blue, and white cashmere sweater worn over a white cotton dress shirt, tennis bracelet on one wrist and gold watch on the other. Yet what surprised me more was his size. Testen was short—no more than five-five. I had expected a basketball coach to be taller.
Like Suzi, Testen welcomed my company.
“It’s always a pleasure to chat about the Seven,” he said.
“I, for one, enjoy meeting a local legend,” I replied, laying it on a little thicker than probably was necessary.
“Please,” Testen said, although he was obviously comfortable with the label. “Most of the people living in Victoria today probably don’t even know who I am.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Come with me.”
I followed Testen down a corridor toward the back of the house.
“People in Victoria are pretty excited about the basketball team this year,” he said. “We have a young man—a Somali named Nooh Mohamud Abdille—he’s the real deal. There’s talk that the NBA could make him a lottery pick right out of high school. Plenty of scouts have been following his development closely even though he’s still a junior. I’ve encouraged him to play at least one year of D-1; spend a year in college before trying to make the transition to pro ball. But I’m not his coach. I haven’t been on the bench for a couple of years. Instead, I’m the old coach now, emphasis on old. The kids don’t listen to me.”
Testen paused outside a closed door.
“Still, Mr. Abdille and his teammates will have to go a long way to achieve what we did.”
With a flourish, Testen opened the door and waved me into the room. Two large windows all looked out on the backyard. The rest of the walls were covered with a banner that screamed “Go Wildcats!” several pennants, two basketball jerseys—one white with red numbers, the other red with white numbers—a Victoria High School letter jacket, framed pages from the Victoria, Minneapolis, St. Paul, Mankato, Rochester, and Duluth newspapers proclaiming the Seven’s championship, and dozens of photographs, most in black and white, some in color, of Testen and his team in action. There were also shelves crowded with other memorabilia—two autographed basketballs, a half dozen trophies in assorted shapes and sizes, medals, and even more framed photographs. In the center of it all was a huge trophy mounted on a round platform.
I felt as if I were visiting a shrine.
“I collected most of what you see, but a lot of it was sent to me,” Testen said. “People send me things. A few years ago during the thirtieth anniversary celebration, we put it all on display for the public. People seemed to get a kick out of it.”
“All this for a basketball game?” I asked.
“It wasn’t just a basketball game.”
Testen moved slowly to the huge trophy and set his hand on top of it.
“This is a replica,” he said. “The real trophy is locked away in the school.” Yet the way he caressed the golden basketball made me think it was real enough.
“You have to understand something about the times we lived in to fully appreciate what the championship meant.” Testen spoke as if he was reciting a speech he had given many times, yet never tired of. “We had just lost the war in Vietnam. Because of the growing Watergate scandal, Congress was preparing to impeach the president of the United States. OPEC triggered the first energy crisis in America—people who had never wanted for anything were suddenly waiting in long lines to pay soaring prices for gasoline if it was available at all, and our government’s response was to encourage us to lower our thermostats and wear sweaters. The post–World War II boom was finally ending, inflation was rampant, and the nation began spiraling down into what seemed like an endless recession. The first Earth Day brought millions into the streets to demonstrate over the environment, there were riots in Boston over desegregation and busing, and feminists and anti-feminists protested just about everywhere over Roe. v. Wade.
“After all that, after the pain and confusion and frustration and anger and rebellion, what did we get? We got Jerry Ford. A good man. An honorable man. A lousy president. Believe me, people needed heroes, and at just that moment we found a few in the form of a ragtag team of smalltown American kids, ultimate underdogs who made it to the top . . .”
I drifted through the room as Testen gave his speech, examining the memorabilia, studying the framed newspaper pages, each dominated by large photographs of jubilant teenagers hugging and dancing and raising their fingers in the air. We’re number one!
“It wasn’t noticed that much by the rest of the nation,” Testen said. “Yet in Minnesota, I think the Victoria Seven was as huge as the Olympic hockey team that beat the Soviets and won the gold medal in 1980.”
“I remember,” I said.
“The funny thing is, we weren’t that good. Jack Barrett was the only one on the team who was given a Division I scholarship. Dave Peterson played Division III at Gustavus Adolphus, but he was a walk-on. Gene Hugoson played JuCo for two years. The rest never played again. It shows in our record, too. We finished the season one game above .500. We never won a game by more than six points. We lost once by thirty-six.”
“How did you manage to win the state championship?”
“People have asked me that question for over thirty years and I always tell them the same things—superior coaching.” Testen chuckled in a practiced manner. “The truth is, I don’t know. I only know that we won our last six regular season games, cruised into the sections, and kept right on going. It didn’t matter who we played. It didn’t matter how much size we gave up. It didn’t matter if we trailed at the half or by how many points. We couldn’t lose.”
I halted in front of a photograph of the Victoria cheerleaders taken in the school gym. Elizabeth Rogers was in the forefront.
“I think it was psychological,” Testen said. “Somewhere along the line the kids got it into their heads that they couldn’t be beaten and so they didn’t allow it to happen. Anyone who plays or knows
sports will tell you that that’s a goofy theory. What’s the line? The race isn’t always to the swift or the battle to the strong, but that’s the way to bet? Still, after all these years, it’s the only explanation I have. That and divine intervention. One sports writer compared us to the Amazing Mets of ’69 that won the World Series.”
“Still, it’s getting to be a long time ago,” I said. “Over thirty years.”
“That’s a long time only when you’re looking forward. You look back and you wonder how the years passed so quickly.”
“What about Elizabeth Rogers?” I asked abruptly to see how he would react. Testen continued without pause.
“Nothing is ever perfect, is it? The boys were very upset by Beth’s death as you can imagine . . .” I flashed on the photographs I had seen in the Herald and decided they had done an awfully good job of hiding it. “It was such a small school back then; everyone lived in everyone’s pocket. But what were we going to do? Forfeit? People died the day the Eagle landed on the moon, yet that didn’t stop Neil Armstrong from taking his giant leap for mankind. Do you think it should have?”
“No.”
“No, no, of course not. Life goes on, just like it did after 9/11. Anyway, it’s like you said, it was a long time ago.”
So why does Elizabeth’s murder trouble you so, my inner voice asked.
Because her killer is still out there.
What do you care?
It could be Jack Barrett.
What do you care?
I care.
Why?
I just do.
“You were at the party the night Elizabeth was killed,” I said.
“I was the guest of honor. Me and the Seven.”
“When did you leave?”
“It was late. Monte—Grace Monteleone—she was this hippy chick should have been running a flower store somewhere instead of teaching—she complained to the principal that the kids were drinking beer. Not my kids, I wouldn’t have allowed that, but some of the other kids. She wanted the principal to put a stop to it. He refused. It was a celebration, after all. Instead, he suggested the teachers leave a few at a time, you know, pretend it didn’t happen: out of sight, out of mind. Monte—she was the first one out the door, probably went home to burn incense or something. I stayed late because, well . . .”
“You were the guest of honor.”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Elizabeth at the party?”
“I’m sure I did, but honestly, I don’t remember what I had for dinner last Monday much less who I saw at a party over three decades ago. Why do you ask?”
“I’m trying to learn who killed Elizabeth.”
“After all these years?” Testen began to massage his temples and I knew he was regretting that he had opened his door to me. “I don’t think I can help you with that. Why don’t you talk to Chief Bohlig? Ask him about it. He’ll tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Tell you what happened. I have no idea. At the time, I was trying to win three consecutive basketball games.”
“Did Elizabeth’s murder help or hurt you in the tournament?”
“Help or hurt? That’s actually a good question. Most people would be appalled to ask it, but—You look like you used to play some ball.”
“Hockey and baseball,” I told him.
Testen frowned, like I had failed an easy test.
“Not basketball?”
“Just pickup,” I told him.
“Well, you play sports you learn about motivation. Sometimes the worst thing that can happen is the best. Josie Bloom, not our best player by any means, he’s the one that carried us in the final. Seventeen points, eleven rebounds, four steals, including a big one at the end. He said before the opening tip he was dedicating the game to Elizabeth. Jack—I think Beth’s death hit him the hardest—he was our best player, and he said the same thing. Yet in the championship game he didn’t play well at all. ’Course, being double- and triple-teamed all night didn’t help. So, to answer your question, I don’t know. I just don’t know.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Testen said. “Linking what those kids achieved, linking their great triumph to something as sordid and tragic as Beth’s murder annoys me. It’s unfair to them.”
Now was a good time to change the subject, I decided.
“Tell me about the players,” I said. “Where are they now?”
Testen seemed relieved. He found a team photograph.
“Like I said earlier, they weren’t that special.” He was giving his practiced speech again. “It was only what they did that made them special. In many ways they were just typical kids who went on to lead typical lives.”
He pointed to the boy in the middle of the photograph holding a basketball.
“Jack Barrett went on to become governor—you know that. Before politics he was a millionaire entrepreneur, owning companies, making deals.”
His finger moved to another boy at the far end of the photo with long hair that must have been pulled into a ponytail in order for him to play.
“Gene Hugoson went to prison for robbing a convenience store, assaulting the cashier, and stealing her car. He’s now working on his family’s farm.”
Testen moved his finger along the line of basketball players, referring to each of them in turn.
“Dave Peterson, or I should say, Doctor David Peterson, is an optometrist working out of Mankato. Nick Axelrod owns and operates Nick’s, a family restaurant here in Victoria. Brian Reif works as an auto mechanic . . .”
Ah, my friend Brian, my inner voice said.
Testen sighed again and I wondered if he always sighed at this part of the presentation.
“We lost Tony Porter just a while ago,” he said. “He was there for the thirtieth reunion of the team, but we all knew then that he was very sick.”
Testen sighed some more, and pointed at the last of the Seven.
“Josiah Bloom. Well, I guess he’s sick, too. He’s an alcoholic, although the last I heard he was clean and sober.”
Testen set the photograph carefully where he found it.
“Very much a microcosm of America.”
“Just one big happy family,” I said.
Testen laughed in reply.
“Lord, no. I said they were a microcosm of America. Sometimes they couldn’t stand to be around each other.”
“Why’s that?”
“People can always find a reason to irritate other people, can’t they?”
“What about Governor Barrett? How did he get along with the rest of the Seven?”
“Jack—he was the exception. Everyone loved Jack.”
Everyone loved Jack. Well, not everyone, I reminded myself when I returned to my Audi and headed south. I was fumbling with my map, debating whom to annoy next when I encountered County Road 13. I hung a left and followed it to Milepost Three. I don’t know why, certainly there was nothing to see after all these years. Curiosity, I guess.
When I reached the milepost, I stopped the Audi along the shoulder, put it in neutral, and set the brake. I sat and listened to the radio. After a few bars of country anguish, I switched it off. There were no structures that I could see and no traffic. It was as good a spot to dump a body as any.
I slipped out of the car. Only the wind whistling through the power and telephone wires that lined the blacktop and the gentle hum of the car engine disrupted the silence. Gray, snow-covered farm land stretched into the distance, merging with the gray sky—the horizon could have been a mile away, or it could have been a thousand. There was no color, except . . .
I moved to the edge of the ditch. I gazed at a spot of red just below the milepost.
What is that?
I stepped into the ditch and immediately descended into knee-deep snow. I could feel it lodge between my boots and jeans as I plowed my way to the red.
It was a flower. A red rose partially drifted over by blowing snow. When I pulled at it, a second bud appeared, a
nd a third. I kept digging until I had recovered a bouquet of fifteen long-stemmed roses, frozen but still bright with color. Whoever had thrown them there had done it recently—I say “thrown” because there were no footprints in the ditch save my own.
I carried the roses back to my car. Once on the blacktop, I stamped my boots, shaking the snow free. I brought the flowers to my nose, but, of course, there was no scent.
“What in the hell are fifteen roses doing here?” I asked the deserted road. “Is it a tribute to Elizabeth?”
Maybe, my inner voice replied. Either that or a message.
7
T. S. Eliot called April “the cruelest month.” T. S. Eliot never spent a January in Minnesota. If he had, he would have known that to us April is the light at the end of the tunnel. It is the promise of warmth; it is the bright and shiny future (not to mention the beginning of the baseball season). It is also a long way off. Which is why I took great pleasure from stepping into Fleur de Lis on Main, the only florist shop in Victoria. It smelled warm and damp and made me think of spring.
The woman behind the counter had enormous eyes that seemed to be in mourning. She spoke softly and for a moment I wondered if she was conducting a wake in the back room.
“May I help you?”
“Do you sell long-stemmed red roses?”
“We certainly do.”
“How many in a bouquet?”
“Usually a dozen, but we can make up a bouquet of any size.”
“Have you recently sold a bouquet of fifteen roses? Long-stemmed roses?”
“Fifteen?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so—No, I’m sure I haven’t. Why do you ask?”
“I recently came across a bouquet of fifteen red roses, and I wondered if they came from here.”
“No. No, I’m sure they haven’t. I would have remembered an order of fifteen. It’s an odd number.”
“In what way is it odd?”
“There is a traditional meaning attached to the number of roses you give someone. For example, a single rose means ‘Love at first sight,’ or ‘I still love you.’ ”
Pretty Girl Gone Page 11