Kickoff to Danger (6 page)

“Nice games they're playing,” he said. “Maybe we can even up the sides.”

They turned down the corridor the victim had taken. The hall quickly became dark, but there was no one there. Whoever had roughed up the kid had taken off.

Frank ran his fingers along the wall as they moved forward. When they hit a lighted area again, he saw that his whole hand was grayish black. “Coal dust,” he said, rubbing his fingers together. “We must be near the old boiler room.”

“Speak of the devil.” Joe pointed to a riveted iron door ahead of them and to the left. Faded red letters identified the URNAC OOM.

“Furnace Room,” Frank said, deciphering the partial lettering. “I guess they just left the old coal-burning furnace here when they switched to oil heat.” Frank rubbed his hands together in another attempt to get them clean. “Too bad they didn't get rid of all this dust.”

Joe, however, pointed to the door. “Looks like it was all locked up—once.”

The door was old and rusty, but bright scratches showed in the metal where a padlock had been pried away.

They were about to turn away when they heard a scraping from the other side of the door. Frank looked at Joe. “Better check it out.”

He put a palm against the cold metal and pushed. The door swung in with a rusty screech, and the light from the bulb over their heads invaded the darkness.

A figure sprang into being before them as if it had been hit by a spotlight…a chubby, blinking figure.

Chet Morton's right eye was swelling up in a definite shiner. He faced the Hardys with an old coal shovel raised up in both hands to defend himself.

Book bags and a bundle of old clothes lay at Chet's feet.

Frank drew his breath in sharply as he realized that it was no bundle on the floor.

It was a tall, muscular body with short-cropped, sandy hair—Biff Hooper.

And he lay there way, way too still….

“Chet, what did you do?” Joe burst out. He charged forward, kicking several book bags out of his way until he could drop to his knees beside Biff.

Chet, who had the shovel up shoulder height, ready to swing, stumbled backward, his shoulders sagging in relief as he recognized Joe's voice.

“Am I glad to see you guys!” Chet gasped.

Joe didn't answer. All his attention was on Biff. He extended one hand, gently feeling Biff's neck. “There's a pulse,” he announced. “But it's weak—very weak!”

Chet was now looking down at Biff, his face a mask of horror. The shovel dropped from his hands to clatter on the floor. “Oh, no! Biff! What happened to him?”

Frank gave his friend a long look. “You don't know?”

Chet's eyes didn't leave Biff's still form. “It was supposed to be an initiation,” he said tightly. “The guys had a prank planned.”

His hand went to the bruise around his eye. “I thought I'd come in for a little trouble, but I didn't expect rough stuff. From the sounds, some kids were getting it worse than I was. I moved away…saw the boiler room, figured it would be a good place to hide.”

“What about Biff?” Frank asked.

“I don't know!” Chet's voice rose. He looked terribly upset. “I was checking behind me to make sure nobody saw me going in here. You saw how dark it was. I took two steps and tripped—”

Chet gulped as he realized what he'd tripped over. “A-anyway, I groped around in the dark, and my hand found the shovel. I'd just gotten to my feet when you guys opened the door.”

Joe popped up, grabbing Chet by the arm. “Chet, you've got to get out of here,” he said. “I believe your story, but I don't know that everyone else will.”

“It's too late, Joe.” Frank pointed at the shovel. “Chet's fingerprints will be all over that. And the fact that it's so close to Biff—” He couldn't make himself say the words.

“That has to be what laid him out,” Joe finished.
He dug in his pocket and got out some tissues. “So we'll wipe it clean—”

Frank reached out and pulled his brother back. “And what if you wipe away somebody else's fingerprints, too? You may be destroying the one thing that could clear Chet.”

“So what do we do?” Joe asked in frustration.

“You're going upstairs to call an ambulance. And, like it or not, the cops.”

“And you?” Joe asked.

“Chet and I are staying right here,” Frank said. “To make sure the crime scene isn't disturbed.”

“C-crime scene?” Chet stammered.

“You don't bang your head on a shovel accidentally. Biff's on the floor because somebody put him there,” Frank said. “It's our job to help find out who did it.”

Joe set off down the corridor at a run. Frank and Chet stood guard in the doorway. Every few minutes Frank stepped around the scattered book bags to check on Biff. He wasn't doing any worse. But he was still unconscious—and not getting any better.

“Think, Chet. Is there something, anything else you can remember? Did you see anybody on your way here?”

“I was kind of rattled after taking that pop in the eye,” Chet said. “It was Wendell Logan, I think. The guy can punch!”

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.”