RONNIE'S PREPARATION of the combined audio/video tape for the police didn't take long. Like everything else, there was a special roomful of the exact equipment he needed.
"Detective Schwartz, Officer Winthorpe," I greeted the two men as Ronnie ushered them into the narrow room. There were no seats, just a long table with work units lining the walls left and right.
"Ms. Barnes," Schwartz nodded formally.
The detective had been so reluctant to attend our private presentation that Ronnie finally asked, “Isn’t it your job to follow every lead?” As a result, Detective Schwartz’s attitude probably wasn’t ideal, but there was no time to bring any other law enforcement people up to speed. At least the theft of the negatives had occurred within Schwartz's jurisdiction, as had the attack on Ronnie.
He closed the blinds and gestured for another coworker who’d been using the room to scoot.
Winthorpe noticed and sneered. Schwartz merely sniffed and scratched his nose.
"Gentlemen," I opened with the grace of Vanna White turning a letter on Wheel of Fortune. "I'm sure you'd like to arrest Tim Duffy's murderer while he has incriminating evidence in his possession, so let me quickly explain our thinking.”
First I talked about Prindel's gambling habit, supported by the information Pamela Wilkinson had provided. Then I mentioned that the offensive coordinator and Tim Duffy had worked together long enough for Tim to catch onto Roger's gambling problem, “but as long as Prindel wasn't betting on football, Tim probably figured 'Live and let live.' He had his own career to worry about."
Schwartz brought out a toothpick and rolled it back and forth across his lips with his tongue. Winthorpe merely stared.
Leaving Coren Turner out of it, I related enough history about Doug and Tim to convince my listeners that Duffy desperately wanted to beat out Doug as the Tomcats' starting quarterback. Even without their history that motive was a no-brainer.
"So you can imagine that when Tim went into the Hombres game for the second time, he was dying to impress the crowd with something big–preferably a touchdown pass.
"Except..." I paused for effect, "Roger Prindel sent in a running play."
I paced a little, took a deep breath. "Duffy had to have been furious," I said, raising a palm. "It was third and 24 on the 44 yard line with just under two minutes left in the game. Why would Prindel make such a stupid call? A run would use up the clock, but not necessarily enough to prevent the Hombres' offense from pulling off a miracle. The Tomcats' might not even get the field position they needed for their own field goal attempt." I faced the men and spread my hands.
"The call only made sense if you factor in Prindel's gambling habit. He owed someone who’d bet heavily on the Hombres to win. I'm guessing that person was his brother, the guy who placed most his bets for him."
Much to my relief, Schwartz nodded. As a veteran cop, he would know that the only assured winners in gambling were those who provided the action–the bookies, or race tracks, or casinos who took their cut up front–along with the state if the betting was legal. In that respect gambling was very much like musical chairs; with something taken out of the betting pool at the beginning of each round, those who didn't cut their small losses early found it more and more unlikely they would ever come out ahead. In other words, inveterate gamblers were almost guaranteed to get into trouble sooner or later.
So Prindel, a long-time gambler, was almost certainly indebted to his brother–and not just for hiding his habit from public scrutiny–or to their bookie, and probably to both. And, judging by the chance he took with his career, not to mention his freedom, Prindel had to have been aware that the people he was indebted to bet big money on the Hombres that week.
I shook my head. "It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. With one bad call Prindel could have preserved the Tomcats win while wrecking the spread and paying off his debts. He must have been ecstatic.
"If he ever had to defend the call, he could have argued that he was using the clock or trying for the element of surprise. Without the gambling factor, the higher-ups would have written it off as an isolated mental error.
"Except it didn't happen like that. Tim Duffy changed the play in the huddle and successfully threw for a touchdown. Ronnie?" I gestured for him to start the tape, and we all leaned in close to watch the ten-second video.
"Again," Schwartz ordered as soon as gray and white snow sizzled on the screen.
Ronnie rewound the tape and pressed "play."
For the second time we watched the breathtaking touchdown catch. Once again Tim Duffy trotted off the field along with his joyous teammates. Yet again he received thumps of congratulation to his helmet, arms, and shoulders from both offensive and defensive players alike, and once again he accepted the proffered hand and brotherly hug from the offensive coordinator, Roger Prindel. This time I noticed the boom mike dip briefly near Roger's head then disappear up above the camera shot.
Initially Prindel's face appeared in the center left third of the picture mostly facing forward. Then Duffy used the handshake to pull his coach in closer, and the shot showed the quarterback's profile speaking directly into the coach's ear.
"Don't ever pull that again," threatened Duffy.
"What?" asked a stunned Roger Prindel.
"You heard me. I'm onto you. Don't ever do that again."
"Well?" I asked Schwartz, who had pursed his lips and hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his tweed overcoat.
He addressed my cousin. "Are you prepared to testify that it was Roger Prindel who attacked you last night?"
Ron glanced at me then waved his head no.
Schwartz's lips pushed out from under his moustache as he turned toward me. "Was Prindel the man you saw leaving the master vault?"
I admitted I couldn't say. “I never actually met the man.”
"No? You seem to have met everyone else involved with this case."
I kept quiet.
"Oh, well," the detective sighed, "I suppose the Norfolk police will have his prints on record."
As a matter of course, all the Tomcats’ employees would have been fingerprinted to help identify any prints that did not belong at the murder scene; but Schwartz's remark suggested that his thinking went a step further. He wanted to compare Prindel's prints to any the technicians had taken from the vaults that had been breached. If Prindel had worn gloves, always a possibility, the film canisters themselves would go a long way toward proving my theory.
Yet Schwartz continued to rock, and pout, and cluck. After a long moment, and possibly even a belch, he extracted the toothpick and pointed it at me. "Okay, we'll go pick him up."
My lungs once again drew air, and my heart went back to work.
"There's just one problem." The detective skewered me with a glare.
"You don't want to look like a fool?" Winthorpe suggested.
"No, John," Schwartz corrected over his shoulder. "I've looked like a fool before and I still manage to keep my family fed. No, I'd cheerfully go after this man, except for the fact that we...don't...know...where...he...is!"
His tone fired up a blush, but I reached into my jeans’ pocket and dug out a white slip of notepaper.
"Prindel's at the Claridge Hotel in Atlantic City," I told the detective as I handed him my note. "The Tomcats don't play until next Monday night, so he's not due back at Nimitz until Wednesday."
Winthorpe shut his mouth and blinked.
Schwartz had reddened a bit, but he stuffed my note into his tweed overcoat. Then he headed for the door.
"Call us here," Ronnie suggested. "Please. You owe us that."
"Yeah yeah yeah," Schwartz grumbled.
"Good luck," I told the lingering Winthorpe, who shook his head and stared until the door finally pushed him along.
A FEW MINUTES LATER Ronnie and I settled into a booth of NFL Films’ in-house diner. There was plenty of chrome and Formica and each table even had one of those little remote juke boxes with pages to turn and buttons to push. Now about 4:30 P.M., a few guys were grabbing an odd-hour meal. Ronnie and I were only drinking coffee, but I wasn't stomaching it very well.
"How'd you find out where Prindel was staying?" my cousin quizzed me.
I waved my thick white cup. "After I knew Schwartz and Winthorpe were on the way, I tried to call the Tomcats' travel department; but they were closed."
Ronnie's looked as if he’d been hypnotized, but it occurred to me that my voice and anticipating Schwartz's call were the only two things keeping him awake.
"So," I said. "The only person left for me to call was Roger's old girlfriend, Pamela Wilkinson. When I asked her where Roger usually stayed in Philadelphia, she said, 'Philadelphia? Are you kidding? He'll be at the Claridge in Atlantic City!'"
Ronnie waved his head in disbelief. "So then you called the Claridge to see whether he was there."
"Right. But I hung up before they rang through to his room.”
Ronnie beamed at me. "You're amazing."
I tilted my head and batted my eyelashes. "I'm a Siddons," I said. "Same as you."
THE CALL CAME TWO HOURS later. Ronnie and I listened to the same receiver cheek to cheek, which rendered Schwartz's ebullient voice as thin as an old radio broadcast. Still we heard him just fine, probably because he was shouting.
"We got 'im. I got a warrant, faxed it down here, and the locals detained 'im for me."
"What about the film cans?" Ronnie asked.
"Got them, too. Had 'em in the trunk of his car, can you believe it?"
I was dying to ask whether the police had been careful to follow procedures, but Schwartz anticipated my concern.
"Had the hotel photog take pictures left and right," he said. "Of course A.C. had their own gal, but I wanted my own set. Got a shot of the warrant, one of me wearing rubber gloves turning the trunk key. Strictly kosher. We got the sucker, by God." He was so full of himself he was actually talking to us.
"Congratulations," I said, but he was too sky high to remember his manners.
"Oop. Gotta go talk to the TV." And off he went.
"You're welcome," I muttered.
"They'll give you credit in the papers," Ronnie assured me with the usual Siddons optimism.
They did, but much of the subsequent coverage centered around Prindel’s brother, who was himself heavily in debt to the bookie he used when he placed Roger’s wagers. From the hints the media dropped and the fact that the brother suddenly became “unavailable for comment,” I surmised that he’d ratted out the bookie who offered the incentive for his brother to influence the outcome of the game. I hoped the brother landed in witness-protection, but I have no way of knowing whether that actually happened.
Fingerprints eventually did factor into the case, but only in a minor way. The NFL Films employee who reluctantly allowed me in out of the rain apparently recognized Prindel in a photo lineup. He’d noticed a stranger wheeling in equipment behind an old-timer too tired and wet to question the help. Neither man had been doing anything out of the ordinary, so my doorman forgot about the extra guy until the photo array reminded him. A pre-rubber-glove palm print and one partial were taken off a dolly, but they merely reinforced the witness’s visual ID.
If the investigators ever figured out how Prindel smuggled a gun into the stadium, they weren’t sharing that information. I suspected it had something to do with the death threats Doug said were not uncommon and the players who carried personal protection as a result. If one of them unwittingly supplied Prindel with the murder weapon, I doubted the public would ever hear about it.
As Ron predicted, the contributions my cousin and I made did make the news. I encased a clipping of it in plastic to carry tucked in with my other “credit” cards. Store clerks seem to wonder what the heck they did to make me smile.
“Ronald Covington, a cinematographer for NFL Films, provided crucial evidence against alleged murderer, Roger Prindel,” said Detective Schwartz of the Mt. Laurel police. “Covington began reviewing portions of the Tomcats/Hombres’ game film at the suggestion of an interested party.” January, 2000