When he turned back, his eyes were red rimmed but dry.
“You sure it was Dre?” he asked. “Somebody killed Dre?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said. “We need to find who did this to him. It sounds like you and Dre were together quite a bit.”
Caruso nodded slowly, pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket. He wiped his eyes without embarrassment, without apology.
“Four years,” he said finally. “I trained that kid for four years. Watched him walk in here as a raw talent and turn into something special.” He shook his head, the movement heavy with grief. “He was going to be somebody, you know? He had that thing—that gift you can’t teach. Power and speed and instincts most fighters would kill for.”
“How’d he end up here?” Jack asked.
“Same way most of them do. Word of mouth. He’d just gotten out of the Marines, wanted to keep fighting. Somebody told him about my gym, and he showed up one day asking if I’d work with him.” A ghost of a smile crossed Caruso’s face, there and gone like a shadow. “Most guys who walk in that door, they think they’re tougher than they really are. They’ve watched too many movies, thrown a few punches in bar fights, and now they think they’re ready for the ring. But Dre…” He trailed off, lost in the memory. “First time I saw him hit the bag, I knew. He’d been fighting since he was fifteen. Started on the streets before the Marines got hold of him. By the time he got to me, he already had the foundation. I just built on it.”
“What was your arrangement?” Jack asked. “Training? Managing?”
“Both.” Caruso spread his hands. “He didn’t know anything about the business side—the promoters, the sanctioning bodies, all the politics that goes along with trying to make it in this sport. I’ve been doing this my whole life. My father trained fighters before me.” His voice steadied as he talked, finding solid ground in familiar territory. “I know how it works. I was helping him navigate.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Thursday morning.” Caruso’s hands gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles going white. “We trained for a couple hours, went over tape from his last fight, and talked about what’s next. He was in a good mood. Said he had big plans for the weekend.” He released a breath that seemed to empty him. “I figured it was the girl.”
“The girlfriend?”
“Tiana.” The name softened something in Caruso’s weathered face. “He talked about her all the time. Never brought her around here—this isn’t exactly the kind of place you bring your sweetheart—but you could tell he was gone on her. Got this look on his face whenever she came up. Like he couldn’t believe his luck.”
“Do you know her last name?”
“No. He kept that part of his life separate.” Caruso shrugged. “Can’t blame him. What happens in here is one thing. What happens out there is something else.”
I leaned forward slightly. “Mr. Caruso, did Andre have any health issues you were aware of?”
His hands stilled on the chair arms. His whole body went rigid for just a moment—a fighter’s instinct, bracing for impact.
“What kind of health issues?”
“The autopsy showed significant head trauma. Years of accumulated damage. That kind of injury often has consequences.”
Caruso was silent for a long moment. His jaw worked, muscles bunching beneath the weathered skin.
“Seizures,” he said. “He started having them about a year ago. First one scared us both half to death—he just went down, eyes rolling back, whole body shaking. The doctors said it was from all the hits he’d taken over the years. They put him on medication. Klonopin.”
“Did anyone else know?”
“No.” Caruso’s chin lifted, a flash of protectiveness cutting through the grief. “He didn’t want people to know. Said it made him feel weak. In this business, you can’t afford to look weak. So we kept it between us.”
“How did it affect his career?”
“Complicated things.” He chose his words carefully, each one measured. “With that on his medical record, getting sanctioned fights would be harder. More liability concerns. We were working through it. Finding ways around the obstacles.”
Jack shifted in his chair. “Did Andre have problems with anyone? Arguments, conflicts?”
“Not that I knew of. Everybody liked him. He was easy to get along with—didn’t have an ego, didn’t start trouble. Just showed up, worked hard, went home.”
“What about money? Any financial issues?”
Caruso almost laughed, though there was no humor in it. “Dre? That kid was the most responsible person I’ve ever trained. Lived like a monk, saved every penny, never blew his money on stupid stuff the way most young guys do. He had plans.” His voice cracked on the word. “Wanted to buy his mama a house someday. Get her out of that apartment she’d been stuck in for years.”
We asked a few more questions, but the well had run dry. Caruso had given us what he had—or at least what he was willing to share. When we stood to leave, he walked us back through the gym, past the men who were still stealing glances at the cops in their midst.
