The Battle of Bayport (7 page)

I mean, sure, any girl might be upset if they found out their brother was a murder suspect, but Jen hadn't even given me a chance to explain. She'd just flipped out. And she obviously had a serious grudge against Don Sterling already. She had turned on us as soon as Daphne said we were investigating the murder, before she even saw Mikey's name.

I hoped that it would turn out to be nothing and Jen and I could rewind things and start fresh. I wasn't optimistic, though. I cringed at the thought of adding her name to the “Possible Material Witnesses” list, but the bad blood between the Griffin family and Don Sterling was obvious. Obvious enough that we weren't going to have any choice but to look into it. Our dad taught us that you have to follow the evidence wherever it leads. Sometimes it's a harder lesson to swallow than others. So far, this case was leading Frank and me all kinds of places we didn't really want to go.

“You okay, man? Why do you think she totally lost it?” Frank asked.

I didn't know, but I had a hunch we were about to find out. Someone else had just come through the cafeteria doors, and they were lumbering toward us like they had something
they wanted to discuss. Unfortunately, sometimes Mikey Griffin preferred to do the discussing with his fists.

“Uh-oh,” Frank said as Mikey made his way across the cafeteria with a scowl on his mean mug and his broad linebacker's shoulders hunched like a gorilla's.

“Do you think Jen would have sicced her brother on us?” I asked Frank in disbelief.

This wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to intimidate us off a case, but until five minutes ago I'd been thinking of Jen Griffin as my future girlfriend. Those warm and fuzzy feelings were starting to get room temperature real quick.

Mikey had the physique, strength, and speed of a top football prospect. Which is exactly what he was. He also had a real short temper when it came to protecting his little sister. In other words, he could be getting ready to do some serious damage. I took some comfort in the fact that he was confronting us without his usual entourage—the entire Bayport High defensive line—there to get his back. He was still going to be a handful all by himself, though, even against the mighty Hardy boys tag team.

It was this kind of situation where our silent shorthand comes in useful. Frank looked at me and I nodded back.

We braced ourselves for a fight. We weren't expecting a confession.

J
OE NODDED AT ME, AND
we both zoned in on Mikey. If he tried anything, I'd go left and Joe would go right, dividing Mikey's attention while keeping the table between us as a barrier to give us extra time to talk some sense into him. Not that Mikey Griffin was known for his good sense.

A few seconds later he stood towering over our table, looking down at us, not saying a word. Joe and I both tensed, hoping it wouldn't come to that, but ready to defend ourselves if we had to. Nothing happened, though. Mikey just stood there looking thuggishly uncomfortable.

Now, Mikey may not be the sharpest bulb in the deck, but he was rarely at a loss for words. The guy usually ran his mouth nonstop. On the field, in the halls, in class, and
naturally, in detention. His silence as he stood looming over us was unnerving. It didn't seem like some kind of intimidation tactic, though. It seemed, well, it just seemed awkward. Big, brash Mikey Griffin looked like the one who was intimidated.

“Hey, guys,” Mikey finally said without meeting our eyes.

Joe and I exchanged perplexed looks.

“Um, hey, Mikey,” I said uncertainly.

“So, like, how's it going?” Mikey asked.

“Uh, it's going okay, Mikey,” Joe said, and gave me another confused look. “Is there something we can help you with?”

“So you guys are, like, investigating Mr. Sterling's murder, right?” Mikey asked.

“Um, yeah,” Joe replied cautiously.
Here it comes,
I thought, but my gut's natural fight-or-flight instinct didn't seem all that concerned. Something was off. It was really weird that Mikey referred to the Don as Mr. Sterling, for one. He was talking about the guy responsible for ruining his family's lives, according to Jen. What was Mikey's angle?

“Oh, okay, cool,” Mikey said, nervously looking over his shoulder like somebody might be spying on him. “Um, do you guys think it would be okay if we, like, talked in private somewhere?”

Joe and I hesitated. If Mikey did want to fight us, following him to some dark corner of the school where there were no witnesses—or easy access to medical attention—was probably a bad idea.

“I'm not sure that's such a good idea,” Joe said, trying to be diplomatic.

“Oh, okay. You guys are probably really busy with the investigation and all, huh?” Mikey looked all humbled and started fidgeting. “It's just that Jen would be really mad at me if she saw me talking to you guys. I, uh, I hid until she left the cafeteria so she wouldn't see me.”

Now this was getting interesting. Mikey was afraid of his harmless (or so I'd thought until a few minutes ago) little sister. She hadn't sent Mikey after us. He had come to us behind her back. Either that or this was some bizarre ploy to lure us into an ambush. I didn't think Mikey had any intention of strong-arming us, though. The Mikey standing in front of us seemed more like a gentle giant than an ill-willed enforcer, and he didn't sound like a guy who was about to beat us to a pulp. He sounded like a guy who was in trouble and needed our help.

“I was going to tell the police, but Jen wouldn't let me, and she wouldn't want me talking to you about it either, but I had to tell someone and you guys seem cool, so, uh, yeah, but if you don't have time, that's cool too, I guess,” Mikey said as he turned to leave, looking rejected. “Sorry for bothering you.”

That sealed it. We both jumped up at the same time to stop him from going. Whatever it was Mikey needed help with was something we most definitely needed to hear.

A couple of minutes later the three of us were seated outside on a bench around the corner from the cafeteria.

“So you know about my dad, right?” Mikey asked, and launched into his story without waiting for an answer.

“He was supposed to be promoted at the factory, before it closed, I mean. He was going to get a big raise and stock and stuff. He had a contract signed by Mr. Sterling and everything. The bank gave him a big loan because of it, and we got a new house and it was really nice, but then the factory closed all of a sudden and he lost his job and he couldn't pay the bank. My dad told Mr. Sterling he had to honor the contract, and Mr. Sterling just laughed at him, and I guess my dad kind of snapped and punched him. It was a stupid thing to do, but after losing his job and the house and everything, I guess he just had enough, you know? Mr. Sterling wasn't really hurt or anything, not bad at least, and he could have dropped the charges, but he wouldn't. My mom even tried pleading with him, but he just laughed at her, too. My dad had to spend some time in jail for assaulting him, and now he has a record. He was going to be a vice president and now he can't even get a job at all anymore. It really sucks.”

No wonder Jen didn't have much sympathy for Don Sterling. The guy really had done a number on her family. That wasn't all, though. Mikey needed someone to talk to, and we were ready to listen. Some people think interrogating a suspect is all about being a hard case and grilling the guy, but sometimes to be a good detective you also have to be a good therapist—a lot of times the best way to
get information is to just keep your mouth shut and let the patient unload. And unload Mikey did.

“The truth is I wanted to shoot him,” he admitted matter-of-factly. I think my jaw dropped open. No wonder Jen didn't want him talking to us. He was about to confess!

“At least I thought I did. I was happy when I pulled the trigger and he fell down like he'd been shot. It felt good. Like sometimes during a football game, I pretend the quarterback is really Mr. Sterling, and when I sack him it feels even better than just a regular sack, because it's kind of like getting a little bit of revenge, even if it's just pretend. Seeing him on the ground at the reenactment was kind of like that. Only it turned out that he wasn't pretending, and it didn't feel so good anymore. It felt worse than anything. Like I'd been the one who killed him.”

Mikey ran out of steam and buried his head in his hands, racked with guilt. Joe and I were both literally on the edge of our seats. There was a chance the whole case could be wrapped up right there.

“Were you? The one who killed him?” I blurted.

“I—I don't know,” Mike said, shaking his head.

“How can you not know?” Joe almost shouted. The suspense was driving us nuts.

“When the police interviewed me after the reenactment, they said I had a motive because of what happened with my dad and that I could have loaded the gun for real if I wanted,” Mikey continued. “They even knew about the
target shooting merit patches I got at camp when I was a kid, because Deputy Hixson was my counselor, and they said it would have been an easy shot for me. I told them I didn't do it, because, you know, I didn't. I mean, at least I don't think I did it.”

“Um, Mikey, isn't whether you shot Don Sterling something you should be fairly certain about?” I asked what should have seemed like an obvious question.

“Well, yeah, that's what I thought too,” Mikey agreed, “but I got to thinking about it last night, and I don't think I did it, but what if, like, I did, but by accident?”

“But how do you accidentally load a musket with live ammunition without realizing it?” I asked. I was trying not to get frustrated, but I couldn't tell if he was trying to confess or if he had just taken one too many hits to the helmet.

“Did you load your musket with an actual musket ball?” Joe prodded.

“I don't think so,” Mikey said. “Not on purpose at least.”

“You have to know if you loaded a musket ball, Mikey,” Joe said, trying to reason with him. “You can't accidentally shoot somebody with an unloaded musket.”

“What if there was something wrong with my gun, you know? Or maybe I did it wrong? I paid really close attention at the gun safety class, and I've gone over it in my head, like, a hundred times and I think I did everything right, but what if I didn't?”

“That's really unlikely, Mikey,” I told him. “Like just about impossible unlikely. You have to actually load the ball down the barrel after you put in the powder and then ram it down with the ramrod. You would have remembered that.”

“But I aimed right at him!” Mikey protested. “I aimed right at his heart, and that's where they said he was shot. And when I pulled the trigger, he fell like I had really shot him. It all felt so real.”

Mikey sniffled like he was holding back tears and wiped his nose on a big forearm. I had never heard a suspect try so hard to convince us he was guilty. I still couldn't tell if he was confessing to actually having done something wrong or if this was just a case of misplaced guilt. You'd be surprised how many suspects love to talk, even if it means accidentally incriminating themselves while trying to deny a crime. Mikey, on the other hand, looked miserable, and it sounded like he actually did want to incriminate himself, he just wasn't doing a very good job of it.

“There were a lot of people firing muskets all at the same time, Mikey,” I reassured him. I was actually feeling bad for the big guy. “I'm pretty sure you weren't the only one aiming at the Don. Mr. Lakin as much as told everyone to. It couldn't have been you unless your musket was loaded.”

“But what if I loaded it subcontinentally, you know, and didn't even realize it?”

Joe looked baffled as he tried to figure out what Mikey had just said. I jumped in and did my best to translate.

“You mean what if you did it subconsciously?” I asked. It was a good thing Mikey was good at football, because I don't think he was going to be winning any academic scholarships anytime soon.

“Yeah, that!” Mikey said. “I know it sounds crazy, but what if because I hated him so much I subconsciously blacked out for a minute and put a real bullet in the gun? I don't remember anything like that, but then I wouldn't, right? Like this one time I sleepwalked, and Jen found me in the kitchen all covered in crumbs because I'd eaten, like, everything in the pantry, even the uncooked spaghetti and sardines, and I hate sardines, and then when I woke up I didn't remember doing it at all. What if it was like that, but just a lot worse?”

Mikey was right—his theory sounded crazy. Crazy enough that the police would probably slap cuffs on him if they heard it.

Defense lawyers sometimes try to claim their clients blacked out and had temporary amnesia when they committed a crime so they can plea temporary insanity. Usually, though, it's just a desperate last-ditch attempt to justify the actions of a guilty criminal who doesn't have a legitimate defense. It almost never works. If Mikey went to the police with his theory, they'd peg him as a guilt-ridden killer trying to clear his conscience without actually confessing to what
he'd done. And they might be right. But even if it was just a case of overactive imagination, it would still shoot him straight to the top of Chief Olaf's suspect list.

“Jen told me not to say anything to anyone. She didn't even want to know.” Mikey sounded ashamed. “Like maybe she thought I really could have done it or something. She told me to keep it to myself or people would think I did it and I'd lose my shot at a scholarship and maybe end up in jail and broke like Dad. I don't want to let Jen and my folks down, but I can't stop thinking about it. I mean, even if I didn't do it, I still feel like it's my fault for wanting him dead that way. And what if I really did shoot him? Not knowing, it's eating me up. Mr. Sterling wasn't a good person, but he didn't deserve to die. I don't know if I could live with myself if I really killed someone, even if it was the Don.”