by John McEvoy
There were some things Matt had chosen not to include in his first-person account. Major among them was Maggie’s reaction to her traumatic experience. After the unconscious Bledsoe had been carried by paramedics down the back stairs of Matt’s condo building, and the police departed, Maggie and Matt, finally left alone, had at first just stared at each other, shaken survivors of something neither could ever have imagined happening. He had again held her close, feeling the fear-caused tremors as they came and went, hearing her sobs, infuriated that all of the amazing toughness he had known in her, the strength that Maggie had never failed to display in the tough, male-dominated world of horse racing, could be stripped away by a monster like Bledsoe.
Maggie had looked up at Matt, eyes bright with tears. He said, “You went through a hellish experience, Maggie. But you kept your cool. You were impressive, girl, you really were.”
She shook her head. Still staring up at him Maggie said, “Matt, it was you that scared me, too. You were like a wild man going after Bledsoe with that bat. If you could have seen the terrible look on your face…
“Oh,” she said, burying her face in his chest, “I don’t know what I’m saying. You saved my life. Thank God we both got out of there alive. But still, when you were smashing Bledsoe with that bat, you were like somebody I didn’t know…”
Matt said nothing. She wept softly for minutes, dampening his shirt with her tears, until finally, she moved even closer to him and he pulled her in tighter. They stayed that way, not speaking, not moving, until the street lights came on up and down Hinman Avenue.
***
At a little after six o’clock the next morning, after a night of repeated attempts to comfort and soothe each other before they at last dozed off, Matt awoke to find Maggie gone.
He panicked for only seconds, then smiled, remembering that there were, as always, training hours at Heartland Downs, for horses don’t wait. When he called her stable he was informed by foreman Ramon Martinez that Maggie was “out on the track watching a set of horses work.
“And Matt,” added Martinez, “she said she’ll see you for dinner tonight at her place.”
Matt hung up and lay back in bed, smiling. “What a keeper I have here,” he said aloud.
***
Four races after Maggie’s daily double coup, Matt was finishing his column for the next day’s Racing Daily when his phone rang. He picked it up and heard Detective Popp say, “Well, Bledsoe’s out.”
Matt jumped to his feet. “Out of what?”
“Out of the hospital wing of County Jail. They transferred him to a maximum security cell a couple of hours ago. He’ll go downtown to the Metropolitan Correctional Center some time next week. He’s still using crutches because of that knee shot you gave him. But they’re going to keep him locked down, bad knee or not. I thought you’d want an update.”
Matt thanked Popp before adding, “I heard Bledsoe was refused bail this morning. He’ll be held until the trial.”
“Correct,” Popp answered. “Larry Van Gundy told me today that they expect to go to trial after the first of the year.”
“I understand Bledsoe’s going to act as his own attorney.”
Popp snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past the arrogant prick. They won’t even try to convict him of murdering those jockeys,” Popp continued. “The fact that Randy Morrison and David Guerin say he told them he killed their brothers, in unrecorded phone calls, won’t hold up in court. Hell, Bledsoe could argue he never even made those phone calls. There’s no proof that he did. And the fact of the ballistics match on the bullets that killed the jocks coming from the Remington they found in his car trunk, that won’t fly either. There’s no proof Bledsoe fired those shots.
“But,” Popp said, “Bledsoe’s still going to be looking at a life sentence for killing Rick Rothmeyer. They’ve got him on videotape, and they’ve got a ballistics match to the rifle he used. And they’ve got him for the criminal assault on Maggie. It’s funny, in a way, that he won’t go up because of race-fixing charges. That’s what started the whole ball rolling. But they’d never be able to prove in court Bledsoe was the man behind it all. You know what I say about that? ‘So what?’ is what I say. The main thing is, this son of a bitch’ll die breathing prison air.”
Matt said, “And there’s still no sign of Bledsoe’s accomplices?”
“Vanished,” Popp said. “Jimbo Murray’s folks are in Madison, Vera’s live up in northern Wisconsin. Nobody has heard from either Jimbo or Vera. I’ve got an idea that only one person, Bledsoe, knows where they are. And he’s not saying.”
Matt’s eyes were drawn to the nearby empty desk once occupied by Rick, whose newspaper had yet to name a successor. He said, “What about the jocks? Morrison and Guerin?”
“Slaps on the hand is what I hear,” Popp replied, “a lighter suspended sentence and fine going to Morrison, who did turn himself in and admit to race-fixing because of coercion. Guerin later reluctantly came clean too, also arguing he was coerced. Which he was. But the Racing Board is going to suspend both of them for a year. Seems kind of harsh to me, but that’s their ballpark.”
Matt shook his head. “I wonder how many of the Racing Board members wouldn’t have buckled under to threats if their relatives were being shot to death?”
Popp said, “I hear you. But that’s the way it is.”
He had just finished talking to the detective when his phone rang again. Moe Kellman said, “I’m sorry I haven’t called before this, Matt, but I want to say thanks. You got the bastard. I understand Bledsoe hasn’t admitted it, but I know in my heart he killed Uncle Bernie as well as those jockeys. The ‘Wizard of Odds’ would bet that way, I am sure. He’d thank you, too, if he could. I’m just sorry you never got to meet him.”
“The Wizard’ would be thanking you, too, Moe. You set a lot of the wheels in motion that finally served to bring down Bledsoe.”
Moe said goodbye and Matt hung up the phone. He looked out at the racetrack. The field of horses for the sixth race was proceeding slowly, in fine order, coats glistening in the afternoon sunlight, toward the back of the starting gate. It had been placed directly in front of the stands for this mile and one-eighth race, and many fans lined the rail for a close-up view of this mini-pageant. Through his binoculars Matt watched as the colorfully garbed riders chatted with the pony girls and pony boys who were ushering the horses toward their stalls, saw them smoothing their horses’ necks with their hands. From his vantage point, these ten men and one woman looked small atop their huge, prancing mounts. Yet they perched confidently as they always did, adjusting stirrups and goggles, readying for the mad rush that would begin in moments when the gates banged open and five tons of equine energy was let loose in quest of the same goal: finishing first.
Matt knew that a minute and fifty seconds or so later one of the jockeys now visible on the track before him would be cheered as he or she galloped the winning horse back to the winner’s circle. Others would be derided by disappointed bettors. It happened every time.
He thought of the jockeys who had died at Bledsoe’s hand, the other riders killed or maimed each year in racing accidents, and marveled again that their replacements continued streaming in, fresh faced and eager, year after year, to this beautiful and sometimes brutal sport. He was then, as always, grateful that they did.
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John McEvoy, Riders Down
