Read Online Voice Mail Murder by Patricia Rockwell - Free Book Online Page A

good grades. He would call out the guys who got A’s and praise them at practice. If you made the Dean’s List—Oh my God—he, like, had a ceremony at practice for you! And, if you had trouble, he was there too. He was just the best guy in the world. I can’t understand why . . .”
    “I’m sure he was very proud of you,” she said. “What year are you?”
    “Oh, I’m a junior,” he replied. “Business major. But I really love being on the team, even though I don’t really get to play much. “
    “Maybe you’ll get to play this weekend,” she offered. “They did decide to go ahead with the game, didn’t they?”
    “Yeah,” he nodded, “but it’s a terrible idea, Dr. Barnes. Coach is dead and they’re just going on like nothing has happened. Coach Dooley says Coach would have wanted us to play. I don’t know. Maybe he’s right.”
    “I believe I heard President Foster say that the University would be dedicating the game to Coach Croft’s honor?” she hinted. Personally, she wasn’t sure it was a good idea either to continue with the scheduled game following so closely on the murder of the team’s coach.
    “Yeah,” agreed Jesse, “but I don’t like it. It’s not right. Nobody feels like playing. We’ll probably lose. We’re all way too upset.”
    “Is that what Coach Croft would want you to do?”
    “Hell, I don’t know what he’d want!” he shouted. “They don’t care about what he’d want. They just don’t want to upset things; they’ve got media contracts and stuff. They don’t care about how the students feel.”
    “Maybe you’ll feel differently when the time comes,” she suggested.
    “I don’t know,” he said, calming down somewhat. “That’s tomorrow night. Maybe. I mean, his wife said we should play. If she says it’s okay, maybe we should. I just don’t know. Somehow it just doesn’t feel right. But . . . but . . . you know . . . I guess we should because of . . . where they found him. I mean, he was in a motel room. I mean, he must have been . . . you know . . . sleeping around. I just can’t believe Coach . . .”
    “Jesse,” said Pamela, shaking her head sadly as she realized how terrible it must be for this young man to have his hero’s feet of clay crumble beneath him so dramatically. “Jesse, Coach Croft was not perfect, but that does not mean that he was still not the great coach and mentor that he obviously was to you and to all the team. If you focus on that—on those memories of him—those positive memories, then maybe it will make it easier for you to play tomorrow night with the enthusiasm that you know he would want you to have.”
    “Yeah,” Jesse said, looking at her face for the first time. “You’re probably right, Dr. Barnes. I gotta remember the good part about Coach—and he was really good—to me. I don’t think I’d have made it to my junior year—like I am—if Coach hadn’t pushed me the way he did. I gotta remember that.”
    “Yes,” agreed Pamela, and then she stood and reached out her hand. “And why don’t you give me that schedule change card? I’ll sign for you to add my ‘Psychology of Language’ class.”
    He beamed as he reached the small blue card over her desk and into her hands. She placed it on her desk and signed it with a flourish. Handing it back to him, she added, “Make sure you take this to the Registrar’s Office right away or you won’t be officially listed on my roll. And it’s—“ she said as she glanced at her watch, “almost 5 o’clock, so you’d better hurry. I believe they close at five.”
    The young man stood and took the card from Pamela. He bent over, grabbed his back-pack, and slung it over his shoulder. Striding to her doorway, he turned and spoke.
    “Thanks a lot, Dr. Barnes,” he said. “Thanks for letting me in your class. And thanks for listening to me—to me complain.”
    “Jesse,” she told him, “listening to students complain is all part of my job. And if I