Manny’s body splayed lifeless on the court. The EMTs had arrived too late to do any good.
Mark’s hands shook. He had trouble focusing. His head throbbed.
He needed to pull himself together. He took a deep breath and scanned the other court. This was no accident, and four potential murderers sulked on the adjoining court. Any of them could have bashed Manny with a paddle. For all the bluster and noise earlier, the four remained suspiciously quiet now.
Mark twisted his paddle in his hands and watched in silence as a police officer spoke with each of the players on the adjoining court and then separated them to wait along the recreation center outer wall.
Wanting to watch the proceedings more closely, Mark tried to go out the court door, but a policeman stopped him. “Please wait in the court for a few more minutes. Detective Peters will want to talk to you.”
Mark shrugged, shut the door and continued to watch the activity alongside the rec center building.
A photographer shot pictures of each of the suspects, and then a man in an overcoat wiped swabs over their sweat suits before dropping the samples in separate paper bags. Finally an officer escorted them individually out to waiting cars. Mark recognized the last suspect to leave. Jacob Fish.
Jacob began to yell and wave both hands in the air.
Mark rubbed his cold chin. Here Manny was dead, and Jacob was putting on an Academy Award–acting performance.
Turning his attention away from the parking lot, Mark noticed an officer wrapping yellow tape across the handrails leading to the other platform tennis court. Then a man in a dark coat entered their court. He stood approximately six-foot-two with the build of a University of Colorado linebacker. Mark estimated his age to be early forties. He addressed Mark and his companions. “I’m Detective Carl Peters. I need to take a statement from each of you and search your equipment bags. We can either do it here or down at headquarters. Your choice.”
Shelby looked at his watch. “I have to head home. Why don’t you interview me first?”
“Shelby, you just got here,” Mark protested.
“I know, but I have term papers to grade tonight.”
Mark decided to drive to the public safety building on 33rd Street rather than stand in the cold. After showing his driver’s license to Peters, who wrote the information on a pad, Mark excused himself and strode toward the parking lot. So much for a friendly platform tennis game.
Mark drank a cup of lukewarm coffee while sitting in the lobby of the public safety building watching people go in and out through the glass door. Thoughts ping-ponged around in his head, rebounding from the awful events of this evening to his recent bout with cancer. He felt his stomach tighten at the memory.
He divided his life into two periods: before cancer and after cancer. He had been healthy, rarely missing work and never bed-ridden. Sure, there had been occasional colds, but he always bounced back within days. He hadn’t been a hospital patient since his birth. He took his good health for granted, accepting it as the way things should be. Then came the news that he had prostate cancer. That changed everything. Nothing like a dose of mortality slapping him alongside the head.
What a hell of a wake-up call. Even people who did all the right things could die. It could happen to anyone.
Look at Manny.
If it hadn’t been for Manny, Mark might be dead or dying by now. He thought back to that fateful day six months ago.
He and Manny had sat on a bench outside the recreation center, chatting after a lunchtime platform tennis game. The conversation meandered around until, finally, they broached the subject of health. Mark always felt comfortable with Manny and found himself saying more than usual about some physical problems he had experienced.
Manny looked him in the eyes. “You have symptoms of prostate cancer. You need to go in immediately for a checkup.”
Mark laughed. “I don’t like doctors. Haven’t been to see one in probably five years.”
Manny grabbed his arm. “Come with me. I’m taking you over to the Boulder Medical Center right now.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No! This could be a matter of life or death.”
Manny drove him the four blocks to the medical center and waited while an on-call physician tended to Mark. Sure enough, he had a malignant, enlarged prostate. And if Manny had not insisted . . .
A hand touched Mark’s shoulder. Startled, he jumped.
“Mr. Yeager, would you please come this way?”
Mark sighed. He’d continue with his life, just as he did after his cancer surgery.
He followed the officer along a hallway covered with pictures of past police chiefs, into a small, bare room with hard, wooden chairs on each side of a table that looked like surplus from a local middle school.
“Detective Peters will be with you shortly.”
Mark waited and waited and finally closed his eyes. He imagined a meadow with butterflies, but the butterflies turned into flying paddles. Then a firm hand shook him.
“Mr. Yeager, I’m ready to speak with you.”
Mark blinked. “Sorry. I was daydreaming.” He looked into the intense eyes of Detective Peters.
“Mr. Yeager, this has been a trying evening for you. I’ll let you leave as soon as possible. I’d appreciate it if you would please describe the scene as you witnessed it.”
“I’m not a suspect, am I?” Mark asked.
“No. It’s clear you remained fenced into the other court when the murder happened.”
Mark recounted arriving and observing the men on the other court, playing for a short while, being surprised when the lights went out and then receiving the shock of seeing a bludgeoned Manny Grimes when the lights came back on.
“Describe specifically what you noticed the men doing on the adjoining court right before the lights went out.”
“They had all gathered at the net. The fifth man, whom I don’t know, had just arrived. We stopped our game when he stomped onto the court and started an argument with one of the players, Lee Daggett.”
“Did you know the victim?”
“I’ve known Manny for over two years. He often filled in when one of our regular foursome couldn’t play.”
“And the other men on the court with Manny?”
Mark thought back over the last several years of platform tennis games. “Manny is the only one I’ve played platform tennis with. I’ve seen the others at the courts once in a while, but that’s it.”
“Let’s review the situation before the lights went out. Continue.”
“The players on the other court acted pretty heated. They swore at each other. But, strangely, Manny seemed above it all. The other three argued like spoiled kids.”
“Describe any threats you heard.”
“Nothing specific, but they constantly badgered each other as they played.”
“What else did you notice?”
“The man who came late. His timing was impeccable. Moments after he arrived, the lights went out.”
Peters wrote on his notepad.
“Can you describe the positions of the men on the other court when the lights came back on?”
“I really didn’t notice them. My attention was only focused on Manny. I saw a paddle lying next to him. Then I picked up my cell phone.”
“Anything else you observed?”
Mark thought for a moment. “Nothing else.”
“I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Yeager. If you think of something that might be useful, please give me a call.”
Peters gave Mark his card.
Mark looked at the blank wall in front of him and thought of the crime shows he’d watched on television. “I have some questions for you. Wouldn’t there be blood spatter from the victim on the killer? Since the suspects were probably wearing gloves, I don’t imagine you found fingerprints on the murder weapon, but did you discover anything suspicious in their equipment bags?”
Peters looked thoughtfully at Mark. “Astute questions, but I can’t discuss the investigation at this time.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t divulge any case details.”
As Mark left the room, he noticed one of the suspects, Ken Idler, standing in the hallway, dressed in tennis shorts and a turtleneck shirt. His build approximated Manny’s, but his face held dark, darting eyes, a brown mustache and a goatee.
“Look, you’ve asked your questions and you know where to find me if you need me again,” Idler said. “I was bending down to tie my tennis shoe when the lights went out. One of the others killed Manny. Now I need to return home to my wife.”
“We need to run one more test, Mr. Idler,” the policeman said.
“You’ve already taken my sweat suit. I assume you’ll give me something warm to wear home.”
“We have a jacket we’ll loan you when you’re driven back to the recreation center.”
“How good of you,” Idler said, turning and kicking the base plate of the wall.