“I’d rather talk about my floor.”
I figured that was true. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But there’s some things I need to know.”
“And I suppose they’re so all-fired important you gotta ask. Boy’s dead, can’t you leave it be?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I understand you gave blood tests, as well as urine. Tests that were impossible to fake.”
“Oh, you understand that, do you?”
“You did it yourself. You were in complete control. If someone tampered with someone’s blood sample, you were the only one who could have done it.”
“Never happened.”
“No, I don’t suppose it did. In fact, it’s legend. You sittin’ down your star players when you had a shot at the NIT.”
“Ain’ nothin’ to it,” Coach Tom said. “Rule’s a rule.”
“Yes, it is,” I said. I set my briefcase down on the parquet floor, snapped it open, took out a sheaf of papers. “And I know you’re a stickler for playing by the rules.” I thrust the papers on the floor in front of him. “You know what these are? They’re lab reports. Going back the last ten years. Lab reports on the blood samples you had processed.”
“So?”
“There’s none for the day Grant Jackson died. According to the players on the team, you took blood that day.”
“What if I did?”
“According to the lab, you never turned it in.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I didn’t. With Grant collapsin’, it would be easy to forget.”
“You’re saying you forgot to turn it in?”
“If that’s what the lab says, must be.”
“Then where are those samples now?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“If you didn’t turn ’em in, you must still have ’em.”
“So?”
“So let’s go take a look.”
“Let’s not. What’s with you? First you say you’re workin’ for the mother, then you come around you want blood. What’s the deal?”
“If you have a vial of blood you took from Grant Jackson on the day he collapsed, that would be rather valuable evidence.”
“Well, I don’t.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t think you did.” I picked up the papers, flipped through. “February 3, 1994. Drug screen for Harold Wilks and Alan Powers. Positive for cocaine. You sat them both, in spite of the fact you had a great team that year, with a shot at makin’ the NIT. It’s legend. All the players know it. Gives you a terrific hold over them.”
“That’s not why I did it.”
“Yeah, I know.” After a pause I added, “I’m probably the only one who does.”
He looked up at me from his seat on the floor. “What you mean?”
“This drug test in ’94 that sat your stars. According to the lab reports, it was three weeks after the last test. Only three weeks, when you always give four. A sudden, surprise test that netted two of your biggest stars. And knocked you out of the NIT.”
He may not have heard me. He bent over, fitted a board back into the floor.
“See, you talk a good game, Coach Tom. That’s what bothered me. You talk too good a game. The bit about fear of failure. That was pretty damn good. That sounded plausible. It took a while for me to figure out that if it sounded that good, it probably wasn’t. And, sure enough, that’s the case. Fear of failure wasn’t the problem. It was fear of success.
“It happened first in ’94, when a team got a little too good, went a little too far. Gonna get in the playoffs, get some national exposure. Get the alumni all excited. Raise money. Hire a name coach. Build a new gym.
“I’m not sure which scared you more. Someone trying to replace you, or the thought of losing this.
“Grant Jackson, same thing, only worse. He’s not just a great player, he’s a marquee player. He’s the type of player gets your team in the papers and on TV. And this gym isn’t set up for TV, is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. You’re very comfortable in your little gym, with a.500 team. It’s not just a job, it’s your whole life. Which Grant Jackson threatened to destroy.” I referred to the sheets. “Which is why, once again, we have a blood test a little early. It’s not on these sheets, but according to the guys on the team, it was the same day Grant Jackson died. Three weeks since the last one. A week early, just like before.”
I shook my head. “A blood test that never got to the lab, where the blood disappeared.” I lowered my voice. “It must have been a tough thing to do. But I’m sure you thought you had no choice.
“So there you are, with a needle in Grant’s arm, taking blood. Filling test tubes. Easy to switch; instead of an empty tube, a full hypodermic you squeeze back in. For a boy with a heart condition, a lethal dose of coke. Because Grant Jackson didn’t do drugs. Under any circumstances. Even before he knew about the heart condition. There was no way he would fall for a setup, like the coke you planted on your boys in ’94. That they found in their locker and couldn’t resist. And why would they? The drug screen wasn’t due for another week. Surely it would be out of their system by then.”
He frowned, looked up at me. There were tears running down his cheeks. “Why you doin’ this?”
I didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t say “It’s my job,” because it wasn’t. And I couldn’t bear to say something clunky and holier-than-thou like “Because it’s right.”
I turned and motioned to the door, where Sergeant MacAullif was waiting. He came in, introduced himself to Coach Tom, and delivered what had to be the calmest Miranda warning in the history of the NYPD.
Richard was dumbfounded. “Grant Jackson’s a homicide?”
“That’s right.”
“His coach killed him because he would have made the team too famous and cost him his job?”
“That’s a bit of an oversimplification.”
“But he’s under arrest?”
“That he is.”
“Which makes it a brand-new ball game.” Richard rubbed his hands together. “Suddenly everyone’s liable again. The coach, the college, the doctors. Maybe even the police.”
“Let’s not go overboard,” I said. I could envision MacAullif’s blood pressure if he got named as a defendant.
“You signed this woman up. Even though I told you not to.”
“I admit I exceeded my authority.”
“Yes, you did, and it couldn’t have worked out better. You’re even entitled to the hundred-and-fifty-dollar initiative bonus for bringing me a new case.”
“Two hundred and fifty.”
“What?”
“It went up to two hundred and fifty last year.”
“Are you sure?”
“That kid, Patrick, who worked here for a month, brought you a case and wouldn’t give it to you for less.”
“That was a special case.”
“Oh, come on. You’re trying to justify paying a kid out of college more than the investigator who’s worked for you for years?”
Richard paused, considered, probably realized the number of cases I brought him could be counted on the fingers of one hand. “Of course not, Stanley,” he said magnanimously. “Two hundred and fifty bucks it is. And a damn fine job.” He riffled through the fact sheet I’d given him. “The woman has nine dependents, no husband, lives on welfare, has no other visible means of support. Cruelly deprived of her only source of income. The insurance companies are going to fall all over themselves trying to settle this.”
I figured that was probably true. Richard’s reputation as a fearsome litigator was well known. Opposing counsel were used to throwing large sums of money at him to keep him out of court.
“So,” Richard said, “you get your bonus, I get a nice case, and a woman with nine dependents gets some much-needed relief. All in all, it couldn’t be better.”
I sighed.
I was thinking of Coach Tom, down on his hands and knees, meticulously, lovingly replacing the boards of his parquet floor.