Rough Draft: A Nick Cotton Crime Story

1

When his cell phone rang at two-thirty in the morning, to the tune of the I.U. fight song, it brought a sigh from Nick Cotton as he awoke.

Though it was not common, it was not all that unusual to be awakened in the wee hours ever since he had accepted the job as Chief of Security Police for the entire school district. Mostly it dealt with the rare but occasional attempted break-in of one of the township schools, or vandalism, or, in the very rarest of cases, shots fired at the darkened buildings. As Nick blinked himself awake, he wondered what it was this time.

But this time the call was not from a night custodian, or even a concerned neighbor who had spotted activity near one of the school buildings. This call was from Detective Sergeant Elvis Spangler of the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department’s Homicide and Robbery Division.

Hi, Coach, Spangler said into Nick’s ear. Hope I woke you. No need for you to sleep while I’m working. This is Spangler.

To what do I owe this pleasure? asked Nick.

A shooting that will interest you, the detective said. One of your high school teachers killed a man. We’re at the teacher’s house now. I figured you’d wanna be in on this since you’ll have to report to your uppers.

Nick hesitated a moment, absorbing the news. Who’s the teacher?

Guy Douglas. Says he teaches literature at S.O.B. Got something to write with? I’ll give you his address.

Nick turned on the light above his beside table and wrote on a notepad as Spangler recited the info.

Know this guy Guy? Spangler asked.

Sure, when I see him. He’s been at S.O.B. a long time, longer than I was. We never hung out together. He struck me as reserved and quiet. Surprised me when you said he shot somebody.

Fella breaking into his house, Spangler said. Why don’t’cha drop by and we can talk here.

Nick looked at the address he had jotted. Okay, he said, drawing it out. It’ll take me twenty or thirty.

Oh, I’ll be here, Spangler said with a touch of sarcasm. I got nothing better to do.

Nick used his bathroom and then dressed in warm, comfortable clothes, jeans and slipover sweater, sturdy water-resistant shoes, a heavy leather outer jacket, and soft woolen cap he pulled down to his ears. It was winter and cold and wet. Yesterday four inches of snow had dumped on Indianapolis, and it now was nineteen degrees. Tomorrow the forecast was a return to the forties with rain. Trick or treat in the Midwest.

Some thirty-five minutes after the detective’s call, Nick pulled in at the curb outside the address. The house was well-lighted, the only one on the block that was at this time of morning, except that across the street there was a light on upstairs in another house. Crime-scene tape had been strung in front of the Douglas residence. In the driveway outside a one-car garage that had its door closed sat two marked police cars, an unmarked car, a police van, and, closest to the street, a pickup truck that served as a supportive emergency med vehicle from the nearest fire station.

A single cop in overcoat, mittens and earmuffs, slapping and rubbing his hands, was on the outside porch. Nick identified himself and said that Sergeant Spangler was expecting him.

The cop stepped inside the house to check, came back out and motioned Nick to duck under the tape and go in.

When Nick, rubbing his hands together, got into the warm living room, he saw Guy Douglas sitting on a sofa. Douglas still wore his topcoat, which was open now, and his boots. He looked miserably forlorn. Police officers were not at the moment visible, but voices could be heard in another part of the house. Nick took off his cap and stuffed it in a jacket pocket, and then unzipped his jacket.

I understand you had a problem, Guy? Nick said.

Guy Douglas snapped out of his reverie and blinked up at him.

Nick could see the man was visibly shaken. In fact, he was actually trembling.

Want to tell me about it? Nick asked, kindly. You’ll have to talk to me, you know.

Douglas nodded vacantly and drew a breath. Yeah, right. I suppose I will. School security and all that shit. What will happen to me?

I don’t know anything yet. I heard you did some shooting.

Burglar, Douglas said. I was robbed.

Douglas was a thin man, just showing a belly paunch. His face was grim beneath his gray-streaked hair. He pursed his lips in a thin line. Nick thought the man might cry.

Something valuable?

Very, Douglas said, his eyes downcast.

It’s always tough when you shoot somebody, Nick said, and then felt foolish for saying it. Not much you can say to make somebody like Douglas feel better at a time like this.

How do you know? the man said. You ever shoot anyone?

I have, Nick said.

Oh, Douglas said as he heaved another long sigh.

Nick studied Douglas’s lowered countenance for a couple more seconds. He remembered how standoffish the man had been with other teachers at S.O.B. High School. Douglas didn’t seem to have much of an attitude now as he struggled with his inner demons.

Nick said, I’m supposed to see Sergeant Spangler.

Douglas nodded and made a slight hand gesture. Back in my study. That way.

Your wife? Nick asked.

I live alone, Douglas said. My wife divorced me a long time ago.

Okay, Nick said. Try to relax and take it easy.

2

The study was a bedroom converted into a work area with desk, two chairs, a computer and printer, and a couple stacks of papers rubber-banded together on the desktop. A bottom drawer of the desk appeared to have been jimmied open in some crude or hurried fashion.

The wall facing the desk was adorned with framed photographs, all reproductions, of twentieth century American author Ernest Hemingway in various stages of his life from youth to older age. There were twelve framed photos in all, and nothing else on any of the walls.

Two uniformed cops and two plain-clothed ones were inside the study discussing the scenario with each other. No corpse remained in the room, but there was a blood splotch on the carpet. Across the room was a sliding patio door with the glass broken about waist high. Nick saw that the glass was on the inside of the room. The winter wind whistled through the broken glass pane.

The African-American cop in plain clothes including a heavy sweater, but hatless, allowing his shaved head to glow beneath the overhead light, nodded and crossed to Nick.

They shook hands.

Sergeant Spangler, Nick said by way of greeting.

Hey, Coach, the detective said. How’re things at S.O.B.?

Okay, I hope. I work out of the administration center now. Got a brand new office and everything. Don’t know if the job’s right for me yet. Where’s your partner Grogan? Nick asked.

Spangler gave him a wry look. In bed, nice and warm, treating a cold. Probably spaced out on antihistamines and cough syrup and laughing out his ass at me. I’ll get even someday.

Surprised they got you working overnight.

Spangler shrugged. My month for it. Convenient for Elliott Grogan to catch a cold. He made a vague gesture. You missed seeing the vic. He got drilled twice right in the chest and once in the thigh as he was falling.

Know him?

Not yet, but we will. Youngish fella, late twenties, maybe thirty. Got a picture of him here. He showed Nick the photo. How ‘bout you?

Nick looked and shook his head. Nope.

He had no I.D. on him, Spangler said, so my guess is he’s done this before. I mean breaking and entering, not getting shot. If you wanna take a look at the real thing, he’ll be at the morgue.

Douglas said he was robbed. More than one person?

There were two of ‘em, Spangler said. One got away, according to Mr. Douglas, with a very valuable heirloom. It was a handwritten manuscript by Ernest Hemingway.

Nick grunted a soft laugh and looked at the photos on the wall again.

What he claims, Spangler said with a shrug. Maybe he knows. After all, he is an English teacher.

Nick said, I doubt if there are any Hemingway manuscripts floating around that aren’t in some library or in the hands of a private collector. I never knew Guy Douglas is a collector.

Spangler nodded and took a toothpick from an inside pocket to stick in his mouth. I’m telling you what he told me. You can hash it out with him.

He thumbed back at the broken patio window. Two perps, probably thought the house was empty, broke their way in. Lots of footprints in the snow back there. Mr. Douglas just got home, coming in through the front door, when he heard his desk being broken open. He hadn’t turned on a light yet. First thing he done was take his gun, a .32 Smith and Wesson, from a bookshelf where he kept it. He comes in here, surprises the burglars, sees that one of them has a crowbar in his hand, and starts shooting.

The detective made a mock gun with forefinger and thumb.

Bang, bang, bang, he said. Three shots. Damned good, too. He nailed this one with all three, like I said. Other one runs out the open door and is gone with the stolen property.

Nick looked from the blood splotch on the rug to the patio door. Fine shooting for being in the dark. Why the leg shot after putting two in the chest?

Maybe it was the other way around. Probably got started and couldn’t stop squeezing. Anyway, it’s not all that dark, Spangler said. With the curtains back the way they are, there’s enough light coming through. But you’re right. Here’s a man with little, if any, firearms training, and he pops this cat without hesitation. Pays to be lucky, I guess.

The dead man have any other weapon on him? Nick asked.

Nope, just the crowbar with which he broke the glass. That can be considered a weapon. Don’t know about his partner.

Nick said, I assume you’re taking Douglas’s gun.

At least for the time being, Spangler nodded. He sighed and chewed his toothpick. We have to check everything out. He saw another uniformed cop step inside from the patio and motioned to him. Cook, come here.

The cop, carrying what looked like a samples case, stepped over.

Officer Cook, Spangler said as an introduction. He’s our C.S.I. man. Cookie, this is Coach Nick Cotton of S.O.B. High School.

Used to be coach, Nick said, shaking hands with the cop.

Right, Spangler said. Mr. Cotton had a run-in with a school board member, something about flushing him down a toilet, and now he’s in charge of the school district’s security force. Find anything new out there, Cookie?

Lots of footprints in the snow, but all messed up, Cook said. I got photos. Some appear to be from the boots the dead guy was wearing. Way the glass was broken indicates it was from the outside in. Consistent with what you’ve been told. As far as tracing any vehicle, forget it. Wet streets, car tracks in every direction in the snow on top of that. He shook his head. Nothing else to find.

He did fire the gun, didn’t he? Nick asked.

Yep, said Cook. Gunpowder residue on his right hand.

Thank you, Cookie, Spangler said by way of dismissal. He returned his toothpick to his mouth and looked at Nick. So, there we are, Coach. We’ll leave Mr. Douglas alone tonight. He’s pretty shook up. But we’ll be talking to him tomorrow, going over everything again. You can inform the school to get a substitute for him. Want to help me out?

Doing what? Nick said. You’ve got it under control.

Spangler grinned. Maybe finding out what’s so damned valuable about some manuscript that two guys break in to steal it, costing one’s life.

3

Nick strolled past a bedroom into the kitchen of the small house. He tried to look out a back window but couldn’t see anything through the frosted glass. There was a door from the kitchen directly to the one-car garage. Nick looked in before returning to the living room.

He stopped in front of the forlorn looking Guy Douglas, still on the sofa and hunched inside his topcoat, and waited until the man raised his eyes.

A Hemingway manuscript? Nick asked.

Douglas nodded. Yeah. Only one of its kind.

And you got hold of it how?

Family heirloom, Douglas said. My great-great grandmother met Ernest Hemingway in Paris in l923. It, I was told, was a brief affair. Before they parted, Hemingway drafted a short story on a notepad and dedicated it to her. Well, I say dedicated, but actually he simply gave it to her as a gift. It’s only five note pages long and untitled. Roughly handwritten. To me, it’s the greatest legacy I could ever have.

How did it survive all these years? Nick asked.

It was passed down in our family female to female. Douglas crooked his mouth in a wry smile and shrugged. When my last aunt died, it came to me.

What makes you think it’s legitimate?

I had the handwriting validated by a Hemingway scholar, Dr. Emanuel Brand, a professor at the University of Chicago. I met him once when I attended one of his seminars. He had it confirmed by another handwriting expert, Dr. Reuben Elias. They both live in Chicago. It’s real, all right. Do you realize how important this manuscript is?

No, Nick said, truthfully. I thought all Hemingway writings had been uncovered and catalogued except for that trunk of stories or outlines his first wife lost.

Douglas gave Nick a different look. "I’m surprised, Coach. I thought you were a rather oafish athletic lout. You do know something about great writing. You must’ve read a book once."

Nick uttered a soft laugh. He remembered now what it was he had disliked about Douglas’s attitude. He said, "Oh, I read one or two. Great is in your perspective. I remember