Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 39

“After all that, after the pain and confusion and frustration and anger and rebellion, what did we get? We got Jerry Ford. A good man. An honorable man. A lousy president. Believe me, people needed heroes, and at just that moment we found a few in the form of a ragtag team of smalltown American kids, ultimate underdogs who made it to the top . . .”

I drifted through the room as Testen gave his speech, examining the memorabilia, studying the framed newspaper pages, each dominated by large photographs of jubilant teenagers hugging and dancing and raising their fingers in the air. We’re number one!

“It wasn’t noticed that much by the rest of the nation,” Testen said. “Yet in Minnesota, I think the Victoria Seven was as huge as the Olympic hockey team that beat the Soviets and won the gold medal in 1980.”

“I remember,” I said.

“The funny thing is, we weren’t that good. Jack Barrett was the only one on the team who was given a Division I scholarship. Dave Peterson played Division III at Gustavus Adolphus, but he was a walk-on. Gene Hugoson played JuCo for two years. The rest never played again. It shows in our record, too. We finished the season one game above .500. We never won a game by more than six points. We lost once by thirty-six.”

“How did you manage to win the state championship?”

“People have asked me that question for over thirty years and I always tell them the same things—superior coaching.” Testen chuckled in a practiced manner. “The truth is, I don’t know. I only know that we won our last six regular season games, cruised into the sections, and kept right on going. It didn’t matter who we played. It didn’t matter how much size we gave up. It didn’t matter if we trailed at the half or by how many points. We couldn’t lose.”

I halted in front of a photograph of the Victoria cheerleaders taken in the school gym. Elizabeth Rogers was in the forefront.

“I think it was psychological,” Testen said. “Somewhere along the line the kids got it into their heads that they couldn’t be beaten and so they didn’t allow it to happen. Anyone who plays or knows sports will tell you that that’s a goofy theory. What’s the line? The race isn’t always to the swift or the battle to the strong, but that’s the way to bet? Still, after all these years, it’s the only explanation I have. That and divine intervention. One sports writer compared us to the Amazing Mets of ’69 that won the World Series.”

“Still, it’s getting to be a long time ago,” I said. “Over thirty years.”

“That’s a long time only when you’re looking forward. You look back and you wonder how the years passed so quickly.”

“What about Elizabeth Rogers?” I asked abruptly to see how he would react. Testen continued without pause.

“Nothing is ever perfect, is it? The boys were very upset by Beth’s death as you can imagine . . .” I flashed on the photographs I had seen in the Herald and decided they had done an awfully good job of hiding it. “It was such a small school back then; everyone lived in everyone’s pocket. But what were we going to do? Forfeit? People died the day the Eagle landed on the moon, yet that didn’t stop Neil Armstrong from taking his giant leap for mankind. Do you think it should have?”

“No.”

“No, no, of course not. Life goes on, just like it did after 9/11. Anyway, it’s like you said, it was a long time ago.”

So why does Elizabeth’s murder trouble you so, my inner voice asked.

Because her killer is still out there.

What do you care?

It could be Jack Barrett.

What do you care?

I care.

Why?

I just do.

“You were at the party the night Elizabeth was killed,” I said.

“I was the guest of honor. Me and the Seven.”

“When did you leave?”

“It was late. Monte—Grace Monteleone—she was this hippy chick should have been running a flower store somewhere instead of teaching—she complained to the principal that the kids were drinking beer. Not my kids, I wouldn’t have allowed that, but some of the other kids. She wanted the principal to put a stop to it. He refused. It was a celebration, after all. Instead, he suggested the teachers leave a few at a time, you know, pretend it didn’t happen: out of sight, out of mind. Monte—she was the first one out the door, probably went home to burn incense or something. I stayed late because, well . . .”

“You were the guest of honor.”

“Yes.”

“Did you see Elizabeth at the party?”

“I’m sure I did, but honestly, I don’t remember what I had for dinner last Monday much less who I saw at a party over three decades ago. Why do you ask?”

“I’m trying to learn who killed Elizabeth.”

“After all these years?” Testen began to massage his temples and I knew he was regretting that he had opened his door to me. “I don’t think I can help you with that. Why don’t you talk to Chief Bohlig? Ask him about it. He’ll tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Tell you what happened. I have no idea. At the time, I was trying to win three consecutive basketball games.”

“Did Elizabeth’s murder help or hurt you in the tournament?”

“Help or hurt? That’s actually a good question. Most people would be appalled to ask it, but—You look like you used to play some ball.”