Steffi Lincoln’s assignment was to swim the third leg of the two-mile relay. She was a sturdy young woman, barrel-chested with muscular arms and large, powerful legs. She wasn’t a great beauty, but she was smart and funny, a consummate swimmer and a team favorite.
“I don’t know anything about that,” she stated in answer to my question about play parties.
“Surely you knew they were taking place.”
She had reluctantly agreed to speak with me, but only in the presence of her mother, Selma, a stern-looking woman in her late forties who leveled a flinty glare at me.
We were sitting in the deserted stands of the pool house. It was five o’clock, practice was finished for the day and Coach Maxwell had given us the green-light to meet there.
“You read lips?” Steffi asked me.
“I don’t.”
“Well, try to read mine anyway. I don’t know anything about play parties. Period.”
“So you were never invited to one.”
She turned to her mother. “I told you this was a bad idea.”
“Try to be a little more cooperative, honey,” Selma Lincoln said. “One of your coaches was murdered. Try to keep that in mind.”
“You don’t have to be so cynical, Mother.”
She looked back at me. “Was there anything else?”
I liked Steffi Lincoln. She had character and she unabashedly spoke her mind. She seemed comfortable in her skin and self-confidence was the cornerstone of her persona. If she had emotional misgivings about Henry Carson and his behavior with the other swim team girls, she didn’t reveal them.
“Was Mr. Carson involved with these parties?”
“As far as I could see, he was pretty much involved with everything. But I wouldn’t know specifically about any parties.”
“What did you mean about him being pretty much involved with everything?”
“I don’t know. I must have misspoken.”
“Why is this so difficult?” I muttered.
She scowled at me.
“Okay, let me start over. Why did you say he was pretty much involved with everything?”
She shrugged. “Look,” she began, “my vantage point was from the outside looking in. My knowledge of him was from that perspective. I don’t really know what he did or didn’t do. He was much more interested in the other girls than he was in me.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“Look at me. I look like some kind of overdeveloped slug. He was only interested in the pretty ones.”
“Why, do you suppose?”
“I thought he was some kind of lech. He was always hanging around, always leering. Freaky like. I heard he even tried to get into some of the girls’ pants.”
“How do you know that?”
“I think this line of questioning is off point,” Selma Lincoln interjected.
I looked at her. “It’s very much on point. I’m trying to learn whether Mr. Carson was directly involved with play parties.”
“Steffi has already told you she knows nothing about them.”
“But she did say Mr. Carson was some kind of lech.”
“No. She said she thought he might be a lech.”
“Who was trying to get into some of the girls’ pants.”
“Look,” Selma Lincoln said, “Steffi made no specific allegations and she repeatedly said she knew nothing about these play parties you keep referencing.”
She stood and motioned to her daughter. “I think we’re done here.”
“I have just a few more questions.”
“Not even one,” she said. “Good day, Sheriff Steel.”
I got up and looked at Steffi for a few moments. She also stood and made eye contact.
I took out one of my business cards and handed it to her. “In case you think of something you might have overlooked.”
“Thank you.”
She put the card in her pocket and the two of them left the pool house.
Curious and curiouser, I thought. This child knows more than she’s letting on. She’s afraid of something. Afraid of saying something that might reveal more than what she believes she’s permitted to reveal.
I wondered what that was all about.