En Garde
America has often been referred to as a melting pot, a country composed of people of many different races, nationalities and faiths. Bradmore University was a microcosm of the nation. Not only did it have a diverse student body and faculty, but it also had a wide and varied offering of courses and activities. Its academic reputation was stellar, its fine and performing arts curriculum was among the best in the nation and, like most American educational institutions, it boasted a sports program that included a top-rated football team.
The university's main campus was so large that freshmen relied on maps and navigator apps to find their way around. With more than ten thousand students, it would not be at all uncommon for three people to attend classes at Bradmore and never meet. Of course, fate sometimes steps in and leads people down an unfamiliar path to a preordained end. Such was the case with Brandon Souder and Linda Kenwood, both in their senior year at the university, and Cord Bannerman who, although a year older than the other two, was only a junior because he had been left back in grammar school.
Brandon came from a moderately wealthy family. His father was a musician with the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, and his mother was a painter who sold her landscapes and seascapes out of a small gallery in Rockport, Massachusetts. Immersed in the arts from an early age, he decided while still in grammar school that he wanted to pursue a career on Broadway.
Linda, the daughter of two lawyers, was born into a family with more money but not nearly as much culture. A straight-A student throughout grammar, middle and high school, she earned a 4.0 grade point average in her first three years at Bradmore. There was little doubt the premed student would graduate summa cum laude and be accepted to at least one (most likely all) of the three medical schools to which she applied: Harvard, Johns Hopkins and the University of Pennsylvania.
Then there was Cord. It would be kind to say he came from a modest household but more accurate to state his family did not have the proverbial pot to piss in. He liked to tell people his dad was in business for himself; his father was, in fact, a handyman who did odd jobs for low pay. His mother was a waitress at an all-night diner where not even her combined hourly pay and tips equaled the government-mandated minimum wage. The only advantage her job offered was that the owner often gave her leftover food to take home at the end of her shift to supplement the groceries she bought with food stamps. Hoping to one day live a better life than his parents did, Cord had two things going for him. One, he was a good-looking, well-built young man; and, two, he could play football as though he emerged from the womb wearing a helmet and cleats.
Normally, there would be little interaction among these three students since Brandon spent his days preparing for or performing in stage productions, Linda was either studying or attending classes and Cord devoted his time to playing football, partying with his teammates or struggling to maintain his grades so as not to lose his scholarship. Linda rarely had time to socialize, but the two young men dated girls in their own social circles. Brandon took out other drama students, and Cord had relationships with cheerleaders.
Fate brought two of these students, Brandon and Linda, together during a community service project sponsored by the university. Bradmore maintained a food bank, the Campus Pantry; and when supplies ran low, volunteers were asked to organize a food drive. Being the product of liberal parents, Brandon offered his services. Linda also agreed to lend a hand since she believed good health began with good nutrition and that charity begins at home, or in this case at school.
"Just look at all this junk!" the lawyers' daughter exclaimed as she perused the donations. "Canned spaghetti, soup in a cup, ramen noodles. Nothing but sodium, preservatives and artificial flavorings."
"What did you expect? The posters specifically asked for nonperishable foods," the aspiring actor pointed out.
"They do put vegetables in cans, you know. And you can buy them without salt."
"Man shall not live on veggies alone, not unless he's a vegan."
For some inexplicable reason, Linda was attracted to the theater arts student. Unlike the serious-minded young men in her premed classes, he was easygoing and funny—not to mention attractive.
"I don't know about you," he said, "but working around this food all day is making me hungry."
"Why don't you open up a can of Chef Boyardee Beefaroni and heat it up in the microwave?"
"I'm more of a SpaghettiOs guy, especially the kind with those little chopped up hot dogs in the pasta."
"Frankly, I'd rather have a salad in the cafeteria."
"If it's rabbit food you've got a taste for, there's a healthier selection over at the Organic Gourmet."
"You actually eat there?"
"Why does that surprise you?"
"Because they don't sell SpaghettiOs."
"My parents always bought their groceries at Whole Foods. I was the only kid in my school who never tried a Hot Pocket, sloppy Joe or Big Mac."
Thus, their first unofficial date was dinner that evening at the Organic Gourmet. Their first official date came four days later when Brandon invited Linda to a community theater production of Camelot.
"This is one of my favorite musicals," he admitted. "I wish I had a time machine so that I could got back sixty years and see the original Broadway show with Richard Burton, Julie Andrews and Robert Goulet."
As she listened to her date talk about some of his favorite plays, Linda could not help comparing his enthusiasm for his chosen career with her own. Clearly, the young man was as passionate about acting as she was about medicine.
We're two of a kind, she thought.
Once she realized an occasional date would not adversely affect her grades, a relationship developed between them. Nonetheless, she knew the romance would end come graduation. Depending on her choice of medical school, she would then leave for Boston, Baltimore or Philadelphia. For Brandon, however, there was only one place where he could pursue his dreams: Broadway. Although all three cities had theaters of their own, none could compare with those in New York.
* * *
The drama and theater arts department at Bradmore University put on several full-length plays each year. In the October performance of Death of a Salesman, Brandon Souder portrayed Biff Loman; and in the January production of Richard III, he was cast as Edward IV. Although he had garnered the leading role of Harold Hill in The Music Man his junior year, he had no expectations of playing the title role in the big musical of the school year, Hamilton.
"I wouldn't mind playing George III," he told Linda as they streamed a movie on Netflix in the off-campus apartment her parents had rented for her. "It's a smaller part but a memorable one."
"Don't be an underachiever!"
"I'm not. Every year since I was a freshman, I've had at least one lead role. I was John Proctor in The Crucible, Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire, Danny Zuko in Grease. Hell! I killed it as Hamlet. You should have seen me in those black tights!"
"I'm sorry I missed it."
"Actually, the role I hope to get is that of Thomas Jefferson. Although on Broadway the same actor plays both Jefferson and Lafayette, we have so many theater arts majors here at Bradmore, no one will be cast in more than one role."
"That seems fair."
Since auditions were being held the next morning, Brandon called it an early night. He was back in his dorm room by nine and in bed by ten.
"How did it go?" Linda asked when she phoned him between classes the following afternoon.
"Pretty good."
"When will you know the results?"
"You make it sound like I took a DNA test," he laughed.
"Sorry, that's the future doctor in me talking."
"The cast will be announced by the end of the week."
On Friday evening, Brandon appeared on Linda's doorstep with a pizza, a bottle of wine and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby.
"What's all this?"
"We're going to celebrate, and what better way than to eat pepperoni pizza and ice cream!"
"You got a part! Which one?"
"Aaron Burr."
Never having seen the musical, Linda was not aware that the role of Burr had the most lines after that of the title character.
"You're going to play the man who killed Hamilton in a duel?" she asked, trying to hide her disappointment.
"Yes, but Burr also serves as the narrator of the play. It's a fantastic part with some great songs. It will be quite an impressive addition to my resume."
What Brandon did not tell her was that with over six hundred lines of lyrics to memorize and the dance steps he had to learn—not to mention he still had to attend his classes—there would be little time left over for them to see each in the upcoming weeks.
* * *
It was when Hamilton was in its second week of rehearsals that Cord Bannerman entered the picture. With the university's star quarterback in danger of failing chemistry, Eldridge Newfield, the head of the athletics department, turned to Bradmore's brightest student for help. Linda somewhat reluctantly agreed to tutor her classmate. What she had not anticipated was the chemistry that developed between tutor and student. Although she had deep feelings for Brandon Souder, she could not deny the physical attraction she felt toward the rakishly handsome athlete.
Even on a campus as large as Bradmore's, gossip spreads fast. Word soon got back to Brandon that his girlfriend was spending a good deal of time with the popular football player.
"I've got nothing to worry about," he laughingly told Demond Wendell, his best friend, who was portraying George Washington in the musical. "Linda's not a cheerleader; she's a genius. She wouldn't go out with a dumb jock."
But the drama student was far less confident than he sounded. That evening, after returning to his dorm room, he phoned her.
"What have you been up to?" he asked casually.
"I've been studying—as usual!"
"Nothing new?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"I heard a rumor that you've developed an interest in sports lately, specifically football."
"Not me. I hate the game. But I have been tutoring Cord Bannerman. He's failing chemistry, and Mr. Newfield asked me to help him bring his grade up."
Brandon's eyes closed, and a smile of relief spread across his face.
I knew there wasn't anything for me to worry about.
"I miss you. When the play is done, we'll have to spend some quality time together," he suggested. "Maybe we can go away somewhere for a weekend."
"Sounds like fun," Linda said, but thought it would be a bittersweet time for the two of them.
Their senior year was drawing to a close, and they would soon have to say goodbye. After a summer trip to Europe with her parents, she would be off to the University of Pennsylvania, and he would pursue his career on Broadway. Perhaps they would stay in touch, but they would never be as close as they were in college. While she accepted the inevitable, Brandon did not believe the hundred miles that separated Philadelphia from New York would bring an end to their relationship. On the contrary, he imagined they would eventually get married and live in New York or nearby New Jersey once Linda finished her internship.
Cord also had plans for the future. The NFL draft would be held soon, and he hoped to hear his name called, maybe not during the first round but surely at some point. Football had gotten him into college; it would pave his way through life. Endorsement deals and perhaps a career in broadcasting or, given his good looks, one in movies would follow. Unlike Brandon, he was not interested in a long-term relationship with any woman. Still, there was something about his brainy chemistry tutor that made her stand out from the girls he normally dated.
"If you like her so much, just ask her out," suggested teammate Darius Jenney.
"She's got a boyfriend."
"Who?"
"Some drama student."
"You're letting a theater geek prevent you from going after your tutor?"
"Why bother? I've got so many girls calling me that I keep my phone turned off and let them go to voicemail. Besides, I really need Linda's help. My grades are the only thing that stand between me and the NFL. If I fail chemistry, I'll most likely have to go back home and pump gas the rest of my life."
Good intentions aside, the more time the football player spent with Linda Kenwood, the more enamored he became. When she confided in him that she expected her relationship with Brandon would end after graduation, he saw his opportunity to make a move.
Meanwhile, just days before he was to go on stage as Aaron Burr in the first of five performances, Brandon unexpectedly showed up on Linda's doorstep with Chinese takeout.
"What are you doing here?" she asked with surprise.
"The rest of the evening's rehearsals centered around Hamilton, Eliza and Angelica, so I decided not to stick around. Look, I brought food," he announced, holding up the paper bag.
"Oh, I've already eaten."
"Then I'll put it in the fridge for you, and you can heat it up tomorrow."
When he opened the refrigerator door, he saw a doggie bag from Tex's Steakhouse.
"You went out to eat?"
"Yeah. Cord wanted to thank me for tutoring him."
"You actually went out with that Neanderthal?"
"It wasn't a date or anything. We just ate and talked."
"What could the two of you possibly have to talk about?"
"Lots of things. You don't believe in that stereotype that all athletes are stupid, do you? He does have a brain. He's just not good at academics."
The fact that Linda was quick to defend the football player rankled him. It was bad enough that more than half the females in the student body had a crush on the star quarterback. Surely, the brightest student at the university would not become one of them.
The following afternoon, after attending his last class of the day, Brandon headed for the university theater for a dress rehearsal. As he was putting on his costume in the dressing room, he confided his fears to Demond Wendell.
"Practically every girl on campus wants to go out with Bannerman. Why is he interested in my girl all of a sudden?"
"With looks, brains and rich parents, Linda's quite a catch. But is she interested in him?"
"She says she's not, yet she accepted his invitation to dinner. And when I hinted that he wasn't the smartest guy around, she immediately jumped to his defense."
"That doesn't sound good. But if she's denying her feelings for him, that means there's still hope for you. I say now's the time for a big romantic gesture on your part."
"A gesture? Like what?"
"I don't know, but you're a theater major. I'm sure you'll think of something."
It was not until Brandon was called upon to perform the "Ten Duel Commandments" number that the idea came to him.
A pretend duel. That would be a big romantic gesture! he thought.
"A duel?" Demond laughed when his friend approached him about being his second. "Are you serious?"
"No. That is, I don't intend to show up with a pair of dueling pistols. However, I am serious about issuing the challenge. Here, read this," Brandon said and handed Demond the note he had written.
"I have recently noticed that you are paying an undue amount of attention to the woman I love. As a matter of honor, I am demanding you strictly adhere to a tutor-student association and cease and desist all attempts to see her socially."
"You're really going to send this to Cord Bannerman?"
"No. You're going to deliver it to him."
"Don't include me in this harebrained scheme of yours."
"You're forgetting it was your idea. You're the one who told me to make a grand gesture."
"I meant do something like send her a few dozen roses or buy her a stuffed animal, not fight a duel with a football player."
"Come on," Brandon urged his friend. "Do this one thing for me. If the circumstances were reversed, I'd do it for you."
"I just hope I don't regret this," Demond said, tucking the envelop into his pocket.
* * *
"What the hell is this supposed to be?" Cord demanded to know after reading the note.
"According to the Code Duello, the first step in a duel is the formal issuance of a challenge," Demond explained. "That is Brandon Souder's challenge. You will either give him satisfaction by agreeing to his demands or choose someone to be your second. Then he and I will decide on a time and location for the duel to take place."
"Seriously? A duel? Is that what you theater nerds do for fun? Shoot at each other with guns?"
"Not guns. In this case, swords will be used."
"This gets better and better," the quarterback cried, bursting out laughing.
Embarrassed by his role as Brandon's second, Demond, eager to leave, asked, "Well, will you give him satisfaction? Will you leave Linda Kenwood alone?"
It suddenly occurred to Cord that a lame, half-assed duel might show his tutor what a complete fool her boyfriend was. And once word of the duel got around campus, the theater major's reputation would be the one to suffer, not his. Besides, he was not one to take orders from anyone, least of all some dorky drama student.
"You go back and tell your friend that I'll date whoever I want to date, and that includes Linda Kenwood. If he doesn't like it, you can go talk to my—what did you call it? My second?"
"Yes."
"That would be my teammate, Darius Jenney. You go talk to him about scheduling this duel."
As Demond walked away, he recalled one of the lines from the lyrics of "Ten Duel Commandments": "Most disputes die, and no one shoots." It was his way of reassuring himself that the duel was nothing more than a harmless gesture and that nothing could possibly go wrong.
* * *
Bright and early on Sunday morning, when most students were in bed sleeping off Saturday night's excesses, four young men—three seniors and a junior—met on Bradmore University's baseball diamond. Suffering from a mild hangover, Cord Bannerman wanted to get the duel over with so that he could go back to bed and sleep until noon.
"Those swords aren't the ones the fencing team uses, are they?" Darius Jenney asked Demond Wendell.
"No. These are props left over from when the theater department performed an original musical version of The Three Musketeers."
"Are they made of plastic?"
"No, they're metal. But don't worry. They're not sharp. See?" he said, running the blade over his palm, without producing a single drop of blood. "They're absolutely harmless."
The seconds then handed the swords to the two duelists.
"This is your last chance," Brandon announced to his opponent. "Agree to my demand or we fight."
A man of few words, Cord said only two in reply—and they were not ones to be repeated in front of children.
"En garde!" Brandon cried, dramatically taking a stance as though he were playing the part of D'Artagnan on stage.
As the two students swung their swords, amidst the sound of metal striking medal, Darius filmed the duel with his iPhone.
"What are you doing?" Demond asked.
"Once this is all over, I'm going to post this video on YouTube so that the whole school can see what a jerk your friend is."
"Come on, don't do that. He's just trying to impress his girl."
While the seconds were arguing, the swordplay continued. Given Cord's athletic ability and Brandon's agility as a dancer, the two men put up a good fight. However, wielding a sword can get tiring, and after ten minutes, the hungover quarterback wanted to end it.
"Had enough?" he asked his opponent.
"Do you agree to my demand?"
"Never!"
In a moment of anger, Cord lunged forward. As though choreographed by fate, Brandon did the same. His sword glanced off the football player's body, tearing his Patriots T-shirt. However, Cord, a larger and stronger young man, delivered a much more forceful blow, one that—although unintentional—proved fatal.
"Oh, Christ!" the quarterback screamed when his opponent fell forward, impaled on the prop sword. "Somebody do something!"
But there was nothing anyone could do. Brandon Souder had been stabbed through the heart and died instantly.
Once the ensuing pandemonium died down, the three young men stood over the body, looking helplessly at one another.
"What are we gonna do?" Darius asked.
"We've got to call someone," Demond answered.
"Who? The EMTs?"
"I don't think they'd be of much help at this point."
"Why don't we just call 911?" suggested Darius, who was still holding his cell phone in his hand.
"No!" Cord cried. "They'll get in touch with the police."
"So? They're gonna have to be notified eventually anyway," his teammate said.
"That's easy for you to say! You're not the one who'll face manslaughter charges."
"Manslaughter? It was an accident. We'll all say he tripped and fell on his own sword."
"Don't be a moron!" the quarterback yelled. "If anyone finds out that I participated in a duel, my life will be over. Even if, by some miracle, I don't wind up in jail, I'll be expelled from school. I can kiss my career in the NFL goodbye."
"Not necessarily."
"Don't be so stupid! Do you think any team would dare risk having another Aaron Hernandez on their roster?"
"What do you suggest we do then?" asked Demond, who stepped in between the two squabbling football players before a fight could break out.
"No one but the three of us knew about this duel, right?" Cord asked.
"I didn't tell anyone," the dead man's second replied.
"Neither did I," Darius said.
"Then we don't notify anyone. We just get the hell out of here. If someone should ask, we don't know anything."
After wiping his fingerprints off the hilt of the bloody sword and returning the second one to the prop room, Cord and the other two young men returned to their dorms, leaving Brandon Souder's body on the baseball diamond, halfway between the pitcher's mound and home plate.
* * *
In an era when school shootings seem to occur with disturbing regularity, the death of one student should not have caused a media sensation. However, this student was not shot. He was run through with a sword. Despite Bradmore's efforts to keep the matter quiet, word soon got out. Not only did the university have to contend with local newspaper reporters and TV newscasters, but CNN and other cable news crews showed up as well.
In the midst of all this frenzy, Detective Gus Atkins tried to ascertain what had actually taken place on the baseball diamond that fateful morning.
"My gut tells me this kid was murdered, but I've got no evidence to suggest anyone else was with him at the time," he complained to the chief of police.
"Forensics found nothing?"
"Oh, they found plenty! But this was a baseball field. There was a game there the day before and the day before that. Then there were practices going all the way back to the beginning of the season."
"What about the sword? Any prints on it?"
"We found a partial print on the hilt, but it belonged to the victim."
"What sort of kid was he?"
"By all accounts, a good student. Not a discipline problem. He had friends, a girlfriend and a promising future ahead of him."
"Does this girlfriend have any theories?" the chief asked.
"She thinks it was suicide," the detective answered, his voice showing signs of doubt.
"Does she have a reason to think he would kill himself?"
"For starters, he was under quite a bit of stress. He was about to perform one of the leading roles in the university's production of Hamilton. Between his classes and rehearsals, he wasn't eating right or getting enough sleep. Then he seemed to have a problem with a football player."
"What type of problem?"
"Linda Kenwood, his girlfriend, is some kind of whiz kid, and she's been tutoring Cord Bannerman in chemistry."
"Bannerman? The quarterback?"
"The very same. Apparently, our victim became jealous when he learned Cord took his girl out for dinner one night."
"It doesn't seem like much of a reason to kill yourself, but you never know with these college kids."
"You don't honestly believe this was a suicide?" Gus asked.
"You said yourself that you have no evidence of anyone else being involved. The kid was under stress and was afraid he was going to lose his girl to the most popular guy on campus. Being a theater arts student, he offs himself in an overly dramatic fashion: he falls on his sword—literally. That's the way I see it."
Detective Atkins had little choice but to go along with his superior officer's conclusion. After all, he was not one to make waves. Should evidence of a second person on the scene surface, however, he would immediately reopen the case.
Once word went out that Brandon Souder's death was deemed a suicide, the reporters and news crews lost interest. The university, thankful they did not have a homicide to deal with, made grief counsellors available to the student body and went into full suicide prevention mode.
Demond Wendell and Darius Jenney graduated at the end of the term, never disclosing to the authorities that they had been present when their classmate supposedly took his own life. Linda Kenwood also graduated—summa cum laude, as expected—but her memories of her senior year would be tinged with sorrow that she might have been the cause of her boyfriend's death.
Cord Bannerman, thanks to his tutor's efforts, passed chemistry and kept his scholarship.
I was lucky, he thought when the suicide theory was put forth by the police. I really dodged a bullet that time.
His good fortune continued when he was chosen as a second round draft pick by the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. When he finally graduated from Bradmore the following May, he headed for Florida. Vowing to never look back, he cut off all contact with his friends and former teammates, including Darius Jenney, who witnessed the unpremeditated killing of Brandon Souder.
* * *
After receiving the Rookie of the Year Award, Cord Bannerman felt his dreams were well within his grasp.
"Tom Brady move over," he said cockily to his reflection in the mirror. "There's a new kid on the block. Rookie of the Year today, Super Bowl champ tomorrow."
The quarterback's dreams of future glory were interrupted by his cell phone. When he saw the name on the caller ID, a chill ran down his spine.
Detective Atkins? What does he want with me?
Rather than answer, he let the call go to voicemail. By midmorning, his mailbox was filled with messages, none of which he answered.
When he got out of his Mercedes at the Raymond James Stadium, there were a dozen reporters clamoring to interview him. That was to be expected after he was named Rookie of the Year. Flashing a fake smile, he walked up to a pretty newscaster with a digital tape recorder in her hand.
"Hi, gorgeous!" he said, winking at the attractive blonde who was not averse to using her looks to get his attention.
"Mr. Bannerman, could you tell us your reaction to the video and what it might mean to your career in the NFL?"
"Video? What video?" the quarterback asked, confused by her question.
"You haven't seen it? It's gone viral on the Internet," she answered. "Here, look."
The reporter took her cell phone out of her pocket and played the video clip Darius Jenney had taken on the baseball diamond during Cord's junior year of college. He stared in horrified silence as he watched himself stab Brandon Souder in the heart with a sword.
"Is that video for real?" a second reporter called out. "Or is it some kind of hoax?"
"Isn't that kid you're with the drama student from Bradmore who supposedly killed himself over a girl?" a third inquired.
"That girl was your chemistry tutor, wasn't she?" the blonde asked, trying to take back control of the interview.
Cord abruptly turned and, without answering the barrage of questions the reporters shouted at him, he hurried into the stadium.
Where did that video come from? he wondered, his brain reeling with horror and self-pity. There were only two other people there on that baseball diamond: Darius Jenney and that other kid who came with Brandon. One of them must have taken the video with his cell phone. My money is on Darius. He must have posted that video to get back at me for ignoring him. What's that old saying about a best friend scorned? I suppose it doesn't really matter which one did it, though. My life is over now. Detective Atkins is probably on his way to Tampa right now.
The quarterback's initial instinct was to run. He could get into his car, drive to the airport and fly to another country. But living in obscurity, hiding from his past, was not the life he wanted. For years, he had believed he was destined for greatness: the Superbowl, the NFL Hall of Fame, lucrative endorsement deals, either a broadcasting or movie career. Fame, money and women. Now, fame was all he could hope to achieve, for, surely, he would become famous not only for participating in a twenty-first-century duel but also for killing his opponent.
Alone in the locker room, he slumped down on a bench, a defeated man. When he finally raised his head and looked up, his eyes were drawn to the Buccaneers' team logo that hung on the wall. The ironic significance of the image suddenly struck him: a skull above a football placed in the center of two crossed swords. It was damn-near poetic since two swords would bring about the death of his football career.
As he stared at the team logo, the skull began to change. Flesh grew over the white bone.
"What the ...?"
The features soon became clearer, and Cord recognized the face at once.
"Brandon Souder!"
When the dead man's head floated off the decal and headed in his direction, the terrified quarterback fled the locker room. Rather than face the reporters again, he ran down the empty corridors of the Raymond James Stadium. With no clear destination in mind, he passed concession stands, restrooms, luxury suites and offices, looking for a place to hide from the hideous specter that pursued him. Finally, he found himself in the team store, surrounding by Buccaneers souvenirs and memorabilia.
He saw the door that led outside to the parking lot. There were no reporters in sight. They were all probably still lying in wait near the players' entrance.
I can get out that way!
Cord ran to the door only to find it locked.
"Let me out," he cried, pounding on the glass, despite there being no one around to hear him.
A noise from behind made him turn around. Brandon Souder, whose head had somehow grown a body, was standing only a few feet away from him—the same distance that had separated them on the baseball diamond. He held in his dead hand a souvenir from off one of the shelves: a twenty-inch red foam sword.
"En garde!" the ghostly drama student said in an eerie voice that echoed in the empty store.
* * *
"Are you sure he's in here?" Detective Gus Atkins asked the Tampa policeman and the stadium security guard who accompanied him on the search.
"The reporters said he went in and never came back out," the police officer replied.
"There must be another exit then."
"There's plenty of exits," the guard said. "But nearly all of them are locked right now."
As the three men neared the press box, a voice came over the security guard's walkie-talkie.
"You better get down to the team store," it said.
"Why? What have you found?"
"You'll see when you get here. And let me warn you beforehand: you're not going to believe it."
When the three men entered the shop, they found Cord Bannerman sprawled on the floor, dead. Somehow, the newly named Rookie of the Year had been run through with a foam sword.
"How the hell do you suppose that happened?" the Florida policeman asked.
"It appears as though another duel took place," Gus Atkins answered. "Only this time, Brandon Souder was the victor."
Although he prefers baseball to football, Salem took time from his busy day to pose with a Buccaneers foam sword. Being the lazy cat that he is, however, he insisted on doing so lying down.
