A Question of Judgment: A Michael Bishop Mystery

by Anthony J. Pucci

  Frank looked up at the ceiling where several security cameras were recording his every move. “I have a car loan here.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilson, but we can’t help you today.”

  Sensing that he had exhausted all possibilities, he said perfunctorily, “Yeah, well, thanks anyway,” as he turned to leave the bank. Bishop followed him out into the parking lot.

  Before getting in his van, he turned to Bishop. “I heard that there were lots of problems with the checks, but post-dating our checks and not even telling us? That’s bullshit!”

  “I agree. I’m sure that Mary Ellen is doing the best she can to get everything squared away. Seems to me that post-dating the checks is an administrative decision. I intend to look into that myself.” Bishop knew from experience that the nuns were more than capable of pulling off such a stunt. The real question was: Why did they do it? Were they trying to make Mary Ellen appear incompetent so that they could rehire Annette? If they wanted to dismiss Mary Ellen, they could do so at any time without cause as that was clearly stated in all faculty and staff contracts. They would likely assume that Annette would jump at the chance to return to Holy Trinity. From what he knew of the circumstances of her departure, that might be a very false assumption.

  As Frank started his car, Bishop asked, “Frank, are you going to be okay?” He didn’t want to embarrass him by asking outright if he needed to borrow a few bucks for a day or two.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll just use one of my credit cards that’s not maxed out,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. Before backing out of his space, he said, “Thanks for asking, Mike. I appreciate it.”

  Bishop got into his Toyota, rolled the windows down a few inches, turned on the radio to NPR’s “All Things Considered,” and headed home. Something was bothering him, and it wasn’t the payroll fiasco. He realized that he wasn’t any closer to figuring out who killed Nick Borelli.

  ***

  When he reached his driveway, he noticed a white Ford F-150 parked behind one of the garage doors. A man wearing a dark flannel shirt, jeans, and a cap was standing at the front door. The man must have wrung the doorbell since he could hear Max barking. As Bishop parked his car next to the truck, the man turned around and waved. It was Red Wagner, Holy Trinity’s recently fired basketball coach.

  Bishop grabbed his briefcase, got out of his car, smiled and waved as Red walked down to meet him. He assumed that the coach had read the morning papers.

  “Hi, Red. Good to see you.” He switched his briefcase from his right hand to his left as the two men shook hands. Bishop wondered about the purpose of Red’s visit.

  “Sorry to bother you at home.”

  “That’s not a problem. Let’s go in, and you can meet Max.”

  “Thanks, but I can only stay a few minutes.”

  As soon as Bishop opened the door, Max began wagging his tail and sniffing the new visitor. “Calm down, Max,” Bishop said even though he knew that Max wasn’t very good at following directions. “He’ll calm down in a minute,” he told Red. “Why don’t we sit in the sunroom?”

  Red didn’t pay much attention to the dog that trailed the two men as they walked through the house.

  “Please, sit anywhere you like.” Without paying much attention to his surroundings, Red sat in the first chair he encountered, a Kennedy rocker. Clearly nervous, he folded his hands and stared down at the floor.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thanks. Really, I can’t stay long. I have to pick up my grandson after his practice.” He still hadn’t made eye contact with Bishop.

  “I see him at all of the games. How old is he now?”

  “Bobby’s twelve. He’s always telling me that he can’t wait to be on my team.” After a pause, he added, “That ain’t gonna happen now.”

  Bishop wondered if the purpose of the visit was to enlist his help in trying to get his coaching job back. That notion was quickly dispelled when Red commented, “I suppose you’ve seen this morning’s paper.”

  That would explain Red’s depressed demeanor. It must have hit him hard to realize that one of his players had been murdered in his presence. “Yes, I did, and I’m very sorry. I’m sure that it must be very painful for you.”

  Red looked directly at Bishop and replied, “You have no idea.”

  Uncertain whether or not his remark had been intended as a rebuke or was simply a statement of fact, Bishop waited for the coach to continue.

  As he fidgeted with his hands and looked down at his sneakers, he spoke more to himself than to Bishop. “People are going to think that I had something to do with Nick’s death.”

  “Why would you think that?” asked a stunned Bishop. That possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind. He wondered how anyone could think that the coach would want to kill his star player during the most important game of the year.

  “Well, for starters, Lieutenant Hodge called me at home this morning. He wanted me to stop by the station to answer a few questions. I just left his office.”

  “I’m sure that’s just routine,” Bishop offered reassuringly. However, as Bishop started to think about it, he realized that Red would be an obvious suspect. Even if he didn’t appear to have a motive, he certainly had the opportunity to tamper with Nick’s drink.

  “He wanted to know if Nick had any enemies on the team. That’s ridiculous. He was the star of the team, and he might have taken us to a state championship.”

  Star or not, the veteran teacher realized that Nick did have an enemy, someone willing to commit murder.

  “He asked me who had access to the players’ water bottles. I told him that before we go out on the court for warm-ups, lots of people are in and out of the locker room. The players sometimes let their friends stop in, even some of the parents. I think it helps to relax the team. And I don’t lock up during the game in case one of the players needs to get in there for whatever reason.”

  Red seemed more animated when he said, “I told him that each player had his name and jersey number marked on the bottle that he used.” He hesitated, then added as if he were making a confession, “I filled all the water bottles myself before the game.”

  As he listened, Bishop realized that there was no shortage of suspects in this case. Many would have had the opportunity. So far, from what he had been told, Dave Cavanaugh and Liz Atkins might also have had a motive.

  Red looked at his watch and suddenly got to his feet. “Gosh! Look at the time. I’ve got to pick up Bobby.” He headed for the door, followed by Bishop, followed by Max. Before he left, the coach turned around to shake Bishop’s hand.

  “Thanks, Michael.”

  “No problem,” Bishop said with a smile. He didn’t really know what he had done to deserve any thanks. From the few minutes that he had spent with the coach, it was clear that he was deeply troubled. Was it the news that Nick had been murdered? Was it the questioning by Hodge? Was it guilt? The look of agony on his face reminded Bishop of the old man in “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” a poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge when he admits to the wedding guest that he had “shot the Albatross.” It didn’t seem possible that this mild-mannered man could have taken the life of one of his players. And yet, as Red climbed into his truck and backed out of the driveway, Bishop couldn’t escape the feeling that the coach had not told him everything that he knew.

  Chapter Seven

  Bishop grabbed the leash that was hanging on a hook near the garage door and took Max for a long walk around his property. Having been indoors most of the day, Bishop had not appreciated what a perfect spring day it was. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face while the steady breeze kept him comfortable. The grass had become noticeably greener and thicker in the last few days suggesting that he would soon need to get the tractor ready for another season. He stopped to inspect the flower gardens that were flourishing despite his benign neglect.

  The gardens had all been the handiwork of his late wife, Grace. He could stil
l envision her working in the very spot where he stood, meticulously removing weeds with her gloved hands. To her, weeding had not been a chore, but rather a form of therapy. When she was gardening, she forgot about the real estate market, open houses, closings, and her clients. When she was suddenly taken from him, he wondered how he could go on without her. Teaching had helped him through those dark days. Even though she had been gone for years, he still missed her everyday. Now someone had taken Nick Borelli from his family and friends, and Bishop was determined to help the authorities in apprehending whoever was responsible.

  Max, wanting to continue his walk, tugged on his leash, pulling Bishop out of his reverie. Soon, it would be time to meet Ron for dinner.

  ***

  As Bishop arrived at Christy’s just a few minutes after six, he did a quick survey of the parking lot and found Ron’s dark green Nissan Sentra already there. As he stepped inside, he was hit with the sounds of “Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival emanating from the jukebox. At the opposite side of the crowded room, he spotted Ron who stood up and waved Bishop over.

  “Sorry I’m a little late,” Bishop said loudly enough to be heard over the music. He slipped into the booth with its worn red leather cushion.

  “No problem,” replied Ron as he grabbed a mug and poured a beer for his friend from the pitcher in front of him and another for himself. He sat back, cradling the cold beer mug in his big hands and exhaled deeply.

  “Rough day?”

  “You bet. From that fight between Derek and Sam to the news about Nick to the paycheck snafu, it’s been a tough day all around.”

  “At least it’s Friday,” offered Bishop. Just then, a young waitress with pad and pen approached their booth to take their order. She looked familiar to Bishop although he didn’t know how he knew her. He was fairly certain that she wasn’t a Trinity student. She was about sixteen years old, wearing a white blouse and faded jeans. Her thick dark hair which she had pulled back with a scrunchie, her large brown eyes, and her olive skin gave her a classic Mediterranean look.

  “Hi. My name is Maria,” she said warmly. “I’ll be your server tonight. Do you gentlemen know what you’d like?”

  Bishop smiled at her. The connection had come to him. “Maria, are you Luigi’s granddaughter?”

  “Yes, I am. How did you know that?”

  “Sometimes he shows me pictures of his family.”

  She laughed. “That sounds like my Papa.”

  “I didn’t know that you were working here.”

  “I just started a few weeks ago. I only help out when it’s really busy.”

  That gentle reminder prompted him to finish the conversation and get down to the business of ordering. “Well, Maria, it’s nice to meet you. Please tell your Papa that Michael Bishop said ‘hello’. Now, we’d like a large pizza…” as he looked to Ron for confirmation “…with black olives, green peppers, and extra cheese.”

  “Make that two,” Ron quickly added.

  After Maria left, Bishop gave Ron a quizzical look. “Two?”

  “Stress makes me hungry,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. He stared blankly into his beer, then without looking up, he asked, “Do you think that Mary Ellen will lose her job?”

  The question caught Bishop by surprise. Mary Ellen, perhaps with an assist from Sister Pat, had caused a lot of unnecessary anxiety among the faculty with her bungling of the payroll. However, over the years he knew of teachers who had done much worse without repercussion and others who had been fired for a lot less.

  “It’s hard to say,” he hedged. “It’s not as if those two nuns always make rational decisions. The fact that Pat was working on the payroll with Mary Ellen might be a mitigating factor.”

  “On the other hand, dumping Mary Ellen might be the convenient way to deflect any criticism from Sister Pat,” Ron said as he took another gulp of his cold brew. “I mean I don’t want her to lose her job or anything, but I’m not that comfortable with her working in the same building with me either.”

  The veteran teacher understood his friend’s mixed feelings about dating a member of the staff. He pointed out that there had been a number of examples of teachers dating other teachers without creating any problems. He kept to himself the conclusion that if Ron felt uncomfortable with the situation, then it was a problem. Ron and Mary Ellen would have to work through that for themselves.

  A question suddenly came to Bishop. It probably wasn’t very important now, but he had forgotten to ask earlier, and he was just curious about what had happened. Just as was about to ask Ron, Maria arrived with their order. The question again faded from his mind.

  “Be careful,” cautioned Maria. “They’re very hot.” The two large trays took up most of the available table space. Ron inhaled the rich aroma of the piping hot tomato sauce and cheese still bubbling in the pan as he deftly scooped a piece onto his plate.

  “Can I get you another pitcher?” Maria asked.

  Ron looked at Bishop who shook his head in the negative.

  “Not for now, thank you. I think we’re set.” With that, Ron took a big bite of that first slice, dropped it back on the dish, and began fanning his mouth. He quickly gulped down some cold beer.

  “She told you it was very hot,” Bishop said with a grin as Ron waited a moment before attempting to take another bite.

  “I know, but I’m starving, and Luigi’s pizza is the best.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ron had devoured most of one of the pizzas, while Bishop had managed to eat three slices of the other.

  “That’s it for me,” Bishop announced. After offering the remainder to Ron who declined, he called Maria over to ask for a box. She returned promptly accompanied by her grandfather, Luigi, who shook hands with both men.

  “Hey, Mista Bishop, itsa good to see you. Has Maria been takin’ good care of you?” He beamed as he asked the question and gave his granddaughter a hug and a kiss on the top of her head.

  “The service was excellent.”

  “And the pizza was perfect, as always,” added Ron.

  “You must be very proud of this young lady,” Bishop remarked.

  “That’sa for sure.”

  Maria left the check on the table and excused herself. Luigi motioned for Bishop to move over, and he sat down at the edge of the booth. He suddenly became very serious.

  “Itsa too bad about that Borelli boy,” he said as he looked at both men. “What kinda person would do that?”

  It was a very good question, one that had troubled Bishop since he had received the call from Lieutenant Hodge the previous evening. Whoever had committed this crime wasn’t a monster but a person, a person driven by some strong emotion. Was it fear, love, hate, revenge, jealousy, greed or something else? He wouldn’t know until the perpetrator had been found, and he was more determined than ever to help Hodge find that person.

  After a brief conversation, Luigi returned to the kitchen, and Ron went to use the restroom after reluctantly allowing Bishop to pick up the check. As Bishop was paying the bill, someone said, “Hi, Mr. Bishop.”

  Assuming that it was a student or a former student, he turned around to return the greeting.

  “Hello, David. Good to see you.” He nodded to the young lady with whom David was holding hands. She looked quite familiar, but he couldn’t think of her name.

  As the young couple followed the hostess to their table, David said, “Have a nice weekend,” and Bishop wished him the same. After signing the receipt for the pizza and beer, he walked out into the parking lot. Ron followed a minute later.

  “Guess who I just saw in there,” Ron said.

  “David Cavanaugh.” It didn’t seem very noteworthy to Bishop. He often met students in stores or restaurants. Groveland just wasn’t that big of a town.

  “Right, but did you see whom he was with?”

  “A very attractive young lady from school, but I couldn’t come up with her name.”

  “Ashley Barrington.”
<
br />   “Isn’t she the girl who was dating Nick Borelli?”

  “Yup!”

  ***

  Bishop had a difficult time falling asleep that night. He kept replaying the events of the day that started with the publication of the news that Nick’s death was being investigated as a murder. That generated some speculation regarding the culprit. Jack considered Dave Cavanaugh a possibility since he had lost playing time to Nick as well as an offer of a college scholarship. Terry suggested that Liz Atkins might be involved since Nick had recently dumped her for Ashley Barrington. Red Wagner seemed to be hiding something. At Christy’s, he and Ron had seen Ashley on a date with Dave. Did that strengthen Jack’s theory? Could Dave have been motivated by his interest in Ashley? Add to that the fight between Derek Yeager and Sam Bradford. Derek had verbalized his belief that someone on the team would have had easy access to Nick’s water bottle.

  All of those possibilities bounced around in his head like a ball in a pinball machine. Which ideas would fall harmlessly down the chute as totally without merit? Which one might hit the target and lead to the unraveling of the mystery? At this point, Bishop could not eliminate any of the possibilities, and he was convinced that more accusations were coming. All he could do, for now, was keep an open mind and follow through on even the most trivial of details. Previous experience had taught him that the answers were often in plain sight if he knew where to look.

  Suddenly, he sat up in bed. How could he have forgotten? He switched on the lamp on his nightstand and put on his glasses. He squinted for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the light. He opened the top drawer, reached for a pad of paper, and grabbed the first pen that he could find. In his loopy handwriting, he put two words on paper, “Nick’s notebook,” and underlined them emphatically several times. He had forgotten to ask Ron if he knew what had happened to the contents of Nick’s locker. Sister Pascala had mentioned a note that had been passed from Dave to Nick during her Chemistry class. Bishop wanted to know what was in that note. As he turned off the light and settled back in bed, he felt frustration at the increasing frequency of his forgetfulness and wondered what else he might have forgotten.