Dead in the Water, page 6
part #4 of Cal Murphy Series
“Did he say anything to you after his trip to Bryant University with Dominique Dixon?”
“Like what?”
“Like why he was reneging on his verbal commitment to attend school there?”
“Not really. He just said he wasn’t as impressed now and wanted to keep his options open.” Coach Holloway paused. “Are you implyin’ that his death had somethin’ to do with him changin’ his mind about where he was going to play ball?”
“I’m just asking questions. I don’t know anything but I’m trying to get educated.”
“Well, I’ll tell you all you need to know.” Coach Holloway paused, creating a moment of drama in the conversation. “Some coward shot that kid for no good reason. He probably thought he was a deer or a bear and got all trigger happy. But whatever the reason, it won’t bring Tre’vell back now. We’ve all just got to move on and think about how much better our lives are for knowin’ him. And I suggest you do the same, Mr. Cal Murphy.”
Cal paused from his note taking and looked up. “Do the same?”
“Yeah, just move on. Ain’t nothin’ good ever comes out of dredgin’ the swamp of a person’s life.”
Cal nodded and thanked the coach for his time. It was clear the interview was over.
CHAPTER 9
ON TUESDAY MORNING, Frank Johnson paced back and forth outside his hangar at the Saint-Parran Airfield. Like most airfields without a tower, the Saint-Parran Airfield consisted of nothing more than a long strip of pavement, a windsock and a few hangars. Instead of a fence, a line of thick trees served as a weak deterrent. On more than one occasion, planes aborted landing due to wildlife moseying across the airstrip. The planes that frequented Saint-Parran the most chose to use waterways for takeoffs and landings, if possible. The local airfield remained reserved almost exclusively for the wealthy migratory hunters.
Johnson stared at his Rolex and tapped the glass. He should be here by now. Before Johnson could worry another second, he heard the faint roar of his Gulfstream IV’s jet engines. Within minutes, the plane was on the ground and taxiing toward his hangar.
As the engines powered down, Johnson awaited for the door to open and his guest to disembark. Like a star-crossed fan, Johnson approached Bryant University head coach Gerald Gardner as he stepped onto the Louisiana ground.
“It’s so good to see you, Coach Gardner,” Johnson said. “I trust your flight went smoothly.”
Gardner flashed his trademark smile, offering to shake Johnson’s hand. “Your crew always treats me like a rock star, Frank. I appreciate that. As always, everything was perfect.”
The two began to walk away from the plane and toward Johnson’s Range Rover.
“So, bring me up to speed,” Gardner said. “What’s happening with Dixon? Are we going to lose him?”
Johnson unlocked his vehicle with his key fob and they both climbed in.
“It’s hard to say, Coach,” Johnson began, “but it’s not looking very promising at this point. He’s grieving his friend—but he’s also greedy. Not sure that we’ll be able to offer enough to satisfy him.”
“The Lord giveth and taketh away,” Gardner said.
Johnson cranked the engine and began heading for the airfield exit.
“Yeah, I’m not sure about all that. For the moment, I think one of our top recruits is just being taken away by those vile imbeciles from Alabama.”
“Now, now, Frank. Let’s not get all judgmental. Besides, there’s another verse I like: ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ ”
“That’s the kind of verse I like,” Johnson said. He smiled and turned onto the major road leading to Saint-Parran. “You still have plenty of work to do, but I think we can still get him.”
As they drove through town, Gardner shook his head. “Same ole, Saint-Parran. This place hasn’t changed a lick.”
Johnson shot a glance toward his passenger. “You’ve been here before?”
“Yep, long time ago when I was on the coaching staff at Texas. They had a kid down here named Harvey Clarkston who was one of the hardest-hitting linebackers I’d ever seen. He was tougher than a two-dollar steak but he couldn’t spell his own name if his life depended on it.”
“Did you sign him?”
“Unfortunately not. Mind you, this was back in the days when there was no dead period before signing day. Nowadays, a coach can’t have contact with a recruit after Sunday the week before signing day. But back then? Everything was fair game. We used to sequester kids to make sure some other school’s coach didn’t get to them right before signing day and change their mind. So, anyway, I could’ve sworn we had Clarkston wrapped up until Miami swooped in right before we got here and hid him away. I staked out his house and thought I saw him leave. By the time I caught up with him in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot, I found out he gave me the slip and signed a letter of intent to play for Miami in the meat department. That coach waved the letter at me as he exited the store. I wanted to punch him in the mouth.”
“How’d he do at Miami?”
“He never set foot on the field. It was a plumb shame. Those coaches screwed him up. He should’ve gone to Texas.”
Johnson scratched his face and pondered his next comment.
“Well, Dixon’s as sharp as a tack.”
“Not if he’s thinking about going to Alabama,” Gardner quipped. A wry smile spread across his face. He looked at Johnson, who was also smiling.
“I knew there was a good reason we made you the head coach of Bryant.”
***
By the time Dominique Dixon arrived home from Tuesday’s practice, two guests awaited him. Frank Johnson and Bryant University head coach Gerald Gardner sat on the front porch of his house, sipping sweet tea and trading stories with his mom. Dixon looked at the scene and rolled his eyes. The whole recruiting process felt like a sham to him. Coaches selling him and his parents on the virtues of a good education at their school along with the kind of coaching he needed to turn professional after graduation. If Dixon gave them the cold shoulder, they would go peddle their school with the same routine to the next best recruit. Rich man begging, Dixon muttered to himself as he gritted his teeth and got out of his car.
Dixon trudged toward the house with his backpack. Once he reached the top step of the porch, Johnson and Coach Gardner arose to greet him. But before they could shake Dixon’s hand, his mother darted forward.
“Look who came by to you see you, son,” she said. “It’s two of your favorite people.”
Dixon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes again. He never liked it when she put words in his mouth, particularly those types of words. The two men standing in front of him weren’t even on his list of people he liked; rather, they now held a special place on the list of people he despised.
Dixon forced a smile and extended his hand to Coach Gardner, whose hand had remained outstretched since the moment he stepped on the porch. Johnson then shook Dixon’s hand as well before sitting down. Dixon leaned against the porch railing while Johnson and Coach Gardner returned to their respective seats. His mother excused herself and went inside.
“So, how are you doing, Dominique,” Coach Gardner began, “you know with Tre’vell’s death and all?”
There were so many things Dixon wanted to say, but he stopped short. Without diplomacy, this meeting would get ugly.
“It’s been tough,” Dixon said. “I’m not gonna lie. I miss Tre’vell like crazy every day. He was an amazing friend.”
“Do the police have any idea who would do this or why?” Coach Gardner asked.
Dixon shook his head. “Not yet anyway. But I’m sure they’ll catch the scumbag who did this.”
“Well, I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing and find out if you were still going to keep your word that you were going to play for us,” Coach Gardner said. “From what I understand, it was Tre’vell that wanted to renege on his commitment to play for Bryant, not you.”
Dixon shrugged. “I’m not sure what I want to do any more. Tre’vell and I made a pact to go together, wherever we decided to go. But after visiting Bryant we decided to keep our options open.”
Dixon delivered the half-truth to perfection. The whole truth was the recruits removed Bryant University from consideration. Yet, Dixon didn’t want to tell them that just in case he didn’t visit anywhere else he liked better. He doubted that would be the case since he had offers to visit half of the schools in the southeast. Based on his history with Bryant boosters and coaches, Dixon thought they would act like a stalker ex-girlfriend if he admitted the truth. But here they were on his front porch just days after he and Tre’vell had reneged on their commitment. Signing day couldn’t arrive soon enough for Dixon.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, son,” Coach Gardner said. “We had big plans for you. Still do, if you return to your senses.”
Dixon nodded and looked down. He kept silent.
“Just think about what’s best for your family. I understand if you think there’s a better opportunity elsewhere, but I’m quite sure you won’t find one. Don’t let an opportunity like this slip away.”
With that, Coach Gardner stood up and walked to the car. Johnson didn’t get up as he eyed the coach. Once Coach Gardner’s car door shut, Johnson leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.
“So, what did Alabama offer you?” Johnson asked. “You can tell me.”
Dixon furrowed his brow and stared at Johnson. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on,” Dixon said. “They didn’t offer me nothin’. Get outta here with that talk.”
“Look, I know something happened on your visit to Bryant that made you change your mind. And I think I know what it is. Don’t play games with me. You’re better off just shootin’ me straight than lyin’ to my face.”
Dixon rolled his eyes and stood up. “I think we’re done here. And you can tell Coach Gardner that I’m not interested.”
Johnson stood up as well. “You’re going to regret this as long as you live.”
Dixon stuck his chest out and cocked his head. He clenched his right fist as he glared at Johnson.
“Are you threatening me?” Dixon asked.
Dixon watched Johnson glance down at his fist before he answered. “No. I’m just trying to keep you from making the biggest mistake of your life.”
Dixon unclenched his fist as Johnson walked off the porch and toward his car. Dixon put his hands on the railing and leaned forward as he watched the pair drive away. He turned around when he heard the screen door bounce against the frame a couple of times.
“So, how’d it go?” his mother asked.
“Fine.”
“Did you make a decision yet?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Really?”
“Yep. I decided I won’t be going to Bryant.”
CHAPTER 10
TUESDAY AFTERNOON CAL RAPPED on the screen door to Dominique Dixon’s house. Mrs. Dixon answered the door.
“I don’t think we were expecting anyone. Are you another coach?” she asked.
Cal shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’m a reporter from the Atlanta paper writing a story about what happened to Tre’vell Baker. I was wondering if I could ask Dominique a few questions.”
“We’re just finishin’ up dinner. Have a seat out here in the porch and I’ll go fetch him.”
She disappeared inside and Cal chose one of the wooden chairs in desperate need of a paint job. Potter remained in the truck on a phone call, leaving Cal alone for the moment. Cal looked around at the surroundings. There were several clapboard houses nearby. A few chickens strutted around the area, meandering between the homes. Most of the cars parked in front of the homes looked like they belonged in another decade, if not century. Rust replaced missing swaths of paint. On one of the cars, a cinder block served as a stand-in for a missing tire.
Cal could hear the bayou stirring softly. A fall nip had replaced the warm sun preparing to make its exit for the day. It seemed peaceful despite the apparent poverty of the people who lived in this area lived. One elderly man rocked in a chair on his front porch and waved at Cal. Cal waved back and enjoyed the serenity of the moment. Yet the calm was shattered when he heard the angry voice of a man yelling inside of Dixon’s home.
Moments later, Dixon joined Cal on the front porch and shut the front door behind him.
“Sorry about that,” Dixon said. “My dad can get a little grumpy at times.”
Cal stood up and shook Dixon’s hand. “No need to apologize. Cal Murphy from The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.”
“Dominique Dixon. Nice to meet you, sir. My mom told me that you wanted to talk about Tre’vell Baker.”
“Yeah, I’m writing a story on his death and was wondering if you could tell me more about him.”
“Sure, what do you want to know?”
“I’d like to know what kind of guy he was.”
Dixon didn’t hesitate to answer. “Tre’vell was the best. He’d give you anything if you asked for it. He was always looking out for other people.”
“What’s something he did that shows that?”
“Well, there was a time when one kid on our team didn’t have any cleats and his parents couldn’t afford it. So, Tre’vell gave the kid his cleats.”
“So, what did Tre’vell play in?”
“His sneakers. Caught eight passes that night and had a couple of touchdowns. Everybody was talking about it. The next Monday at practice, a new pair of cleats showed up in Tre’vell’s locker.”
“As I understand it, you guys were close, right?”
“Yeah, I gave him a ride home from practice every day. We went against each other in practice, which is why I think I developed the way I did. When you go against the best receiver in the state, maybe the best in the country, you’re gonna get better.”
“So, tell me about your trip to Bryant. What happened that made you change your mind?”
Before Tre’vell could answer, Potter wandered up on the porch. Cal watched Dixon eye the new guest before he clammed up.
“I’m not sure I want to talk about that.”
“OK, anything else you can tell me about Tre’vell?”
“Nope, I think that covers it,” Dixon snapped. “Look, I’ve got a lot of homework tonight so I need to get to it.”
Dixon stood up and Cal followed his lead.
Potter stared at Dixon and deadpanned, “Is it my new cologne?” Then he cracked a smile. However, Dixon still appeared tense.
Potter led Cal back to the car. Just as Cal was about to get in, Dixon called out.
“Wait, Mr. Murphy!”
Cal sensed that Potter’s presence made Dixon nervous. He hustled toward the porch, out of Potter’s earshot.
“Yes?”
“There’s more I want to tell you and something I want to show you. Meet me Thursday after school behind the Texaco station. But come alone.”
“Will do. See you then.”
Cal returned to the truck.
“What was that all about?” Potter asked as Cal climbed into the truck and buckled his seat beat.
“Just a kid trying to be polite.”
“Did he have anything interestin’ to say?”
“Not really. Just the same ole stuff everyone around here says about Tre’vell Baker. He’s a good kid, would do anything for anybody, never had a better teammate. It’s how people always speak of young kids who die. It’s like they were flawless.”
“You ever seen law enforcement dredge a river for a dead body?”
Cal shook his head.
“They bring out a barge that has a machine with grapplin’ hooks on it that reaches down into the water and pulls up whatever’s on the bottom. Most of the time, they don’t find any dead bodies. But what they do find is often worse than the dead body itself.”
Cal furrowed his brow and stared at Potter. “Your point?”
“My point is nobody likes to dredge up what’s beneath the surface. Most people are content to let whatever is under there stay that way. No need muddyin’ the water, if you know what I mean.”
Cal nodded. “So, you’re saying that nobody is going to tell me what Tre’vell Baker was really like?”
“People will say what they wanna say.”
Frustrated with Potter’s riddles, Cal didn’t respond. He hoped the silence would entice Potter to say what he meant instead of talking in bayou riddles.
They rode for several minutes without a word being spoken before Potter couldn’t help himself any longer.
“What I’m tryin’ to say, Cal, is that you’re not gonna solve Baker’s murder by askin’ his best friend what kind of guy he was or what his favorite food was or where he liked to eat or whatever it was that you were up there askin’ Dixon. Sometimes there are forces at work that we just don’t understand.”
Cal looked at Potter, who was pointing upward with his right index finger.
“You’re saying God did this?”
“Who knows? Maybe it was just Baker’s time to go.”
“That might be a good enough answer for you, but not for me—or my editor. Speaking of which, I need to give him a call. Also, I need to get some batteries for my recorder. Can you pull into the gas station here so I can grab some?”
Potter veered his truck into the Texaco gas station parking lot and jammed the stick into park. “Take all the time you need.”
Cal climbed out of the truck and pulled out his phone. He dialed his editor’s number.
“Gatlin.”
“Hey, Gatlin. It’s Murphy. How are things going?” Cal leaned against the ice machine sitting outside the entrance of the store.
“Just like normal. The Braves’ game is headed for extra innings and Tillman is late with his Hawks’ feature. I swear I’ve never met anyone who labored over his words like him. My gosh, just send the dang story in already. It’s not like anybody cares about that team anyway.”
“So, it sucks, huh?”
“Like I said, it’s another normal night at the paper. How are things going on your end?”
“Well, it’s been an interesting day.”
