Chapter 23
“Idon’t think I like where you’re going with this,” Ken said.
It was tight, but there was time for Bobby to get from his house to the Welling’s and shoot Ray.
“I’d like to see the Ruger,” I said.
The muscles in Ken’s jaw flexed. “Get a warrant.”
I shrugged. “If that’s the way you want to play it.”
“That’s the way I want to play it. This is ridiculous.”
“Do you own a suppressor?”
“I’m not answering any more of your questions.” Ken stepped back, closed the door, and latched the deadbolt with a clunk.
I shared a look with Jack, then walked back toward the van.
“I think the kid did it,” JD muttered.
“Let’s pull Bobby out of class and have a chat.”
I hated to think a kid that young was a killer, but it wouldn’t be the first time.
We hopped into the van and zipped over to the junior high. I found a place to park, and we strolled through the lobby to the admin office. I flashed my badge at the front desk, explained the situation, and asked for Bobby’s class schedule.
Linda looked at me with knowing eyes. “What’s he done this time?”
It seems Bobby had earned a reputation. I’m sure he was no stranger to the principal’s office.
I smiled. “Just routine questions”
“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.
"What about the boy you put in the hospital?" I asked.
"It's not my fault his face hit my fist.”
I gave him a flat look.
"He shouldn’t have mouthed off. What did he think was gonna happen?”
"You can't go around putting people in the hospital," I said.
"I guess he's not going to talk trash again.”
"Where were you last night between 9:30 and 10:00 PM?”
His big blue eyes flicked between the two of us. "I was at home. Sleeping. Ask my dad."
"We did. He said he looked into your room, and you were gone.” I lied. It wasn't illegal to lie.
His eyes rounded, and his jaw dropped. "Well, maybe he just didn't look hard enough.”
I gave him a flat look. "Did you sneak out last night?”
"What business is that of yours?”
"Did you pay Mr. Coleman a visit last night?”
Bobby's face wrinkled. "Why would I pay that guy a visit? I didn't like him.”
"Did you take your father's gun?”
"No. What are you talking about?”
"The .22 Ruger.”
Bobby swallowed, looking guilty. After a moment, he admitted, "Look, I was gonna give it back.”
I tried not to look surprised. "Where is it now?”
"Under my mattress.”
"Why did you take it?”
"I wanted to show a friend.”
"Did you tell your dad about this?”
"No. He'd kill me if he knew I touched his guns. You're not going to tell him, are you?”
I just stared at him. Bobby wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. It's a good thing he excelled at athletics.
"I need you to be honest with me. Did you take the gun and shoot Coach Coleman?"