The boys were first up. I was in the stands of the Freedom High School pool house watching the swim team practice.
Situated in an extension of the steel and glass gymnasium that had been donated by a wealthy local, the vast, temperature-controlled edifice was home to an Olympic-size swimming pool, surrounded on all sides by bleachers.
Oversized windows ringed the top tier of the building, bathing the interior in natural light. Stadium-type lighting fixtures illuminated the pool at night.
They were swimming freestyle, all eight lanes of the pool occupied by slender young men, each with significant upper body musculature and beefy legs. Several similar-looking youths sat on the sidelines, all wearing skimpy Speedos with large white bath towels draped around their shoulders, intently watching.
A dozen young women wearing tight-fitting, one-piece bathing suits, also sat raptly watching and occasionally chattering among themselves.
After a while, one of the coaches blew his whistle and the swimmers made their way to the near end of the pool, where a circle formed around him.
“Okay, okay,” the coach shouted over the din. “That’s it for today, boys. Girls, you’re up.”
The boys climbed out of the pool and eight girls took their places at the head of each lane. The whistle shrieked and the girls dove into the water and began swimming laps.
A coach holding a clipboard looked in my direction. He handed the clipboard to one of his associates and climbed the bleacher steps to where I was seated. “Sheriff Steel,” he said.
“Fred,” I answered.
Fred Maxwell had been on the Freedom High School faculty for as long as I could remember. In addition to coaching the swim team, he was also the head of the Athletic Department, a gruff, take-no-prisoners type of executive, well into his sixties, widely regarded as a good guy.
He was red-faced in a way that suggested he might be a drinker. He wore scruffy sweats that matched the color of his thinning gray hair. A pair of horn-rimmed, thick-lensed eyeglasses hung on a chain around his neck.
He was more than just a coach; he had been a longtime source of encouragement and support for young men and women who were just coming of age. For decades he had helped ease anxieties and prop up delicate egos. He was a local institution. He planted himself on the row of benches in front of me and sighed. “How’s he doing?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“ALS?”
I nodded.
“You’ll send him my regards.”
“He’ll be pleased.”
“Shame about Hank,” Maxwell said.
“Hank?”
“Carson. He was a decent man.”
“You worked with him?”
“I did. He was great with the kids. He wasn’t completely confident about the mechanics, but what he didn’t know, he made up for in enthusiasm.”
“Any reason for someone to do him harm?”
“I’ve been thinking about it, Buddy. I know he was close to a lot of the kids and, knowing teenagers as I do, they all tend to be fickle. But not when it came to Hank. He was definitely a great favorite.”
“Which students was he close to?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said he was close to a lot of the kids. Which ones?”
“Forgive me if I sound like Sarah Palin here,” he smiled. “All of them.”
“He was close to all of them?”
“Equally. I can’t really single out any of them as being closer than any other. But then, I suppose, I wouldn’t really know. He spent time with team members outside of practice. Sometimes he took kids for dinners or on excursions.”
“In groups or individually?”
“Both, I guess.”
“But you don’t know.”
“I suppose I don’t. Not exactly. But if you talk with any of the kids, I’m sure they’ll fill you in.”
“Which of the kids?”
“Well, the captains, for certain. Bobby Siegler for the boys. Chrissie Lester for the girls. They’ll likely point you in the right direction.”
I nodded. “Thanks for this, Fred. I’m at the starting line here, and I may have more questions later on.”
“Just holler, Buddy. I’m always available.”