One Last Play: Author's Notes

·         This is a continuation of Emma Couteau and Kyle Donovan’s lives.  She’s in college now and has to contend with a murder that she isn’t involved in, other than trying to solve the mystery quickly as she stated in chapter 17.  Originally, that conversation was held earlier in the story, but I decided I wanted Donovan to consider Emma as a suspect.

·         If Donovan watched more movies, he would have realized that the name Megan Carter was an alias.  The shooter needed a name to give to Donovan while posing as a reporter.  Megan Carter is a character from the movie, Absence of Malice.  Played by Sally Field, Megan Carter is, of course, a reporter.

·         There is a definite ‘tell’ in Chapter 18 when Megan meets with Donovan in the workspace.  If you notice how carefully she folds things and squares things up on the table, you might have noticed similar details in the cabin in chapter 14.

·         Emma’s lawyer, Addie Finch, harkens back to the attorney Atticus Finch from the movie To Kill a Mockingbird.   The law firm of Mulligan, Pakula, and Lee gets its name from the movie’s director Robert Mulligan, producer Alan Pakula, and writer Harper Lee.

·         I feel like Donovan and Emma’s dynamic is evolving as she grows older, but at this moment, Donovan is still a cop, and Emma is…just a girl in college.

One Last Play: Chapter 20

 

“So that’s it?”  Donovan watched as the news station on the hospital television wrapped up its report on the “Football Murders.” The detective shook his head.  “Obsessive lover kills rival and witness, and I come off looking like a hero.”  He ran his hand through his hair.  “No mention of Emma?”

A dark suited figure appeared in the doorway and cleared her throat.  “We prefer you just forget any involvement by Miss Couteau in these events…”

Startled, he said, “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry detective.  Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Addie Finch, and I work for the law firm of Mulligan, Pakula, and Lee.  I serve as the attorney for the Couteau family, and I act as Emma’s conservator as well.”  She pulled a business card from a pocket and handed it to him.  “The Drs. Couteau travel to many parts of the world, and sometimes, their work takes them to somewhat dangerous areas.  There are people out there who disagree with their mission and have threatened the doctors and their family, so they prefer to keep a low profile.”

“I get that.  But-” he objected.

“It’s okay, Donovan.”  Emma’s soft voice floated from the bed.  “I won’t forget that you saved my life.”

He turned to the patient in the bed.  “My vest saved me; you were the one that took that girl out.”

“Well, when you crashed into the room, that gave me some time…” she countered.

“I was just doing -” he started.

Emma cut him off, “You were just doing your cop thing.  I know.”

The detective shook his head, “I was going to say, I was just doing what any friend would do for another.”

Finch watched the interaction between the two and smiled.  “Can we count on your silence then?”

Donovan glanced at Emma, who raised an eyebrow.  He took a deep breath.  “Yeah, sure.”

The attorney smiled and shook his hand.  “Thank you so much.”  She gave Emma a look and said, “I’ll let the people back in the office know how you’re doing.  All the protocols are in place and they’re running smoothly.  I’ll be in touch with you later.”  As she turned to leave, Finch spoke to Donovan once more, “Thank you again, officer, for taking care of Emma.  She’s very special to us.”  With that, she nodded goodbye to Emma and walked out of the room.

The detective stared at the door for a moment and furrowed his brow.  He turned to Emma and asked, “Is she…”

Emma returned his gaze, blinked several times, and said, “She’s my attorney, Donovan.  That’s all you need to know.”

One Last Play: Chapter 19

Darkness had begun to seep through the trees, and the silence was broken only by the hooting of a solitary owl.  Its head turned, following the soft crunch of tires against gravel as a car moved up the driveway; the car was dark, like a face without eyes.  It rolled to a stop in front of the cabin, and the black clad driver slid out from behind the wheel to gaze at the limp crime scene tape draped across the porch.  Eight steps to the doorway and the shadowy figure ran their hand along the top of the doorframe to retrieve the key.  A soft click of the lock, a creak of the door, and the intruder stepped inside.

A flashlight snapped on, its beam spotlighting the bed.  It had been stripped bare; all that remained was a dark stain at the head of the mattress.  The light paused for a heartbeat, then the figure strode to bedside and began searching underneath where the body had lain just the day before.

There was a soft click of a switch and a pool of light in the corner of the cabin suddenly appeared.  From the shadows of an armchair, Emma’s steady voice called out, “There is no journal…”  She leaned forward; her profile caught in silhouette.  “I made it up.  I put that crumb out there to see who might show up.”

The flashlight went dark, and shuffled footsteps brought the shadow to the edge of the light.  “I recognize you,” the figure stared at Emma.  “You’re that girl who was talking to Donovan that first day down on the field.”

Emma froze, an uneasy feeling welling up from within.  “I know you.”  She closed her eyes, “I felt you staring from the stands…”   Her eyes suddenly snapped open.  “You’re the shooter.”

“Anybody could have made that shot-”

“But it was you,” Emma interjected.

There was a snort.  “Yeah, it was me.”  The shooter shrugged.  “This is Texas, everyone hunts.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed, “Why did you kill Brian Cook?”

The answer came wrapped in steel.  “He.  Hurt.  Brooke.”  The speaker stepped into the light, fists clenched, breath ragged.  “I love her.”

Emma gasped, her mind racing, as she stared at the slim figure of a young blonde woman, “You’re Amelia Johnson.  You’re in my literature class.”  She stopped short, “Wait, why were you hanging out with Donovan?!”

Smirking, Amelia retorted, “Can you think of an easier way to keep tabs on the investigation?”

There was a shocked moment of silence before Emma asked, “And what happened with Joaquin?”

“He was a liability.”  The killer shrugged.  “We were on the hill,” she explained.  “He pulled out his rifle and said, ‘Hey look at this’ and looked down at the field.  He knew I had feelings for Brooke, he knew I hated Brian.”  Her gaze grew distant.  “But he handed me the freakin’ gun.  I looked through the scope and saw that bastard running down the field.”  She smiled thinly, “So I shot him.”

Emma was quiet for a moment.  “Then what?” she asked softly. 

“Joaquin was pretty freaked.”  Amelia looked around the cabin, her memory watching the ghosts of that night.  “It was his gun; he figured the bullet would be traced to him.  We came back here, I calmed him down, he had some drinks.”  She looked toward the bed, “He fell asleep…Then I shot him.”  Her face turned back to Emma, and she calmly pulled out a handgun, “You might as well stand up.  It’s your turn now.”

Just as Emma got to her feet, the door flew open and Donovan burst into the cabin in a crouch.  “Police!  Hold it right there!”  He blinked, clearly confused.  “Megan?” then startled, “Put the gun down Megan!”

“I have to take care of this girl first,” Amelia raised the gun; Donovan raced to throw himself in front of Emma.  He took two shots to the chest as Emma whipped out her knife and screamed, flinging her weapon at the shooter.  The knife hit her in the throat, and she spun around, her hand grabbing at the knife.  Amelia leaned heavily against the wall, grinned, then pointed at Emma before she slid down to the floor.

Emma was shaking.  She spun around to see Donovan’s body crumpled on the floor.  “Donovan?”  She was puzzled however, as her body seemed to not cooperate with what her head was saying.  She felt an ache in her side, and when she looked down, she saw a large red spot spreading down her body.  “Oh shit,” she muttered, “She shot me.”  She collapsed to the floor and remembered a story that she had once told Donovan.  “There’s nothing left to do except hurl yourself off the cliff.”  Emma whispered to herself as she remembered.  “It’s so very quiet, and so calm, when you’ve flung yourself over the edge.”  She closed her eyes one last time as darkness washed over her.

One Last Play: Chapter 18

 

The news of Joaquin Rodriguez’s death broke like a tsunami over the internet.  Donovan was on the college campus, hoping to talk to Daniel Mosser before the news spread, but a phone call derailed his plans.

Megan Carter’s voice was breathless.  “I think I might have some information about Joaquin.  Can we meet in the workspace?”

The detective stopped for a moment, rubbing his head and weighing his options.  After a moment he replied, “Okay, I’ll call ahead and reserve the room.  I can meet you there in…forty minutes.”

“I’ll see you then,” her voice was brimming with anticipation.

 

Donovan was already seated in the room when he heard rapid footsteps striding down the hallway.  He looked up when the sound stopped.  Megan, backpack on her shoulder, coffee cup in her hand, was carefully placing the ‘No Ick Zone’ placard in the sign holder next to the door.

“Thank you for meeting me here on such short notice, detective.”  She closed the door, the backpack sliding to the floor as she took the seat across Donovan.  Her coffee just managed to make it to the table without spilling a drop, where she carefully set it squarely in the middle of her napkin.  “Sorry, I’m just a little nervous.”

“This sounds important,” his eyes searched her face.

“I think it is.”  Her fingers drummed the table.  “Remember how I heard people talking about Walter Morris?”  She pressed on excitedly.  “I heard those same people say how someone convinced Joaquin to kill Brian and then took care of Joaquin!”

Donovan furrowed his brow.  “Morris said he didn’t do it-”

She cut him off, “Maybe he lied!  Or maybe it was another bookie!”

“That’s a possibility-” he said thoughtfully.

“I know, right?”  She took a sip of her coffee, her eyes shining.

“I’ll put that on my list.”  Sitting back in his chair, the detective sighed, “We’ll check it out.  I’m glad you’re able to hear these things that I wouldn’t be able to.”

Megan beamed, “I’m glad I can help.”

“It HAS been getting a bit hectic,” he admitted.  “I was on my way to question Daniel Mosser when you called.”

“Oh, he can’t be a suspect; he was Joaquin’s best friend,” she offered.

Donovan nodded.  “I just thought I could ask him about Joaquin’s journal.”

She blinked and took another sip of coffee.  “He had a journal?”

He leaned forward, raising his eyebrows.  “We have reason to believe he did, and there will probably be information that will crack this case.”

“Let me talk to Daniel,” she said eagerly.  “He might be more willing to give up a secret to me than to you.”

“If he doesn’t know anything about the journal, could you put some feelers out?  Ask around?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, one more thing.”  Donovan sat up straight, clearing his throat, “What can you tell me about Brooke McGuire?”

A slight frown crossed her face as she thought.  “Brooke McGuire?  Head cheerleader, nice girl…well, she did lose her temper that one time.”  She smiled.  “But I don’t see her being mixed up in any of this.”  Megan finished her coffee and carefully folded her napkin and threw it away with her cup.  Turning to Donovan, she asked, “Are you going to go back and talk to Morris?”

The detective rubbed his face.  “There might be more going on than I thought.”  He glanced up at Megan.  “Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome!”  She got up to leave but stopped to pull the placard from the sign holder.  “Good luck, detective!”  Her footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“I’m going to need all the luck I can get,” he murmured.

One Last Play: Chapter 17

After his conversation with Brooke, Donovan left for the last person on his list.  He made the drive to a well-kept house in an exclusive part of town.  He ran his hand through his hair and made his way up the sidewalk, only to pause for a long minute before he rang the doorbell.

The door opened and the slight figure of Emma Couteau greeted him, “Hello, Donovan.  I’ve been expecting you.”

The detective raised his eyebrows and wiped his shoes on the doormat before he stepped inside.  “Hello, Emma.  Are your parents at home?”

She shook her head, “Thailand.  There was a typhoon.”

He nodded his head.  Even having never met her parents, he was quite familiar with their work for Doctors Without Borders.  Interestingly, it seemed that every time he had come to talk to Emma, her parents were always away on assignment.

She ushered him into the living room where he sat down heavily on the sofa.  She sat in the armchair, looked at him, and tilted her head, “What can I do for you, detective?”

Donovan stared at her for a moment.  “I know you didn’t do it.”

She arched an eyebrow, “It?”  She left the question hanging.

Shaking his head, he sighed, “You didn’t kill Brian Cook or Joaquin Rodriguez.”

“Joaquin Rodriguez is dead?”  The detective could see the wheels turning in the young girl’s head.  “And you came here to tell me that I DIDN’T do it?  Why would you do that, Donovan?  How would you know it wasn’t me?” she challenged, her brow furrowed. 

He narrowed his eyes as he spoke.  “Because Emma - you don’t make mistakes.  You don’t leave clues.”  A tiny smile played across her face.  “What do you know?  Who killed these guys?” he asked forcefully.

She tapped her fingers on her lips.  “I can’t tell you,” she said steadily.

“Can’t or won’t?” he spat.

“I can’t,” she retorted, “because I.  Don’t.  Know.”

He sat back, stunned.  He wanted to say something, but his brain couldn’t decide where to start.  Finally, a strangled question came out.  “Why didn't you say something sooner?”

“You needed to do your cop thing, Donovan.”  

 

She looked sheepish and shrugged her shoulders.  “If I had told you that I didn’t do anything, would you have believed me?  You need to be the edgy, curious, doubting detective in order to figure this out.”

“So why tell me now?” he asked pointedly.

Emma’s lips were set in a tight line.  “If something like this happens close to home, so to speak, it shines a light on the surrounding area, and I don’t want to be caught in the glare.  One death is manageable, but two?”  She shook her head.  “Too many people are watching.  The sooner that this can be resolved, the easier it is for me to remain in place.”  Her next words were measured and careful, “I’m just a college student, Donovan.”

He ran his fingers through his hair.  “Why do you vex me so?”

“You’re just lucky I guess,” she deadpanned.

Giving her a sideways glance, he shook his head and said, “I WANT to solve this quickly, but-”

Emma interrupted, “Well, what did Joaquin’s journal say?”  Her question was met with a blank stare.  “His journal.  He wrote in it all the time, he was compulsive.”  She narrowed her eyes.  “You haven’t found it?”  The detective slowly shook his head.  “Oh god, Donovan…Find the journal and you’ll find the killer.”

One Last Play: Chapter 16

Donovan managed to track down Brooke McGuire as she was leaving one of her morning classes.  It was important to talk to her before the news of Joaquin’s passing became public.  Her dark brown hair bounced in the morning sunlight as he caught up to her.  “Brooke McGuire?”  He showed her his badge, “Detective Kyle Donovan.  I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright.”

She hugged her books to herself and sighed.  “I wondered when you were going to talk to me.  Do you mind if we sit down?”  They made their way to a nearby bench where she carefully placed her books before she sat down.  “What can I do for you, detective?”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small pad of paper and a pen.  “I’m sorry about Brian.  I understand he was your boyfriend.”

She looked away for a moment, blinking her eyes.  “Ex-boyfriend…but thank you.”  Putting her hands together in her lap, she glanced at him and continued, “We dated for a while, but then-” She bit her lip.  “I suppose you heard about the fight.”

“Can you tell me what lead up to it?” he offered.

Her breath was shaky, but she plowed ahead.  “Brian had a gambling problem.  He borrowed money from me, a lot.”  She made a small fist in her lap.  “He said he would pay me back, but never did, and then he had the audacity to ask me for more.”  Her voice dropped to a whisper, “You can understand how that would make me angry, right?”

“You felt used and betrayed…”

“Exactly.  That’s why I stabbed those holes in his convertible top and slashed his tires.”  She looked Donovan in the eye.  “He loved that car more than anything.  I knew that would hurt him the most, I knew that would make him suffer.”

The detective weighed what Brooke had confessed.  She certainly had a reason for rage, but murderous rage?  He steered the conversation to a different topic.  “What can you tell me about Joaquin Rodriguez?”

“Joaquin?”  Her gaze grew distant.  “We dated.”  She hesitated, “I’m sorry I left him for Brian; he was a sweetheart.”  She was lost in thought for several moments.  “It might have been too much,” she murmured, then smiled sadly.  “I heard he left town.”

One Last Play: Chapter 15

Donovan turned on his heel and walked out, not stopping until he reached the panel truck.  He ripped off his respirator and rested his forehead against the vehicle’s cool steel siding.  That was how Bradbury found him a few minutes later.

“You okay, Kyle?”

The detective turned around and blew out a deep breath.  “I thought…I hoped that we had this all wrapped up.  And now?”  He shrugged.  “We’re back at the beginning, except now we have two bodies instead of just one.”

“It’s never easy.”  The medical examiner stared through the trees; the moon was just starting to rise.  He sighed, “But someone has to speak to the truth, someone has to speak for the dead.”  Bradbury turned to his friend, patting him on the shoulder.  “Go on home and get some rest.  We’ll finish up here and get the results to you as soon as we can.  That’s all we can do right now.”

Donovan blinked a few times and sighed heavily, “We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”  He went over to his truck, climbed in, and with a half-hearted wave, turned his vehicle around to head for home.  The crunch of gravel under his tires followed him down the road. 

 

When the detective woke up the next morning, there were three messages from the ME waiting for him.  The first was that the body had been positively identified as Joaquin Rodriguez.  The second message importantly identified the rifle as the one that had been used to kill Brian Cook.  The final message verified what Bradbury and Donovan had suspected last night; Joaquin Rodriguez had not taken his own life, but was probably killed soon after the death of the quarterback.  Donovan mulled this information over in his mind and began to compile a list of people he needed to talk to.  The people at the top of the list took him to the Buds and Suds.

Jenny’s usual bubbly demeanor was quickly tempered when she saw Donovan’s expression.  “Hello, Mr. Donovan.  What will it be today?” she asked quietly. 

“Is your boss in?”  His voice was on edge.  “I’d like to talk to him.”

The silver-haired lieutenant sat up a little straighter, folding his newspaper and placing it on the table.  Donovan turned slowly to look at him, his hands away from his body.  From behind the counter, he heard Jenny murmur, “It’s okay, Paulie.”  The detective heard the buzzer hum twice, and after a moment, he caught the sound of the door opening down the hallway.

“Donovan?” Morris materialized next to him, his voice smooth and calm.  “You okay?”  He nodded to Paulie, who relaxed and picked up his paper.  “Are WE okay?”

The detective sighed and turned, looking him in the eye.  “I just have some questions, Walter.”

“Let’s go back and talk in the office, okay?”  Morris led the way, and soon they were seated in the wood paneled office.  “You want a cup of coffee?  Something stronger?  You look like you need it.”

He ran his fingers through his hair.  “Walter, do you know anything about Joaquin Rodriguez?”

“The former quarterback?”  Morris leaned back in his chair.  “I heard he left town.”

“Nah, he’s dead.”   Donovan leaned forward in his chair.  “He might have been mixed up in this Brian Cook thing.”

The businessman furrowed his brow.  “I already said we don’t know anything about that.”  He laid his hands out on his desk.  “Look, the kid owed some people a lot of money, but honestly, strictly small potatoes compared to the major players.  No one in the business would have taken him out unless it was really personal.”  He rubbed his chin.  “Two quarterbacks from the same team though?  Might be someone trying to fix the bowl games, but that’s a bit extreme.”  He glanced at the detective, a small frown on his face.  “Kyle, you look beat.  Take some time off soon, okay?”

Donovan gave him a sideways glance.  “You getting soft on me, Walter?”  He got up to leave and shook his head, “It’s just different when it’s the kids, ya know?”  The office door weighed heavy in his hand as he left.

Out in the front, he raised his hand in apology to Paulie, then turned to have a word with Jenny.  “I didn’t mean to get you all upset.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Donovan.  You just looked…”  Her forehead wrinkled as she struggled to find the right word, “…dark.”

With a rueful smile, he responded, “It’s just work…”

“You know,” her smile was tentative, “if you want to relax?”  She blinked at him and patted his arm.

“Thanks, Jenny.”  He paused and looked her in the eye.  “By the way, what made you think to send me out to Joaquin’s cabin the other day?”

Her expression brightened, “I just thought he might be able to answer some questions for you.  If you talk to him, tell him I said hello, okay?”

Donovan sighed, “Sure thing Jenny.” 

One Last Play: Chapter 14

Somewhere off in the distance, a Barred Owl hooted, its call long and eerie.  Donovan sighed and stepped heavily off the porch to return to his truck.  This was a call that he hadn’t expected to make, but in the back of his mind he knew the possibility was always there.  “Dispatch, this is Detective Donovan, Homicide Division.  I have a deceased individual, possible suicide, in a cabin off Harris Road.  Requesting CSU and the ME at my location.”

He would have to wait for verification, but he was fairly certain that it was Joaquin’s remains in the cabin.  Donovan ran his hand through his hair, closing his eyes to think.  “What had happened?”  Scenarios crowded his thoughts, and he started sorting them out.  The revelation of a rifle in Joaquin’s possession indicated that he was very possibly Brian’s murderer.  Perhaps he waited on the hillside, filled with rage from the bullying.  Maybe he watched the game, hoping that Brian would fail and lose the game.  But then, he decided to…

“Bang,” murmured Donovan, opening his eyes.

 The body looked like it had been here for several days, so it was reasonable that he had killed Brian and then retreated to the cabin.  Perhaps he felt remorse or guilt and chose to end his life.  Donovan nodded to himself.  That made the most sense.

 

The crunch of gravel announced the arrival of the forensics’ vehicle and brought Donovan out of his reverie.  Three techs exited the panel truck; one approached him with a computer tablet, the other two gathered camera equipment and crime scene tape.  The detective recognized Torres as he nodded a greeting, “I’m sorry for dragging you out tonight.”  Donovan gestured at the porch.  “I knocked, then looked through the window.  That’s when I saw the body.  I called it in right away.”  He waited as the tech made some notes.  “I didn’t touch the doorknob or the window,” he added.

“Got it.  Thanks.” 

Ashcroft, camera in hand, came back to the two men and showed Torres a picture.  “We’re going to want the suits and respirators…”

 

The forensics unit had just suited up and was approaching the cabin when Bradbury arrived.  The ME walked over to the detective.  “Well, Donovan, what do we have here?”

“You tell me, Doc.  I’m thinking Joaquin Rodriguez took his own life in there.”  He shook his head.  “I figure he shot Brian Cook, then came over here and shot himself…What a waste.”

“Indeed,” murmured Bradbury.  He handed a hazmat suit and respirator to Donovan.  “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

Just then, Gomez, who had been running his hand along the top of the doorframe called out, “Got it!”  With a satisfied smile he explained, “No doormat, no flowerpot.  This is the third favorite hiding place.”  He slid the key into the doorknob, “Ah, here we go.”  The door swung open, “Deadbolt not locked,” Gomez murmured.

“Bodycams on,” Torres reminded his team.  The other two investigators checked their cameras and respirators; Ashcroft turned on the light of his video camera, and the three carefully entered the structure.  Beams of light were slashing through the cabin and over the body, capturing the details of the grisly scene inside.  Donovan and Bradbury waited patiently as the forensics team made their initial recordings, until Torres reappeared in the doorway to usher them in.

The interior was neat and tidy, not typical for a young man’s hideaway, until Donovan recalled Jenny’s comment about spending time there.  Perhaps Joaquin kept it clean for the ladies, or maybe it was his penchant for discipline.  Plates and glasses were washed and sorted in the dish drain, a bottle of vodka and a single glass sat at the table.  The glass rested on a coaster, and even the chairs were pushed in.  It was the blood-soaked bed that was jarringly out of place.

Bradbury motioned the detective over to the side of the bed.  “It’s like you thought, Donovan.  Two or three days.  But look at this.”  He nodded to Torres who was examining the rifle.

The technician looked up and said matter-of-factly, “No prints.”

One Last Play: Chapter 13

Armed with Jenny’s information, Donovan easily found the dirt road to Joaquin’s cabin on his map.  Situated in the rural part of the county and buried deep in the woods, the detective could understand how the spot could provide comfort to the upset young man.  He stopped in the parking lot of the Qik-Pik convenience store and checked his handgun.  “Just in case,” he murmured.  A short drive later, Donovan was making his way down the dirt road.  The shadows deepened as he drove his truck through the trees; the isolated location added to Donovan’s wariness.

A break in the trees and a short driveway revealed a red pickup truck parked in front of a small rustic dwelling.  Donovan quickly ran the plates and verified that the vehicle did indeed belong to Joaquin Rodriguez.  Silently, he exited his truck and ran his hand over the young man’s pickup.  The hood was cold and dusty, seemingly untouched for days.  Something didn’t quite feel right; the day had turned to dusk and yet there were no lights on inside the cabin.  Donovan cautiously moved to the porch, his hand on his gun, and knocked on the door.  “Joaquin Rodriguez?” he announced, “This is Detective Donovan from SAPD.  I’d like to ask you a few questions.”  A sickly smell seeped from the house and filled him with dread.  He tilted his head, listening for an answer.  “Joaquin Rodriguez!” he called out again, hopeful but ultimately resigned.  There was no answer.  The detective pulled out his flashlight and shone it through the front window.

“Shit.”

A body was lying on the bed, a rifle by their side.

One Last Play: Chapter 12

 

The ‘why’ and the ‘who.’  Those two facets of the investigation bumped around in Donovan’s head as he jostled down the dirt track from the clearing.  One crucial interview would answer a lot of questions, but trying to track down Joaquin was a bit of an obstacle.  He checked his watch.  His shirts might be ready, perhaps Westside Walter would have some information.

 

Donovan wheeled his truck into the parking lot of the Buds and Suds and sat quietly for a moment, running his hand through his hair.  This case was beginning to feel more like an investigation into Brian Cook’s transgressions rather than his passing.  He cleared his mind and made his way into the building, hoping that Morris had something helpful.

The attendant, Lola, greeted him from behind the counter.  “Mr. Donovan,” she said warmly, “here to pick up your shirts?”

“I am.  And thank you for remembering me.”  Donovan smiled and pushed Morris’ business card across the counter.  “He said I could get twenty percent off.”

She took it and waved toward the back.  “Mr. Morris would like to have a word with you.  I’ll have your shirts when you’re done talking.”  She reached under the counter and motioned with her head.  “He’ll be waiting.”

He thanked her and made his way down the wood paneled hallway; the sound of dryers faded into the background.  A knock on the door was answered by, “Come on in, Donovan.”  A football game was playing on a TV, and after a moment, Donovan stood slack jawed, staring at the screen.

“That’s the game from the other night,” he gasped.

Morris nodded, eyes glued to the replay.  “You know, the more I watch this, the more I realize…”  he snapped off the set, “I got nuthin’.”  He looked up at Donovan and shrugged.  “I asked around, called in favors.  No one that I know wanted him dead.  Yeah, he was a pain, but it was manageable.”  The bookie offered him a seat.  “I don’t know what to tell you, pal.”

The policeman slumped in the chair, shaking his head.  “Damn, I was hoping for something.”

“This might have been a long shot, sorry.”  After a moment, Morris wiggled his eyebrows and smiled, “At least you got your shirts done at a discount.”

Donovan gave a lopsided grin, “Well, there is that.”

“Go talk to Lola.  She should have your shirts ready.”  The businessman stood and offered his hand, “Good luck, Donovan.”

“Thanks.  I think I need it.”  He turned to leave but stopped.  “By the way, what are the odds makers giving me?”

Snorting, the bookie smiled, “You’re the odds-on favorite to win this one.  Just go do your cop thing, you got this.”

His brow furrowed for a moment, hearing that echo before shaking his head.  “Thanks for asking around for me, Walter.”

He slapped the detective on the back, “You owe me.”

Donovan made his way to the front where his shirts were waiting, nicely wrapped and tied with a string.  Lola was waiting, elbows on the counter, her chin in her hands.

“I heard you were looking for who killed Brian Cook.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Word gets around…”

“Well, Walter and I,” she blushed, “we like to…talk.”  Looking around, she whispered conspiratorially, “You know about Joaquin, right?  Brian treated him awful.”

Donovan took a deep breath, “Yeah…If I could just find Joaquin to talk to him, get things straight.”  He sighed.  “But everyone’s says he’s left town.”

She rubbed her face, then snapped her fingers.  “He might have gone to his cabin.  He likes to go there sometimes when he wants to think.”

“His cabin?” he asked in surprise.  “He has a cabin? Do you know where it is?”

“Well sure.  It’s out on Harris Road past the Qik-Pik.”  Lola stood up straight and put her hands on her hips.  “Joaquin and I would go out there to…um…talk.” Her eyes cast downward.  Quietly she added, “I’m not that kind of girl, really.”

Donovan blinked several times before he replied, “It’s okay.  Thanks for the info, Lola.”

Her expression brightened, “Oh, my name’s not Lola.  Walter just likes to call me that.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Actually, my name’s Jenny.”  She scribbled something on the back of his receipt.  “Here’s my number in case you have any questions, or if you want to just…”  she looked up and slowly blinked her eyes, “…talk.”

He coughed.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

One Last Play: Chapter 11

 

Donovan remained at the table and watched Emma leave.  He ran his hand through his hair; the exchange with her rattled him.  The ‘what ifs’ started to whisper, what if she knew something?  What if she knew who was involved?  What if SHE was involved?  He rubbed his face and stared out the window, trying to quiet the voices. 

He took a few deep breaths, reminding himself that he was an investigator.  He went to his truck and drove to the stadium.  The memorial had grown; there were more flowers and small stuffed animals leaning against the fence.  Donovan gazed at the scene, trying to reconcile the contradictions of the different perspectives of Brian’s life.  The only sure thing that the detective knew was that the young man was dead, and he had no idea who or why it happened.

The crime scene tape had been removed, and the remnants of that night had been washed away.  The detective stood on the spot and looked at the wooded hill beyond the scoreboard.  He had spent the past few days trying to understand Brian.  Maybe, Donovan thought, it was time to get into the mind of the shooter, rather than the victim.

 

After a quick stop at his house, Donovan made his way to the hill near the stadium.  It didn’t take him long to find the dirt track around the side, and his truck bumped along into the woods.  After a few minutes, he found himself in a small open space that overlooked the football field.  Even though forensics had suggested that the fatal shot had come from this direction, it was startling to see the panorama of the open field.

Donovan got out and stood quietly for a moment, his hands on his hips.  He reached back into the cab of his truck, pulled out his hunting rifle, and sighted through his scope to the field.  “Dammit,” He said, shaking his head, “Any experienced hunter could have made this shot.”  Closing his eyes, he put himself into the shoes of the shooter.  It was night, he would have been hidden in the dark.  His position was elevated; the field was well lit; his prey was in line and running away.  The detective put his rifle to his shoulder, visualizing, and softly murmured, “Bang.”  Out of habit, he worked the bolt of his rifle.  Would he have ejected his shell?  His eyes scanned the ground, but there was only a scattered collection of beer cans, cigarette butts, and used condoms.  Trying to find a spent casing, if there was one, would be frustrating and time consuming.  He took one more look at the field through his scope, shook his head, and put away his rifle.  The ‘how’ and the ‘where’ of the shooting seemed pretty wrapped up.  The ‘why’ and the ‘who’ …that was still in play.

Donovan started his truck and made his way down the track.  After a few minutes, the dust from his passing had settled, and the clearing was empty once more…

Except for a lone figure who watched the truck as it vanished down the trail.

One Last Play: Chapter 10

 

“Well, hey there Donovan.”  Her greeting was light and melodious; a small smile played across her lips.

“What are you doing here, Emma?” His question was sharp.

She innocently held up a book.  “I’m just catching up on my reading and having some tea.”  She set her book down and asked, “So how’s that investigation going?  Making any headway?”

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned toward her.  “Listen, if you’re involved, if you know something, I’m going to come after you.”

Her eyes turned hard.  “We already talked about this,” she hissed.  “But if you have to, then come at me.”  She swept her book into her backpack and stood.  She took a step and stopped, her back to him.  “Do your cop thing Donovan,” she said quietly, speaking to him over her shoulder.  Her eyes were steady.

“Just do what you need to do.”

One Last Play: Chapter 9

 

While the gambling angle couldn’t be dismissed, Donovan decided not to give it top priority.  Tuesday would be for digging a little deeper into Brian Cook’s life.  A courtesy call that morning to the college and to Coach Levitt would make his presence on campus a little less awkward.  After that, his first stop was the Field House.

As expected, the results from his interviews with Brian’s teammates ran the gamut from the laudatory, (‘Oh yeah, Brian was a great guy’ ‘he was the best thing to happen to the team’) to the disparaging, (‘Selfish’ ‘Scumbag’ ‘Asshat’).  It only reinforced what Donovan had seen the other day in the Field House.  Unquestionably however, the tone was more sympathetic when the talk turned to Joaquin Rodriguez.  The consensus was that his demotion from starting quarterback and subsequent cut from the team was harsh and unwarranted.

Donovan was able to glean a bit more information from Brian’s roommate, Isaiah Jackson.  The Field House felt a bit claustrophobic for the running back, so the detective suggested that they go to the campus coffee shop instead.  As they walked, Donovan couldn’t help but notice the slumped shoulders and haggard expression on the young man’s face.  Once inside, they settled on a small table in the back of the shop; it provided both a sense of privacy and openness.  Isaiah’s drink sat untouched as he balled up his napkin and stared out the window.

The detective sat quietly, sipping his coffee and giving the athlete space to gather his thoughts.  After a moment, Donovan gently opened the conversation, “We don’t have to do this right now.”

A minute passed before Isaiah smoothed out his napkin and finally started to speak.  “When does it stop hurting?" he asked quietly.

Donovan rubbed his face, remembering friends and colleagues that had been lost.  “To be honest, I don’t think it ever does.”  He took a breath and let it out slowly.  “What I’ve found is that over time, we choose what we want to remember about a person, either the heartbreak or the happiness.”  He looked down at his hands, then back into Isaiah’s eyes.  “It would help if we had some closure.  What can you tell me about Brian that might help us solve this case?”

Isaiah picked up the napkin again, twisting it in his hands before he spoke.  “Brian was my friend,” he started quietly, “but he wasn’t an easy friend.”

“How do you mean?” the detective asked.

The napkin twisted a little tighter.  “He could be funny, but his jokes would be cruel.  Everyone laughed when Brian would drill a football off of Joaquin’s head when he wasn’t looking.  Or he would unscrew the top of his water bottle so it would spill all over him when he tried to take a drink.  It was funny at first, but he kept at it, all the freakin’ time.”  The napkin fell apart in Isaiah’s hands.  “It got so bad, Joaquin quit the team.”

“Some of your teammates mentioned that-”

“We shoulda stopped it,” he interjected.

Donovan nodded.  “Sometimes we don’t see it until it’s too late, sometimes we’re afraid if we intervene the bully will come after us.  It doesn’t mean you’re weak, it means you’re human.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Isaiah conceded.  He sat quietly, tearing the napkin into small pieces.  “Then there was the gambling…”

The detective eyes narrowed, “How bad was it?”

“It was huge,” he confessed.  “It started with some poker games, but he kept getting suckered into playing more and more and kept losing.  Some of the guys think Brian started betting on our own football games.  Brooke tried to get him to stop and even paid off some of his debt, but he kept going back.”

“Who’s Brooke?” Donovan prodded.

“Brooke McGuire.  Head cheerleader, his girlfriend.  Well…ex-girlfriend.”  He glanced up at the detective, “He blew through her money and wanted more, she wouldn’t or couldn’t give him any, and he went off on her, calling her all sorts of names.”  He shook his head.  “It was ugly.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.”  A moment passed before the detective continued, “When was this?”

“You know that game we lost a couple of weeks ago?  Score was 42 to 3.”  The last remnants of the napkin were swept off the table.  “Right before that game, right underneath the stands.”  He looked up, “He was supposed to be our leader.”

The young man shook his head and pushed his chair away from the table.  He shrugged and made his way out of the coffee shop.  It was only then that Donovan noticed a familiar face seated two tables away.

“Emma?”