The mummy case Read Online Free PDF

half dozen articles written mostly by historians.
    I didn’t learn anything new. One forensic expert determined Sylvester had probably been twenty-seven at the time of his death. Officially, he had died from a single gunshot wound to the stomach. Not much there to go on.
    Of the dozen or so articles, one name popped up more than once: Jarred Bloomer, official historian for the Rawhide Ghost Town Museum. He called himself the world’s greatest expert on Sylvester the Mummy.
    It’s always nice to be good at something.
    I knew from my interview with Detective Sherbet that Bloomer and his assistant were the last two people to see Willie Clarke alive. If I’ve learned one thing as a P.I., it’s to take note when a name appears more than once in a case.
    I sat back in my chair, laced my fingers behind my head. Perhaps it was time to visit Rawhide and Jarred Bloomer.
    But first a little nap. Detecting was hard work.
    I was dozing in that very same position when I heard a deep voice say: “Get off your lazy ass, Knighthorse. It’s the middle of the day.”
    I knew that rumbling baritone anywhere, for I hear it in my dreams and sometimes even in my nightmares.
    Standing before me was Coach Samson, my old high school football coach.
     
     
    Chapter Ten
     
     
    From his oversized calves to his bright green nylon coach’s jacket he always wore, Coach Samson exuded coachness. He filled the client chair to its capacity, as he did all chairs unfortunate enough to cross paths with his profuse posterior. His skin was a black so deep it sometimes appeared purple. Then again I’m color blind, so what did I know?
    Coach Samson looked around the office, breathing loudly through his wide nostrils. I could hear his neck scraping against the collar of his coach’s jacket.
    “ You think pretty highly of yourself, Knighthorse.” His voice was gritty and guttural. It came from deep within his barrel chest, able to reach across football fields and high into stadiums.
    “ No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Those were good memories. If you look hard enough at the picture over my right shoulder, the one with two bullet holes in it—don’t ask—you can even see yourself.”
    He leaned forward, squinting. “All I see is someone’s belly.”
    “ Yes, sir. Your belly.”
    He shook his head, and continued his slow inspection of the office. “What happened with the offer from the San Diego Chargers?”
    I knew that question was coming. I had spent last summer preparing for a return to football, strengthening my injured leg, only to realize the passion to play was gone.
    “ I decided football had passed me by.”
    His gaze leveled on me. I shifted uncomfortably. “You could have made their squad, Knighthorse. They were desperate for a fullback. Hell, they still are.”
    “ I’m a good detective.”
    “ Any idea what the minimum salary is in the NFL?”
    “ Probably a little more than my fee.”
    “ What is your fee?”
    I told him.
    He grunted. “People actually pay you those fees?”
    “ Lots of people out there want answers. I give them answers.”
    He shifted in the seat. The chair creaked. If the subject wasn’t football, Coach Samson grew uncomfortable. “So it wasn’t about the money.”
    “ No.”
    “ Then what’s it about?”
    “ I have a life here. I’m good at what I do. I’m a different man than when I was twenty-two.”
    We were silent. I wondered why he was here.
    “ Do you miss football?” he asked.
    “ Yes and no. I don’t miss the pain.”
    “ You want to come back?”
    There it was.
    “ Depends in what capacity.”
    “ How about the capacity as my assistant coach. The team has fallen on hard times. We’re halfway through the season and we need a spark.”
    “ You think I can be the spark?”
    He leveled his hazel eyes on me. “Stranger things have happened,” he said. “It’s not full time, Jim. I know you’re busy with...whatever the hell it is you do here. Show up when you can, once, twice a week. Be