The mystery begins when the phone rings in Tony Karcich's office seven months ago.

Karcich, the longtime football coach at St. Joseph Regional High School in Montvale, is stunned to hear Greg Telemaque's voice.

This is the same Telemaque Karcich calls the best player he ever coached, better than the eight St. Joe's grads he sent to the NFL. The same Telemaque who seemed to disappear two decades ago after trying kill his little brother with a pair of scissors.

Karcich shouts into the phone. "Greg? How are you?!"

And then, "Where are you?!"

"He was just a thing of beauty," Karcich says.

Everyone has a favorite Telemaque tale. Like the time he swapped cleats with Karcich before a game against Delbarton on an icy field, then rushed for 274 yards and four touchdowns. Or the time he fielded a kick over his shoulder -- Willie Mays-style -- against Passaic and returned it past midfield to set up a game-clinching score.

People had never seen a kid move like Telemaque. He stood 6-3 and weighed 230 pounds, but glided across the field and saw plays unfold two moves in advance.

At St. Joe's, he became a Bergen County legend, a marvel, the answer to a trivia question, the model for generations of Green Knights tailbacks at the storied national powerhouse that has captured 17 state championships.

"He was more than fantastic," says Telemaque's brother, Vladimir, also a star player.

"One of the greatest to play in New Jersey," adds Rob Stern, a longtime St. Joe's assistant.

"They say a picture's worth a thousand words," Karcich says. "Well, his highlight tape is worth a million words."

There was something else about Telemaque, they all say. In the locker room, he would retreat to a corner and never change in front of teammates. He was withdrawn and quiet, even at practice.

For college, Telemaque chose Georgia Tech, the defending national champion, due in large part to coach Bobby Ross' firm Christian beliefs and his assurance to pay special attention to Telemaque.

But after the 1991 season, Telemaque's freshman year in Atlanta, Ross took the head coaching job with the NFL's San Diego Chargers.

Soon, everything fell apart.

* * *

The search for Telemaque begins online, a trail that quickly runs dry.

He has no Twitter or Instagram account. His Facebook page shows three friends, but no pictures or posts. There are no home addresses or phone numbers in public records databases. A Google search reveals only a couple obscure football stories from years ago. The newspaper clippings from his playing days trail off in April of 1993 with a report that Telemaque, then finishing his sophomore year, has been listed as questionable for Georgia Tech's spring game with a sprained foot.

Karcich is puzzled.

"I had a number that he had called me from and I called that number four or five times," Karcich says. "It's a recording and I don't know who it is.

"Each time I say, 'Listen, Greg Telemaque was trying to reach me, I'm his high school coach. Please have him call me at this number.' And I never heard from the kid. Maybe he had a setback. I don't know."

In early November, the trail picks up again -- at his mother's house, a modest split-level in Spring Valley, N.Y., just across the New Jersey border. Marie Badio Telemaque, who is from Haiti, tells a visitor Greg is "such a good boy. [But] when he got sick, everyone was very sorry. He had the whole, wide world in his hands."

For the next hour, Badio Telemaque fills in the gaps. She says the first hint her son was fighting demons came in high school. Often, he told his mother he felt like he had an electrical cord wrapped around his legs, restricting his movement, holding him in place.

Mario Badio Telemaque reflects on her son's life.

A few years later, Badio Telemaque says, he made another startling confession: He was hearing voices. The voices were sometimes deafening. At times, they urged him to hurt others, to kill himself.

"He didn't tell anybody," Badio Telemaque says. "He thought it was normal."

His family took Greg to several doctors and thought whatever ailed him was under control.

Until the night he picked up the scissors.

* * *

On Nov. 27, 1995, Greg's 6-year-old brother, David, walked past his bedroom. It was dark and the lights were off.

David remembers Greg staring out a window, his body bathed in moonlight. David knew something wasn't right, but didn't understand.

The next thing he recalls is waking up in the hospital.

Ramapo (N.Y.) police arrested Greg, who was questioned by officer Martin Flatley, according to documents obtained by NJ Advance Media.

Flatley: "Greg, do you know why you're here?"

Greg: "Yeah, I know why I'm here."

Flatley: "Do you want to tell me why you are here?"

Greg: "I'm here 'cause I killed Lucifer."

Flatley: "Who is Lucifer?"

Greg: "Lucifer is the devil. Lucifer is David."

Flatley: "How old is David?"

Greg: "He's six."

Flatley: "How did you kill David?"

Greg: "I stabbed him."

Flatley: "Where did you stab him, Greg?"

Greg: "I stabbed him in the lower back area."

Flatley: "What did you stab him with?"

Greg: "I stabbed him with a scissor."

Flatley: "Why did you stab David?"

Greg: "I killed him because he is Lucifer the devil. I did it to free all the children for Jesus."

Flatley: "I believe in Jesus but I would never do what you did."

Greg: "I am a sinner."

* * *

After the conversation with Telemaque's mother, the search leads to the Bronx Psychiatric Center, a weathered, tan-brick building on the outskirts of the borough. It's where Telemaque says he has lived since 2009.

He greets visitors on a chilly November afternoon with a warm smile. Telemaque has added roughly 50 pounds from his playing days, and his muscular, athletic body has yielded to one of an average middle-aged man. His eyes open wide and his hands tremble gently, results of his medication. He walks in abbreviated steps and his voice is soft, almost timid.

Since attacking his brother, Telemaque says he has moved between three live-in hospitals: Rockland Psychiatric Center, Mid-Hudson Forensic Psychiatric Center and the Bronx.

David survived the stabbing and says today he has long forgiven his brother, but Greg was charged with second-degree attempted murder and first-degree assault. The court ordered a psychiatric evaluation. According to records, a psychologist and a psychiatrist both concluded Greg suffered from schizophrenia, a crippling mental illness often characterized by paranoia, abnormal social behavior and the inability to recognize what's real.

Greg, according to court documents, suffered from "paranoid delusions of demonic possession." After nearly a year of hearings and motions, Greg was found not responsible for the attack "by reason of mental illness or defect."

"I have a lot of sympathy for David since I did that," Greg says during one of several conversations earlier this month. "I can't talk about it right now because it affects me really bad. I'm sad about what I did to him."

Greg Telemaque's senior picture from St. Joseph Regional.

Open yet bashful, Telemaque recounts his story. He traces his illness to high school, when he says he was often "sad" and "depressed." Then, at Georgia Tech, he started hearing voices. Sitting in class, the voices drowned out the lesson, making it nearly impossible to focus.

"I'd feel like 15 minutes went by, but I'd see 45 minutes went by because I was listening to the voices," he says.

And sometimes, he admits, he would have conversations with the voices.

"I would talk about the Earth, like, special things," he says. "Guardian angels, demons, the devil. Like spiritual things, New Age things. Like crystals and tarot cards."

Ross, the Georgia Tech coach who is now retired and living in Richmond, Va., says Telemaque "needed special attention and extra time," but he never saw the erratic behavior. "He was away from home and honestly I just thought that it was that type of thing."

Telemaque's older brother, Vladimir, says it's a miracle Greg lasted as long as he did at Georgia Tech -- if only because football held things together.

"It's like playing football set him free," Vladimir says.

When he wasn't on the field, Telemaque struggled socially and academically. Making matters worse, Ross' successor, Bill Lewis, did not have the time to devote special attention to Telemaque, Karcich and Vladimir say.

"The coaches kept asking me, 'What's going on, Greg? What's wrong?'" Telemaque says. "I told them, 'Nothing's wrong.' I never told them anything was wrong with me because I didn't really know there was anything wrong with me."

After redshirting his second season and then suffering the foot injury the next, Telemaque says his grades plummeted and the school pulled his scholarship. He says he was virtually homeless, bouncing around and sleeping on dorm floors until his mother sent money for a train home.

He attacked David about two years later, and Telemaque says he has since received rigorous treatment in the three psychiatric centers. He has constant counseling sessions. He takes powerful anti-psychotic medication to control the voices and urges. The medicine, he says, leaves him sluggish, racked with fatigue and bloated.

Earlier this year, Telemaque says he was supposed to be released from the hospital, prompting him to call Karcich for his transcript and diploma. He had visions of getting a job and his own apartment, visions of a reunion with his coach and watching his highlight tape.

But Telemaque says he suffered an untimely setback in June. Frustrated after losing his position working in the psychiatric center's computer lab because the supervisor moved elsewhere, Telemaque says he tried to kill himself by taking a bottle of Tylenol tablets.

Now, he doesn't know if he'll ever leave.

* * *

Tony Karcich steps into his car two-and-a half weeks ago and heads over the Tappan Zee Bridge toward the Bronx Psychiatric Center. It's time for the coach and player to reunite, and Karcich's chest flutters with anxiety. It has been more than 20 years since he saw his former star.

Karcich, who retired this past summer after more than 40 years of coaching, has been busy reflecting on his life and career. He coached so many great players -- Devin and Jason McCourty, Junior Galette, Steve Beauharnais. But when he stops on Telemaque's name, the debate ends and the words flow easily.

In his office, Tony Karcich reads old newspaper clippings from Greg Telemaque's playing days.

"He's the greatest athlete because he could do it all," Karcich says. "Really, he could do it all."

Since learning Telemaque was living in a psychiatric center, Karcich says he has struggled with guilt. During his high school years, Telemaque had been so introverted and talented that Karcich developed a keen love for him. Now, he wonders if he could have helped more. Did he miss critical warning signs? Does Telemaque blame him?

The thoughts roll through Karcich's mind as he pushes toward the Bronx.

* * *

The doors to the Bronx Psychiatric Center are manned by a security guard inside a glass office. Karcich, his wife Linda by his side, produces his license and signs in. The guard buzzes them through a pair of locked doors on the first floor. They are escorted by another guard down a long hallway and turn into a visiting room with bright orange walls, tiled floors and circular tables.

Karcich's hands are filled with Telemaque's framed diploma, his transcript, a DVD filled with his highlights, a St. Joe's hooded sweatshirt, a jacket, a ball cap and a wool ski hat.

After nearly 10 minutes, Telemaque bounds into the room.

"What's up, Coach?" he says, smiling wide.

The men throw their arms around one another. Eyes closed, Telemaque squeezes Karcich hard and tight. The embrace lasts nearly 30 seconds.

Tony Karcich and Greg Telemaque embrace during Karcich's second hospital visit in November.

They sit at one of the circular tables. More than two decades have passed. So much uncertainty, so much mystery.

"So talk to me," Karcich says. "What's going on?"

Telemaque lays it all out. The voices in his head. The suicide attempts. The medication that leaves him zombie-like. They talk about football, old games, better times. Karcich hands over the items Telemaque requested, watching his eyes light up.

"My life is just rough," Telemaque admits. "After I left high school, it went all downhill."

"Here's the thing," Karcich says, leaning close, falling back into coach mode. "Things are tough on a lot of people. You can't feel that it's only you. Everyone has problems. So all you can do is make the best out of every single day. Wake up in the morning, you make the best out of that day. That's what you do, Greg."

After nearly 30 minutes, Karcich stands to leave, but he promises to return soon. The men hug again.

The mystery may be solved, but Karcich isn't contented. He walks to the parking lot, the moon overhead, then pauses.

"I had a lot of emotions," Karcich says. "Mostly just thinking if it helps him a little bit being here, that's the No. 1 thing. But I guess I'm sad to remember what he used to be like. It's very difficult."

Karcich turns for his car. The visit will nag at the old coach.

Nine days later, Karcich returns with another set of highlights burned onto a DVD. As soon as he sees his old coach, a beaming Telemaque shares the big news. "I lost 12 pounds already! I did it because of you."

Karcich, seeing the impact of his earlier visit, is awash with joy.

Tony Karcich and Greg Telemaque.

For the next hour, the men talk about more games, more memories. Despite the wide-eyes and trembling hands, Telemaque is buzzing with optimism.

"I'm more determined than ever to turn my life around," he tells Karcich. "I can't let you down."

The pain and heartache are gone, Telemaque says. He feels something new, something real.

For the first time in maybe 20 years, Greg Telemaque feels hope.

Matthew Stanmyre may be reached at mstanmyre@njadvancemedia.com. Follow him on Twitter @MattStanmyre.

