by Donald Bain
“Very funny. Very funny,” Sam said.
“I know, I know,” Buddy said, holding his hands in a defensive position. “But let’s just get it done and—”
Carter leaned forward to talk to Jack. “You here to empty out Ty’s locker, Judge?” he asked.
Jack nodded.
“I could have done that for you. You didn’t have to come yourself.”
“And I wanted to see what a baseball locker room looked like,” I said. “The judge said this was a good time.”
Carter turned back to Buddy, who was making announcements, just as Sylvester Cole walked into the room.
“Hello, Sylvester,” Buddy said. “Didn’t expect to see you.”
“Didn’t expect to be here myself,” Cole said, taking a seat next to Jack and leaning close to his ear to say something. Jack wiggled his fingers, a nonverbal response that indicated they’d talk later.
Buddy glanced at his boss, as if waiting for him to take over the meeting before he released the players to clean out their lockers. Buddy’s expression mirrored his confusion. The same question he’d posed outside was obviously on his mind at this moment: Why had H.B. called this last-minute meeting? The owner had told Buddy he wanted to address the team about some issue. What was it? Had it been a ploy by Bennett just to get the locker room cleaned out? What was going on here?
Some of the players began to talk among themselves, darting glances at Buddy and H.B.
Bennett cleared his throat and came to Buddy’s side. “What I have to say,” he said haltingly, “has to do with my son’s death.”
The voices in the locker room hushed immediately.
“I know that none of you like me, and probably most of you didn’t give a damn about Junior or the way he died. But I think Mrs. Fletcher might change a few minds.”
All eyes turned in my direction.
“I want you to listen carefully to what she has to say.” Bennett nodded at me and stepped back. I stood, straightened my skirt, and went to the front of the room.
“Thank you for coming here on such short notice,” I said. “I wouldn’t have asked Mr. Bennett to call this meeting unless there was a very good reason for it, and murder, I think, ranks high on any list of good reasons. Junior Bennett’s murder was a tragedy that didn’t have to happen. It’s devastated his family, and has had an impact on everyone in this room.” I allowed my gaze to wander over the assembled, stopping briefly at each face, each set of eyes, finally coming to rest on Carter Menzies. He looked away and shifted in his chair.
“Junior Bennett was killed with an aluminum baseball bat,” I said. “You, Carter, were the last person to have one in your possession at the Crazy Coyote, yet when I asked you if you’d seen it that night, you said no.”
He looked right and left at his teammates, none of whom said anything. “Um, I don’t remember.”
I pointed at the president of the Rattlers’ fan club. “Lou, who seems to live and die for the Rattlers, might remember. He’d brought a bat to the Crazy Coyote. Want to tell us why, Lou?”
Lou pushed himself up off the bench. “You know, I love this team,” he said. “I’m your biggest fan, even when you’re not nice to me. I know a lot of you make fun of me behind my back.”
Many of the players looked away, uncomfortable.
“But I don’t care. I just like hanging out with you guys. You’re the greatest. Even when you don’t win. But you did. We’re the champs!” He pumped a fist in the air, hoping for a cheer. No one responded.
“Lou,” I said. “Tell us about the bat.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry. I, um, brought my bat to the Coyote for Junior and all you guys to sign. But Junior didn’t want to do it just then. He would have done it later. I know he would. He was just in a bad mood. He was having a fight with his girlfriend. Anyhow, Carter took the bat and said he’d get Junior and the rest of you to sign it for me. You’re the best, Carter.”
Carter sat with his forearms resting on his knees, eyes trained on the floor. He swiveled his head to look at Lou. “Thanks, Lou.”
“And Lou,” I said, “was it an aluminum bat?”
“Yeah.”
“Carter.” I fixed the handsome young outfielder in my stare. “When I asked you and some of your teammates if anyone had seen the bat, you all said no. Was that true, Carter? Is Lou lying?”
Carter started to speak, stopped, shook his head. Finally he looked up at me. “No, Mrs. Fletcher. I saw the bat.”
“So you did take the bat from Lou and promise to get Junior to sign it. Isn’t that right, Carter?”
“That’s about right,” he said. “Yeah, that happened.”
“Which could mean you were the last person to have possession of that bat—the bat that turned out to be the weapon that killed Junior.”
His teammates began whispering to each other.
“Wait a minute,” Carter said. “Are you accusing me—?”
“I’m not accusing anyone right now. Don’t jump to conclusions. I’m simply tracing the possession of an aluminum bat.”
“Did Junior sign it?” Billy Nassani asked Carter.
“No,” Carter said. “I mean, I wanted to get Junior to sign it for the dweeb but—”
There were snickers around the room.
“I think you mean Lou, don’t you?” I said.
Carter blushed. “Yeah, sorry. I wanted to get Junior to sign it for Lou, but he wasn’t around.”
“What did you do with the bat?” I asked.
“Shoot. I don’t know. Oh, wait a minute. I remember all the guys running outside, so I went outside, too, and I brought it with me. That’s when I saw Ty deck Junior. I just left it propped up against the building and went to stop the fight.”
“And that’s the last time you saw it?” I asked.
“Yes. Right. Absolutely. I never saw it again.”
Billy Murphy, the team’s catcher, guffawed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Carter asked angrily.
“Nothing, man. Chill.”
“It means,” I said, “that anyone who went into the parking lot to watch the fight between Junior and Ty—any one of you—could have picked up that bat.”
The ballplayers squirmed in their seats, eyes darting around the room.
I turned my attention to Lou, the fan club president. “Did you ever see the bat again, Lou?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am, I never did.”
“But someone did,” I said. “Whoever killed Junior found that bat outside the bar and used it as a murder weapon.”
There were nods and verbal sounds of agreement.
Sam spoke up. “I bet it was his girlfriend, that reporter, Karen Locke. She was fighting with him all night.”
“Speedster’s right,” Murph called out.
“Did any of you witness that fight?”
“I saw them argue,” Nassani said, “but I don’t know what it was about.”
“That’s right,” someone else said. “She and Junior didn’t get along. They were always fighting. Man, I never knew what he saw in her.”
I wondered whether Karen could hear this exchange through the walls of the locker room. I’d called her after returning to the Duffys’ home, told her of the meeting that was planned, and suggested she might want to come to the stadium.
“Stay out of sight until I call you,” I’d told her. Was she outside at that moment? I hoped so.
“This is ridiculous,” Carter said. “The way I always figured it, somebody happened on Junior that night outside the bar and robbed him. Junior fought back and got killed. There were lots of people in the Coyote that night, not just us.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t hold water, Carter,” I said. “The police report indicates that nothing was missing from Junior that night. His wallet and cash were on his person.”
Cole stood up to leave. “Hey, listen, this is a nice intellectual exercise, Mrs. Fletcher, but I don’t see why it concerns me or Judge Duffy.�
� He turned to Jack. “Why don’t we talk outside?”
I shifted my attention to the back of the room. “I appreciate your coming here this evening, Sylvester,” I said.
“Fine,” he said, “but none of this means anything to me. Sure, I hope Junior’s killer gets caught and punished, but I came here to talk business with Judge Duffy. We just got caught up in this meeting, right, Judge?”
“Actually, Sylvester, I asked for you to be here,” I said.
“I can’t imagine what for. And I’ve got better things to do right now. So I’ll say ciao.”
“Maybe you can answer a few questions before you leave.”
“I don’t see the need to answer any questions. I’ve already spoken to the police. With all due respect, you’re not a policeman, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“But I am,” came a voice from the door. Sheriff Hualga was leaning against the jamb, his arms folded across his chest.
I heaved a small sigh of relief. I’d informed him of my plans for the meeting and he’d been skeptical. But I’d prevailed upon him to be available in the event things got out of hand. We weren’t at that point yet, thank goodness. But I was grateful to see that he’d arrived.
“I don’t think you’ll be leaving, Mr. Cole,” I said.
Cole appeared unsure of what action to take next.
“You might as well sit down again,” I said. “As you can see, you’re not going anywhere until I’ve finished what I have to say.”
He gave me a hateful look but walked back to the bench. “Are you involved in this?” he snarled at Jack Duffy.
Jack smiled and indicated with his hand Cole’s empty chair. “I’m not sure where this is going,” Jack said, “but it sounds like it’s about to get interesting.”
Cole sat as I prepared to continue. But he popped up again and said in a loud voice, “This is crazy. Are you accusing me of killing Junior Bennett? Because if you are, I want to know it. I want to know why I’m being singled out here.”
I said nothing in response.
“Well,” he said, “if you are, you’ve gone off the deep end, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe you’ve been reading too many of your own mystery novels.” He looked at the others in the room for a sign of support, but instead received blank stares.
“Hey,” he said to the players, who’d turned in their seats to watch, “I’m no murderer. I’m a sports agent. I’m on your side. I love you guys. We work together, and I make my living from getting you the best deals possible.”
“Is that why you killed Junior?” I asked matter-of-factly.
“What are you talking about? Sheriff, she’s nuts,” he shouted, red-faced. “I wasn’t interested in representing Junior. I had nothing to do with Junior. Ask Mr. Bennett. Ty Ramos was the one I wanted to sign.”
“Exactly,” I said.
Cole took a deep breath, then shook his head and winked at the players, as if he were humoring an addled aunt. He shrugged his shoulders and flashed that winning smile he used to charm many a prospective client. “Look, I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding. You know me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’m a good guy.” He made eye contact with each man, one at a time. “Does anybody here think I’d let Ty Ramos take the rap for something I did? I love that kid like he is my own brother. I want to see him make it to the Big Show, become a superstar. We can make millions together. Together! Remember, I don’t make anything if he’s sitting in jail. I’m the last guy who’d want to see him end up in prison for the rest of his life for something he didn’t do.”
“Very convincing, Mr. Cole,” I said, “but you don’t have to be an expert in psychology to know that self-preservation is a primary instinct, more important even than making money. You didn’t think about that when killing Junior, did you? All you thought about was protecting an investment.”
He made a couple of false starts, sputtering, looking from person to person for understanding. Receiving none, he said, “You’ve got it all wrong, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Under different circumstances, what you say would be true. Ty Ramos would have been your meal ticket. Signing him could have pulled you out of bankruptcy.”
“What are you talking about?” he barked, but the blood had drained from his face.
“I’m talking about your gambling debts and how betting has put you in an untenable financial position.”
Jack stiffened in his seat, glanced at me, and slowly shook his head, probably more in upset at having been taken in by the smooth-talking agent than shock at learning the truth about the murderer.
Cole pulled himself up to full height and assumed a defiant expression and posture. “A recent temporary setback,” he said. “Just a bump in the road. Everyone has them. How would killing Junior Bennett help that?”
“Junior threatened your investment,” I said. “He was obsessed with destroying Ty’s chances to make it into the major leagues. He was spreading lies about him, vicious lies that when coupled with aspects of Ty’s background could well have sunk his chances to ever become a major-leaguer. He had you convinced, didn’t he, Mr. Bennett? You asked the league to look into Ty’s activities—you told me that yourself. Did they find anything?”
“Not yet,” H.B. said, scowling. “Go on.”
I turned back to Cole. “You had to stop Junior, didn’t you, to protect Ty’s career, but you never imagined that Ty would be accused in your stead.”
Cole now appeared ready to bolt. But Carter, Murph, and the other players stood up to block all possible exits from the room. I looked to Harrison Bennett for any angry reaction to what I’d just said about his deceased son. There was none. He sat ramrod straight in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, his face devoid of any telltale emotions. “Anything else, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes,” I said, looking at Cole. “You called Judge Duffy to inform him about the murder weapon being found.”
“That’s right. So?”
“You said the police found the bat in an open Dumpster outside this stadium. You heard it on the radio. Yet the police report said nothing about the Dumpster being open, so the radio couldn’t have reported it that way. It’s not open usually. Buddy Washington was surprised to see it that way tonight. All the others are closed. But the person who wiped the bat clean and threw it away would have known this Dumpster was missing a top.”
He started to respond, but no words came.
“You also spoke of Mr. Bennett’s new Mercedes. It was green, you said. You hate the color green. Yet I believe H.B. had it delivered from the dealer the morning of the murder. He never even drove it himself. You couldn’t have known it was green unless you’d seen it—unless you were at the Crazy Coyote the night Junior was killed.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I—”
“The police found a lot of footprints near Junior’s body. Sheriff Hualga, you may want your officers to check out Mr. Cole’s shoes. I’m confident the photographs of footprints from the crime scene contained in the police report will match up nicely with a pair of his shoes.”
There was a deathly stillness in the room.
Cole’s sudden smile was wide and engaging. “You’re one smart lady, Mrs. Fletcher. I really have to hand it to you. The only problem is, you’ve got it all wrong.”
