The Dead Pull Hitter (7 page)

I went back to the office to work. That was my first mistake. Everyone from the managing editor to the copyboys wanted to talk about the murder while I tried to write a game story, a sidebar about the celebrations, a story about the Titan reaction to Sanchez’s death, and help with the obituary. Four pages of the sports section were being devoted to the peculiar combination of triumph and tragedy.

I also talked to Dolores Sanchez, in Santo Domingo, and put the junior reporter on the trail of Jocelyn Mah. There were 113 Mahs in the phone book, but he managed to find the right house. Her father wouldn’t let me speak to her, but assured me that she wouldn’t be talking to anyone else.

I also called Staff Sergeant Munro. When he hadn’t called back by ten, I left the number at the Fillet of Soul with the desk and called it a night.

Moose was there when I got to the restaurant, sitting at the Jeffersons’ table with Sarah. A moment later, Tom came over from the bar, carrying a very large Martini.

“You look like you could use this,” he said.

“It will either fix me up or finish me off,” I said, toasting him.

“What a day,” Moose said. He had obviously had a few already. His eyes were in soft focus.

“Any news?”

“Nothing.”

“When did you close up shop?”

“I didn’t get out of there until nearly nine.”

“What about the rest?”

“Don’t know.”

“I talked to Dolores Sanchez. She’s flying up tomorrow.”

“Christ, that’s all I need.”

“Moose!”

“Sorry, Sarah. But you try getting everything ready for the playoffs, then throw in a murder just to make things really ugly. Pressure? It’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe we’d better get some food, Sarah. I could use it, and I’m sure Moose could. Steak okay, big guy?”

“Yeah, okay. Well done. And another double bourbon.”

“I’ll have mine rare with a glass of red wine, please.”

Sarah went to place the order.

“Are you okay, Moose? You look whipped.”

“I’ll be okay after another drink.”

“Maybe you should take it easy. Are you going to able to handle everything without Jocelyn?”

“I don’t know how I’m going to get the playoff credentials done in time.”

“Isn’t the Baseball Writers’ Association helping you?”

“Yeah, sure. All Stan Chapman cares about is making sure his friends get good seats in the press box.”

“If you like, I can come in and give you a hand for a while tomorrow. I know who the legitimate writers are.”

“No, I can handle it. But thanks.”

I’d known Moose for a long time and liked him. He could be a boor, but most of his insensitivity stemmed from insecurity. His was a funny, drifting sort of life. Most men in their forties have something to show for it, but Moose’s only history was of failure. He didn’t have much education and no real skills. He’d gone from high school into baseball and never been more than a marginal major-leaguer. He hadn’t made much money, and what he’d made he’d spent.

He’d been married, but his wife had taken the children and gone just after he was released from his last team. He had a few rocky years then, bitter, boozing times, until Ted Ferguson heard he was down on his luck and hired him. Baseball was all he knew, and he was lucky to have his job.

Ironically, the Titan players didn’t see him as one of them. He was too old and insignificant for most of the current crop to have heard of. In July, the Titan visit to Milwaukee had coincided with an Old-Timers’ game and Moose had suited up with the Brewer alumni. He was happier that afternoon than he had been all season.

I looked at his hands. They showed the scars. He had been a catcher, and his fingers were misshapen, with bulging knuckles and tips bending off in unlikely directions where they had been broken. His soul probably looked the same. Moose was all the baseball dreams that never come true.

God, I was getting sentimental.

“I’ll drive you home after dinner, Moose. You’re in no condition.”

“What are you, my mother? Did anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass?”

Sarah came back in time to hear the last remark and raised her eyebrows at me as she sat down.

“This should be a happy night,” she said. “This place should be jumping, but look at everybody. They’re in shock.”

Dinner didn’t help Moose. He was bagged by the time he was done, and getting belligerent. I decided to take him home.

“Come back when you’ve dropped him off,” Sarah said.

The fresh air seemed to have an aphrodisiac effect. He began to paw me as soon as we got in the car.

“Whoa, Moose. That’s not a good idea.”

“C’mon Katey. F’r old time’s sake.”

We had had a brief fling three years earlier, born out of loneliness on a particularly long road trip, but it had ended as soon as we got home. I didn’t intend to start again.

“For old time’s sake, Moose, let’s keep it friendly.” He looked at me earnestly.

“I’m being friendly, Katey. This is friendly.”

I took his hand out from under my skirt and headed up Yonge Street. It was wild. A lot of people either hadn’t heard about Sultan or didn’t care. The drunks were all over the street, dancing and shouting while the cops looked on.

I bailed out as soon as I could and headed up University. Things were quieter on the pretentious avenue. I stopped at a light next to the Airmen’s memorial, the one we call Gumby Takes Flying Lessons.

“Hey, Gumby! What’s happenin’?”

It was his last outburst. Perhaps he passed out, because he was quiet when we went around Queen’s Park, the provincial legislature building, which would have been a noble thing if it wasn’t so awfully pink.

He lived in an apartment building on St. George, north of the Medical Centre. When I pulled up in front, he was snoring. I got out and walked around to open his door.

“Come on, Moose. We’re home.”

“’S’okay. I’m gonna sleep here.”

“Moose. You’re in a car. A tiny car. You’ll wake up like a pretzel.”

“Don’ wanna pretzel. Wanna sleep.”

I got the giggles. There was no doorman to help me. The street was deserted, all good Torontonians having gone to bed early to get ready for Monday morning. The rest were on Yonge Street, hanging off the lampposts. I pulled on his arm.

“Wake up, Moose. Time for beddy bye.”

He opened his eyes and focused them, approximately, on me. He smiled and reached out his arms. I ducked the clumsy embrace and took both his hands.

“Let’s go, Moose. Upsy daisy.”

Oh, he was going to owe me for this. He outweighed me by a hundred pounds, so I couldn’t carry him, but I pulled as hard as I could, cajoling him all the way. He finally got out of the car and stood, swaying alarmingly. I reached into his pocket for his keys, then guided him to the door.

“Which key, Moose?”

“Key of C,” he said, then began to sing, loudly, the Titan theme song.

I propped him against the mailboxes and got the lobby door open, then steered him to the elevator. At the tenth floor, I leaned him again and got the door to his apartment opened.

“Home, sweet home,” he said, stumbling into the living room. “How about a little cocktail?”

“Moose. Sit down.”

I left him sprawled on the couch in his messy living room. The apartment had been done by a decorator from the
Playboy
school, with thick broadloom, leather furniture, and state-of-the-art sound and video equipment. The bedroom was red, with a fur rug on the king-sized bed. The hallway was lined with pictures of Moose as a player and ones posed with Hall of Fame stars he’d met through his Titan job. But everything was a bit tired looking. The swinging bachelor pad didn’t look like it got much use.

In the bathroom, the clothes hamper was overflowing and whiskers stuck to the sides of the sink. There was a scummy grey ring around the black Jacuzzi. A torn shirt hung on the doorknob and there were soggy towels on the floor. I found a large bottle of 222’s in the medicine cabinet and a cleanish glass on the counter.

“You’ll thank me for this in the morning,” I said, coming into the living room with the water and two pills. Moose was on his feet again, trying to cram a handful of papers into an already full drawer.

“Don’t bother tidying. I’m not staying. You just get to bed. I’ll phone you in the morning.”

He looked confused. I put the glass in his right hand, the pills in his left, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Your keys are on the desk. Your car is at the Fillet. Sleep well.”

He was heading towards the bar, muttering to himself, when I closed the door.

I was back at the restaurant just before one a.m. The front door was locked, so I went around to the kitchen and knocked loudly.

Tom answered, a glass of champagne in his hand.

“Come on in. We locked the door to keep strangers out.”

In the bar a few regulars were holding a low-key celebration. Tom gave me a glass, and we toasted the Titans.

We talked until five in the morning about the old days, about players, now out of baseball, who had spent time in Toronto. We toasted them, too. We wallowed in history while the newly minted fans who couldn’t tell you the starting lineup for the playoffs were tearing up the town.

The phone by my bed rang at nine. I knocked it on the floor, then put it to my ear upside down. When I finally got it right and croaked a greeting, it was Moose, sounding cheerier than he had any right to be.

“You’re full of shit,” I groaned. “I know you don’t feel as good as you sound.”

“Kate! Top of the morning to you. It’s a beautiful day. Why shouldn’t I feel good?”

“You were a bit rocky last night.”

“That’s what I was calling about. We were together, right?”

“Approximately.”

“Do you know where I parked my car?”

Smugly, I told him.

“Thanks. And I’ll tell you the truth. I feel terrible. I hope I didn’t get out of line.”

“No problem, Moose. But you owe me one.”

“You got it.”

I felt horrible. I stumbled to the bathroom and popped a couple of 222’s, then went to put on the kettle. I gagged dishing out Elwy’s food. He dug right in.

I was on my way to the shower when Sally appeared.

“How are you, kiddo?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Have you got the kettle on? I just got T.C. off to school. He’s freaked about Sultan Sanchez.”

“Come on in. How come you’re not at work?”

“I have to work late. I’m not going in until noon. Are you home tonight?”

“Should be, why?”

“If you wouldn’t mind keeping an ear open for the kid until I get home.”

“No problem. Do you want me to give him supper?”

“No, I’ve left it for him.”

“I’ll be home by six at the latest. He can come watch TV with me. There’s a Yankee game on.”

“As long as he’s in bed by nine-thirty.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sally’s gallery was opening a new show that night. She was telling me about some of the bizarre images when the phone rang again. This time it was Jake Watson.

“It’s still early, Jake. What can’t wait?”

“Murder can’t wait, Kate.”

“Moose is going to call me here to tell me when the press conference is. I’ll cover it.”

“
Another
murder.”

“Not another player?”

“Steve Thorson.”

“What? When? Where?”

I was beginning to sound like a journalism textbook.

“Last night. At the ballpark.”

“The ballpark?”

“In the clubhouse. Beaten to death.”

“Oh, no.” I sat down. Sally looked at me and passed my cigarettes. I lit one.

“What do we know?”

“Not much. Just what Jimmy Peterson got from the cops. One of the clubhouse kids found the body. I want you to get down to the stadium and see what you can get for the final edition.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

So much for my shower. I threw on some clothes, pulled a brush through my tangled hair, and hit the road without even stopping to put on makeup. I looked like a bag lady.

I’d left my car at the Fillet so I took a cab, my eyes in slits against the sun despite dark glasses. I could taste my sour stomach. I was so hung over my hair hurt.

There were a couple of police cruisers in the stadium parking lot. I went around to the Titan office entrance. Not giving her a chance to stop me, I waved at the receptionist on my way through the inner door. I went straight to Moose’s office, which was empty. I asked a secretary where he was.

“He’s in the clubhouse with the police, but I don’t think you should go in there.”

“I’ll let them tell me that, thanks.”

There was an ambulance at the door to the Titan dressing room, with a policeman standing guard. His back was to me. I ducked down the umpires’ tunnel to the field and peeked into the end of the dugout. There was nobody guarding that door. I was torn between getting the hell out of there before I was discovered and pressing on to get as much of a story as I could.

The clubhouse door opened and I ducked back into the tunnel. I heard a single set of footsteps and then silence.

I peeked out and saw a teenaged boy in jeans, sweatshirt, and windbreaker with a Titan logo. I knew him only as Craig. He was one of the clubhouse attendants who kept the place clean, washed the uniforms, cleaned the spikes, and generally kept the players happy. Craig was the wise-ass in the group, always cool, but this morning he looked very young, very pale, and very scared. He was slumped against a corner of the dugout, staring at the field, trying not to cry.

I whispered his name urgently, and he jumped.

“Sorry,” I said quietly, crossing the dugout to sit next to him. “How are you doing?”

“Did you hear what happened?” He was whispering, too.

“Yeah. Feel like telling me about it?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”

“I’m probably not. But I thought you might want to talk about it. It must have been pretty tough for you.”

Craig looked at me, then back at the field, his lips in a tight line. I put my arm around his shoulders.

“It’s okay to be upset,” I said.

Then the tears came, and the great, tearing sobs. I held him tightly until he got himself under control, shushing him and stroking his bristly crew cut. After a few minutes he straightened up, wiping his eyes with the back of his tanned hand. I gave him a tissue from my purse. He was embarrassed.

“No shame in tears, Craig,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, his dignity restored. “It was really awful. There was all this blood on the floor, and I could see his brains. It was so gross.”

“How come you were the only one here?”

“They said we could go home last night without cleaning up, but we had to be in at nine. I got a ride downtown with my dad, so I got here early.”

“How did you get in?”

“Ravi, the security guy, let me in.”

“What happened?”

“When I got in the dressing room I heard one of the showers dripping. So I went in to turn it off and he was there.”

The boy shuddered and looked at me, tears in his eyes again. He took a deep breath and continued.

“He was sort of curled up on the floor. At first I thought he was asleep. So I go, ‘Hey, Steve, didn’t you make it home last night?’ but he didn’t move. So I went over and took him by the shoulder. I was going to shake him. But he felt real funny and kind of rolled over a bit. Then I saw his face and I just ran away. I guess I got sick, too.”

“What did you see?”

“His forehead was like bashed in. There was all the blood, and his eyes were open. I just left him there and went and got Ravi. He called 911.”

Craig had started to shake, and I took his hand. I didn’t really know what to say. I checked my watch to see how I was doing on my deadline. Nice, eh?

“Don’t worry, Craig. I’ll just wait with you here until they call you.”

“Won’t you get in trouble?”

“What can they do, arrest me?”

I wasn’t sure what kind of trouble I could get into, but I figured that at worst they would toss me out of the stadium. And I would still have my story.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Craig spoke.

“Miss Henry? Who do you think did it?”

“I don’t know, Craig.”

“Do you think it’s someone we know?”

It was hard to imagine a stranger getting into the clubhouse. But it was harder to imagine, as Craig said, someone we knew bashing his head in. This train of thought only served to remind me of the state of my own head.

I let go of Craig’s hand and went to the water fountain to take a couple more headache pills. As I was straightening up, the clubhouse door opened.

It was a young police constable, in uniform, who looked from Craig to me thoughtfully. Craig looked scared again. I wiped the water off my chin.

“You can come in, Craig,” said the constable. “They’re ready to talk to you now. But will you ask Staff Sergeant Munro to come out here first?”

I did my best to look inconspicuous as the kid went inside. It didn’t work. The cop walked towards me, hand resting on his billy club. He was huge.

“Hi,” I said. “I was just trying to calm Craig down. He was pretty upset.”

“Who are you, and how did you get here?” he asked, sternly. He was so young that I had trouble taking him seriously. He looked like a high-school actor playing a cop in the school play. Another sign of middle age. I tried to stare him down.

“I’m Katherine Henry, and I got here through the umpires’ tunnel,” I said. “I am a baseball writer for the
Planet
.”

“But how did you get into the stadium?”

“Through the Titan offices,” I said. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t be here?”

“This is a crime scene, miss. You’ll have to talk to Staff Sergeant Munro.”

On cue, the door opened. The man who came out looked as much like a cop as I look like Dolly Parton. He wasn’t big, he wasn’t beefy, and he wasn’t wearing polyester. He was slim and elegant, dressed in what looked like a good silk tweed jacket and pants with a fashionable pleat. His tie was loosened slightly and the jacket undone. I could see his gun.

He ran his fingers through his dark, wavy hair.

“What’s up, MacPherson?”

“I found this lady attempting to interfere with the witness, sir,” the constable said. “She’s a reporter.”

“You make it sound as if I was molesting him, for heaven’s sake. I was just trying to comfort him. He was almost in shock, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Amusement flashed in Munro’s eyes briefly, then he turned to his young colleague.

“Thanks for your vigilance, Constable,” he said, dismissing him. Then he turned to me.

“You’re Katherine Henry, aren’t you? I’ve seen your picture in the paper. I’m pleased to meet you.”

A bit taken aback, I shook his hand.

“I’m just as glad you’re here. I can’t tell you much for the record, but maybe you can tell me some things. You knew Thorson and the rest of the Titans well. I’d like to ask you some informal questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll do anything I can, but I have to get something back to my paper. When are you releasing information?”

“Not until we know more ourselves.”

“Are you sure it couldn’t have been an accident?”

“Not the way his skull was broken. There’s nothing in the shower room that could have caused that kind of injury if he fell. Also some other things I can’t talk about. There’s no chance he wasn’t murdered.”

“Do you think it’s connected to Sultan Sanchez’s death?”

“It certainly puts a new light on it. You know all the people around the team. Do you have any idea of who might want to kill either one of them?”

“Couldn’t Thorson’s killer have been a stranger, too? Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

“We don’t believe much in coincidences where I work.”

“It’s crazy. Who would want to kill Thorson? Thorson had enemies, but not murderous ones. Some of his teammates didn’t like him, and guys on other teams, but baseball players don’t go around killing people.”

I realized I was babbling and shut up.

“I thought Thorson was the biggest star on the team,” Munro said. “He wasn’t popular?”

“Well, the fans liked him, and he was still one of their best pitchers, but he wasn’t the nicest guy. But that’s no reason to kill him.”

“Were you in the dressing room after the game yesterday?”

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Well, after we talk, maybe you could have a look around and see if anything seems out of the ordinary now.”

I didn’t want to go in there. But I couldn’t pass up the chance.

“I guess,” I said. “Is he, is it, still there?”

“No, no. The body has been removed. Would you mind?”

He held open the door, then stopped.

“Do you know if this lock is usually taped like this?”

The door was one of a pair of self-locking steel doors with a bar to open them from inside. Where the lock met the latchplate in the matching door, there was a torn scrap of adhesive tape.

“It looks as if the lock was taped to let someone get in here without a key,” I said. “I don’t know if it was like this yesterday or not. But a couple of times I’ve tried to get in this way after a game or when I arrive really early and it’s been locked.”

Munro grunted. Approvingly, I guess.

“Good,” he said. “You’re observant. You might be some use after all. We’ve already taken samples. It appears to be the kind of tape they use on bats.”

The clubhouse was actually a complex of rooms off a zigzagging central corridor. Just past the dugout entrance was a washroom for players to use during a game. Around the corner was the equipment room. The bats and gloves were all over the floor.

Around the next corner was the main player area, with the trainer’s room on one side of the corridor, the main dressing room on the other. I looked in as we passed. Instead of players and reporters, there were half a dozen men in suits. Instead of television crews, there was a police photographer. Instead of hilarity and celebration, there was the slow, sober work of observation, the beginning stages of the investigation.

Munro and I continued around the next corner, past the manager’s office, where his colleague was questioning Craig, to the players’ lounge. Someone had fired up the coffee machine, and Munro poured two cups. He handed one to me and we sat facing each other diagonally from two couches in a corner of the room.

“What connection was there between Thorson and Sanchez?”

“I can’t think of anything except the obvious. They didn’t have much to do with each other. I can’t imagine that they would have seen each other off the field except at team functions or charity appearances. They didn’t have much in common.”

Munro nodded, taking notes in a spiral-bound book. The affability was gone. Now he was at work. I wasn’t used to being on this side of an interview and didn’t like it much.

“There are factions on the team, then?”

“Well, the Latin players tend to stick together, probably more for language than anything else. Blacks tend to be close to blacks, whites to whites. The religious group crosses race and language lines. The older players hang out with each other, as do the rookies. But there isn’t hostility among the various groups, so they aren’t factions in that sense.”

“Who were Thorson’s close friends?”

“No one on the team. He was a star. Some players were in awe of him, others resented him. He was a loner. He wasn’t part of the clubhouse practical jokes or anything.