Page 90 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes
He rifles through the paperwork to find a large, printed copy of a photograph that he then sets in front of me. “Is that him?” He points to a round-faced man sitting in the middle of a row of men all wearing rugby uniforms. There’s also a second row of men standing behind him, one of which I recognise as Bruce from the pictures we found of the Blue Thunder.
“Yeah, that’s him.” I nod. “His picture was alongside one of the articles.”
“Philip Earl Miller,” Sam continues. “He didn’t just own the grounds, he co-coached Bruce’s team with his brother-in-law, Gerald Hill. They’re both dead now, Phil in 1988 and Gerry in 2013.”
“Philip had a son,” I add. “His name was Jack. As an only child, he inherited the sports grounds when his father passed away in eighty-eight. Just as I suspected, there have been several offers over the years from the council and private contractors to purchase the grounds and build affordable housing, very generous offers, but Jack refused to sell.”
“Why wouldn’t he sell?” Sam mused. “What was he hiding?”
“A dead body, most likely,” I answer, not really joking. “We know Bruce played his last match at 5:30 p.m. that day. He was supposed to be at work by 8:00 p.m., according to Ari. Since his body was discovered buried beneath the pitch, we can assume he was most likely killed within the grounds, possibly in that two-and-a-half-hour window.”
Sam nods, picking up a red pen. “If we’re working with that assumption, the logical place to start is any spectators or team members that were in the grounds during that window.” He pulls the photo closer but keeps it at an angle that I can still see. “I started with his teammates because, like Tris and I were discussing, for Bruce to have that level of confusion and amnesia about his death, it had to be pretty traumatic for him, whether physically or emotionally. Did that anthropologist give any indication of cause of death?”
I shake my head. “He couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, but the damage to the vertebrae and the back of the skull indicates some sort of blunt force trauma. The actual C.O.D. could be either a broken neck or head injury, but he couldn’t say for sure.”
Sam nods. “It was probably quick then, which could mean emotional trauma for Bruce. It’s speculation, of course, but I’m guessing he either knew or was emotionally attached to his killer.”
I nod in agreement. “We should start with the team then.”
“Already have.” Sam leans in and draws a cross through one of the player’s faces. “This was Tim Walsh. Solid alibi, broke his ankle in a tackle at practise two days before the match and was still in the hospital the day of.” He moves across and draws two more X’s. “This was Donald Baker. He was out of town on account of his job as a salesman and had to miss the final match of the season. The guy next to him is Jim Floyd. His wife was dying of cancer, so he missed the last several matches of the season and was nowhere near the grounds that day. He was in a hospice holding his wife’s hand.”
“That’s sad.” I feel a pang of sympathy for the poor man having to watch his wife pass away. “So that leaves us with the two coaches and ten players.”
“I can wean it down even more,” Sam says confidently. “I managed to track down this man.” He circles one of the men in the photo. “His name, coincidentally, is Sam. He was the team captain, and I actually spoke with him. He said that after the final match, most of the team showered and changed, then headed down to the local pub. They were going to celebrate their win and commiserate the end of the team as they knew it. Many of them had too many commitments to families and jobs to keep playing. The ones that were leaving the team headed out together in Sam’s van.” I watch as he crosses out six more players. “That leaves these four and the coaches, but… and here’s the kicker. This guy right here.” He circles a good-looking blonde man grinning widely and standing beside Bruce with his arm slung around Bruce’s shoulders. “This is Phil’s son, Jack Miller.”
“Philip Miller’s son?” I reply slowly as the pieces begin to fall into place.
“Bruce told me and Dusty that the man he was seeing, the man he was in love with, played on his rugby team,” Tristan says from behind us, and I turn to look at him. “He also said that his boyfriend was scared to come out because he was worried about how his dad would react.”
“You think Jack was the boyfriend?” Sam asks, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
“If the rugby boot fits,” I reply. “If he was the one seeing Bruce, to then inherit the grounds where his body is buried and then refuse to sell it for the last forty years? Raises too many red flags to ignore.”
“Was Jack ever questioned in the original missing persons case?” Sam asks and I grab the printed copies of the case notes that were emailed to me, flipping through them.
“No,” I eventually answer. “Some of the other players were, and Gerry, the other coach, but neither Phil nor his son Jack were ever questioned.”
“Convenient,” Sam mutters.
“Bruce was adamant that his lover wasn’t the one that hurt him,” Tristan interrupts.
“Bruce doesn’t remember anything,” Sam points out.
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t know him.” Tris frowns. “Just like I know Danny would never hurt me. If Jack is the boyfriend, Bruce seems sure he’s not the killer.”
Sam sighs. “Not to sound all maudlin on you, but during my time in the police, I saw some of the worst cases you can imagine, and more often than not these truly awful crimes were carried out by spouses and partners.”
Tris goes to open his mouth again, but I interrupt the pair of them.
“Okay, you both have a point,” I agree. “None of us knew Jack like Bruce says he knew him, so we don’t know for sure if he was capable of hurting Bruce or not. Sam is also right—statistically, it’s often the partner or spouse of the victim that is responsible, but even if Jack didn’t kill Bruce, you need to look at the facts. Jack’s father shut down the sports grounds out of the blue, no reason given. That game was the last ever played there. Then when he passed away two years later and Jack inherited the grounds, he refused to re-open them or sell. Now, Jack may or may not have killed Bruce, but I’m willing to bet he knows a helluva lot more about Bruce’s death than he’s ever admitted, and I’m also guessing it involves his father.”
“Maybe,” Tris says quietly as he stares at both me and Sam.
“Trust us.” I give him a small, sad smile. “This is what we do. It’s a good solid line of inquiry, and if it turns out we’re wrong, we’ll then start looking at the other players.”
Tristan sighs. “We’re running out of time.”
“It’ll be okay, Tris.” I reach out and take his hand, giving it a little squeeze. “We’ll figure it out.”