The Book of Kills (19 page)

“Largely moral.”

“The best kind.”

Why did he feel that the massive Huneker Professor found him amusing? Quinlan heaved himself to his feet and suddenly
felt the impact of the alcohol he had consumed. He stood for a moment, hoping for his head to clear, and then moved to the bar.

“I am Professor Quinlan. I understand you are the brother of Roger Knight.”

“I am Philip Knight,” the other man said. “You are also speaking to Lieutenant Stewart.”

“Lieutenant?”

“South Bend Police.”

“Aha. On duty, I presume.”

“We’ve been to the pep rally.”

“Good God.”

“You don’t go?”

Quinlan let his eyes roll upward and then wished he hadn’t; it had made him dizzy. “Are you investigating our murder?”

“Did you know the victim?”

“Only indirectly. Only indirectly.” Trepani joined them, smiling toothily. Quinlan reluctantly introduced her. “You would do well to speak with Professor Ranke.”

“His daughter once went with Orion,” Sandra said confidingly. “Before he married.”

“She seems to have disappeared.”

“What?” Stewart had a way of looking at his interlocutor with great concentration, and Quinlan’s reaction was as much an effort to deflect that gaze as to express surprise, though he was indeed surprised. As was Trepani.

“Oh, I hope nothing has happened to her too!”

“The campus should be swept,” Quinlan said. “God knows what would turn up.”

“Professor Quinlan is president of the faculty senate,” Sandra said.

“I thought I recognized your name,” Philip Knight said, and now his look too was searching. What on earth had his brother told him?

“We are officially very concerned about recent events on campus. As well as startling revelations that have appeared in the public press. And now a murder. May I ask how your investigation is proceeding?” Quinlan said this archly, mindful that the two detectives had been wasting the evening at the pep rally.

“In a routine fashion,” Stewart said in a tone that did not encourage further inquiry.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Philip Knight asked.

It was an indication of Quinlan’s discomfort that he refused. “I must get back to my friends. I only wanted to greet you.”

He bumped into a chair during his return journey, but did not lose his balance. He regained his chair without incident and Sandra slipped into hers.

“Pompous bastards,” Quinlan said in a carrying voice.

“I will bet that Laverne Ranke is lying dead somewhere on this campus at this very minute.”

“Very likely. Very likely. While the constabulary disports itself at the bar.”

Quinlan picked up his glass and drank deep.

THE FOUL WEATHER OF THE
preceding week lifted as if dragged away from the campus and stadium by one of the little planes hired to tow banners overhead for the edification of spectators before heading out of sight taking their messages with them. Thus, the rain and wind and cold seemed taken away to reveal a blue sky, cottony puffs of cloud and sunshine.

Jimmy was waiting for Phil at the designated spot a full fifteen minutes ahead of time, proving that his enthusiasm for the game was not feigned.

“I haven’t been to one of these since I was a kid and we used to sneak in.”

“Was that possible?”

“Possible but rare.”

They toured the campus, enjoying hot dogs and hamburgers and various other burnt offerings sold by the different residence halls or student organizations in order to raise money for some good cause. Smoke rose from the makeshift grills and the delicious smell of health-threatening foods filled the air. The band was ending its concert when they arrived at Bond Hall, and when the players formed up to march to the stadium, Phil and Stewart fell in behind along with thousands of others. It was impossible not to walk to the beat of the band.

Before they went inside, they resupplied with popcorn and
massive soft drinks in a container suitable for keeping. Phil’s seats—his and Rogers—were in the southwest curve of the stadium. Taking their seats as point B and extending from it two legs of a right angle gave one the south goal posts as the terminus of BA while BC pointed to the right of the north goal posts. The perspective on the game was, Phil felt, ideal. From the end zones it was difficult to calculate the yardage won or lost by a play and from the fifty yard line, where the chancellor’s party was ensconced, save for the rare occasions when the teams were at midfield, one had an imperfect view of what went on to the right or left.

“So you picked out these seats with all that in mind?”

Phil smiled. “No, Jimmy. They were issued at random.”

Today’s game between Indiana and the Irish was a novelty, an addition to the schedule in a year when Purdue had unbreakable commitments elsewhere. Of course, games were arranged years in advance and this contest had been greeted with dismay or jocularity when it was first announced, but in the interval Indiana had gradually built the best team in its history. They were tied with Michigan for the lead in the Big Ten and were scheduled to meet their rival for that position the following week. It was the local hope that, in the phrase, Indiana would be looking beyond this game to the great contest that lay ahead of them. Equally rare, the fans seemed equally divided between the two teams, although there were many with divided loyalties. Everyone was prepared for a historic game.

When Indiana took the field, their band struck up, almost drowning out the good-natured derision of Irish fans. And then, after dramatic hesitation in the mouth of the tunnel leading from the locker rooms, the Irish became visible and the just-returned students, who by tradition stood throughout the game, began to
cheer. And then the players ran onto the field, led by the cheerleaders, enveloping the coaching staff. The Fighting Irish had long been a misnomer for the team: African-Americans were a majority and the plucky little quarterback, though named Doyle, was a Eurasian. Father Riehle, the team chaplain, on his gimpy legs, trailed the team in a semblance of jogging. Once settled on the sidelines, the teams sent their captains to the center of the field for the coin toss, which Notre Dame lost. Indiana elected to receive and then a hush fell over the stadium for the singing of “America the Beautiful” and, to the raising of the flag, the “Star Spangled Banner.” With Old Glory rippling nicely in a slight breeze, the teams arranged themselves for the initial kick and the tension and noise mounted.

The Irish kicker advanced on the teed-up ball, toe met pig-skin, and the ball soared toward the Indiana goal. It was caught in the end zone. Prudence might have dictated grounding the ball and beginning on the twenty, but after the slightest pause the Indiana special team formed in front of the ball carrier and began the run. The Notre Dame team converging on them were knocked aside like ten pins, and the runner was almost in the clear with nothing between him and the far goal but the Notre Dame kicker. What looked like a perfect tackle proved not to be, the runner lifted one leg free and then the other and was on his way to a touchdown. With less than a minute played, Indiana led 7–0. Notre Dame received, downed the ball in the end zone, and began on its own twenty. Three plays later, they were on their own fifteen, and had to punt. Indiana received the ball on their own twenty-five and advanced it to the middle of the field. Minutes later, they kicked a field goal, bringing the score to 10–0.

The opening provided an omen for the first half. Doyle’s passes were inaccurate or dropped, the Irish running game could not be established, Indiana led 24–0 when the teams left the field at half time. The Irish fans around Phil and Stewart had groaned and complained and finally voices were heard in open criticism of coaches and team. Frailty, thy name is football fan. Fair weather loyalists turned on their team when the fortunes of the game went against them. But the true fan waited in the hope that the second half would differ from the first. And so it did. But in the meantime, there was apprehension in the chancellor’s box and in the presidential party lest the interruption of the week before be repeated. It was not.

Notre Dame received at the beginning of the second half, the runner taking the ball to the thirty yard line. From there, the Irish marched down the field, mixing passes and runs, and when they were stopped, successfully kicked a field goal. 24–3. The disappearance of that 0 from the scoreboard was a harbinger of things to come. Indiana took possession of the ball, their first play was a pass, and it was gathered in nicely but by an Irish player who scampered toward the goal line with the whole stadium on its feet. When the band’s all but constant rendition of the Notre Dame fight song became audible again, the score was 24–10. An Indiana runaway was turning into a contest.

As if to prove the interception a fluke, the Indiana quarterback connected with his tight end, who advanced the ball to the Notre Dame forty yard line. Minutes later, Indiana was at the Notre Dame four with a first down, four tries to punch the ball across for a touchdown. But for three plays, the Notre Dame defense held, and when Indiana tried a field goal, a Notre Dame
defender leapt high in the air and deflected the ball. Notre Dame took over on its own twenty.

The genuine Notre Dame fan is able to recall with apparent accuracy every play in every game he witnessed and of many others besides. The Indiana-Notre Dame game played that Saturday afternoon under a clear sky and comfortable temperatures would enter the annals as one of the top dozen or so games in the history of the school. It was certainly the most exciting and memorable game of the new millennium.

With five minutes to play, the score stood at 27–27. The first teams were weary, but this was no game for substitutions. Doyle had won back the cheers of those who had demanded his removal in the first half. Jefferson had gained more yards running than ever before in his distinguished career and the wide receiver, Toyanga, had gathered in three touchdown passes. As the game approached its end, fans of both teams had ample reason for pride. No matter who won now, both teams had played a game to be remembered. In the event, Indiana won by two points, a safety when Doyle, dodging around desperately in his own end zone, looking for a receiver, could not get a pass off before he was smothered by three Indiana defenders.

29–27. It was a loss, but it had not been a defeat. The Irish, holding their golden helmets high, took the cheers of the student body and then left the field. Phil and Stewart remained for the postgame appearance of the Irish band.

The seats around them emptied, fans going at a snail’s pace down the steps to the exits. When the two men stood, Jimmy, looking out at the field, spoke.

“We’ve had a bit of luck. Anyway, I guess it’s luck.”

“What’s that?”

“The tire track at the scene where Plant’s body was found? We’ve identified it.”

“A university vehicle?”

Jimmy turned to him. “Sort of. Phil, the imprint matches the tire on your brother’s golf cart.”

THE ASTONISHING IDENTI
fication of the tire imprint near the dead body of Orion Plant required that Roger establish his whereabouts at the time Orion was killed, something easily done though it brought with it the unease of such a need. What if he had been unable to prove that he had been elsewhere with unimpeachable witnesses?

“Of course,” Jimmy said, “it wasn’t that we really suspected you. But examination of the cart indicates that it was used to transport the body.”

The cart had been taken away for this examination and was still in the custody of the police.

“You don’t chain it up or anything?”

“Without the key, how could anyone start it?”

But the key was in the ignition when the technicians who had been examining all likely vehicles and were about to give up the search as fruitless noticed Roger’s cart parked in a space before the building that housed the Knight apartment. The examination had begun as a final pro forma fillip but had turned into the long-sought golden slipper. With Jimmy, Phil and Roger, about to set off for Orion Plant’s funeral in Sacred Heart, began to discuss the puzzling problem of who could have gotten hold of Roger’s key, who would have made use of the golf cart
for such a gruesome purpose. They had made no progress when it was time to leave for the basilica.