Change-up

by John Feinstein

  Stevie nodded. “Didn’t last very long,” he said.

  “Too bad, my kids really liked you. Come on back and you can tell me what you need.”

  Stevie looked at Hoy to see if he was going to come with him. “I’ll wait here,” Hoy said.

  “You sure?” Stevie said.

  “Oh yeah,” Hoy said. “You’re the reporter, I’m just the driver.”

  Joe Molloy led Stevie through a maze of hallways until they reached the back of the building. They passed a door marked Chief Lawson, turned one more corner, and walked into a comfortable office that belonged to Molloy.

  “Have a seat,” Molloy said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Stevie was, he suddenly realized, very thirsty.

  “Is a Coke too much trouble?” he asked.

  “Be right back,” Molloy said. He disappeared from the office and returned thirty seconds later carrying two Cokes. He sat across from Stevie and said, “So, what can I do for a hotshot young sportswriter?”

  Stevie figured he was going to have to go through the whole story one more time. “Well, I’ve been covering the World Series for the Herald,” he began.

  Molloy suddenly smacked himself on the forehead. “Oh God,” he said. “Norbert Doyle. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Stevie nodded.

  Joe Molloy stood up and closed the door to his office. He sat down, took a long sip from his Coke, and said: “Why don’t you tell me what you know. We’ll go from there.”

  As he had done with Erin James, Stevie went through the entire tale, adding what she had told him about Molloy’s visit to the Doyles’ house that night. When he had finished, Molloy sat with his arms folded for a moment before standing up and walking to the window that looked out on a parking lot.

  “You’ve covered a lot of ground today. I’m sorry about Jim Hatley. That sounds more like him in his drinking days—can’t think what got into him. Maybe this Walsh guy gave him some money and told him not to talk to you. He took it a step further.”

  “It’s okay,” Stevie said. “I’m okay.”

  Molloy walked back to his chair and sat down again. He was having trouble staying still. “Look, I’m not sure what’s going on here. You and I have to have an agreement,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I know, but for now you can’t quote me. I’m not saying I won’t go on the record ever, I just need to think the whole thing through first.”

  Stevie thought he understood. “So for now we’re on background?” he asked.

  Molloy nodded.

  Stevie agreed, just as he had done with Erin James.

  Molloy took a deep breath. “It was only twelve years ago, but a lot has changed. In those days we worked alone on patrol, nowadays everyone has a partner. I got a call saying someone had plowed into a tree on Route 260, and I was nearest to the site. I got there pretty quickly—under five minutes—and could see right away that it wasn’t good.

  “Norbert Doyle, who I didn’t recognize because I didn’t really follow the baseball team, was sitting next to the car. He was cradling his wife in his arms. I was pretty certain she was gone, but I put out an EMS call.”

  “According to the police report, Hatley put out the EMS call,” Stevie said.

  “I know that,” Molloy said. “I know everything that’s in the report.”

  He stood up again and walked back to the window. “After I called for the ambulance, I went back over to Doyle, who was kind of rocking back and forth. His eyes were blank and he kept saying over and over, ‘I killed her, I killed her, oh my God, I’ve killed her.’” He paused again. “I was about to ask him how much he’d had to drink—I could smell liquor on his breath—when Hatley showed up.” Molloy paused, and Stevie was tempted to prompt him but held back.

  “He said something like, ‘I’ve got this, Joe,’ and that he needed me to go to the house and let the babysitter know what’d happened.

  “I said, ‘You know this guy?’ And he said that it was Norbert and that he wanted to handle the case because they were friends. I didn’t argue, I actually thought that was legit. He gave me the address for Doyle’s house, and I left just as the EMS unit was arriving.”

  “So when did you know something was wrong with Hatley’s report?”

  “Well, my first clue was that he didn’t ask me for a description of the scene when I arrived. That would have been SOP in a situation like that.”

  “What’s SOP?” Stevie asked.

  “Sorry. Standard operating procedure. When I came to work the next day, I asked Jim when he needed my report on the scene. He just looked at me and said, ‘Report’s written Joe.’ And then added very pointedly, ‘It’s over. Understand?’ I didn’t really understand until I read the report.”

  “He covered up that his friend had been drinking.”

  “Well, he didn’t exactly uncover it. One-car fatal accident on a dry road, even if you don’t smell liquor on the driver’s breath, you Breathalyze, or in this case, since he needed to be treated at the hospital, you run a blood test. It’s routine. So it was odd that he didn‘t. But since he didn’t, there’s no proof now either way.”

  “Didn’t anyone ever question it?”

  Molloy shook his head. “This is a small town,” he said. “The baseball team has been here a long time, and people tend to like the players. And the whole thing was tragic. Doyle’s wife was dead, and he was left with two-year-old twins to raise on his own….”

  “So no one was going to say anything about him driving drunk, because he’d suffered enough?”

  “I think it was more a question of what would be gained by having those kids be without their father too.”

  “But if he was responsible for their mother’s death …” Stevie sighed. “One last question: You said Hatley and Doyle were friends. Do you know how they knew each other?”

  Molloy nodded. “I didn’t then, I do now,” he said. “They both hung out at the same bar—King’s Tavern. They were drinking buddies, you might say.”

  Of course they were, Stevie thought.

  “If I get to the point where I’m going to write something, I’ll call you to see if you’re willing to go on the record,” Stevie said.

  “Okay,” Molloy said. “But I don’t see how you’ll prove it unless Doyle has decided to come clean.”

  Stevie knew he was right. He was pretty sure he now knew what had happened on the night Analise Doyle died, but he was just as sure he didn’t have enough to write about it even if both Molloy and Erin James went on the record. They were both just speculating. And you couldn’t accuse people of drunk driving, what was probably some kind of vehicular manslaughter, and a police cover-up based on speculation.

  He wondered if all this was what David had told Susan Carol.

  The craziest part, though, was that it was Doyle—or Doyle’s guilt—that had started Stevie down this confusing road in the first place.

  He filled Miles Hoy in on the way back to the train station, finishing by telling him he was pretty convinced he didn’t have a story.

  “Would you do me a favor and keep me informed?” Hoy asked. “My e-mail address is on the bottom of the card I gave you.”

  They pulled up to the station. “How much do I owe you for all this?” Stevie asked.

  Hoy put up his hand. “You know what, it’s been a really interesting day, and I was really happy to help you out a little,” he said. “When you’re rich and famous, remember me, that’s all I ask.”

  “Come on,” Stevie said. “The paper’s going to pay for it.”

  “In that case, it’s a thousand dollars,” Hoy said, causing Stevie’s mouth to drop for an instant, until he realized he was kidding.

  “Take the money and buy that girl a nice dinner,” Hoy said. “Charge that to the paper. They owe you.”

  They shook hands and Hoy drove off as Stevie headed into the station. Stevie realized he was becoming so jaded that he couldn’t help but wonder if Hoy had an agenda—maybe Walsh or s
omeone had been paying him to keep an eye on him all day. He hoped not.

  He had just missed the 4:45, so he was stuck waiting for the 7:25. He grabbed some pizza in the station and called Kelleher. When he pulled his phone out, he realized he’d turned it off when he went into Molloy’s office and forgotten to turn it back on. There were six messages—three from Kelleher—waiting for him.

  “Where’ve you been?” Kelleher asked. “I’ve been worried.”

  “I’m fine,” Stevie said. “I’m waiting on the seven-twenty-five train.”

  “Good. Before you fill me in, let me fill you in. I found out who Donald Walsh is—get this, he works for David Felkoff.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Yeah. For the first time in my life, I’m actually looking forward to talking to that SOB.”

  Stevie caught Kelleher up on what had happened with Erin James and Joe Molloy.

  “You’re right,” Kelleher said. “We can’t write anything based on what you’ve got now, but I think at some point we need to try to talk to Doyle about it. We can also make another run at Susan Carol. It may be that the story she got from David was different, and if she thinks either she or David was lied to, she might decide to fill in some of the blanks.”

  “We’d still need to talk to Doyle, though, right?”

  “Absolutely. You can’t accuse a man of being responsible for his wife’s death without giving him a chance to tell his side of it.

  “Look, when you get in, take a cab to the ballpark. The game will still be going on, and even if it’s not, we’ll all still be here working. We can talk more tonight.”

  Stevie hung up and finished his pizza. He boarded the train an hour later and put his head back to think about the day. He wondered exactly what he was doing—or trying to do. He had started writing about sports because he loved sports. Going to the Final Four and the Super Bowl and the World Series had been amazing, even if he was becoming a bit jaded.

  He certainly had not started writing in order to be chased by a giant dog or threatened by a drunken ex-cop. And beyond that, he couldn’t escape one nagging thought: why was he chasing this story? Was it, in fact, a story? Doyle and his family had been through a tragic experience that still clearly affected them to this day. Doyle hadn’t been as forthcoming as he might have been about the facts, but maybe he was entitled to that. It happened twelve years ago and was still painful. Who could blame him for not saying more?

  Stevie sighed, wondering where it would all lead next. He closed his eyes and listened to the train as it chugged through the night. The next thing he knew, he heard the conductor’s voice: “Washington, DC, in five minutes!”

  He looked at his watch: 10:50. Maybe he would catch the end of the game. After all, that had been the reason he’d made the trip to Washington in the first place.

  16: “CALL ME”

  THE CABDRIVER, who was a little surprised when Stevie asked to go to the ballpark, had the game on the radio. It was the bottom of the seventh inning when Stevie got into the cab, the top of the eighth when he got out at the corner of South Capitol Street and Potomac Avenue. The Red Sox were leading, 4–3.

  His press credential got him into the ballpark easily enough, and as instructed by Kelleher, he rode the elevator up to the sixth floor rather than heading for the auxiliary press box.

  “Doug Doughty is in the writing room watching on TV,” Kelleher told him when he arrived. “The wireless works better back there for some reason, and he’s got to file his whole story as soon as the game’s over. You can sit with me.”

  That sounded good to Stevie, but the Nationals press box was so high up the players looked tiny. Kelleher had mentioned to him that Stan Kasten, the Nationals’ president, had told him the only reason it wasn’t higher was because it was already at the top of the stadium. Doughty probably had a better view on TV.

  The game had been back and forth all night, but as soon as Stevie settled in to watch, Big Papi slammed a three-run homer and blew it open. Stevie noticed more than a few cheers when Ortiz hit the home run. Clearly, a fair number of Red Sox fans had gotten their hands on tickets—even in Washington.

  Stevie kept glancing at the TV monitor next to his seat during the ninth, which seemed to go on forever because Jonathan Papelbon, the Red Sox’s closer, insisted on walking two hitters just to make things interesting. Every time Papelbon threw a ball, the cameras shot to Terry Francona, who, almost on cue, would spit sunflower seeds.

  “How many of those does he put in his mouth a night?” Stevie said, pointing to Francona on the TV screen.

  “What’s the number just below infinity?” Kelleher answered, laughing. “It’s a lot healthier than the old days when they all chewed tobacco.”

  “Now, that sounds gross,” Stevie said.

  “Used to be you weren’t considered a major leaguer until you chewed,” Kelleher said. “Rookies used to get sick trying to learn how to chew the stuff without swallowing. Now, thank God, they’ve banned it. Some guys still sneak up the runway to chew, but most go with the sunflower seeds or gum.”

  Papelbon finally struck out Adam Dunn with two on and two out to end the game and give his team a 7–3 win and a 2–1 lead in the series. The Nationals fans left quietly and quickly; the Red Sox fans lingered. Stevie heard one voice from the nearby upper deck bellowing: “It ends here on Sunday! No trip back to Boston!”

  Stevie had been given the night off from writing, but he volunteered to go into the Red Sox clubhouse to shag some quotes for Kelleher, who was writing his column on what it meant for Washington to host a World Series game for the first time in seventy-six years. He wanted a couple of quotes from Red Sox players on the crowd, the stadium, and if they could relate to Washington’s wait after being part of a franchise that had gone eighty-six years between world titles themselves before their breakthrough in 2004.

  Stevie had just finished talking to Jason Varitek, who had said all the right things about the ballpark and the fans and seemed to really mean them. He was walking across the clubhouse to see if he might get close enough to David Ortiz to get a line or two from him when he saw Susan Carol. She was crossing in the other direction.

  “Hey,” he said awkwardly. “How goes it?”

  “Fine,” she said. “How was your day?”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “I’ll bet,” she answered, and kept walking.

  Stevie started to turn around and follow her, then thought better of it. He really didn’t know what he thought of the day himself, and Kelleher was on deadline. He waited for the Ortiz crowd to thin—which didn’t take as long as usual, since Mike Lowell had hit two home runs himself—and asked Ortiz what he thought of the ballpark and the crowd.

  “Very polite,” he said, drawing a laugh. “No, I mean it. Compared to Yankee Stadium, this was like a home game. I mean, we had a lot of our own fans here. You could certainly hear them when I hit the home run. Still, I don’t understand why they build a stadium in downtown Washington and you can’t see any of the monuments.”

  Someone pointed out to him that you could see the Capitol building from the upper deck.

  “I’m not sitting up there, am I?” Ortiz said.

  That, Stevie knew, would be plenty for Kelleher. He snapped his notebook shut and headed into the hallway. He was about to make the right turn to the elevator when he saw a familiar figure standing—alone—a few yards from the Nationals clubhouse. It was Morra Doyle. Her face brightened and she waved.

  “Hey, Steve,” she said.

  “Hi, Morra,” he said, returning the wave. He half turned to go when he noticed that she was walking rapidly in his direction.

  “Have you got a minute?” she asked as she walked up.

  “Actually, not really,” Stevie said. “I’ve got to get some quotes upstairs to someone who’s on a tight deadline.”

  “I understand,” she said. She reached into her purse, fished around, and pulled out a piece of paper. “Can I borrow your pen?”

/>   He handed it to her. She wrote a phone number on the piece of paper. “Look, I know you know about David talking to Susan Carol,” she said. “I’d really like to talk to you sometime tomorrow. Will you call me? That’s my cell.”

  Stevie had a feeling he was being set up—though he wasn’t sure how, or even why—but he nodded. “Sure, I’ll call you,” he said.

  “Great,” she said. She looked around as if to make sure no one was watching her. “This isn’t a setup, honest,” she said. She turned and walked back down the hallway.

  So, Stevie thought, she can read minds. If nothing else, the Doyle family was always full of surprises.

  Stevie filled Kelleher in on his meeting with Morra Doyle in the car on the way home. He and Tamara had come in separate cars because Kelleher had wanted to get to the ballpark very early.

  “My guess is that Susan Carol told David about you going to Lynchburg, and Morra wants to find out what you learned,” Kelleher said. “She’s the logical one to pump you.”

  “Why?” Stevie asked.

  “Come on, Stevie. She’s a pretty fourteen-year-old girl, and you’re a fourteen-year-old boy. How would you have reacted if David had come up to you tonight?”

  “Probably would have punched him.”

  “I rest my case.”

  Stevie asked Kelleher if he had talked to David Felkoff about his henchman, Donald Walsh, turning up in Lynchburg. “Not yet,” Kelleher said. “I’m not ready to tip my hand just yet.”

  Stevie sat quietly for a couple of minutes, trying to turn the whole thing over in his mind. He wondered what Morra had meant when she said this wasn’t a setup. He asked Kelleher what he thought.

  “Well, you were bound to be suspicious,” he said. “She’s trying to make sure you’re curious enough to call.”

  “What if I hadn’t run into her?” he asked.

  “I think you would have gotten a phone call.”

  He supposed it made sense. But something else was bothering him about the whole thing. They were riding in silence along the George Washington Parkway. Kelleher started to turn on the radio. Stevie grabbed his hand and said, “Hang on a second.”