Bobby Siegler stepped out of the locker room carrying a backpack and a smartphone into which he was punching a series of numbers. His hair was still wet.
“Mr. Siegler,” I said.
He stopped and looked hard at me.
“Do I know you?”
“Buddy Steel. Deputy Sheriff, San Remo County.”
“Sheriff?”
“Yes.”
“Is this about Coach Carson?”
“Do you have time for a few questions?”
He snapped off his phone. “Sure.”
We found a bench in front of the gymnasium. He dropped his backpack on it and sat. He pointed me to the space beside him. “How may I help?”
“Well, for openers, what can you can tell me about Mr. Carson?”
His brow furled slightly as he thought about what he might want to say. He was a handsome young man, with blond hair shorn tight to his head. Although small, he possessed a startling physique. He had on a tight-fitting Lacoste t-shirt worn over a pair of jeans that were stylishly ripped at the knees. He had six-pack abs and highly developed arms. “He was very kind to me,” he said.
“In what way?”
Siegler’s thoughts turned inward and he answered hesitatingly, shyly, parsing his words self-consciously as if muscling his way through something painful.
“I’ve always been devoted to swimming. Growing up, my parents couldn’t get me out of the pool. But when I showed up for tryouts, I was the smallest kid here. And I didn’t really know any of the others. So I was kind of standing alone. Nobody had much interest in me.”
He stared at me intently as though he was weighing the effect his words were having and, more importantly, whether I was being judgmental.
After several moments, I guess he found me acceptable and went on. “But Coach Hank, he stepped right up and introduced himself. He looked me over and asked what I thought were my strengths and weaknesses. When I told him I was a diver, he brightened right up and walked me over to the board.
“‘Let’s see what you got,’ he said. ‘Don’t hold back.’” So suddenly everybody stopped what they were doing and stood watching me. But I wasn’t nervous or anything. I had practiced my dives so many times I could do them blindfolded. I was prepared to do ten of them, but by the time I reached dive six, the kids were cheering.
“Coach took me under his wing and I’ve sort of considered him like a big brother ever since.”
“In what ways did he take you under his wing?”
“In a lot of ways. He wasn’t only interested in me as a diver. He helped with my schoolwork. If I was uncertain about things, he would ask me about them and advise me.”
“What kind of things?”
“Pretty much everything. Things to do with my family. My friends. Stuff like that.
“Personal stuff.”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Did he ask about you and girls?”
Again he stared at me, but this time I could feel the window into his thoughts rapidly closing. He became guarded, uncomfortable, choosing his words more cautiously. “He was always helpful.”
“With girls?”
“With everything.”
That statement concluded our interview. He regarded me coolly, then stood, picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “I gotta go. My parents will start to worry if I’m late.”
I stood, too. “Thanks for being so frank. You’ve been very helpful.”
He was now in a rush to get away from me. “Good luck with finding the guy who did this. I can’t tell you how sad I am about it.”
“Guy?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said, the guy who did it. Why a guy?”
“No reason. I guess I’ve been thinking that the person who did it was a guy.”
“I see. Well, in any event, thanks again.”
“You bet,” he said and hurried away.
I watched him hightail it away, musing on what it was about the interview that had raised my hackles. He was hiding something and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. But I’d surely be making it my business to find out.