Рита Браун - The Tail Of The Tip-Off

He opened the door. The hallway was dark. The building seemed deserted. He checked the shelves in the office to see if there was a flashlight. None. He checked the desk drawers. The lacrosse coach, Jason Xavier, didn't keep so much as a penknife in his drawers. Nothing but paper, rubber bands, a playbook, pencils in various states of sharpness, and one leaky ballpoint pen. Tracy shut the drawers. He walked out into the hall, carefully closing the door behind him.

He felt along the circular walls intermittently using his small lighter for guidance. Finally he could see the stairs sign, lit, down the hall. He didn't want to turn on lights.

He hadn't thought of it before. He reached into his left pants pocket. His money was still there. He made the full circle of the building, returning to the equipment room.

He listened outside. Silence. He tried the door. Locked. He continued walking along the corridor, stopping at each door, listening. This bottom level of the Clam was deserted.

The white rectangular light with Stairs written in green beckoned him. He opened the door, listened, then climbed to the next level, the main level. Carefully he walked all the way around. The silence was eerie. He looked up to find himself standing outside the broom closet where Mychelle was found. He listened. Nothing.

Because of the glass doors the lights from the parking lot cast a glow into the front of the main level. He moved to the double interior doors of the basketball court. These were unlocked. The long stainless steel bar across the door clicked as he pressed it down, and opened into the cavernous pitch-black space enlivened only by the small red exit lights. He bent down, wedging a handkerchief between the two doors so the one he opened didn't completely close. If anyone was outside, he hoped he'd hear them. He stood just inside the door and listened. Not even a mouse scuttled along the seats. He strained to hear anything at all. A creak, not a human sound, finally rewarded him. The building breathed, or so it seemed, and that was all.

After ten motionless minutes, he retrieved his handkerchief, carefully closed the door behind him, and left through the main doors which would lock when they closed behind him. The doors had been designed so a person couldn't get locked in the building but once you left they would lock you out.

The cold air, in the low twenties, stung his face. His black Explorer started right up. No one had tampered with it. He drove to Miranda's. His gym bag and cell phone were missing.

When he walked into Miranda's she hugged him so hard she nearly squeezed the breath out of him.

"I've been worried sick."

"Well, I had a little encounter." Tracy proceeded to tell her what he remembered.

She checked the left side of his head. "Oh honey, I need to clean this right up." She hurried into the bathroom, brought out a washcloth and hand towel, then carefully washed the wound with warm water as he sat on a chair by the kitchen sink.

"It's not so bad."

"It's not so good." She gingerly dabbed. "It's not bleeding anymore which is good because you know how head wounds can be."

"Yep." He'd seen enough of that in Korea and later in Vietnam.

"You could have been killed." Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Now, sweetheart, don't worry. There's no reason to kill me. I'm not that bad of a referee." He laughed.

"Oh Tracy, it's not funny. Something awful is going on at that place."

"Yes," he quietly agreed. "I heard something or someone in the equipment room and then-lights out. How's it look up there? Do I need to shave my head?"

"Don't be silly." She wrung out the washcloth, dipping it again in warm water. "And I will never understand why young men shave their heads bald. If that isn't the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

"When they forget Michael Jordan, they won't do it anymore. Takes about five years. Next group of kids, he'll be ancient history. People used to shave their heads to get rid of the lice. You shave a head wound if it's bad to keep hair out of it. If young people knew history, they might not want to look like cue balls."

She peered at the cleansed wound. "I'm going to put some ice cubes in this washcloth. Let me wash it out first. Actually, let me fetch a fresh one. You don't need to hold a wet washcloth. Maybe we can get some of the swelling down." She bustled into the bathroom, returning with another washcloth which she filled with curved ice cubes.

They repaired to the living room where both sat on the sofa. The fire in the fireplace crackled.

"I'll call Rick in the morning. No point getting him out of bed. And I guess whoever is in charge of the equipment room better run an inventory."

"You'd better call Rick now. What if this is related to Mychelle's murder or H.H.'s?"

"You're right, honey. I guess I'm not as clearheaded as I thought." He stood up, still holding the washcloth to his head, called Rick. He told him everything he could remember, then hung up and rejoined Miranda.

"He's going down now to see if he can get prints."

They watched the fire for a little bit.

"Honey."

"Hmm," he answered.

"You won't go down there by yourself? If you have a game to ref, you and Josef should stick together afterward."

"You're right. I don't think anyone should be alone there until these cases are solved."

"You could have been killed." Her eyes filled up again.

He put his arm around her. "But I wasn't. What does that tell you?"

"That your Guardian Angel works overtime." She dabbed at her tears.

"No. Well, yes. But it means I'm not important. If whoever hit me had wanted to kill me, it would have been easy enough. Right?"

"Yes." She nodded.

"But they didn't. However, H.H. and Mychelle were killed, and H.H. was killed in front of everyone."

"But we all thought it was a heart attack at the time."

"Sugar, there's a meaning to this, a reason. I'm not part of the reason."

"But you got in the way."

"That I did and whoever hit me was intelligent enough not to kill if he didn't have to kill. So whatever is going on will tie those people together in some way or tie them into whatever is going on at that building."

"Isn't it odd that all this is happening in one spot?"

"I don't know. If I just had even one idea, I'd feel better. The only thing I can think of is someone is pilfering equipment and selling it. But that doesn't seem worth two murders."

"And you're sure that no one else was in the building when you came to your senses?"

"I'm pretty sure it was abandoned. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse." He squeezed her shoulder.

34

The next morning, Deputy Cooper and Sheriff Shaw met Tracy Raz at the Clam. Tim Berryhill, in charge of all the buildings and grounds at the university, including the Clam, also met them at the front doors. He was one of the Berryhill clan originating in Crozet although he lived in North Garden outside of Charlottesville. He held an electrical engineering degree from Penn State and had gone to Darden Business School at UVA.

Late last night, Rick and his team had found Tracy's gym bag, cell phone inside, tossed in the Dumpster. It was being checked for prints.

Tim said that given all that had happened he personally wanted to be in charge. He would closely examine the building from an engineering standpoint and he would personally check inventory.

Rick and Tracy left Tim and Cooper at ten-thirty A.M.

Tracy walked with the sheriff over to his squad car. "Rick, if there's any way you can use me, do."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"No reason for anyone to know about last night." Tracy shrugged. "Could have been a stupid mugger."

"Really stupid. He didn't take your money."

Tracy grinned. "Hell, he might even have knocked some sense into my head. Or she. Don't want to leave the ladies out of this."