SNAKE IN THE GRASS

 A person or thing that is evil or dangerous and hidden or seemingly harmless.

                                             Prologue – Year 2060

“It looks so much smaller than I remembered,” Sarah said.

Her best friend, Carmen, chuckled.  “Right.  In my memory it was bigger than the Tesla auto factory at home.”

“And it used to be one of the nicest looking buildings in town.  I remember the first time I met Peter.  I was a freshman.  Mom brought me to school the first day.”  Sarah pointed to the front door of the two-story brick building.  “He held the door for us.”

The heavy double doors that led into what once was Leesville’s high school were now covered in graffiti.  The women’s eyes moved from the dents in the bottom of the metal doors to the shattered glass in the top half of both doors.  They exchanged a glance.  Both shook their heads.  The grass next to the sidewalk barely covered the red clay.  The few strands left were brown and dry.

“Mom asked Peter where the principal’s office was.  He offered to guide us there.  He shook my hand—I thought he was very grown-up—and welcomed me to the high school.  Little did I know then that we would fall in love.”  Her voice started to shake.  “I didn’t think it would bother me to come back.  So many memories—good and bad.”

Sarah laughed.  “I dyed my hair black and went to a tanning booth until my skin was a beautiful light brown.  Peter’s dad thought of everything.  He was afraid we’d get stopped leaving the United States if we approached the border, especially me, a young pregnant woman with blonde hair.”

Carmen put her arm around her friend’s shoulder.  “Will saved us.  We were the lucky ones.”  Three decades had passed since they left their former home town as young women.  Their hair was gray, their figures a little fuller, their steps not quite as lively.  The two friends turned from the building, arms interlocked, and walked back to the thirty-year-old Cadillac waiting for them on the street.  The blue paint was faded and crumbling.  The rear was dented.  A big crack ran through the front windshield.  The car came with a driver, a skinny, sallow-faced man around thirty years old.  Only citizens of the Nationalist United States were allowed to drive cars.  Peter, Sarah’s husband, had refused to get in the car at the airport.  He had walked around the car shaking his head.  Too polite to insult the already sad-looking driver, Peter had whispered angrily to Sarah, “This car is a piece of crap.  No respectable used car dealer at home would even put it on their lot.”

Seeing the frown on her face, he had whispered, “Well, I might have sold it for junk and let someone haul it to the Nationalist United States.”  They had both laughed.

Peter was waiting for them outside the old Caddy.  His head of straight, black hair was now sprinkled with gray.  He had a beautiful smile when he smiled.  He hadn’t smiled much since arriving in Leesville.  He knew his wife and her best friend wanted to visit the town where their young lives had been formed.  They wanted to visit their parents’ graves and put memories to rest.  Too afraid for their safety to let them travel alone, Peter had taken a break from his legal practice and accompanied them on the trip to the past.

“Are you all right?” Peter asked, seeing the two women hanging their heads, arms locked together.

Sarah’s face brightened at her husband’s concern.  “Yes, querido.   We are fine.  Take us home.”

The driver opened the doors of the tired-looking car and helped the women into the back seat.  Sarah turned her head to hear the men talking outside the car.

“Sir,” the driver said speaking quickly, “I’ve applied for an orange card to Mexico.  I’m a hard worker.  Please, please, if you know of anyone who needs an honest, good worker, I would like to emigrate to Mexico.”  The man’s voice was strained.

Sarah saw her husband pat the man on the back.  “I’ll see what I can do.”

                                                       CHAPTER ONE

                                                       September, 2018

Sounds of glass breaking filled the cool night air, followed by, “Aw shit, man.  I think I cut my foot.”

“Andrew, keep it down,” warned Jeff Bradshaw III.  “Someone will hear you and call the security guard.  Why’d you take your shoes off?  You shouldn’t have gone in the water anyway.”

“I’m serious, man,” Andrew pleaded in a lowered, urgent voice.  “My foot’s bleeding.  Get over here, shine your lighter.”

It was just after Labor Day and the pool was closed.  The only light came from the sliver of moon but it was enough to see dark liquid dripping from Andrew’s foot.  A casual observer would have looked at the picture of the four skinny sixteen-year-old boys, barely visible in the moonlight, and thought, Harmless—just a few kids sneaking into the pool for a swim.   They wore the summer uniform of country-club kids used to playing tennis and golf:  khaki shorts, untucked pastel polo shirts with various popular logos, no visible tattoos, and tidy prep-school haircuts.

The silent witness to the kids’ vandalism, the dead man at the bottom of the pool, when discovered, would trigger an investigation into the evil and hate hiding inside the gates of Bellevue Country Club, a residential community at the foot of the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains.  The gated community represented the hottest trend in real estate development in the United States.  It had really taken off in this part of the country, the South, not quite the Deep South, but on the edge of the country where memories of the Civil War were still strong.  Parks, battlegrounds and cemeteries kept the memories alive and maybe even kept the North-South wounds festering.  After all, a museum in honor of the Confederacy was just down the road.

There were universities in the small towns of Stuartburg and Leesville next to Bellevue.  They were two of the oldest schools of higher education in the state, respected for their history and the quality of the education they provided.  It was a scenic, peaceful area, far away from the crime and pollution in larger cities, offering cultural activities and a few good restaurants.  As the brochure for Bellevue advertised, “Come to Bellevue for Peace of Mind and Southern Hospitality.”  There would be no reason for anyone to suspect the four skinny sixteen-year-old boys of anything more than carrying out an innocent lark.

Trevor Byrd reached for his phone, pressed a button on the screen, and pointed the light from the phone at Andrew’s foot.  Trevor looked at Jeff.  “Jeff, the cut looks pretty bad.  He needs to get to a doctor.”

“Okay, okay.  Let me think,” Jeff ordered in a lowered voice.  “Can you ride your bike home?” he asked Andrew.

“No, I can’t!” Andrew yelled.  “I’m calling my dad.”

“Keep it down,” Jeff said.  “We need to get out of here before you call your dad.  Right now, I need to take a crap.  Lean on Marty and Trevor.”

The boys watched Jeff walk quickly to the men’s bathroom door.

“Damn it.  It’s locked.”  He grabbed the door of the women’s bathroom.  “Locked.”  Jeff turned to the boys, a smirk on his face.  “Watch this.”

Jeff walked out on the diving board, dropped his pants, and used the pool as a toilet bowl.

Marty and Trevor both groaned and said at the same time, “That’s disgusting!”

Trevor remembered his mom’s excuse for never using the pool: “Little kids and old people pee in the pool.”  He mumbled loud enough so that only Marty and Andrew could hear, “If my mom hears about a turd in the pool, I’ll never be allowed in the water.”

Andrew didn’t seem to care.  He just wanted to get help for his cut.  “Come on, Trevor.  Let’s go.”

“Okay, now I can think,” Jeff said, rejoining the group.  “We’ll get you to the clubhouse.  Then you can call your dad.”

Marty said, “Jeff, that was gross.  But not as big a crime as breaking into the cash register.”

Jeff didn’t respond to Marty’s criticism; he just gave him a dirty look.

Trevor knew this was not going to end well.  Jeff would probably take off and leave the rest of them to face Andrew’s dad.  His heart sank.  He hadn’t really done anything.  He and Marty, his best friend, had been part of the group, sure, but they hadn’t broken any windows and hadn’t stolen anything.  Jeff had surprised him when he pulled a hammer out of his backpack and started breaking the windows of the pool snack bar.  Jeff tried to hand out candy and drinks.  Only Andrew took them; Trevor and Marty both said no.  It was one thing to be in the pool area after hours, but they didn’t want to do any real damage or commit any crimes.  Jeff had used the hammer to whack the cash register until it broke open, then stuffed the cash into his pockets, complaining that there wasn’t much.  Trevor and Marty tried to tell him they would get in big trouble if anything was stolen.  Jeff had just snorted and laughed, calling them “weasels.”

“Okay.  Here’s the plan,” Jeff said, confirming Trevor’s suspicion.  “When we get to the clubhouse, Andrew will call his dad.  The rest of us will jump on our bikes, split up, and head for the river.”

Andrew threw an arm over his friends’ shoulders.  The trio awkwardly started shuffling out of the pool area.  Marty stopped, throwing Andrew off balance.  Trevor managed to grab him before he fell to the ground.

Andrew yelled, “Marty!  What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, I just tripped.”

Jeff said, “Quiet everybody.  Let’s get . . ."  

Marty interrupted Jeff, saying, “We’re gonna get caught.  Someone will see us before we get there.  The security guard might drive by to check on things.”  

Jeff asked, “You think the lousy guard at the gate can catch us?  He can’t keep up with us on foot and can’t follow us in the car if we head across the field to the river.  They’ll just blame it on the Mexican workers anyway.”

“If they do, Trevor and I will tell them who did it,” Marty growled, sounding more like an angry fifty-year-old man than a skinny teenager.  “Right, Trevor?”

Trevor looked at his best friend with pride.  He nudged Marty on the shoulder and then directed his attention at Jeff.   “Don’t even think about dragging the workers into this.”

Trevor knew Jeff was right.  The country club’s dirty work was done mostly by Hispanic workers.  They got blamed for everything.  There had been a rash of car break-ins.  He had heard his mom telling someone she was sure it was the Mexicans.  Seeing Jeff with the hammer, Trevor started to wonder if Jeff had something to do with the break-ins.

“What about Andrew?” Trevor protested.  But Jeff didn’t get a chance to respond.  There was a loud clunking sound.  The powerful flood lights around the pool lit up the area.  The boys shielded their eyes from the sudden blinding glare and blinked until they could adjust.  When they could see, they huddled in a small circle.  Andrew still leaned on Trevor’s shoulder.  Four heads swiveled back and forth like chickens looking for a way out when the neighbor’s dog breaks into the chicken coop.  The police and the Bellevue Country Club gate guard were in position behind the chain-link fence enclosing the pool area.  The boys turned their heads from one policeman to the next.  Uniformed figures were looking back at them from all four sides of the pool.  

They might have been able to outrun one Bellevue security guard, but they were not going to outrun four armed policemen.  While they had been worrying about Andrew’s bloody foot, the police had quietly surrounded the pool area.  “I’ll handle this,” Jeff whispered under his breath.  “Keep quiet.”

“Wh—what?” escaped from one of the boy’s mouths as they started to understand not only that they had been caught but that the police might have been standing outside the pool, watching and listening to them for the past fifteen to twenty minutes.

“Oh, man!” escaped from another mouth and “I think I’m going to be sick” from another.

More worried about Andrew than the trouble they were in, Trevor said, loudly, “Andrew’s foot is cut.  He needs to see a doctor.”

Trevor heard a man say, “Get an ambulance here.  No sirens.”

When it became clear the officer in charge, Detective Will Kelley, intended to take them to police headquarters, Jeff stepped out of the group.  He turned his head toward Ron Coates, the chubby security guard he had thought would never be able to catch them.

“Hey, Ronnie, this is crazy.  We were just having a little fun.”  He held his hand up, crossed his heart, and smiled sweetly.  “We’ll go home quietly.  No more trouble.  Honest, cross my heart.”

Ron Coates was sixty-five and retired from a maintenance job with the city.  He needed this job to supplement his retirement.  He didn’t smile and didn’t answer Jeff.  He figured he might lose his job if Jeff Bradshaw were arrested and complained he let it happen.  It was Jeff’s dad who had recommended him for the job.  Ron didn’t care.  He just wanted to see the right thing done.  And he was plain tired of being called “Ronnie” by a kid.  He also thought it would be better for Jeff and his friends if they were stopped before their crimes got worse.  Ron stared at Jeff for barely a second before turning to look at Detective Kelley.

Jeff sneered at Ron before addressing the detective.  “You can’t arrest us,” he said, dropping the coaxing voice in favor of an angry one.  “We’re juveniles.  You have to call our parents!”  

Detective Kelley calmly said, “You are being taken into custody and will be placed in a juvenile holding area at the Stuart County Jail.  An intake officer will call your parents.”  The detective’s voice was calm, but it was icy cold.  He locked eyes with Jeff when he finished speaking.  Jeff lowered his eyes.

The name Kelley might conjure up the image of the stereotype of an Irishman—sturdy build, medium height, maybe red hair and freckles.  The description was partially accurate in Will’s case.  He was stocky and muscular but his close-cropped hair was jet-black.  His light caramel complexion and dark brown eyes made him look more Italian than Irish.  His African-American mom and Irish dad used to tell him he was living proof that intermarriage produced superior results. No taller than Jeff, he still carried himself with the self-assurance of the boxer he had been in his twenties.  His handsome face was marred by a crooked nose, the result of a close encounter with an opponent.  The combination of the close-cropped hair and damaged nose made him look fierce.  His youth had been spent working—mostly construction, anything he could get to pay for college.  He remembered how tired he had been at the end of the day when he was their age.  He would have been too beat to go out and raise hell.  And he had too much respect for other people’s property.  These kids did not understand how lucky they were.  He would bet none of them had jobs.  They probably spent the day hanging out at the very pool they were vandalizing.  He felt sorry for them.  They were missing out on some important stages of growing up.  Kids their age learned responsibility from working their first jobs.  They started to learn what it was like to be an adult and got some sense of self-worth.  Will remembered he had envied kids who could take off swimming every day.  Now he thought maybe too much leisure time and money for young kids was as bad as too much work and too little money.

An officer wearing skin-tight blue protective gloves handed Detective Kelley a twelve-inch long ball-peen hammer.  Kelley pulled out a pair of protective gloves, snapped them open while letting his eyes run over the four boys who had all stopped moving.

“Does this belong to one of you?”  Kelley watched the boys.  Three of them kept their eyes on their feet.  Jeff seemed to hold his breath while sliding his eyes to look at the others, then mimicking them.  Kelley caught a sly grin on Jeff’s face.

“Check it for prints,” Kelley said, handing the hammer back to the officer.  The grin disappeared from Jeff’s face.

The four boys listened to the charges against them: vandalism and destruction of property.  At least one of them had defecated in the club pool, broken into and stolen from the snack bar, and broken windows.  They were all scared on some level, but they knew their parents would take care of the problem. Three sets of shoulders slumped.  If you were watching them closely you could see them holding their breath.  At least one struggled to hold back tears.  Three boys’ heads hung down, eyes nervously sliding from the ground in front of them to Detective Kelley.  Only one boy didn’t appear to be taking the situation seriously.  Jeff smiled through the whole process, standing with his feet wide apart and arms crossed.  The smile hid the nerves betrayed by his constantly moving body.  He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, then crossed them again.  He kept smiling and made eye contact with the other three, even giving Andrew a wink.  When he looked at Trevor and Marty, his smile was met by a short look from Trevor.  Trevor’s head shake and cold eyes told him what Trevor was thinking: This is your fault.  Trevor and Marty exchanged a glance and a nod.  They ignored Jeff.

“Seize their wallets and cell phones,” Kelly instructed his officers.

The crooked smile on Jeff’s face slipped, replaced by a flash of fear and surprise.  In an angry voice, he said, “No, don’t give them your phones.  They can’t take them.”  

Kelley exhaled.  Keeping his voice calm, a reassuring smile on his face, eyes moving from one boy to the next, he said, “We are legally permitted and expected to secure the phones and wallets.  We cannot look at the phones until we receive a search warrant.”  He paused, watching for a reaction.  He was rewarded by seeing Jeff’s face relax.

Kelley continued, “We should have the search warrant before we get you to the station.”

Jeff was very still.  For the first time, he looked like a scared young kid.  There was definitely something on his phone he didn’t want the police to see.  His eyes darted toward the pool.  He took a step closer to the edge.  Kelley, suspecting Jeff would throw the phone in the pool, yelled, “Stop!”  The sudden command startled Jeff.  His phone and wallet fell on the concrete surface and skidded to a stop in front of the detective.

He stooped to pick up the items.  It took all of his self-control to not explode with a round of expletives at the sight of the sticker affixed to the back of the phone.  Kelley stared at the Pepe the Frog sticker with the number eighty-eight on it.  The average person didn’t realize the adorable frog was a commonly used symbol to identify supporters of white supremacy.  He looked at Jeff and caught a smirk on the young man’s face before Jeff dropped his head.  Very interesting, Kelley thought.  He wondered if Jeffery Bradshaw Sr., upstanding community member, knew and approved of his son’s beliefs.  Kelley sighed deeply and turned away from the officers and budding criminals, his gaze lingering over the pool.  A dark spot on the bottom of the now brightly lit pool caught his eye.  Hands on his hips, knees bent, he leaned over for a closer look just as an ambulance, without flashing lights or sirens blaring, pulled into the parking lot.

Kelley stood up, glanced at the ambulance, then at the officers and boys.  Eyes fixed on the four boys, he calmly announced, “There’s a body at the bottom of the pool.”

“Oh, shit!” whispered one of the boys.  “Andrew, you were in the pool.  Didn’t you see it?”

Andrew, his face devoid of color, voice shaking, said, “No, I didn’t see anything.  Do you think I would have gone in the water if I had known?”

“Shut up,” a scared looking Jeff admonished.  

 An officer mumbled, “This could be big.”  Kelley looked at one of his officers.  “Get him out of there.”

The officer nodded, quickly removing his heavy vest, weapon, and shoes.  He then shrugged and removed his pants.  Kelley took the pile of equipment and clothing and placed it on the counter of the snack bar.  He continued to watch the kids while the officer was in the pool.  Their shocked expressions told him they might have been as surprised as he was by seeing a body in the pool, realizing it had been there while they were having their idea of a good time.  He watched Trevor and Marty help Andrew hop to the edge of the pool.  The young men sensed his gaze and turned to him.  Tears were streaming down Andrew’s face.  Trevor frowned.  “Sir, we didn’t know he was there.”

Kelley’s steely expression didn’t change.  He looked at Jeff.  The usual sneer was absent on the young man’s face.  “Do you know anything about this?”

Jeff turned to look at Kelley.  His eyes were huge.  “Are you kidding?  Do you think we would have broken, uh, I mean come in here, if we had known there was a . . ."  He looked as scared as the others for the first time.  Appearing to regain his confidence, Jeff said in a dismissive tone, “We didn’t kill anyone.”

And Kelley believed him.  The kids had been looking for a little fun and excitement.  Sneaking into the pool would have been enough of a thrill. The sight of the dead body had shocked them more than their realization that the police had surrounded the pool.  Heads, arms, and legs had twitched when the police turned on the pool lights.  Their bodies were now still, shoulders sagged.  Their faces looked more sad than worried.  It could turn out to be an accident or murder.  Although Kelley’s gut told him the boys hadn’t been responsible for a murder, he had to treat them as suspects of more than just a pool break-in.

The officer in the pool struggled to lift the waterlogged, fully clothed body up onto the side of the pool.  Another officer grasped the arms and hoisted the man up out of the water.  Water splashed out of the man’s clothes, which consisted of jeans, a green long-sleeved work shirt, and  heavy black leather construction work boots.  He had a full head of black hair.  Kelley took out a pen and carefully lifted the torn fabric covering the man’s left shoulder blade.  He closed his eyes.  This wasn’t an accident.  The cut was close to the spine.  It looked like a knife wound.

“Turn him over,” Kelley said softly.  The officer gently rolled the drowned man onto his back.

“Oh, no! That’s Mr. Costa!” Trevor cried.

Kelley relaxed momentarily.  Trevor’s spontaneous identification of the man was an indication that at least Trevor hadn’t been involved in putting him in the pool.

“You know this man?”

Trevor and Marty nodded.  Trevor answered, “He built a new deck on our house.”  Trevor’s eyes filled with tears.  “He was a really nice man.”

Marty said, “He’s married.  His wife, Maria, works here.”  He pointed to the clubhouse.  “She’s a waitress.  They have two really cute little kids.”

Jeff, sneer back in place, said “He’s one of the Mexican workers.  Probably got drunk and fell in the pool.”
“You are a complete asshole, Jeff.”  Trevor declared.

Kelley didn’t react to Jeff’s ugly declaration.  He knew Jeff’s father from meetings with the Bellevue Homeowners Association.  Like father, like son.  Jeff’s father had tried to put the blame for the community’s crime problems on the Hispanic workers.  The sticker on Jeff’s phone and derogatory comments Jeff’s father had made gave him the uncomfortable feeling that hate would turn out to be behind Costa’s death.

Kelley knelt down next to the body as the ambulance crew entered the pool area.  “Ouch!” Kelley touched his knee through his dark brown khaki trousers.  He stared at a sliver of glass he picked out of the knee that had touched the ground.  He brushed the ground with his hand to be sure there was no more glass and knelt back down next to Mr. Costa’s body.

“Oh, man,” the driver said, “we were told it was just a minor injury.”

Kelley didn’t look up from studying Mr. Costa’s body.  “One of the young men cut his foot.  Go ahead and take care of him.  You can’t help this poor man.”

He called forensics over.  He wanted them to see the body before the EMT crew removed it.  A feeling of sadness overtook Kelley at the thought of notifying the wife.

He groaned, realizing that the water splashed all around the pool area when the officer brought the body up would have washed away evidence.  Kelley carefully walked around the edge of the pool to the opposite end by the diving board.  The first thing he noticed was a red spot.  It looked like blood.  The second thing he saw was an overturned bucket and a scrub brush.  Damn.  He realized both the kids and the police had trampled over a crime scene.  The killer had probably been trying to clean up when the kids showed up.  Hiding behind the bucket was a broken bottle, the source of the glass shards around the pool.  Kelley didn’t want to touch the remains of the bottle until forensics had a chance to look at everything.  The only solid piece left of the bottle was a shard with a Chivas Regal label still attached.  Interesting, Kelley thought, expensive drink for one of the laborers.      

Detective Kelley watched Trevor help Andrew hop over to meet the EMTs.  Kelley held up a hand.  “Trevor, wait right there.  We’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”

Kelley grabbed a chair and put it behind Andrew.  He caught a glimpse of Trevor patting Andrew on the back. Trevor’s concern for his friend’s injury overrode his worry about being arrested.  It gave Kelley a good feeling they would get to the bottom of Bellevue’s vandalism problems pretty quickly.  The cause behind Mr. Costa’s death was another matter.

Trevor said, “Sir, we’re really upset about Mr. Costa.  Please believe me, we didn’t know he was . . . in the pool.”  Trevor looked Kelley in the eye as he spoke.  His chin trembled, but Kelley’s gut told him Trevor was telling the truth.  He wanted to believe the trembling chin wasn’t due to nerves, but a sign of Trevor’s sincere feelings about the death of a man he knew and liked.  Kelley nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Are you going to tell his wife?”

“Yes, Trevor, I will take care of that myself.  It is one of the hardest parts of the job.”  Trevor’s face relaxed.  He seemed to be relieved that it would be Kelley who would be speaking to Mr. Costa’s family.  Once again Trevor showed himself to be a young man of compassion.  He was worried about Mr. Costa’s wife getting the news about her husband.

Kelley watched the officers directing the kids to a police car.  He rubbed his chin, thinking.  Then he said, “Garza, put Jeff Bradshaw and Andrew Morton in the back of my vehicle.  The other two can ride in your car.  I’ll tell the remaining officer to stay to secure the area.  We’ll send replacements for them in the morning.”  Officer Garza nodded.

The rescue squad’s medical technician approached Detective Kelley with Marty.  “Detective, it’s a superficial cut.  I cleaned it, put a bandage on it.  He says he had a tetanus shot last year.  He’ll be fine.”

Marty turned to the technician and stuck out his hand.  “Thank you, sir.”

The man slapped Marty on the back.  “You’re a nice kid.  My best advice is to find a new group of friends.”  He waved and headed back to his vehicle.

Kelley clapped his hands together.  “Okay.  Get them down to the station.”

An officer walked up to the boys with handcuffs.  All four looked like they would burst into tears.  Kelley thought this one action would be the biggest crime deterrent for the kids.  They would never forget what it felt like to hear the handcuffs click in place, the inability to move their hands.  They had been arrested, he hoped for the first and last time.  

He deliberately dallied around outside his vehicle, pretending to make calls.  An officer approached him.  “Sir, sorry to intrude.”

Kelley smiled.  “I’m not talking to anyone.  Just giving the boys a few minutes alone in the car.  You never know what they might say.”

The officer laughed.  “You’re sneaky, sir.   They won’t expect a camera and headphones in the car.”

“Right.  Only the seasoned lawbreakers know there’s no expectation of privacy in a police car.”

Kelley watched the boys in the back of his vehicle.  They had stopped talking.  Their heads were turned away from each other.  He figured that would be the end of their conversation this evening.  On the drive to the station, there wasn’t a peep out of the back seat.  The only noise was the static and voices coming over his radio and the mic attached to his collar.

Kelley called in to request help getting the home address for Mr. Costa.  He would take the two boys to the station so they could start the input processing procedure.  He didn’t need to hang around the station for that.  He would use that time to talk to Mrs. Costa and return to the station for what he guessed would involve a scene of angry, upset Bellevue parents.  Giving the dead man’s wife the horrible news would put him in exactly the right mood to handle the entitlement attitude he expected from the parents.  Will sighed.  If they hadn’t been short a couple of officers, he would be driving directly to the Costa home.  It was getting harder and harder to find young women and men who wanted to join the police force.

                                                              *

Kelley sat down at a corner desk behind the intake officer.  He sank back into the cushioned chair but positioned it so he could observe the proceedings without appearing to be intensely interested.

The intake officer, Nate Thompson, explained to the boys that they would appear before a judge on the next business day.  It was early Sunday morning.  He did not tell them a good lawyer would get them out before the Monday hearing.  It would do them good to worry about how long they would be held in detention.  Officer Thompson’s crumpled uniform and unshaved chin were the obvious signs he had been working all night.  Strands of wavy gray hair stuck to his coffee-bean colored scalp and forehead.  He sighed and barely looked at the boys as he recited the same information and instructions to each one.  Will couldn’t fault the man.  A steady stream of juvenile delinquents had left the officer bored and jaded.  Thompson ended each spiel with a glance at the detainee in front of him and a terse, “Do you understand?  Any questions?”  A shrug followed when no one had a question and a short, “Next.”

Jeff stepped out of line behind Marty and placed a hand on Marty’s shoulder.  Marty brushed Jeff’s hand away but didn’t look at him.  Jeff flashed a glare at Marty and regained his arrogant demeanor.

“When can I call my parents?”  Jeff demanded.

Officer Thompson pointedly ignored Jeff.  He kept his eyes on Marty who stood in front of him.

“Do you have any questions?” he repeated to Marty.

Mary hesitated.  He wanted to know the answer to Jeff’s question.  His voice quivering, he quietly said, “Yes, sir.  May I call my parents?”

Officer Thompson’s expression softened.  His eyes on Marty, he said, “I’ve already called your parents and told them you’ve been detained.”  He motioned to Marty to move on toward the waiting officer, flipped Marty’s paperwork over, and resumed his bored attitude.  He said, “Next,” without looking up.  It was Jeff’s turn.

Jeff rested his left arm on the counter and extended his right hand to the intake officer.  “Officer Thompson, I’m Jeff Bradshaw the third.  You may know my father, J. Michael Bradshaw the second.  He’s the president of Patriot Hill Bank.”  Jeff smiled, showing all of his teeth.  He glanced around, continuing to smile as he talked.  He was oblivious to the fact that a hang-dog, embarrassed attitude would be more appropriate and not smart enough to realize Officer Thompson would not be intimidated or impressed by the numerals after his name and his father’s title.

Kelley had to turn his head to the wall to keep the look of disgust on his face private.  He was still while he waited for Thompson’s response.

The intake officer hesitated before vigorously pumping Jeff’s hand.  He said, “Jeffrey Bradshaw the third.  It is a pleasure to meet you.  I spoke to your father when I called to tell him you have been detained.”  As soon as he finished speaking, the smile disappeared from his face.  Even Jeff finally realized that Officer Thompson was not impressed.

Kelley dropped his head to stop the smile spreading over his face.  Thompson might appear to be meek and mild-mannered, but he had heard him intimidate some pretty scary customers in spite of his slight build.  He had certainly put Jeff in his place.

Jeff’s face flushed red.  Scowling he turned back to Officer Thompson.  “My father wouldn’t do business with . . .” he hesitated, realizing the entire room had silenced.  Lowering his voice, Jeff finished, “. . . people like you.”

Kelley knocked his chair over getting up.  Officer Nate Thompson stood, held an open palm up toward Will.  “It’s okay.  I’ve got this.”  He fixed his eyes on Jeff and won the starting contest without speaking a word.

Kelley saw Jeff turn back and look at Trevor—trying to gauge Trevor’s reaction to everything.  He was also probably calculating whether Trevor would keep quiet or blame everything on him.  Kelley figured the boys had grown up going to the same golf and tennis camps.  Maybe Jeff thought he could count on Trevor to stick with him and not tell the true story.

Jeff smirked and took a step toward Marty and Trevor, his fist stretched out as if he wanted to fist-bump his friends.  “Stick together, guys,” came out of Jeff’s smiling mouth.  

Marty and Trevor looked at Jeff with sad faces.  Neither boy lifted his hand to meet Jeff’s fist bump.  Behind the sadness, Will thought he saw disillusionment instead of anger.  Jeff was wrong if he thought those kids would lie to protect his hide.

Kelley focused on trying to read Trevor’s lips when he turned to speak to Marty.  He thought he discerned the word “truth.”  Good, we need to hear the truth, Will thought.

A wide-eyed look appeared on all four faces when the boys found out they would have to spend the rest of the night in a detention center.  They likely never imagined they would be locked up like criminals.  Officer Thompson instructed the boys to follow another officer.  The policeman’s heels clicking on the shiny black linoleum was the only sound as he led the boys down the hall to the juvenile detention center.  The boys all had raised eyebrows and questions in their eyes when the officer, his face stern, turned to look at them.  Not a single young man dared to ask a question.  The officer shook his head.  It was clear from his eyes and manner he was disgusted with them.  He motioned for the boys to keep moving.

Kelley was getting ready to head to his office when a group of people talking in raised, angry voices burst into the station.  Summoned in the middle of the night, the Bellevue parents had dressed quickly.  Polo shirts untucked, feet shod in flip-flops, hair still tousled from sleep, the concerned parents clearly got there as quickly as they could after hearing their children were in trouble.  He silently reprimanded himself for his cynicism on enraged, entitlement-attitude parents.  They loved their little juvenile delinquents.  They all probably thought no harm had been done by the kids breaking into the pool area.  They would quickly learn the seriousness of the situation.  Will leaned toward Officer Thompson and asked in a low voice, “Did you reach all the parents already?”

Thompson said, “Yes, sir.”

Detective Kelley stood in the middle of a group of parents and lawyers, all of them talking at once in loud voices, waving their hands, and pointing their fingers at him.  How unlike the normal restrained behavior of Bellevue residents, he thought to himself.  He caught a few words from the cacophony: “harmless pranks,” “no right to do this,” “dragged me out of bed,” “I know my rights.”  Kelley folded his arms across his chest and stared at the large clock on the wall.  Slowly, one by one, the members of the group got the idea and stopped talking.

“The charges against the young men are quite serious,” Will said.  He let his eyes move from one person to the next.  “Vandalism and destruction of property.”

Will heard one parent say, “Oh, come on, they were just trying to go for a swim.”  Others joined in, “Yeah, yeah.”

Will resumed his blank stare at the clock until the murmuring stopped.  “One of more of them defecated in the pool, broke into and stole money and goods from the snack bar and broke windows.”

This time Kelley heard someone say, “Oh, shit!”  Will wanted to say, “Oh shit, is right.”  But he maintained silence while he struggled to compose himself, keeping any hint of disdain from slipping into his stony expression.  “The body of Mr. Costa, an employee of Bellevue, was found on the bottom of the pool,” he finally said, his voice low.

“What?” Someone uttered.  Everyone else was shocked into silence.

“The vandalism perpetrated by the young men pales in comparison to the possible murder of a husband and father,” Kelley said quietly, his gaze moving from person to person.  The parents looked stunned.

“The boys wouldn’t have killed anyone!” A man protested.

Kelley looked at the clock again until everyone was quiet.

Struggling to control his own rage, in an even voice, he said, “The four young men will be detained in the juvenile holding area until the bond hearing.  It will probably take place on Monday.  You will want to consult with an attorney if you are interested in getting your son released before the hearing.”

Kelley turned to walk away.  He knew the parents would speak to their attorneys who would normally promise them their sons would be released as soon as it was established that they did not have a prior record.  The attorneys would find out as Kelley had determined when he saw the condition of Mr. Costa’s body, that he had been in the pool for at least a couple of hours.  The boys’ excursion revealed the body earlier than the killer had expected.  The presence of the bucket and cleaning materials indicated that the boys might even have surprised him or her.

The parents all knew each other.  Behind the façade of civility, he figured each one was thinking the same thing:  My son isn’t a killer.  This isn’t my son’s fault.  He is not a juvenile delinquent.  X’s son must have been the troublemaker.  My Johnny was just unlucky enough to be there.  Kelley stood, arms folded across his chest, the scowl on his face mean to discourage any approaches from the parents.  It worked.  Within minutes the parents, once assured by their lawyers, went home to wait for the call from the intake officer that their sons would be released and the time of the bond hearing.