Make Me Proud

by Haley Kleine

“So, you’re saying you think your son is innocent, Mrs. Aldean?”

“I know he’s innocent, but you-” She squeezed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger as she took a deep breath. “You’ve got to help me. He’s only 16 years old, with his entire future waiting for him, but if you don’t prove he didn’t do it, his future will be gone. For God’s sake, my future will be gone. This is my son we’re talking about, my baby. He’s all I care about. And I know it looks bad, but don’t look at the facts, the police report, look at me, a mother who knows her son and who’s telling you that he did not do this.”

“Ma’am, ‘bad’ is an understatement. It looks one hundred percent like Jake killed the O’Brien boy. The boys were rivals; with Mike out of the picture, your son will be the one and only goalie on the high school lacrosse team, a position that will allow him to show off for all sorts of college opportunities. Jake’s goalie pads, gloves, and a men’s lacrosse stick were found close to the scene, stashed in a bush. Your son has no alibi. This is far from just ‘bad.’”

The distressed mother ran her fingers through her hair as she took another deep breath, trying to calm down. “I know all of that. I know. But he didn’t do it; my Jake did not do this. You have to believe me. And you have to get my son out of jail.”

“As long as you’re writing the checks, I’ll do my best, but at this point it really looks like Jake will spend a long, long time in jail.”

I passed Mrs. Aldean the half-empty Kleenex box I kept on my desk for clients like her. The once feminine and graceful woman who sat before me took on several characteristics of an elephant as she poured her sorrow into the single tissue she held to her nose. I decided to give her a bit of privacy, so I strode over to the windows that look down on the street below. Glancing out the window, I saw a man in a blue 2003 Toyota Camry staring up at me. Mrs. Aldean sniffled, followed my gaze, and sighed, “That’s my husband, Keith. He blames himself for all of it. You know how dads are. He just wants Jake to do his best, but he thinks he pushed him too far with all the talk about colleges and scholarships and scouts. Keith got into college because of lacrosse; he sure could score goals. And he just wanted the same thing for Jake. There was one game, on a Friday night I think. Mike O’Brien had the flu so Jake was put in goal. He played a magnificent game, 19 shots, all blocked by my Jake. They won the game, and afterwards, when we were celebrating, Keith took Jake aside and he said, ‘Great game son, if only O’Brien was out every game.’ He thinks that Jake ‘took Mike out’ so his father would be proud of him. It’s just killing Keith. And all of this is killing me. I don’t know how much longer I can face all of the scandal and the ridicule. I know Jake didn’t do it, I can feel it. But Keith just doesn’t believe me.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Aldean. I’ll do my best to prove him wrong.”

◊◊◊

From the information I’d managed to get my hands on, I learned that the body had been discovered by one of the women’s lacrosse coaches, Catherine Summers. Her house was easy enough to find; the 1995 Volkswagen Jetta in the driveway had “BHS LACROSSE” written across the back window in red and yellow marker. A young woman was kneeling in the garden with gloved hands wrapped around a rather large weed. Her face began to redden as the roots of the plant were ripped from the strong grip of the soil. As I slammed my car door, the woman freed the plant and fell backwards into a Hydrangea bush.

“Coach Summers?” I jogged up the walkway and offered her my hand. Once she was upright, she brushed herself off and removed her gloves.

“Yeah, I’m Catherine Summers. How can I help you?”

“I understand you were the one who discovered Mike O’Brien’s body last Tuesday.”

Her friendly smile disappeared and she was suddenly very serious. “Yes, I was.”

“I’m a private investigator looking into the murder.”

“I thought the sheriff caught the kid who did it.”

“My client believes they have the wrong man. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

Catherine agreed and invited me inside. I sat at the kitchen table as she poured me a glass of ice water, her hands shaking.

“Do you mind if I record this conversation?”

She set the glass on the table and sat down across from me. “Not at all. What do you need to know?”

I pressed the record button on my tape recorder and asked her to recall that morning, as best she could.

She pressed her dry lips together, took a sip of water, and began, “I found the body at about 6:20 am last Tuesday. Our JV and Varsity teams had been practicing in the mornings before school due to scheduling conflicts with the men’s team. On Tuesday I went to the field early to inspect the goals, you know, make sure they were up to code, but, uh, as I made my way through the fog…I noticed something strange. When I first arrived at the field, the fog hadn’t lifted yet and I couldn’t see more than 30 feet in front of me. But then I began to see the orange metal frame of the goals come out of the fog, and I noticed a large…something, I couldn’t see it very well, that appeared to be trapped between the two goals. I was scared, of course, I was alone and it was creepy out there, but I got closer to the goals until it was very clear that what lay between the two nets was a body. I tore the goals apart and pulled the red haired boy out to feel his pulse, but it was very clear that he was dead. His body, oh God, it was terrible. He was only wearing athletic shorts, the Berkeley High ones; they had played a game the night before. His chest, his stomach, his arms, his-” she choked out, “His throat, were all bruised. He was just so puffy, all over, and his skin had turned all these colors that skin just shouldn’t be. His chest, by his heart, was this sick, wrong, yellow color and then all around it his skin was a deep, painful purple. In some places, it was impossible to distinguish one bruise from the next, but in spots farther from his chest, I could see these perfect circular bruises. And I’d seen those before. It’s the bruise you get when you get caught in the path of a hard, hard, shot from a lacrosse ball. Someone hit that boy with lacrosse balls until he died. Whoever it was knew what they were doing, had time to stop themselves, but kept going, kept taking shots on that poor boy, until he could no longer breathe.” She whispered these last few words. She took a couple more sips of her water. “So, then I called the sheriff. By that time, my players were starting to arrive, but I kept them all from seeing the boy.”

“So none of the girls on your team saw anything?” I asked.

“No. I wanted to make sure none of them would have to be involved in the investigation. And finding that boy has not affected me in a good way. I didn’t want to do that to my girls.”

“Of course not. Now, how much interaction did you have with members of the men’s team or the coaches? Did you know the victim?”

“I had discussed practice times with the men’s coach, mostly through e-mail, and girls on the team mentioned Mike O’Brien. It sounded like he was a great player, a really big deal at the school. But I never met him. I’d never seen him before. Not until that morning.”

“You mentioned scheduling conflicts with the men’s team, was there animosity between the teams?

“Well, naturally none of my girls liked waking up before sunrise, but if you’re suggesting that they might commit murder because of it, you’re heading down the wrong path. None of my players could ever kill anyone. Have you seen men’s lacrosse? It’s brutal. If any lacrosse player did this, it was a man. The sheriff is probably right about that kid they arrested. I’m sorry, but I think you’re wasting your time.”

“That may be so, but nonetheless, thank you for your time, Ms. Summers.” I handed her my card. “Please don’t hesitate to call if you think of anything else.”

◊◊◊

It seemed I’d found myself right back where I’d started: Jake Aldean. If I was going to prove the kid was innocent, he’d have to convince me himself, so I stopped by the local sheriff’s office.

The sheriff seemed amused by my request. “You want to see Jake Aldean? And you are…?”

I prepared myself for the hostility that I always received when I told law enforcement officers that I was investigating a case they had ‘solved.’ “I’m a private investigator. My client hired me to look into Mike O’Brien’s murder.”

The deputy sitting at the front desk looked at his superior. “We solved that one, didn’t we? That’s why we’ve got that kid locked up in the back, right?”

“My client believes you’ve got the wrong guy,” I said. “So can I talk to the kid?”

“Yeah, sure. He’s back here,” the sheriff said as he directed me away from the desk.

Jake did not seem pleased to see me. He looked at the sheriff. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Apparently, a P.I. who’s trying to get you out of here,” the sheriff said.

The kid wasn’t even surprised. “My mom hired you.”

The sheriff started towards the door. “You get ten minutes.”

I walked up to the cell, introduced myself, and shook Jake’s hand. “I’m going to record this conversation,” I informed him. “You want to tell me where you were on Monday night?”

“I didn’t do it,” he insisted.

“So I’ve heard. Prove it.”

“I can’t. If I could, would I be in here? No, I wouldn’t be. Listen, I have anger issues, ok?”

“Well, that’s not going to make you look innocent.”

“I know that. I KNOW that. I have anger issues, but I’ve learned how to deal with them. I take walks. When I’m mad, I take walks. So when I didn’t get to play one single second of our game on Monday, you bet I was pissed, so I walked. And I can tell you where I walked. I went out the gate and I went down Channing pretty far, down to California. I went right on California, right on Allston…then left on McGee, right on Virginia, and then I was home.”

“Of course, you stopped back at the field to kill Mike O’Brien first, right?”

“No! No, I didn’t.” Jake’s face was starting to show shades of purple and red.

“And you stashed your gear in a bush, thinking no one would find it. Not a smart move. Did you take too many shots to the head, or something?”

“I left my stuff at the field,” he said through tensed lips.

“Breathe, Jake.”

“Why would I kill my teammate? I’m not stupid, I know everyone thinks I did it so that I could be the only goalie on the team, but hello! Does it look like I can play goalie from here? All I’ve ever wanted to do is play lacrosse and I’ve only ever wanted to be a goalie. I’ve never even picked up a regular lacrosse stick. I’m a goalie. I can’t be a goalie if I’ve committed murder. That’s why I’m innocent: because I would be an idiot if I had done it. Can’t you see that?”

“You’ve never picked up a regular lacrosse stick before? You only know how to use a goalie stick?”

“Is that all you heard? I mean, it’s an exaggeration. I hand guys their sticks all the time, but I have no idea how to use one. I’m a goalie and that’s all I know how to do.”

“What did you do when you got home from your walk, Jake?”

“I walked in the front door, heading straight for my room, but my mom practically attacked me, hugging me and crying all over me. I guess she was worried about me. I took a shower and we ate some dinner. That’s it. And no, I didn’t kill anyone on my way to dinner.”

“Where was your father?”

“He was as pissed as I was about the game. Probably went for a drive or something. I was asleep when he got home.”

“Thanks for your time, Jake. You’ll be out of here soon, I promise.”

Just as I was closing the door to the room where Jake was being held, the sheriff strode towards me, concentrating deeply on the contents of the manila folder in his hands.

“Alright, your ten minutes is up.” His voice faded out as, mid sentence, he realized that I was standing right in front of him. “Oh. So…big private investigator, solve the mystery? Let me guess, you think I did it. Or, you came to your senses and realized that this case is a waste of your time, and Jake Aldean is guilty.”

I hate sarcasm, except when I use it, but now wasn’t the time for games. “Let the kid go, he didn’t do it. Arrest the father.”

The sheriff laughed, “Well, thanks, pal, looks like you’ve done my job for me!” Something about the look I was giving him must’ve tipped him off to the fact that I was serious, because he shut up so I could lay out the evidence.

“Alright, Sheriff, Jake says he doesn’t know how to use a regular lacrosse stick, just a goalie stick. Coach Summers told me that the bruises she saw on Mike O’Brien were from lacrosse balls. It would be impossible for Jake to kill Mike using his goalie stick. Keith, on the other hand, used to be quite the goal-scorer on his lacrosse team. He wanted Mike gone so his son could be the best. So please, go and arrest Keith Aldean. It’s as simple as that.”

Thankfully, the sheriff believed me and left right away. I went back to Jake’s cell to tell him what was about to happen, but when I saw the kid’s face I just couldn’t do it.

He looked up at me from his cot with big, hopeful eyes. “Did you do it? Am I getting out of here?”

“Yeah, Jake. You’re getting out of here.” I sat down on a chair in the corner of the room and together we waited.

◊◊◊

Soon enough we heard a commotion coming from the front of the station. A deputy ran into the room and unlocked Jake’s cell.

I heard the sheriff shout from the other room, “Keep Jake against the wall. We don’t want this turning ugly.”

The look of joy that had appeared on Jake’s face when his cell door was opened was now replaced by one of sheer confusion. “I’m not gonna run,” he said. “You can let me go, I won’t run.”

The deputy didn’t try to explain the situation to Jake as he led him over to the wall I was sitting against. Face pressed against the concrete wall, Jake was unable to see his father as he entered the room, trailed by the sheriff. The young man wrestled against the deputy until he was able to turn his head and get a full view of the room. The fight he was putting up continued until his eyes met those of his father, and then he froze in the deputy’s grip. Jake was speechless as he was led out of the room, but as Keith was shoved into the cell occupied not moments ago by his own son, he spoke directly to Jake, “I did this for you. Make me proud, son.”

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