“You make a compelling case, Decker, I’ll give you that. Shooter shoots and then leaves. Judge rushes down and while she’s trying to save Draymont a second person comes in with a knife and kills her.”
“Or they could have used a knife from her kitchen. The ME described a six-inch serrated blade. Lots of kitchen knives match that description. We’ll have to try to determine if any knives are missing.”
“So Draymont’s murder was premeditated, but Cummins’s was spur of the moment?”
“Maybe,” said Decker.
“If so, we’re talking one incredible coincidence.”
“And I don’t even like your run-of-the-mill coincidences, much less incredible ones.”
“I never pegged you for a sense of humor.”
“Don’t confuse humor with lack of a filter,” he cautioned.
“Where are we going now?”
“To find Tyler.”
“You mean, you have an idea where he is?” she said.
“I might.”
Arriving at the high school they saw that the mascot was the Monarch.
“Monarchs, huh? Always thought that was funny in a democratic country,” observed White as they parked in the visitor’s lot.
“I’ve seen lots of funny things lately in a democratic country, and I haven’t laughed at a single one of them.”
They got out. When Decker headed to the rear of the school grounds, White said, “Where are we going?”
“To Tyler’s world.”
“Tyler’s world?” said White as they walked along.
Decker pointed to the football stadium, where someone had turned on the lights illuminating the field. “There.”
As they drew nearer, they could both see Tyler, clad in shorts and no shirt, running all over the field catching footballs being thrown by another young man.
They went through the gate and walked down the bleacher steps to the track that ran around the fenced-in field.
“Nice facilities,” said White. “My high school football field was pretty much just a parking lot.”
“Good wheels,” said Decker as he watched Tyler run his routes. “Nice cuts.”
“If you say so.”
“Hey, Tyler!” he called out.
Tyler looked over at them, caught one more ball, wiped the sweat off his face with a towel hanging from his waistband, motioned to his friend that they were done, and trotted over. His torso was lacquered in sweat, every defined muscle shining brightly.
“Yeah?” he said, breathing heavily. He bent down, snagged a bottle of G2 off a bench, and guzzled it.
“Your father was worried about you. He’s tried calling. You didn’t answer.”
“I left my phone in my car over there,” said Tyler, pointing to a navy blue BMW convertible parked outside the fence at the other end of the field. “And I lost track of time. What’s the big deal?”
“No big deal to me, but it was to your old man.”
Tyler finished his drink and wiped down his arms and legs.
“You run nice routes,” observed Decker.
“Yeah, I work hard on it.”
“But you cut faster to the left than you do to the right. That’s because you’re right leg dominant.”
Tyler stared at Decker, clearly interested now.
“In college, particularly the schools you’re looking at, you have to be balanced. Otherwise, the linebacker or the safety or, better yet, the corner who covers you will read that weakness within a few plays and he’ll get the jump on the ball every time you cut right. Then it’s an interception all the way. It’s just a millisecond difference, but on a timed throw to a spot certain from the QB, he’ll get there before you will.”
“A college trainer my mom hired told me the same thing. He gave me some drills to work that out.”
“Good. Keep drilling. But if you do eight reps to the left, do twelve to the right. Hack squat with your left leg a few more reps than your right to build up the muscle mass. Do balance drills with your left leg to try to reach parity with the right. Quick-twitch exercises to that side are a good idea, too, along with maxing out hip flexibility. That’ll improve your rotation and range of motion. Lots of guys have that same issue. You may never get to complete parity, but you can get close, and your QB will love you for it.”
“You know your shit.”
“It was my life for a long time.” Decker leaned on the fence. “How’s your dad? Still drinking hard?”
“Drinking and maybe doping, too.” Tyler suddenly looked afraid. “Hey, I didn’t mean that. I don’t want my dad—”
Decker waved this off. “We’re not DEA. We’re FBI. But your dad shouldn’t do drugs because you pop a pill thinking it’s Oxy and it’s actually fentanyl and your next place of residence is a coffin.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I’ll make sure he’s not doing any of that.”
“You care about your dad, don’t you? Despite being pissed at him.”
“He and my mom were all I had. Now I just have him. So I want him to get his head on right and get through this.”
Decker glanced at the BMW. “Nice ride. Mom or Dad get that for you?”
“Dad. Mom didn’t like the idea. But I’m responsible. I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs. I go to school, play football, watch my p’s and q’s, and keep my head down.”
“Then you’re way ahead of me when I was in high school.”
“And you made it to the pros,” noted Tyler.
“I worked my butt off, but I got lucky, too. And my career didn’t last long.”
“You regret any of it?”
“Just my last play on the field.”
“What happened?”
“Long story, not worth retelling. Give your dad a call before he has a heart attack, okay?”
Tyler looked down, seeming embarrassed. “I left my phone in the car on purpose.”
“I know you did. You wanted to get away from all the shit. Come out here, run some routes, think about nothing but catching the ball and going all the way with it.”
Tyler glanced up and smiled. “I feel like I’m talking to an older version of me.”
“In some ways, Tyler, you are.”
Chapter 35
“Where are we going now?” asked White as Decker turned onto the highway and rode it east, toward downtown Ocean View.
“Duncan Trotter, Cummins’s estate lawyer. I made an appointment to meet with him this evening and go over who benefits from her death.”
“You have been a busy boy. So, what do you think Trotter will tell us?”
“In many homicides, following the money is a pretty good philosophy.”
Trotter was in his sixties with curly gray hair, a high, lined forehead, and a thin physique. He wasn’t dressed in a suit, but rather a dark blue polo shirt and gray slacks. Instead of wingtips on his feet, he had flip-flops. His law empire consisted of a few rooms in a one-story office building a couple blocks off the town’s main street.
They sat across from him in his cluttered office. He had told them when he answered the door that his secretary had long since left for the day. When they asked their questions about the last will and testament of Julia Cummins he commenced tapping some keys on his computer and then studied the screen.
“It was awful, awful about Julia. What a nightmare.” His voice was thin and reedy and only carried a foot or so before fading away. Decker actually had to hunch forward to hear him. He could see, with that voice, why the man was not a trial lawyer.