Kickoff to Danger Page 5

  He frowned, trying to remember. “It was kind of like playing hide-and-seek. You didn’t want people to see you. Any of the Golden Boys would give you a shot. They were herding us away from the stairs.”

  Chet shuddered. “I just tried to get through the lighted areas as quickly as possible. And in the dark, well, I was quiet and careful. Logan punched me out in the dark. I couldn’t see his face, but I couldn’t miss that laugh.”

  After a moment Chet shook his head. “That’s all I remember.”

  They spent a little while in silence. Then flashlight beams cut the darkness in the distance. “You’re sure this is the way?” a gruff voice asked.

  “Straight ahead,” Joe Hardy’s voice replied.

  A pair of cops and a couple of paramedics came into the lighted area.

  “In here!” Frank called.

  The medical people immediately went to work getting Biff on a stretcher. The lead police officer looked from Biff to the shovel on the floor and then to Chet’s eye. “I guess you boys will have some questions to answer,” he said.

  The look he gave them was not friendly and definitely suspicious when it fell on Chet.

  Joe and Frank were late for supper. Their father had picked them up from police headquarters when the questioning was over. Fenton Hardy’s face was grim as he steered the car for home.

  “It doesn’t look good for Chet,” he said after hearing what the boys had to say.

  “I figured that from the looks the cops were giving him,” Joe said.

  “I started out as a cop, too,” Fenton reminded them. “And if we found someone standing over a victim holding a shovel. Well, that pretty much made the case.”

  “This is Chet we’re talking about,” Frank said. “Do you really think he’d whack Biff like that?”

  “Chet has a weightlifter’s build,” Fenton replied. “There’s plenty of muscle on his frame.”

  “I’m not asking whether it’s physically possible,” Frank objected. “Chet’s not—”

  “In the dark, with people chasing him, Chet might have swung first and asked questions later,” Fenton said.

  Joe was ready to back up Frank’s arguments when he remembered his own first reaction to seeing Biff.

  I asked Chet why he’d done it, he thought, shutting his mouth.

  “If Chet had swung on anyone, I think he would have told us.” Frank glanced at Joe. “I can’t imagine he was in any shape to try covering things up.”

  The boys arrived home, and Aunt Gertrude began serving supper. When she and Mrs. Hardy heard the story, they quickly came in on Chet’s side.

  “I can’t believe you’re saying that boy is guilty!” Aunt Gertrude turned accusing eyes on Fenton.

  “I didn’t say he was guilty,” Fenton protested. “The situation does seem stacked against him, though.”

  “I’ll take care of the boys,” Laura Hardy told Aunt Gertrude. “I know your program is coming on.”

  Aunt Gertrude was a loyal viewer of the ten o’clock news. The sportscaster had a contest going, and she was convinced she was going to win.

  Mrs. Hardy turned to her husband. “Is it really as bad for Chet as you’re saying?” she asked quietly.

  Fenton shook his head. “Hard to see how it could get worse.”

  Aunt Gertrude’s voice suddenly erupted from the living room. “Everyone! In here!”

  When Joe, Frank, and their parents rushed in, they found Aunt Gertrude pointing at the TV screen. Behind the BayNews anchorperson floated the words “School Attack.”

  The anchor, a young blond woman, frowned as she gave the report. “Reports are still sketchy. Several members of Bayport High’s football team, victors in Saturday’s game against Seneca Tech, found themselves in a violent incident—”

  “ ‘Found themselves’?” Joe echoed. “They started it!”

  “Lineman Allen ‘Biff’ Hooper was admitted to Bayport General Hospital in a comatose condition. A teammate was found with him—”

  The screen then switched to a picture of Chet Morton.

  Fenton shook his head. “I was wrong. It could get worse for Chet.”

  The newswoman continued her report and finished with, “BayNews reporters contacted several members of the school board. But none had any comment on how such an attack could have occured.”

  “She made Golden and his gang sound like victims,” Joe said in disbelief.

  “For now they’re still football heroes,” Fenton pointed out. “If that changes—”

  He was interrupted by the doorbell.

  “Now, who could that be at this time of night?” Aunt Gertrude switched off the set and went to answer the door.

  She came into the room a moment later with Mr. and Mrs. Morton, Chet’s mom and dad.

  “I’m terribly sorry—” Laura Hardy began.

  Mr. Morton interrupted her. “What we need is help.”

  Joe sometimes kidded Chet that his friend was seeing his future when he looked at his father. Mr. Morton had the same stocky frame as Chet…but a much bigger stomach. He’d lost almost all the hair on the top of his head except for a little tuft just over his forehead. He was a successful businessman, but something in his appearance made people want to smile.

  Seeing him in a blue velour jogging—or rather, lounging—suit should have been funny. Knowing that he’d probably rushed from his home to help his son made it no laughing matter. “We’ve been down with the police since they called us. I don’t care what it costs, I want you to find out what really happened in that basement, Fenton.”

  “Who do you have handling Chet’s case?” Fenton asked.

  “Lew Cadwalader. He takes care of all our real estate—”

  “I’m sure he’s a good real estate lawyer,” Fenton said, “but I’d recommend Charlie Sponato for this. Let me write down his number.”

  Mr. Morton frowned as Fenton handed him the piece of paper. “What does this Sponato do?”

  “He’s a criminal attorney,” Fenton said. “You’ll find he’s more familiar with the system—”

  “I don’t care about the system!” Mrs. Morton burst out. “I just want my son out of jail!”

  Gazing at Mrs. Morton, Joe could see where her daughter, Iola, got her good looks. But Mrs. Morton seemed to have aged ten years since the last time Joe had seen her.

  “I’m afraid you have to understand the system so you’ll know what you’re up against.” Fenton’s voice was gentle but firm. “The police didn’t just pick Chet’s name out of a hat. They look for things like motive, opportunity, and means.”

  He glanced over at Frank and Joe. “From what my sons tell me, several boys on the football team—including Biff—had been hazing Chet.”

  Mr. Morton’s broad face took on a reddish tinge. “Why am I hearing about this now? Why didn’t the school do something?”

  “They were hurting Chet?” Mrs. Morton asked in shock.

  “Teasing him, mainly,” Frank said.

  “Snapping towels—stuff like that,” Joe added.

  “Things he wouldn’t have reported unless he wanted to look like a crybaby,” Fenton said grimly. “The teasings do give the police—and the prosecutor—a motive.”

  He held up two fingers. “Opportunity. Chet was down in the school basement because he thought he was taking part in a prank. It turned out to be a nasty attack on several boys…including your son. But he was definitely there.”

  Fenton took a deep breath. “As for means, Biff suffered a severe blow to the head, probably from a shovel found at the scene.” He hesitated. “Chet was holding that shovel.”

  Mrs. Morton choked back tears.

  Mr. Morton put his arms around his wife and glared at Fenton. “Why are you telling us all these upsetting things?”

  “As I said earlier, you have to understand what you’re up against. The police have to know everything I said now in order to hold Chet.”

  “Motive, opportunity…means. That’s what they use to convict”—Mrs.
Morton’s voice faltered—“m-murderers.”

  Fenton shook his head unhappily, but tried to reassure Mrs. Morton. “Biff’s going to pull through; he’s a strong kid.”

  Chet’s mother was beyond consoling and burst into wild tears, clinging to her husband.

  “I think that right now a good attorney might be your best help,” Fenton said. “There’s a strong case for self-defense—”

  “You’re saying Chet did what the police have accused him of!” Mrs. Morton said in a shrill voice.

  “No, I’m not. He’s caught in the system that’s accused him,” Fenton replied. “You want me—and the few people I employ—to do the job of a whole police department. I can’t even guarantee we’d find anything. The best we might be able to do is spread out the suspicion—point fingers in other directions. But you need a good lawyer—someone used to working in the system.”

  “What? Someone who can make a plea bargain?” Mr. Morton shook his head, his expression fierce. “My son told me he didn’t hit that boy, and I believe him. If someone doesn’t believe he’s innocent, I don’t need them!”

  He turned to his wife, gently leading her outside. It was as if a wall of ice had grown between the Hardys and the Mortons.

  A piece of paper fluttered to the floor as the door slammed shut.

  Joe picked it up. It was the number of the lawyer Mr. Hardy had written down for Mr. Morton.

  8 Fact Finding

  The Hardy family stood in silence…for about two seconds.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Laura Hardy said to her husband.

  “Chet didn’t put Biff in the hospital!” Joe insisted.

  “I didn’t say he did.” Joe knew when his dad began talking in that tone of voice, his patience was just about running out. “I was suggesting that right now Chet needs a good lawyer more than he needs a detective. Like some other people, they were too emotional to hear me.”

  Laura Hardy gave her husband a level look. “What a surprise, considering the other upsetting things you were telling them.”

  “Things their lawyer apparently never told them—or didn’t succeed in getting through.” Fenton snorted. “Not surprising, if he specializes in real estate.”

  Joe nodded. Dad had a point there.

  “I just wanted Chet and Jill to understand that real life isn’t like the lawyer shows on TV. People aren’t usually saved by a big speech or a lucky clue popping up five minutes before the show ends. I spent too many years as a cop not to know how it really works.”

  Laura Hardy continued to glare at her husband. “And you couldn’t break that to them more gently?” she asked. “Or was it Mr. Morton throwing his—ahem—weight around?”

  “Like lawyers, private eyes usually have to deal with people who are in trouble—sometimes even hysterical,” Fenton said.

  “Like our friends the Mortons,” Laura Hardy said.

  Fenton nodded. “They’re the worst kind of clients until they calm down a little. And I did give them the best advice I could. If they want to help Chet, they’d be better off looking for a good lawyer before they start looking at detectives.”

  “That doesn’t mean that we can’t start digging right away. Right, Dad? What do you say, Frank?” Joe questioned.

  Frank nodded, and Fenton Hardy gave his approval. “You boys have a better idea of the sys tem, and you know what’s happening at school. If Chet’s parents couldn’t get him out, even with a lawyer, that means Chet isn’t just being questioned. He’s been formally charged by the district attorney.”

  Frank frowned. “And if Biff takes a turn for the worse—”

  Fenton nodded. “So will the charges.”

  The next morning, Tuesday, the boys left the house early, before school. Joe was behind the wheel, bringing the van downtown. He managed to find a parking space only a block from police headquarters.

  “You think Con Riley will tell us anything?” Joe asked Frank as they got out of the van.

  The older Hardy brother shook his head. “Probably not, if he’s at his desk. But if we can catch him alone—there’s a chance!”

  Officer Con Riley was just coming out the door of the building, and Joe and Frank rushed to catch up with him.

  “How’s it going, Con?” Joe asked. Both brothers were on a first-name basis with the big officer. He was the closest thing they had to a connection on the force.

  “It will go a lot better after I have a shower, a shave, and some time in bed,” Riley replied. His uniform was rumpled, and he was whiskery and red eyed.

  “You look like you pulled an all-nighter,” Frank said.

  The police officer nodded. “With your friend Chet.”

  “If you’re looking for a confession, I’d say you were out of line,” Joe said.

  “I’ll tell you who was out of line,” Riley said angrily. “Those television people! They should know better than to splash a kid’s picture around like that.”

  Frank shrugged. “At least the TV people aren’t holding an innocent kid in jail.”

  “Sticking up for your friend does you credit.” Riley stretched and sighed. “And after spending a night talking to him, I have to say he’s stuck to his story. But his prints are the only ones on that shovel—”

  “That wasn’t on the news,” Joe said.

  “And it won’t be.” Riley shook his head. “I must be half-asleep to give that away. I’ll have to trust you boys to keep it quiet.”

  “Don’t worry, Con,” Joe said.

  No way would they be spreading that fact around. It just made Chet look guiltier.

  When Frank reached his homeroom that morning, he found a message waiting for him. “Mr. Sheldrake wants to see you right away.”

  Just as he reached the assistant principal’s office, who came walking down the hall to join him? Joe Hardy.

  “I guess we should have expected this,” Frank said, opening the door.

  Old Beady Eyes sat behind his desk and gestured to two empty chairs. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to shed a little light on yesterday’s…incident. According to Jimmy Brooks, you sent him to my office to report what was going on with the book bags. I’d like to hear exactly what happened after that.”

  Is it my imagination? Frank thought. Or is he nervous?

  Shrugging, Frank started off with what he had seen in the hall. Joe added what he had overheard in the locker room, then they both told what happened after they met.

  Sheldrake frowned, balancing a ballpoint pen between two fingers. He looked at Frank. “So, you can identify one of the football players involved.” Then he turned to Joe. “And according to you, Mr. Logan and Mr. Hooper were also involved.”

  “Chet said Logan is the one who punched him,” Joe said. “Isn’t that what he told you, Frank?”

  The assistant principal shook his head, looking definitely harassed. “I only want what you saw or heard,” he said. “Not what other people told you.”

  “You make it sound like we’ll be testifying in court,” Frank said.

  The assistant principal said nothing. But the uneasy look in his eyes got stronger.

  Finally Sheldrake sighed. “You can go to class.”

  As the boys left the office, Joe turned to Frank. “What was that all about?”

  “Information,” Frank said quietly. “Last night the cops whisked us off to make a statement. Almost everything Sheldrake knows about this mess comes from what he heard on TV.”

  Joe’s face lit with understanding. “And he’s supposed to know everything that’s going on in this school.”

  Frank nodded. “You can bet there’ll be a lot of people worried about their jobs after this.”

  “As if it wouldn’t be hard enough getting to the truth,” Joe growled.

  In English class Mr. Weeks didn’t even try to control the students. “I hope you have as much fun with my replacement,” he said.

  For the first time, the class grew quiet. “Replacement?” Dan Freeman echoed.

 
; I’ll bet it hurts him to talk, Frank thought. Half of Dan’s mouth was bruised and swollen.

  Weeks nodded. “I am—I was—the moderator for the debate team. That mean’s I’m responsible for not stopping what happened yesterday.”

  The teacher suddenly looked very young. “I don’t see any reason to drag things out, so I offered my resignation this morning. As soon as the school board chooses a replacement, I’ll be out of here.”

  “But—but—” Dan sputtered.

  “No more to discuss,” Weeks said grimly. “Let’s move on to a few dusty old sonnets.”

  Frank waited behind after the classroom emptied for lunch. Mr. Weeks was slowly packing up his materials. “Yes, Mr. Hardy?”

  “I’ll be sorry to see you go,” Frank said.

  The teacher shook his head. “One thing this school has taught me—I’m no great loss.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Go back to school again, maybe,” Weeks said. “See if I can be a teaching assistant for an older set of students.”

  “You seem to be taking what happened yesterday pretty hard.”

  Weeks stared at the floor. “A student almost died because I froze. I sat there like a lump when those four yahoos came in and stole the debaters’ books. When I finally moved, I couldn’t get the door open. One of them was holding it closed. I lost control of the students—some of the boys went after the bullies.”

  He sighed. “And then I panicked, chasing after them. If I’d gone immediately to Mr. Sheldrake—”

  The young teacher bit his words off. “But I didn’t. And as a result, young Mr. Hooper is in the hospital.”

  Weeks managed the ghost of a smile. “Mr. Sheldrake considers me totally useless. I didn’t recognize any of the boys who grabbed the books.”

  “None of them were in your classes?” Frank asked. “I thought you might have seen Biff or Wendell Logan. I’m sure you’d remember them, after the stunt they pulled with your car.”

  The teacher shook his head. “No. I didn’t recognize any of the boys I saw. And as you say, I’d have good reason to remember the pair who held up my car.” He shook his head. “That incident alone should have convinced me to look for another line of work.”