Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks

by Brenda Stewart

  As we walked around to the front, I noticed an elderly woman struggling to get through the building’s front door. Her walker had become stuck in the tiny alcove leading to the apartments. I rushed forward to help her.

  “Have a nice day, ma’am,” I said after untangling her walker from the doorway.

  The woman glared at me, muttered something under her breath, and then hobbled down the front sidewalk to a Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb.

  “What now?” Ralph asked.

  “You’re starting to sound like a broken record,” I said, scanning the mailboxes in the alcove. “Let’s find the number to Slater’s apartment. There it is. It’s on the third floor.”

  The building didn’t have an elevator, so the three of us had to climb the stairs to the top floor. “This was a waste of time,” said Ralph, gasping for air. “What now?”

  “Why don’t you and Tommy go check the second floor? See if anybody’s home,” I said. “Ask them about Slater. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Once Ralph and Tommy left, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my lock pick kit and unlocked Slater’s door. I was inside his apartment within seconds.

  The place looked like a typical bachelor pad. Clothes were strewn all over the living room floor and a pile of dirty dishes was clogging up the kitchen sink. The only thing out of the ordinary was a stack of empty cardboard boxes that were shoved together in the far corner of Slater’s bedroom.

  Maybe Slater was planning to move before he was murdered. I moved closer to the boxes. The mailing labels on them said they’d come from Taiwan. Strange. What’s Slater doing getting parcels from there? As I stepped back, my eyes caught sight of a white Butler ball cap on top of Slater’s dresser.

  Hmmm? It looked different from the one that Tommy was wearing. I had a hunch so I scooped up the hat and left the apartment.

  “Any luck with Slater’s neighbors?” I said after catching up with Ralph and Tommy. They were loitering in the second floor hallway.

  “We talked to a couple people,” Ralph replied. “They said Slater was a quiet guy. Kept to himself. What did you find?

  I showed Ralph and Tommy the ball cap that I lifted from Slater’s apartment.

  “Where’d you get it?” Ralph asked.

  “Where do you think?”

  “Oh,” Ralph replied.

  “Tommy, let me see your hat for a second,” I asked.

  He took off his hat and handed it to me. I then carefully compared the two hats.

  “What’s wrong?” Ralph asked.

  “Look at the inside of this cap,” I said, handing him the one from Slater’s bedroom.

  “So,” Ralph said.

  “Now, look at the inside of Tommy’s hat,” I said.

  “Hey, they’re different,” Ralph said. “How’d you know that?”

  “I didn’t at first,” I replied. “It was the letter ‘B’ on the front of Slater’s hat that tipped me off. Tommy’s ‘B’ has a different typeface.”

  “They are different, aren’t they?” Ralph replied. “But, I still don’t get it.”

  “Was Tommy wearing his cap when we picked him up yesterday?” I asked.

  “Now that you mention it, he was hatless until we found him shooting free throws,” Ralph said.

  “Exactly.”

  We both turned in Tommy’s direction.

  “Where’d you get your hat, Tommy?” I asked.

  Tommy stared blankly at me. “I don’t remember,” he finally mumbled.

  “Hmmm,” I said. “I’ve got another hunch.”

  After dropping off Tommy and Ralph, I headed to the Lids store at the Greenwood Park Mall. I switched Tommy’s hat with the one I took from Slater’s apartment. I had the Lids’ clerk spread his white Butler ball caps on the store’s counter.

  “Looks like somebody sold you a knock off,” the clerk said after comparing his hat collection with Tommy’s hat.

  “You’re right,” I said, smiling.

  The next day, I snuck out of the bedroom while Irene was still sleeping and left her a note on the kitchen table. Told her I was going to Lowe’s. I hate lying to Irene, but she hates me playing detective now that I’m retired. Instead of Lowe’s, I headed for the Indianapolis International Airport. I was looking for a U.S. Customs and Border Protection agent I once worked with on a murder investigation.

  Franklin Washington’s office was on the lower level near the baggage claim area.

  “Flynn, right?” he said upon meeting me outside his office.

  “You remembered.”

  “Sure. You tipped us off about that murder in the Park-Fletcher industrial park. Turns out the warehouse was storing millions in counterfeit merchandise. What can I do for you today?”

  “I think I’ve got another counterfeit case for you.”

  Washington led me inside his office and listened as I spent the next several minutes telling him how I suspected that Slater had been murdered because he was involved in a counterfeit ring. To help make my case, I pulled out a plastic bag I brought and laid two hats on Washington’s desk.

  “That’s all very interesting,” he said when I finished. “One of your hats definitely looks like a counterfeit. Counterfeiting is a six hundred billion dollar business in this country, but I doubt that this guy was a big-time counterfeiter, or we’d have heard of him. I really can’t help you right now. We’re backlogged with dozens of other counterfeit cases.”

  Agent Washington and I exchanged a few more pleasantries before I shook his hand and left his office.

  As I drove home along I-465, I began feeling guilty about not being able to help Willie Dutton solve Phil Slater’s murder. I hoped it wouldn’t cause him too much anguish. After all, it was an unsolved case that ruined his dad and my former partner. Larry Dutton and I had been homicide partners for nearly twenty years. I was devastated on the day I learned that he ate his police pistol. It took me several years to fully recover. Irene kept urging me to go see a therapist, but I refused. But I promised myself that I’d do whatever I could to keep Willie from finding himself in a similar situation.

  As I turned onto Tenth Street, I suddenly had another hunch. I pulled over to the side of the road and called Ralph on my cellphone. He was sitting in his La Z Boy recliner reading Phil Dunlap’s latest Western novel, but he agreed to let me pick him up.

  “Where are we going?” Ralph asked after stepping inside my car a short time later.

  “Slater’s apartment.”

  “Again? What for this time?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  “Shouldn’t we get Tommy?”

  “Not a good idea today.”

  After we pulled in front of Slater’s apartment, Ralph reached for handle on the door.

  “Whoa, Ralph,” I said. “I want you to stay here.”

  “What? You had me come all this way to sit in your car?”

  “Sorry, but you need to stay here and wait for me,” I said. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, call IMPD on my cell and ask for Det. McIntyre. Got it?”

  “What are you up to, Jimmy?”

  “Just do what I ask for once, okay?”

  Ralph reluctantly nodded his approval and slammed the door shut. I walked up the front sidewalk to Slater’s apartment building and opened the front door to the tiny alcove, where the tenant’s mailboxes are located. A red plastic tag above one of the mailboxes identified Frank Parker as the building manager. He lived in Apartment 101. I buzzed for him to unlock the door separating the alcove from the apartments. He replied without responding on the intercom. A few seconds later, I stood in front of the manager’s apartment. I rapped three times.

  A scruffy-looking guy in his mid-forties with a gray T-shirt and jeans finally opened the door.

  “What do you want?” he growled. “And, how’d you get in here?”

  “You buzzed me in.”

  “Right,” he said. “I thought you were one of the old farts who live here
. They’re always forgetting their keys. So, what do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Phil Slater.”

  “Don’t you read the paper, mister?” he said. “Phil’s dead.”

  “Hadn’t heard that,” I said, removing the ball cap from my head. “Damn, I was hoping to buy more of these hats from him for my little sports store in Shelbyville.”

  The manager eyed me and the ball cap for a few seconds before inviting me to step inside his apartment.

  “The name’s Parker,” he said. “Frank Parker, I think I can help you. I have some hats like that over here.”

  Parker walked over to the corner of his living room and ripped open a box sitting on the floor. It looked like the ones I’d seen in Slater’s apartment.

  “Here you go,” Parker said, handing me a hat. “Looks just like a Nike original, but it’s not. Best knock-off out there today.”

  “Hey, you’re right,” I said, examining Parker’s hat. “It’s a good-looking fake. How much do you want for them?”

  “How about five bucks apiece,” Parker said. “You’ll easily be able to sell them for fifteen bucks each.”

  “Great,” I replied. “Phil charged me eight bucks for the one I’m wearing. I’ll take ten of them.”

  Parker counted out the hats and shoved them into a large plastic bag. I handed him fifty bucks and left his apartment.

  “What have you got there?” Ralph asked, after spotting the bag in my hand.

  “The evidence to solve Slater’s murder.”

  “These are great seats,” Ralph said as he, Tommy and I sat two rows behind the Butler Bulldogs’ team bench for their preseason opener. With less than a minute left before halftime, the Dawgs had pulled ahead of the Ball State Cardinals by eight points.

  “Thank my godson, Willie,” I replied. “They’re better than the ones we used to have here.”

  “You’re right. Say, how’d you know that Frank Parker killed Phil Slater?” Ralph asked.

  “I didn’t at first,” I replied. “That’s why I went to the Lids store at the mall the other day.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The clerk showed me his hats. The eyelids on Tommy’s hat were sewn shut, but the real ones weren’t. That’s when I got the bright idea to visit a Customs and Border Protection agent I knew. I suspected that Slater was caught up in a counterfeit hat ring. The agent was sympathetic, but he couldn’t help me right away. And, that’s when I started thinking how Slater might not have been acting alone. Maybe he had an accomplice. Somebody who lived in his apartment building and could let in the FedEx or UPS drivers.”

  “Frank Parker.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And, after he sold me those fake hats, I figured he must have had an argument with Slater over their little business venture and murdered him.”

  “Good thinking, Jimmy,” Tommy said. “I’m glad I helped you solve the murder.”

  I smiled.

  Larry Bird

  Brenda Robertson Stewart

  Once every generation or so, a basketball player is born who can legitimately be called a superstar, and Larry Bird was such a player. His nickname was “Larry Legend” during his professional basketball career.

  Born in West Baden, Indiana and raised in French Lick, Bird’s family had meager earnings, but they learned to “make-do” with what they had. Bird attended Springs Valley High School in French Lick and became its all-time leading scorer. He earned an athletic scholarship to Indiana University to play for legendary coach Bob Knight, but left because he felt somewhat lost at such a large university. The next year he enrolled at Indiana State University in Terre Haute.

  In his senior year in college, Bird led the Sycamores to the NCAA championship game playing against the Michigan State Spartans and for the first time, Ervin “Magic” Johnson. The Spartans won the championship, but Bird left Indiana State with the USBWA College Player of the Year Award, the Naismith Award, and the Wooden Award. He only played for three years, but was the fifth highest scorer in NCAA history.

  He was drafted by the Boston Celtics in 1978. Larry Bird, Robert Parrish and Kevin McHale formed a legendary frontline for the Celtics. Along with Magic Johnson, Bird was a key figure in revitalizing the NBA in the 1980’s. Bird personified self-confidence and excellence in all areas of play. He led the Celtics to three national championships and was named the All-Star Game Most Valuable Player for three consecutive years.

  When Bird retired in 1992 due to chronic back problems, he had accumulated 21,791 points over the course of his career.

  Larry Bird served as coach of the Indiana Pacers from 1997 to 2000. In 2003, he became president of basketball operations for the Pacers and held that position until 2012. He is the only person in NBA history to be named Most Valuable Player, Coach of the Year, and Executive of the Year.

  FALLEN IDOLS

  Andrea Smith

  “Are we going to need a wagon for you, too?” Detective Lenora Wise asked her partner.

  Ahern’s chubby face was twisted as if he were in pain as he stared down at the body. Lenora knew it wasn’t the sight of a body that had shaken him; it was who the body belonged to.

  “Jeez, I was at the game tonight. Saw him win it with a three-pointer at the buzzer,” Ahern said. “This is gonna tear the city up.”

  Bryce Cooper, ‘Coop’ to his fans who wore his jersey number, lay on his back. His long legs and arms posed as if gliding to his famous jump shot. Lenora had seen him play once since he’d been the Indianapolis Titans’ starting forward. Two years on the team and Coop was the reason the Titans were heading into game five of its first NBA playoff series.

  Now he was a murder victim.

  Lenora snapped on rubber gloves, knelt down next to the tech opening Cooper’s bloody suit jacket.

  “Finished, Joe?” the tech asked his partner, who was shooting the pics. “Need to turn him.”

  “Be my guest,” Joe said.

  The tech rolled Cooper’s body over enough to be able to see his back.

  “Perforating wounds. No exit wounds so bullets are still in the body,” Lenora said, seeing no blood on the victim’s back.

  “Bingo,” the tech said, laying Cooper’s body on his back again. “Hard to tell how many times he was shot. Looks like close range, though.”

  Lenora took her flashlight from her belt, flicked a beam around the ground. “Look for casings anyway. You never can tell. Check his pockets for me.”

  The tech riffled through Cooper’s pants pockets. Took a wallet from one, thick wad of bills from the other. Hundred dollar bills.

  “Whoa,” Ahern said.

  The tech dropped the wallet and cash in an evidence bag. Handed it to Ahern.

  “I’d say that Cosmography Daytime Rolex on his wrist is worth about $15 grand,” Lenora said.

  Ahern asked, “How do you know that?”

  “Shopping is my second favorite pastime after this lovely job. Whoever shot him didn’t want his money or his bling. Just Bryce Cooper dead. A good old-fashioned homicide.”

  The sound of an approaching car made Lenora turn her head. An unmarked car pulled beside the tech van. Sergeant Miller sprang from the passenger side and trotted over.

  “How’d the vultures get here so fast?” he snarled. “Wish we could make it against the law for everyone except cops to have police scanners.”

  Lenora glanced at the TV crews crowding behind the police tape. They’d been there when she’d gotten to the scene at 2:15 a.m. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Miller complained about media attention, but the reality was he never met a camera he didn’t slick his hair back for. She’d quickly learned that in the two months she’d been with IMPD.

  “What do you know so far?” Miller asked.

  “Those ladies say they were leaving the club and saw Cooper lying here next to his Porsche. Didn’t see anyone or hear anything. So they say.” Lenora nodded in the direction of two women being held by uniformed officers. They wore
shell-shocked expressions and short look-at-me dresses.

  Lenora peeled off her gloves. “If I recall, Mr. Cooper lives — lived—in Geist. Long way to come party. Wonder why he chose this place?”

  “You have hours not days to find out,” Miller said.

  Lenora slipped her iPhone from the case clipped to the waist of her tailored slacks. “I’ll have a car pick up his widow. Better we get to her before she sees it on Breaking News.”

  A rumble came from the media scrum still jockeying for position along the fence. “Though we may already be too late,” Lenora said.

  “Good idea,” Miller said. He straightened his yellow silk tie, adjusted the jacket of his pale gray suit and ran his hand over his salon cut salt and pepper hair. “Dobbs from Channel 6 is over there. He’s more reasonable than most. I’ll give him a few talking points to spread.”

  More interviews with the ladies who’d found Cooper yielded nothing. After the medical examiner gave the word and a wagon had taken Cooper’s body away, Lenora and Ahern went into the Jazz Showcase to find the owner. She expected the place to be cheesy since it was located in Englewood, a poor area urban renewal hadn’t hit yet. But it was actually elegant. The décor was neutral and understated. No flashy lights or wild patterned wallpaper. And the booths looked to be plush leather. The staff was doing final cleanup, their uniform of classic black slacks and white shirts wrinkled from a long night.

  Lenora and Ahern talked with Bill Tapper, the owner, at a table near the long, curved mahogany bar. Lenora thought he was rather young to own a place that obviously had taken major bucks to open.

  “Coop was just a great guy,” Tapper said. He gripped a potent looking drink with shaking hands. “Why did this have to happen?”

  “Was Cooper a regular?” Lenora asked. “I understand he grew up in this area, but lives at least 45 minutes from here.”

  Tapper’s shoulders stiffened. “Coop didn’t forget his friends when he made it. He didn’t think he was too good to come back to the old neighborhood. He knew what it was like to grow up without family. Poor. So he was always looking for a way to help someone. That’s why he set up his kids’ foundation.”