“Some wounds never heal,” Charlotte said, and for a moment her face became pained. Then she seemed to shake it off, like she needed to get down to business. “There’s one more thing I should tell you about Gary. It shouldn’t come up, but just in case something odd happens, you need to know that he liked to embarrass people. Sometimes he would stage improvisational skits, usually designed to make you the butt of a joke. He’d do it in a way that if you didn’t go along, it made you look worse. Thank heavens he didn’t have the video technology we have today.”
Francine gave her a skeptical look. “He wouldn’t do such a childish thing nowadays, would he? I mean, he’s a state senator.”
She patted Francine on the hand. “I’m sure he’s grown out of it. I probably shouldn’t even have mentioned it. But if something weird should happen, remember that it’s me he’s trying to embarrass, not you. So I’d need for you to play along. Just trust me to get him in the end …”
Charlotte halted when the subject of her rants stepped into the room. Francine had seen him on television, but he was taller than she’d expected. Her husband Jonathan was six feet and Snow was surely a head taller than that. His build was square shouldered, and his reddish-blond hair, probably dyed, was buzzed short. He had wrinkles, but what really detracted from his rugged handsomeness was a jagged scar that ran across his cheek. It made him seem dangerous. Francine wondered what he’d done to earn the scar.
“Charlotte Reinhardt,” Snow said, a politician’s smile pasted on his face. “I couldn’t believe it when my secretary told me you’d scheduled an appointment. It’s been what, 50 years?” He tried to give her a hearty handshake, but she dodged it.
“Fifty-five. You would know that if you came to any of the Hampton High reunions, Gary,” she said.
“Too many people live in the past. I’ve just never been one to dwell on past glories. And I go by ‘Garrett’ now.”
“Mind if I sit down, Gary?” Charlotte asked, not waiting for permission but pulling up one of the solid maple chairs and easing herself into it. “I’ve always been curious. You were a big basketball star our senior year. Don’t tell me you don’t want to come back and relive some glory days.”
“As I said, it’s all in the past.” He turned his attention to Francine. “Garrett Snow.” He stuck out his hand.
When she moved to meet his grip, he engulfed her hand in his paw, squeezed too tightly and held on too long. What is this, hand-to-hand combat? She understood Charlotte’s decision to dodge it.
“Francine McNamara. Nice to meet you,” she said, though she didn’t like to lie.
“So what can I do for you ladies?”
Charlotte leaned forward. “We’re here to say that we don’t approve of your continued persistence of this silly, single-class basketball nonsense. That action was settled more than fifteen years ago when the IHSAA voted to go to a multi-class format.”
Snow folded his arms over his chest. “You didn’t need to come all the way downtown to tell me that. You could have emailed or come to one of my forums with the IHSAA chief. Didn’t we have one in Brownsburg? That’s where you live now, isn’t it?”
Francine was impressed he knew where they lived. But then, he’d probably researched Charlotte to find out if she was a constituent. Brownsburg was on the other side of Indianapolis from Fishers, so he didn’t need to kowtow.
“Trying to rally public support for single-class basketball is nothing more than an opportunity for you to extoll the virtues of bullying,” Charlotte said. “Your district covers one of the richest schools in the state. You regularly beat schools in your own class by huge margins. Going back to single-class is nothing more than legalizing bullying.”
“Perhaps you’re not aware of the Milan miracle …”
Charlotte stood. “For Pete’s sake, Gary, the Milan Miracle occurred in 1954 and has never been repeated. It’s ancient history. It’s one reason the high school athletic association changed from single-class to multi-class. Large schools like Fishers and Carmel or even Brownsburg have resources available to them that smaller schools don’t. Carmel’s bench would blow a Milan out of the water today.”
Garrett took two steps closer to the women. “I think we should let the voters decide that, don’t you?”
The small room felt even smaller as he loomed over them, but Charlotte didn’t flinch. “No, I don’t. I think people who work with kids regularly and know the score should be the ones to decide matters like this. That’s the purpose of the ISHAA.”
Garrett’s smile lost wattage. “Thank you for coming in, Charlotte. It was nice to see you again. I’ll have my intern show you out.”
“I’m not sure we’ve finished discussing this yet, Gary.”
“Oh, yes we have.” Snow buzzed for the intern.
A young man nearly as tall as Snow came in. His reddish-blond hair was clipped short like Snow’s, and he had the same scar across his cheek. He wore chinos and a woven shirt under a blazer. If he’d been dressed in period clothes, Francine would have guessed he was Garrett’s high school twin. He shut the door behind him. “Yes, Senator?”
Snow appeared startled. He stepped close for a better look. “You’re not Al. Who are you?”
The young man frowned at Snow. “I’m Gary. I’m your intern cadet assistant. Are you okay today, Senator?”
“What the hell is going on here?” Snow hit the buzzer several times in annoyance. This time the intern who’d let them in originally opened the door. He was now dressed in a black suit and tie. He, too, closed the door behind him. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.
Snow exhaled in relief. “I thought I was going crazy, Alan. Would you please show these ladies out? And … Gary, too.”
“I’ll show them out,” said the young Gary.
“I don’t think so,” Alan said. His eyes blazed in irritation at the other young man as he turned to Charlotte and Francine. “This way, please.”
Young Gary cut in front of him and delivered a pancake block like he was an offensive lineman protecting the door and Alan was a defensive player trying to get through. Alan fell back against a chair and pushed it into the wall. His arms windmilled. They caught the edge of the table and scattered papers everywhere. Alan landed on his tailbone. He scrambled to his feet but Gary pancaked him again. This time his head hit the floor and he lay still.
“What are you doing?” Snow yelled. Young Gary eyed him with a mixture of surprise and confusion. Then he threw open the door and ran out of the office. The door slammed behind him
Francine straightened up in surprise. Her instincts told her to go help the intern, but she had a suspicion things were not as they seemed. She leaned her mouth to Charlotte’s ear. “He didn’t hit the floor that hard. Is this …?”
“Improv. Good thinking,” Charlotte whispered back. “Remember, let me lead.” She stepped back and pointed to the intern on the floor. “Good thing you’re a nurse, Francine.”
“Yes,” Francine said, relieved to have a part she knew something about. “I am a nurse. I should look at him.”
Charlotte nudged her toward the body.
“What’s going on here?” Snow demanded.
Francine checked Alan’s neck for a pulse. “He’s alive,” she said.
“Gary and I will go for help.” Charlotte pulled on Snow’s arm. She opened the door and pushed him out ahead of her. “Maybe you can catch your cadet assistant,” she told him.
“He’s not my cadet assistant!” Snow snapped at Charlotte but Francine saw something else in his mannerism. Snow was scared.
The last time Garrett Snow had heard the words, “cadet assistant,” was at Hampton High, where the term had been used for upper class students who helped teachers for one or two semesters. It gave them a small measure of teaching experience, presumably to help them decide whether they wanted to pursue the profession.
But in the physical education department it worked differently. There, it was a way for jocks to get out of bori
ng study halls. Garrett had become a cadet assistant to the basketball coach his first semester junior year. The coach taught PE. The thing Garrett loved most was that he was bigger and stronger than the incoming freshman boys, the largest number of whom hadn’t hit their growth spurt yet. That gave him a certain physical advantage.
The first six weeks of the school year the weather was still good. “We’ll take ‘em outside, line ‘em up, and play flag football,” Coach Crumley said after lecturing the class on the rudimentary aspects of football. Crumley was a big guy, too, not nearly as tall as Snow, but heavier. Snow liked the Coach’s wicked sense of humor. As a cadet assistant, he was supposed to be in the mix of students, “helping teach.” Coach assigned the scrawniest freshmen the task of blocking Snow. Day after day, Snow enjoyed putting the freshmen on their backs.
It got even better during the second six weeks. That was mostly dodge ball. Those were the good old days, when there were no teaching standards for PE, at least none that bothered Coach Crumley. Snow could throw the ball so hard he’d leave welts on the freshmen. Al LeBlanc was one of them. Back then no one would have called it bullying. It was just part of gym class.
Garrett tried to recall the pleasure of seeing Al’s face twisting with anger and frustration, knowing there was nothing he could do about it. For some reason, the face he kept seeing was that of his intern, Alan. Probably because both had the same first name. LeBlanc had disappeared before the third six weeks started, which was when they would have played basketball. Transferred to Baronville. The given reason had to do with Al’s father moving closer to his job. But the real reason had been buried. Snow’s father had seen to that.
Al had suffered some minor internal injuries from Snow’s “teaching.” The doctor believed in time they would heal, but he wanted regular follow-up visits Al’s family couldn’t afford. Al’s father threatened to sue for the medical care. Snow’s father, a politician who didn’t need negative publicity, proposed an agreement. He would pay Al’s bills in exchange for silence and no lawsuit. The doctor would give them all of the records and photos. Al’s father also insisted a psychiatrist be engaged to treat his son for the trauma caused by “taking his lumps.” Snow figured the move and the psychiatric care must’ve worked in some way, because LeBlanc played on the Baronville basketball team the next year. Until after the sectional. And no one could tie Snow to the suicide, not without a suicide note or the records from the psychiatrist.
Or a witness to the last time he’d seen LeBlanc.
Charlotte managed to get Snow into the hallway. She spotted someone in uniform down by the restroom. “Help!” she barked. As he hurried toward them, Charlotte asked Snow, “Did you see anywhere your cadet assistant could have gone?”
He seemed stunned by what was going on. “Stop calling him that. I’ve never seen him before, and I have no idea where he went.”
“What is it, ma’am?” The man smoothed his mustache. He looked to be around 50, with salt and pepper hair that needed to be cut.
Charlotte nodded her head toward Snow. “We were in the senator’s office and one of his assistants attacked the other one. The bigger one knocked the smaller one down, and he hit his head something awful. I’m afraid he might have a concussion. The bigger one ran off.”
The officer activated the mike at his shoulder. “We have a reported assault in Senator Snow’s office. I’m investigating now.” He paused to ask Charlotte and Snow, “What did he look like?”
“He was tall,” Charlotte said. “Like the senator here, only maybe not quite as tall. He was built like a house, too.”
“Any distinguishing features?” He readied his finger at the mike button.
“He had a scar on his cheek. A long one.”
The officer looked at Senator Snow’s face, saw his scar. “Really?”
Francine worried when Charlotte left the room. Now it was just her and the intern, and she wasn’t sure what was going on. It might be improv, but what if it wasn’t? Should she call 911? She checked Alan again. He wasn’t limp like he would have been if he were unconscious. In fact, he was nearly as tense as she was. His pulse was rapid and his breaths were coming quickly, too, like hers. She wished Charlotte hadn’t said anything about video. What if there were cameras?
Alan’s suit jacket had fallen open, and she noticed that his shirt was too large and had a bulky layer underneath. She unbuttoned the shirt—no reaction from Alan—and pulled it to his side to see what he was wearing. It was an old basketball jersey, one from Baronville High School. The number on it was 55. She knew Baronville was near Hampton where Charlotte had grown up, but she didn’t know it had a high school.
Alan stirred. “Chest hurts,” he groaned. He settled back into his unconscious-appearing state.
As hard as the big assistant intern hit him, it ought to hurt, she thought. She loosed his belt buckle and pulled up the jersey. That was when she gasped. There were bruises all over his body. He looked like he’d been hit with something. She gently touched a bruise and the make-up smeared.
She looked at her finger. Alan muttered something.
“What?”
He muttered again. Francine looked around. Now she was sure it was some kind of skit. Were they being filmed? How long did she have to play this part? She bent down to hear him.
“Photos,” he whispered, before becoming unconscious again.
A dozen things ran through Francine’s mind. What did he mean by that? She checked again out of the corner of her eye for a camera, trying not to be obvious. She decided it could be anywhere. What did he mean by photos?
She reached for her purse and pulled out her iPhone and began taking photos of the bruises.
Charlotte led the officer back into Snow’s office, Snow trailing behind them looking bewildered. Francine was leaning over Alan’s body, which was not moving. She was snapping photos with her smartphone.
“What are you doing?” Charlotte asked.
Francine cleared her throat. She hoped she was being convincing. “Taking photos of this young man’s body. It’s covered with bruises.”
“Bruises?” asked the officer.
“This is my friend Francine,” Charlotte said. “She’s a nurse.”
“Retired,” Francine replied. Then she wondered if she was allowed to say that, or if she should have been playing a nurse that was still licensed. She took a deep breath. “He keeps going in and out of consciousness,” she said. “He took a bad fall.”
“Twice,” Charlotte added. “Gary flattened him like a Panini sandwich, and when he got back up, Gary did it again.”
Alan’s eyes fluttered and he coughed. Francine scooted back to give him room. The young man slowly propped himself on his side using his arms.
The officer pushed the table toward the windows so he could kneel next to him. “Are you okay, son?”
Alan shook his head. “I’m hurt.”
The officer pulled out a notebook. “How did you get those bruises, son?”
Alan glanced at Snow, groaned, then laid back down and went into his unconscious state again.
The officer turned to Francine. “In your opinion, how did he get these bruises?”
Francine panicked. What was she supposed to say? She glanced at Charlotte, who seemed to be urging her on with her eyes, so she settled on answering like a nurse. That was all she knew about the role she was playing. “He seems to have been hit repeatedly.”
He scribbled that in the notebook. “Up close, like with a fist or a hard object?”
Francine hated improv. Why couldn’t he be asking Charlotte something? “No, this is more of a welt, like something was thrown hard at him from a distance.”
“Like a ball?” The law man reached into the young man’s suit coat and pulled out a wallet.
Francine shrugged. It was possible. And she liked sticking to short answers. “Yes, possibly a ball.”
The officer found the young man’s wallet. He read the name off the drivers’ license and looked at
Snow for approval. “Says his name is Al LeBlanc.”
Al LeBlanc, thought Snow. The damn intern even looked like him. And what the hell was he doing wearing that damn Baronville jersey, the No. 55? What was going on? Who were these people, and what were they after?
“That’s not his name. His name is Alan Thompson,” Snow protested.
The officer put the wallet back in the suit coat. “Really? How long has he been working for you?”
“He’s one of our semester interns. He’s from Ball State. His last day is coming up. Or maybe it’s today. I don’t know. My secretary would, but she has the day off.”
“So you don’t know much about him?”
“Not that much, no.”
“And you have no idea where he got the bruises?”
Snow wanted to yell at the cop to stop him asking questions. The incident happened in his office but it had nothing to do with him. He was sure Charlotte Reinhardt must be behind it. It was too coincidental that she showed up after he received the jersey, and then this little drama started playing out. But his shirt was getting damp under his armpits, and he was starting to worry that maybe some link had been discovered that tied him to the night of LeBlanc’s death. But that would have come up a long time ago, wouldn’t it? Snow began to wonder about the jersey that was in his trash can.
“I don’t know anything about any bruises,” Snow said. He tried to move nonchalantly to the side of his desk where he could see into the trash can. He wanted to make sure the jersey was covered by the padded envelope.
Charlotte marched up to him. “Is there something you’re looking for, Gary?”
“No.” He moved away from the desk and back to the officer, hoping Charlotte would follow. But what if she knew the jersey was in the trash can? What would she do?
The officer continued to search the intern’s pockets. He pulled out a thin book. He opened it and read the first few pages. “It’s his diary.”
Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks Page 3