“Routine, huh?“ Linda said, knowing better.
Her fingers tapped the keys, and she read the information from the screen. “He’s in PE with Coach Martin. You want me to page the school resource officer?”
“No. We’ll get him.”
“You know where the gym is?”
“I do.”
We left the office and meandered through the hallways, then out to the gymnasium. Basketballs bounced off the court as the kids ran drills. Bobby Boyd was easy to spot. He towered over the other kids—an early growth spurt.
Coach Martin wore a white polyester collared shirt and royal blue polyester gym shorts. He had wavy dark hair, a square jaw, a thick mustache, and was no stranger to the weight room.
We approached as he stood court-side. I flashed my badge and made introductions. “We need to have a few words with Bobby.”
Coach Martin stifled a groan. “What did he do this time?”
“We just need to ask him a few questions,” I said with a disarming smile.
He blew his whistle, and it echoed across the gym. “Bobby!” he shouted, waving the kid over.
Bobby looked at us with trepidation. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to know this wasn’t good.
He hustled court-side, and Coach Martin made introductions. I flashed my badge again for good measure.
Fear filled the kid’s eyes.
“We just have a few questions for you,” I said, then asked Coach Martin, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“You can use my office.” Coach escorted us down a hallway that led to the offices and the locker rooms. He unlocked the door.
We stepped inside and offered Bobby a chair. JD and I leaned against the coach’s desk. Martin gave us some privacy and returned to the gym.
The sound of basketballs filtered through the door. The overhead fluorescents buzzed, and the royal blue cinder block walls were more oppressive than the interrogation room.
It smelled like sports cream.
Even now, it felt weird being in the coach’s office. Back in the day, a trip to the coach’s office in PE meant you were in trouble. Bobby had made this journey several times in his middle school career.
“Am I in some kind of trouble?” Bobby asked, looking up at us with the most innocent face he could muster.
Jack recorded the interview on his phone.
Bobby was a big kid for his age, already at 5’9”. His short, sandy-blonde hair was trimmed close, and he had a slightly chubby face. He excelled at most sports by sheer virtue of his size. The resemblance to his father was evident.
"You had some issues with Coach Coleman, didn't you?" I said.
Bobby's mouth crinkled. "He was an assho—I mean, he was a jerk."
"Because he benched you.”
Bobby frowned. "The team is better off without him.”
It was a surprising admission from the kid. He showed no remorse.
"You mean, you're better off without him.”
Bobby shrugged.
