Lethal Invitation Read online

  He walked toward the Econ building and could feel the heat from the sidewalk through the soles of his tennis shoes. Tucson must be what Hell feels like. Bouncing up the steps, he hurriedly entered the air-conditioned foyer, then strolled to the classroom to take his customary seat on the front row. Dr. Smallwood waited near the podium, ready to begin the lecture for the day. He was at least sixty with short, blond hair graying at the temples. He had a large head, thick neck and shoulders so broad it looked as though he could throw a piano out the window, an impossible feat made all the more impossible because in contrast to the massive torso, his unused legs dangled lifelessly from the wheelchair that held him prisoner.

  The professor glanced toward Edward, then expertly wheeled the chair and stopped immediately in front of the boy’s seat. Without a word he took an envelope from his lap and passed it to the young man, then looked him straight in the eye and nodded before pushing away to roll to the center at the lowest level of the huge room.

  Edward frowned, wondering what was happening as he took the envelope. Turning it over he read EDWARD MITCHELL, and immediately under, FRONT ROW. The envelope wasn’t sealed, instead, the flap was tucked inside. He pulled it open and extracted a heavy, textured paper which he slowly unfolded, then read.

  Mr. Mitchell,

  I have noticed you sitting on the front row for the past four weeks. You are wasting your time. Meet me in my office, room 407 in the Old Chemistry Building next to the Mall at 3:00 o’clock this afternoon.

  Edward was instantly angry. Nobody needed to tell him he was wasting his time. He hated himself for it and hated his dad even more for forcing him into a path in which he had no interest. But who was this pathetic professor to say such a thing to him? He looked directly into the hard eyes of Dr. Smallwood and received a nod.

  He carefully refolded the paper and placed it in the envelope. I won’t go, he decided, but then just as quickly realized he would go simply because it was expected.

  Chapter 2

  Twenty years earlier on a mild February day in Tucson, Demetrius Crown had gotten a similar note and was confused by it. Why would this professor want to see him? He obviously didn’t know who Demetrius was or he would never have written such a ridiculous note. The only reason Demetrius was even in the man’s class was because it was supposed to be an easy science credit so most of the football players took it sometime during their four years at the university.

  He had arrived for football camp the previous August on scholarship. He was a good athlete and had jumped at the chance to play for The University of Arizona and had every expectation of being a star tailback. His high school career in Detroit had been excellent, his numbers outstanding and he received several full-ride scholarship offers. He chose Tucson simply because it was warm. He hated playing in the cold and enjoyed his spring campus visit to the desert so much he committed on the spot.

  But warm in the winter means hot in the summer so his first weeks in Arizona were tortuous and the practices brutal in the Arizona summer heat. Many times he cursed himself for wanting to play where it was warm. The only saving grace was that it was a dry heat without the summer humidity he had grown up with in Detroit.

  As classes started he was assigned to room with the team’s starting tailback, Dante Carson, a senior. After the season wound down and the semester ended, it had been Dante who’d suggested Demetrius take the meteorology class from Dr. Smallwood.

  Dante, athletically gifted and extremely talented, but also inclined at times to make poor choices, also suggested when and where to go for extra-curricular activities. He’d had three years in Tucson and knew the places to go and the places to avoid. Now that spring semester had arrived and the season over, there were no curfews or coaches checking regularly on the players.

  “Let’s go to the Glen,” coaxed Dante one Thursday afternoon as the roommates lounged in the patio of the dorm.

  Demetrius glanced up in immediate interest. The Glen was an apartment complex on the north side of town known for great parties thrown by some of the occupants. He cocked his head in sudden realization that a party might not be in his best interest. It was important to him to stay eligible which meant passing his classes.

  “Nah, I’ve got some studying to do for a test tomorrow.”

  Dante made a face. “Come on, man. You’re a player. How many times do I gotta tell you? None of the profs are going to give you a bad grade.”

  Demetrius shook his head. “Look, Dante, I ain’t no starter. That may work for you but the teachers don’t know me. Maybe in a year or so.”

  Dante shook his head which made his dreadlocks swirl around his angular face. He smiled easily, showing the pearly white teeth contrasting with the surrounding darker skin.

  “They’ve got a list, man. They know who to take care of. Get your shoes on and let’s go.”

  Demetrius looked intently at his mentor wondering if he could be right. His high school career in Detroit had worked somewhat like that. He was the star running back and was like a god on the high school campus. His grades, though less than stellar, had always been sufficient, although he reminded himself that he had worked hard to make sure he was a Division One qualifier so he could accept a scholarship. Could it be possible he would be taken care of by the professors here?

  “You sure?” His brow furrowed. He leaned back in the cloth-covered couch.

  “I’m sure.” Dante nodded and winked.

  Demetrius thought for only a moment, then reached for his shoes and slipped them on. “I’m in.”

  The party was wild with booze flowing freely and white college girls in bikinis anxious to talk to the football players around the pool. Demetrius never remembered getting back to the dorm.

  He slept till ten o’clock then woke in a panic, thinking through his headache about the test at eleven o’clock. He quickly showered, dressed and walked across campus, getting to the classroom just as the TA was passing out the test. He looked at the first question and knew he was in trouble.

  By the time the next night’s wild party came he had forgotten all about the test. He slept all day Saturday, partied again that night, then slept all day Sunday. It wasn’t until Monday morning he remembered the test as he was walking to class. He dreaded going and thought seriously about cutting but decided not to. Sitting in the lecture hall, he nervously glanced around the room at his fellow students. Some were chatting, some relaxing, but most seemed comfortable as they waited for class to begin and the test to be returned. He shook his head, wishing he could be more confident.

  His test came back, folded as they all were. He opened it only enough to peek inside where he saw a bright red seventy-one written across the top. Unbelievable! He’d anticipated at best a sixty and more likely a fifty. Maybe Dante was right. He glanced up to see the TA watching him closely and noticed the tiniest of smiles. Demetrius smiled back. He loved being a football player.

  With his newfound freedom, the next two weeks were a blur of parties, sleeping and attending class if he could fit it into his schedule. When he did attend, he didn’t pay attention. Why should he? He was a player. On a Friday he decided to grace Dr. Smallwood’s class with his presence. He strutted in and sat in an aisle chair close to the door and promptly, with an air of disrespect, put his feet up on the empty desk in front while he watched the wheelchair-bound professor slowly roll toward him. Demetrius smirked as the professor stopped at his side, but the smirk was forced. He suddenly felt ill at ease in the hardened glare of the muscular man. Demetrius hadn’t noticed until this instant just how big Dr. Smallwood was, at least from the chest up.

  The man took the envelope from his lifeless lap, tapped it twice on the palm of his other hand while studying the student, then handed it to Demetrius, who took it with deference, suddenly ashamed at the way he’d been acting. Dr. Smallwood nodded, apparently noticing the change in attitude, then expertly wheeled an about-face to return down the ramp to the front of the room.

  Demetrius read his na
me in bold, capitalized letters on the envelope, then slowly untucked the flap and extracted one folded sheet of textured paper. Before unfolding the page he glanced toward the professor and detected what appeared to be a questioning look in return. He swallowed hard before reading the note.

  Mr. Crown,

  I have noticed you in my class for the past several weeks. Life is full of choices. Don’t make the wrong ones. Meet me in my office, room 407 in the Old Chemistry Building next to the Mall at one o’clock this afternoon.

  He focused once again on the professor and received a quick nod immediately before the man started his lecture.

  At precisely one o’clock, Demetrius ignored the elevator and jogged up the stairs to the fourth floor. He breathed deeply at the exertion then walked across the ninety-year-old hardwood floor of the hallway as he approached the office in one of the oldest buildings on campus. The floor announced his approach, creaking under his one hundred ninety-eight pounds. As he turned the corner of the hallway, he saw Dr. Smallwood waiting for him at the closed door of the office.

  “Glad to see you made a good choice.” The professor nodded.

  Demetrius shrugged uncomfortably as he looked down at the man in the chair. He didn’t know why he came. After all, he was on the list and he didn’t need to worry about grades. Perhaps it was natural curiosity or perhaps it was out of some repressed sense of duty, but now in Dr. Smallwood’s presence, he wished he hadn’t come.

  “I’m going to invite you into my office.” The professor pointed over his shoulder to the wooden door with the opaque window. “But before I do I want a commitment from you that you’ll listen objectively to what I have to say and you’ll never tell anyone else you’ve been in my office.”

  Demetrius shrugged again.

  “I want to hear you say it. Do you agree?”

  The man’s eyes were hard, yet at the same time, Demetrius was sure he could see in them a friendliness he hadn’t noticed earlier. He glanced at the door and wondered about the secrecy. His decision was instant. “I’ll listen and keep my mouth shut.”

  Dr. Smallwood nodded before reaching to push the door which squeaked eerily as it opened inward. The man then motioned for the player to enter. Demetrius stepped into a large, brightly lit office with a small desk tucked into one corner and large trophy cases on each of the walls. Inside the cases were pictures of football teams and players from years gone by as well as old footballs signed haphazardly by players Demetrius would never know. A well-used helmet, nicked and scarred from use sat to the side.

  Demetrius was drawn to a photograph titled 1976 TERRITORIAL CUP CHAMPIONS. The players had gathered under the goalposts, sweaty, grass-stained but ecstatic. They had beaten their arch-rivals from up the road. Even as a freshman Demetrius recognized the joy and felt the hunger to beat the Sun Devils in the annual intrastate rivalry game. He glanced down with a questioning look toward the man in the chair who had rolled to his side.

  “Have a seat.” Dr. Smallwood pointed to a leather-covered couch under one of the trophy cases. “Remember, you can’t say a word about this to anyone.”

  Demetrius nodded while glancing once again around the room. “What is all this?”

  The professor glanced over the young man’s head to the memorabilia, seemingly lost in his thoughts for a few seconds. He shook his large head before answering. “We’ll get to that in a bit. First, tell me a little about the real Demetrius Crown.”

  The youngster hesitated. The real Demetrius Crown? What was there to tell? Finally, he answered. “I play ball.”

  “And… ?”

  “Not much else. I’m from Detroit and football is my ticket out.”

  Dr. Smallwood cocked his head from side to side as he searched Demetrius’s face. “Your ticket out?”

  “Yep. I’ll go to the NFL and be rich. I’ll never have to live in the projects again.”

  The professor pursed his lips in thought. “You have a mom and dad?”

  The player studied his palms before making eye contact. “No. Grew up in my Grandma’s house.”

  “Ever had a job?”

  The boy looked away uncomfortably. “No.”

  “How big are you, Demetrius?”

  He subconsciously sat straighter on the couch and expanded his chest. “I’m six foot two, 198 pounds.”

  “Running back?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The professor glanced around the room to the polished wood cases and the photos and memorabilia inside. He saw what he wanted, then pointed. “Will you please slide the glass back and get me the photograph to the left of the football on the second shelf?”

  Demetrius retrieved the photo of a white player in pads in the classic Heisman pose. He studied it momentarily before handing it to Dr. Smallwood.

  “Same size as Andre Smith.” The professor’s voice was casual as he carefully rubbed the dust from the top of the ornate, gilded frame and was momentarily lost in a memory of his own. “All American in 1974. Rushed for over thirteen hundred yards his senior season. He was drafted that year with every intention of playing for Baltimore. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out quite like he had planned.”

  Demetrius listened, intrigued. “What happened?”

  “It was such a shame and so unexpected. He went swimming with some friends in a lake back home in Iowa and got hepatitis. He never played again. Sells insurance now in Des Moines.”

  Demetrius shook his head. “That’s too bad.”

  Dr. Smallwood handed the frame back with a silent nod instructing Demetrius to return it to the shelf. He watched almost reverently as the running back returned it to its rightful place. He pointed to another framed photograph. “Can you get that one please?”

  The slightly larger, candid photo of a black player standing with a blue helmet under his arm waiting for a drink at a water fountain was placed into the professor’s thick hands.

  “Joseph Carpenter. We called him Big Bubba Joe.” He smiled at the remembrance. “Big and fast and had a nose for the ball. He was our middle linebacker in 75 and 76 and still holds the school record for tackles. He was one lean, mean, fighting machine. He made it to the pros but was cut after pre-season, never played in a real pro game. Probably one of the best linebackers Arizona ever had but still wasn’t quite good enough.”

  Smallwood stared hard at Demetrius before giving the picture back. “He left without getting a degree and works as a manager of a car wash in Tulsa. He paused while studying Demetrius for a moment, then looked over the boy’s shoulder to the large team photo from 1976, the Territorial Cup photo. He pointed with his nose. “That one,” he commanded, matter-of-factly.

  With two hands, Demetrius lifted the framed photo and handed it to Dr. Smallwood who rested it across the two arms of the chair. He reverently rubbed the glass. Pointing to the players, he named them one by one. After naming half of the players, he looked up with a hard glare into the dark eyes of the boy. “We were good that year. A lot of talent, a lot of drive and desire. Out of seventy-nine members of the team, how many of us do you think went on to the pros?”

  The young football player’s eyes snapped open. It had only then occurred to him that Dr. Smallwood had been a member of the team.

  The professor seemed to recognize the realization and nodded affirmation before answering his own question. “One. Out of seventy-nine talented players, only one made it to the pros.”

  Demetrius studied Dr. Smallwood with astonishment. “You were a player?”

  The professor smiled for the first time and cocked his head in humility. “I was.” He pointed to the last row and tapped the glass over his picture. “Offensive tackle. I wanted to go pro too, but it obviously didn’t work out.” He patted his useless legs.

  Demetrius wanted to ask how it happened, but something made him hold back. Maybe it was the man and how he’d accepted his fate. Or possibly it was because for the first time in a long time he felt an overwhelming respect for another man. He waited patiently.
If the professor wanted to share, he was all ears, if not, he would respect the man’s wishes.

  Dr. Smallwood seemed to read his mind. He turned the chair and took a moment to look around the room, then faced Demetrius again. He made eye contact before peering again to the photo on his lap.

  “A freak accident, really, the fall after this picture was taken.” He rubbed the glass of the team photo.” We were in summer camp. It was our first day in pads and we were working on blocking drills, nothing I hadn’t done a thousand times before, but this time I remember rolling to the ground and not being able to get up. There was no pain, but I couldn’t move my legs. It was terrifying and it took me a long time to come to grips with my lot in life. When I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I decided to make the best of whatever I’d been given. That was twenty years ago and I’ve tried to be positive and help others when I can.”

  Demetrius breathed deeply and looked again at the trophy cases. “How come nobody knows about this?” He waved his arm around the room.

  “It was another life for me. I still follow the team, but my time as a player is something I choose to keep quiet. I decided long ago that I wanted to be remembered as a teacher and a friend, not as a player.”