The Dance

By John Tuccillo

As the Windham College Spartans win their first trip to the Big Dance, John Stella is once again involved in murder. As the fans storm the basketball court to celebrate the victory court, Assistant coach Ray Hopson lies crumpled on the bench, the victim of poison. Solving the case will require the untangling of relationships on and off the court that reach back over twenty years. All this plays out against the backdrop of the unlikely run of the underdog Spartans through the NCAA tournament.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483533551

Book preview

speak.

Prologue

Karen’s office was a cozy and inviting refuge, all neutral colors and dark woods with subdued indirect lighting. Everything a counselor would need to get you to speak from your insides. Johnny had come to feel very comfortable there and was able to shed his ingrained defenses against self-revelation.

Y’know, I thought that after the whole Wainbrod business was over I’d feel a lot different from that way I do now. Everything’s going well. The shoulder’s healing. Paul’s off at Michigan and still seeing Carrie. Helen is as happy as ever in her job and I’ve got the freedom to do whatever interests me. But somehow, I’m still not satisfied. I’m antsy, always looking for something different, something that will hit me in the gut, and not just between the ears.

Has anything ever struck you that way?

"No, I don’t think so. Even when I fell in love with Helen, I think I still felt it wasn’t the whole package. Maybe I’m too much of an idealist. But, then again, I’ve always intellectualized things and that includes love.

Where does that come from?

I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve always been apart from things, as if I’m looking at my life from the outside, rather than living it—a paying customer for a movie starring myself. The theme of the movie is leaving: out of my neighborhood, out of my city, out of my job. It seems like I never really stayed in one place long enough to fit in. I used to think it was because I was—am—very smart. Now I’m among people who are just as smart. It has to be something else. I’ve come close to feeling real emotion, but when I do it stops me in my tracks so I’m afraid to let it happen and I back away. I do see passion in others. Take the kid in Philly. When I ran him over with my car, I was devastated, and even more so when I saw his family crying and wailing over his body. That pushed me to the point where I can’t drive any more. So, psychologically, I felt that grief, but not viscerally. I think it’s just not in me.

Let’s go back to your family. Did you ever feel that you satisfied your parents?

I’m not sure about my mother, but I think so. I don’t think I ever satisfied my father. When he realized my potential he set the bar so high I could never get over it no matter how hard I tried. My father was a simple man and his ways were rough. I don’t think he quite knew what to do with me so he reverted to what he knew and kept the pressure on by threatening me. Listen, it it was a very traditional Italian household and with both of them openly displayed or expressed feelings were not encouraged. Of course there was always a great deal of celebrating when we laughed and cried and ate and danced. But expressing emotion in private situations was discouraged. I was never told I was loved. They just sort of expected that I would figure it out. I guess I just built up a shell that can’t be penetrated.

"I see. It is possible that your family experience alone may have stunted your capacity to feel on an emotional level. Maybe nothing satisfied you because you never—or thought you never—satisfied them, or even yourself. Maybe it is your own internal bar that was set so high you can’t get over it. As you tried harder and harder to leap over that bar, you substituted achievement for emotion. Maybe you apply that same high standard to all your experiences.

What are your feelings toward Helen?

I know I like her and I’m pretty sure I love her. But we’ve had problems in the past and we’ll probably have problems in the future. I’m not sure how deep the passion runs in me. I don’t know how I’d react if we had to face some sort of crisis in our lives. I’m afraid, afraid that I would be detached from that, too.

But you did appreciate the emotions of others when you killed that boy in Philadelphia. Doesn’t that say something about how you’re likely to react if something similar happened to a member of your own family? Tell me, has all your dissatisfaction, being antsy as you put it, gotten you any closer to what you’re looking for? Do you think that being in constant motion will bring you any closer to that vague holy grail you’re seeking?

No, but I know there’s something out there and I’ll find it if I just keep looking.

Or not. Maybe it’s not ‘out there’. Maybe it’s inside you--or all around you. Tell me, what gives you the most satisfaction in your life?

Helen, the kids.

You’re not convincing me. Let’s try again: when do you feel most alive?

Alive? I don’t know, but I was always happiest when I was working a case. The combination of puzzle-solving and getting the bad guys off the street got my blood up and kept me engaged on a gut level. But I can’t do that any more in my current position.

Why not? The terms of the Ravenswood Chair allow you to take on whatever projects you want. So why not be the cop for half the year when you don’t have to teach?

Good point. Of course the last time I tried it, Wainbrod nearly killed me and Frank nearly lost his job. But there is opportunity out there. Judith is really on Frank’s case about her brother. I sort of promised Frank I’d look at it since it is an arson case and arson is one of my specialties. We could start pulling together evidence to see if Judith’s brother really is innocent. By the way, how are they doing?

You know I can’t answer that. Let’s just say that they’re still seeing me. You can read whatever you want into that. For the rest, Frank will have to tell you.

Okay, where do we go from here?

I think we need to do some work on experiencing emotion. We’ve talked about it before, but I want you to think about your relationships with your parents and any other significant persons in your life. I don’t want you to tell me about their or your behavior; talk about the guts of how you related to them and how they related to you. In the meantime, follow your instincts as far as what you should be doing. And remember, life is not about mourning the past or anticipating the future, but living fully and passionately in the present.

Freud?

Buddha.

Chapter 1

Ron Nygard had the call at the basketball game. Four ticks left on the clock and Windham takes its last time out, down two. What’ll they do, Marv?

Well Ron, it has to be Thompson. He’s been their go-to-guy the whole game. He’s got 35 points and is the most reliable shot on the team. I think the call here is probably ’Center-Forward’--that’s Windham’s name for a play where they inbound it to Carter near the top of the key. The big center takes a dribble or two to his right and then passes to Thompson, cutting off the right wing for either a drive or a pull-up jumper. It has to be quick because Windham doesn’t have that much time. They get to overtime and have a fighting chance to win this one. Don’t forget that New Salem’s top two scorers are on the bench with five fouls.

How will New Salem counter?

I think they contest the inbounds pass but leave Carter alone up high and double on Thompson. That makes it harder for Windham to find the big forward. With so little time left on the clock, Windham will have to find a less reliable scorer to take that last shot.

"Thanks, Marv. It’s now four seconds to the Northeast Collegiate Conference championship, and this arena is bedlam. New Salem has already beaten Windham twice this year, so revenge would be really sweet for the Spartans. More important is the conference championship. If Windham can win the crown, they cap a huge season with their first-ever trip to the NCAA tournament, the big dance. If not, they’ll have to rely on their fine season record and throw themselves on the mercy of the selection committee. But that’s a longshot. Despite the early season win over Syracuse on the road, it’s unlikely the committee will take two teams from a mid-major conference. Either way, this season has been the high point in Windham sports history. I might add that this all goes the same for New Salem. The Rams beat Maryland in Hawaii, so they still have a shot at an at-large berth. So, both teams are in the same position. Winner’s in, loser prays.

"Okay, here we go. Carter, Thompson, McCoy and Cheyney on the floor for Windham. Jamal Farrell, the little point guard who has been the rock of this team, will throw it in. Coach McKenzie is up and moving his guys around with frantic arm gestures. New Salem puts the 6-6 Rodney Howell on Farrell to screen his vision. You can’t hear yourself talk, noise from the fans is deafening, the stands are a sea of green and red and the cheerleaders are going nuts on the sideline. Okay. Farrell looks, looks, looks, and finally passes it to Carter behind the arc. They’re all over Thompson. Carter can’t get it to him. Carter turns, he shoots! Omigod! It looks good! It looks good! It IS good! Spartans win! Spartans win! Spartans win! Spartans win! Spartans win! Spartans win! Spartans win! Spartans win! Spartans wiiiiiiiiiiiiiin!

"The stands have emptied. Carter’s jumped up on the scorer’s table. He’s right in front of me now with his arms raised and a huge grin on his face. It’s chaos! We’re goin’ to the dance! Spartans win!

The refs are looking at the tape, but there’s no doubt. Carter got the shot off in time and it was a three. OK -- the refs have made it official. Spartans win! The most unlikely player on the floor, the big senior center, hits the first three-pointer of his career and the biggest shot in Windham history. The fans are mobbing the floor. They won’t let Carter go. Now Coach McKenzie is up on their shoulders! I can’t describe the emotions filling this building right now. Windham is going to the dance!

Everyone in the arena was screaming with pure joy. Up in his box, Windham president Harry Gunderson smiled in triumph as he was being hugged by what seemed like the entire board of trustees. The hiring of Coach McKenzie, the building of the new arena, the increase in the athletic budget, all culminated in this victory. Windham was on the map in a whole new way.

Johnny, Helen, and their daughters Amy and Jess were all part of the celebrating throng. This was the finest moment in Windham basketball history and they had to be a part of it.

Amid all the excitement, no one noticed that Ray Hopson, McKenzie’s associate head coach, was slumped over in his chair. Announcer Ron Nygard, harnessed as he was to his microphone, noticed the inert figure first as he was wrapping up the broadcast. It took a while, given all the post-victory chaos, but Phil finally got the attention of the trainer and the team doctor, both of whom broke away from the celebratory mob to tend to Ray. Too late. Ray was dead.

*************

If the press conference hadn’t been mandated by the conference commissioner, it would never have been held. Sam Carmichael, Windham’s athletic director, opened the conference.

This is obviously a moment of mixed emotions for the Windham family. We are proud of our team and what they’ve accomplished even as we at the same time mourn the loss of our friend and brother, Ray Hopson. While Coach McKenzie will make a statement, under the circumstances we ask that you forgo any questions. We don’t yet know what happened to Ray and can’t give you any information. As we learn more, you will as well. Coach.

Coach Phil McKenzie stood behind a bank of microphones with tears streaming from his eyes. His hands gripped the podium tightly as he struggled to hold himself up and fought to speak. His face was as white as his team’s home uniforms. The podium was all that was keeping him from hitting the floor.

This is both the greatest and the worst day of my life. I am thrilled for these kids. Their hard work and dedication paid off. They’re going to the tournament. But the man who is as responsible as anyone for us going, he paused to choke back some of the tears that were caught in his throat, and my best friend, is dead. Ray Hopson collapsed on the bench tonight. The medics couldn’t save him. I’ve known Ray for nearly thirty years, ever since we were assistants together at Central Michigan. When I was hired here at Windham, he was the first person I called. I needed his skills and judgment if I were to succeed as a D-1 coach. His work in the gym and his knack for convincing kids that Windham was the place to be—even when we were invisible—made this program what it is today. Our hearts go out to his wife Sherry, and the rest of his family. I’ll miss him more than anyone knows. He slumped against the podium. I may be able to talk about this in a few days, but not now. Thank you. Carmichael took his arm and helped him from the platform.

The campus cops had done a good job clearing the arena floor and sealing off the bench area that was the scene of Ray Hopson’s demise. But despite their efforts, the rush to celebrate Windham’s victory had trampled that area and debris was strewn all over it. So when Hamilton’s Chief of Detectives Frank Fiamella and his men arrived to process the scene, Frank didn’t expect they’d get too much with potential evidence scattered all over the place. It was going to be difficult for even the best crime scene techs to reconstruct what may have happened. At least one part of the scene was intact: the body of Ray Hopson, and it had been removed to the Medical Examiner’s office to undergo an autopsy, mandatory in all cases of sudden and unexplained death.

While the techs dusted the area for prints, photographed the scene and bagged what could be evidence, Frank got the basics about Hopson from Windham’s sports information director, Lynn Weatherford. Hopson had been in coaching for over thirty years: from high school to college, meeting Phil McKenzie at Central Michigan, serving with Phil on Roy Williams’ staff at Kansas and then following him to Windham when Phil became head coach. Ray was the associate head coach, responsible for game strategy and recruiting. At one time or another, Hopson had sat in the living rooms of all Windham’s scholarship players and sweet-talked their mothers into entrusting him and Phil McKenzie with their kids. Hopson had been married to his wife Sherry for thirty years, no children. As far as Weatherford knew, the coaches all took mandatory annual physicals and Hopson had no significant health problems that could have caused sudden death.

There was nothing else to be done at the arena. Indeed, it looked like a natural death. But under the circumstances, Frank needed to be thorough and wait for the results of the autopsy and the forensics. Sorting through the pieces picked up by the techs would be a long and laborious process, but he was pretty sure that the print work was a dead end. During a normal game, dozens of prints would have been left in the bench area. Now, after the celebratory rush, there could be hundreds. Elimination would be a nightmare.

Chapter 2

Rick’s was an old fashioned 1950s-style diner with a counter and booths. Each booth had its own miniature juke box containing tunes from the Fifties and Sixties. The seats and the counter stools were all fake red leather with thick chrome rings around the bottom. Behind the counter, the cook worked his magic with all the necessary breakfast foods—eggs, bacon, potatoes, and bread—strategically placed for maximum efficiency. Bacon, eggs, toast and potatoes were usually ready within five minutes of the order having been taken.

Regular visitors to the town knew about Rick’s. During the winter, skiers would make it their first stop of the day. The food was plain but filling and a breakfast of ham and eggs or pancakes could keep you going on the slopes all day.

Rick’s was located in a kind of town-gown neutral zone. To the north was the town square, center of all that went on in Hamilton. It was pure New England. Hamilton had been settled in the early 19th Century primarily by Boston merchants who envisioned the site as a future trading hub for all of northwest New England. As it happens, they were right. Hamilton prospered and grew. The town’s large, stately houses dominated streets that radiated from a square that was a monument to those Bostonians’ foresight. The square itself was surrounded by centuries-old shops that echoed the graciousness of an earlier and more leisurely time, yet boasted of the prosperity that the merchants of Hamilton had achieved. Dominating the square itself was the Congregational Church with its spire pointed heavenward in eternal prayer. It was the symbol of the material blessings God had bestowed on the burghers of Hamilton. Those blessings had continued into the present day as Hamilton, despite its location, had taken great advantage of the global economy to become a small center for world trade.

South of Rick’s was the college. Windham was also a product of the 19th Century and owed its early success to having the first real law school in the northeastern United States. From that base, the college had built an enduring reputation as one of the finest small colleges in the country, one whose faculty displayed an intellectual power that rivaled any of the Ivy League schools.

With its location basically in the middle of the town, Rick’s was, for the most part, headquarters for the town’s blue collar crowd, mostly male. Those who fit neither on the square nor on the quad.

Seating at Rick’s was ritualized. If you were in a hurry, you sat at the counter. This minimized the chances that you’d be drawn into a long conversation with another regular. If you had plenty of time, you plunked yourself down in one of the larger booths or at the large communal table in the center of the dining area with a group of the usual suspects and whiled away a morning discussing anything anyone wanted to talk about.

Saturday mornings at Rick’s were a ritual for John Stella and Frank Fiamella. It started after John joined the psychology department at Windham, following Frank from the Philadelphia Police Department by three years. For John and Frank both, these breakfasts were testament to a long friendship and an anchor to keep small- town life from sweeping the two big city boys away. They’d met—and bonded—when they were both working at the Philadelphia PD, uniforms in a squad car. Over time, Frank became a detective and John was pulled off the active line and sent back to school as part of an experiment that was the brain child of the police commissioner. He got a doctorate in psychology at Penn and returned to the Philly PD as a profiler. Frank eventually left the department to become chief of detectives in Hamilton. Three years later, John joined the faculty at Windham, part of yet another experiment, this time engineered by Harry Gunderson, Windham’s president.

Of course, life at Rick’s hadn’t been the same since the previous February when Frank and John nailed Eric Wainbrod for the murders of Claire Foreman, Billy Ravenswood and what seemed like a host of others. Beyond that, they had cleaned out a bunch of bad apples from the faculty, allowing Gunderson to continue his remaking of Windham, and getting Frank’s boss both off his back and out of town, albeit to a lucrative gig on Court TV. It was a win all around, and their weekly meeting at Rick’s brought an air of celebrity to what had been just an ordinary diner.

As usual, John got there first so he could do the New York Times crossword before Frank’s arrival. Working the puzzle was how he had started his mornings for the past forty years. Vi, Rick’s waitress, official greeter, and the Hamilton’s leading authority on the town’s people and happenings, greeted him at the door.

And how are you this fine morning?

Very fine. Going to The Dance is a big deal for Windham.

So, Professor Stella, were you in attendance last night for the hoopla, no pun intended?

Hey, does a bear shit in the forest? Of course I was and rushed the floor with everyone else. I never thought it would happen.

Shame about Ray Hopson, though. I guess his ticker just couldn’t stand the excitement.

Yeah, John said as he sat down, although I figured him to be in pretty good shape. I played ball with him sometimes at the gym and I couldn’t keep up with him. But we’ve seen this happen all too often to athletes. Luck of the draw I guess.

Vi poured his coffee without his asking. How’s your sister doing?

Rehab is going great. I really think you and Frank saved her life. My other sister in Sarasota is OK as well, but I think there’s something going on there that she won’t tell me.

Well, let me know if I can do anything for either of them. Give them my regards, will you?

Sure thing.

John buried himself in the crossword puzzle, completely oblivious to his surroundings. Saturday’s puzzle was always the week’s most difficult and without the usual theme that tipped off the solution. But he had been doing the puzzle since he was fifteen; after all those years of practice he could still conquer Saturday’s inside of fifteen minutes. Will Shortz, the Times crossword puzzle editor, was a man of extraordinary imagination, and was one of the ten people on John’s fantasy dinner party list. John loved matching wits with the people who created and edited the puzzles and savored the intellectual stimulation—he thought would ward off Alzheimer’s. But it also helped shut out the buzz in Rick’s that today was louder than usual with the locals talking about the big win, Windham’s chances in the tournament and Ray Hopson’s tragic death.

John had finished the puzzle and was on his second cup of coffee when Frank rolled in.

Where have you been? I was ready to give up and order.

Hello to you, too, Johnny Stars. I swung by the office and checked on Doc Murdoch. He put a rush on the autopsy and finished it this morning. He can’t find any COD, but it’s definitely not a heart attack. He also put a rush on the tox screen, too, but that’ll take a little longer. So far, it looks like unexplained natural causes.

Well, something killed him. Ninety-nine percent of the time the M.E. can figure it out right away.

Well, this is the one percenter. Frank looked at the counter and caught Vi’s attention. "Oatmeal and black coffee.