Change-up: Mystery at the World Series

by John Feinstein

  The guy? Stevie’s mind raced. Walsh! It had to be Walsh.

  “Please,” Stevie said, almost pleading. “Let me explain why this is important.”

  Hatley pushed the screen door toward Stevie and said, “Okay, Mac-go!”

  Stevie didn’t wait any longer. He turned and ran as fast as he could, keenly aware of the big dog right behind him. His backpack slapped against his back, and he knew the dog was going to run him down any second. He tried to lengthen his stride and felt himself trip. He went sprawling in the dirt and covered his head instinctively, waiting for the dog to attack.

  “Mac, stop!” he heard from somewhere in the distance.

  The barking and growling stopped. Stevie looked back and saw the dog no more than a step from him, standing stock-still. He couldn’t see Hatley, but he could hear him.

  “Get up and walk off my property,” he said. “Say one word, take a single step in my direction, and I won’t stop the dog.”

  Stevie was aware of a sharp pain in his shoulder, and he knew he had cut himself in several places, including his mouth because he could taste the blood.

  “Get up now!” Hatley said. “I don’t care if you broke your leg. Get up and get moving.”

  Slowly Stevie stood up, his shoulder throbbing, blood oozing from several scrapes. He looked back long enough to see Hatley standing in the yard, halfway between where Stevie was and the front door. He resettled his backpack on his back and started walking.

  If only he could walk all the way home.

  14: CLOSING THE LOOP

  STEVIE WALKED TO THE END OF BRILL’S LANE before he even glanced over his shoulder. Seeing no one, he stopped and took his backpack off so he could check to make sure his computer hadn’t been damaged when he fell.

  It appeared to be fine, as was his phone. He then dialed Miles Hoy. “That didn’t take long,” Hoy said. “Hatley any help?”

  “Not exactly,” Stevie said, not interested in explaining but knowing Hoy would ask him about his bloody lip and the state of his clothes. His shoulder was throbbing, but the pain wasn’t that bad. “Can you come pick me up at the end of Brill’s Lane?”

  “Give me ten or fifteen minutes. I came back downtown to eat. I forgot to get lunch.”

  Stevie didn’t argue. He hung up, found a grassy spot near the road to sit, and dialed Kelleher. When he told him what had happened, Kelleher’s first response was, “Oh jeez, your dad’s going to kill me. I told him you couldn’t possibly get into trouble.”

  “You wouldn’t think that dealing with a retired policeman would be dangerous work,” Stevie said. “What do we do now?”

  For the first time since he’d met him, Stevie sensed that Bobby Kelleher was unsure what to do next. The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening.

  “Bobby?”

  “I’m thinking,” Kelleher said. “Part of me says you should catch the next train home, come to the ballpark, and get your shoulder looked at by a doctor. Then we should sit Susan Carol down and tell her the time for keeping secrets has passed.”

  Stevie liked that idea. But he didn’t think it was the right thing to do. He was already in Lynchburg. They knew now that Norbert Doyle had lied about his wife’s death. But they didn’t have enough facts to write a story yet or even to confront Doyle.

  “I think I should stay awhile longer,” Stevie said. “I think I should try to find the babysitter and see if she knows anything. It must’ve been Walsh who warned Sergeant Hatley someone might be coming, right? But maybe he figured that’d be enough. Maybe he hasn’t found Erin James yet.”

  Again Kelleher didn’t answer right away. “Okay,” he said finally. “Start with the phone book. There’s obviously a good chance she doesn’t live there anymore, but it’s worth a shot while you’re there. I’m still trying to find out who the hell Walsh is. He told that cop some kind of giant lie about you or, more likely, paid him off to not talk to you. So he’s not another reporter.”

  “He could be a tabloid guy.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. That’s possible. I’m heading for the ballpark now. Maybe I’ll find out more there.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you back if I have any luck.”

  Stevie heard Kelleher sigh. “Do me one favor,” he finally said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Be careful.”

  “Bobby, I am being careful,” Stevie said.

  “I know. Be carefuller.”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “For you I need to make up words. Call me back within the hour one way or the other.”

  He hung up just as Stevie saw Miles Hoy’s cab come into view. He stood up and waved even though he was the only person on the road. He glanced at his watch and saw it was a little after two. He still had time to find Erin James-he hoped-and make that 4:45 train.

  Hoy braked to a halt and Stevie climbed into the backseat. Hoy turned and stared at him. “What in the world happened to you?”

  “The guy’s got a big dog,” Stevie said. “I fell running from him.”

  “He sicced his dog on you? That’s crazy! What could you possibly have said to get him that upset?”

  “I didn’t get to say much of anything,” Stevie said honestly.

  “Wow,” Hoy said. “So are you going to head home now?”

  “Not just yet,” Stevie answered. “There’s one more person I need to find.”

  “I hope whoever it is doesn’t have a dog,” Hoy said.

  Stevie laughed, which made his head hurt a little bit.

  “I don’t suppose you know Erin James?” Stevie asked. “She lived here about a dozen years ago…”

  “Still lives here,” Hoy said. “She teaches my son history at the high school. She’s also the girls’ basketball coach. I would think we’ll find her at practice right now.”

  “Really?” Stevie asked. He was a little surprised to find that Erin James was still in Lynchburg, stunned that Miles Hoy not only knew her but apparently knew just where she was at that moment. “Can you take me there right now?”

  “I can,” he said. “But we’re going to stop somewhere so you can at least clean up. You’re a mess.”

  Stevie didn’t argue. Hoy stopped at a Wal-Mart, and Stevie bought a new shirt to replace the filthy, bloodied one he had been wearing and cleaned up as best he could in the bathroom.

  “Good as new,” he reported to Hoy, who had waited for him outside.

  “Then you weren’t very good new,” Hoy laughed. “Come on, let’s roll. It’s almost three o’clock.”

  Hoy parked in back of Lynchburg High School and walked Stevie into the gym. The boys’ basketball team was on the court practicing.

  “They switch off every day,” Hoy said. “Today the boys must be first. That means Erin will be in her office. Come on.”

  They walked through the gym and up a flight of steps to a hallway that had several offices in it. Stevie followed Hoy until he stopped in an open doorway.

  “ Erin?” he said, poking his head inside the door. “I’ve got someone here who would like to talk to you for a minute. He’s a friend of mine, and I’d appreciate it if you’d try to help him out.”

  Stevie heard a voice from inside the office. “Sure, Miles, send him in. I’ve got a few minutes before practice.”

  “I’ll wait for you in the gym,” Hoy said, patting Stevie on the back.

  Stevie wasn’t exactly sure why Miles Hoy had decided to take him under his wing, but he was grateful that he had.

  Erin James was seated behind a desk and writing on note cards when he walked in. “Today’s practice plan,” she said, looking up at Stevie. She had short brown hair and piercing blue eyes.

  “Ms. James, my name is Steve Thomas,” he said shyly.

  “ Erin,” she said, standing up and coming around the desk to shake hands.

  Stevie almost gasped when she stood. Erin James was, without question, the tallest woman he had ever met. At five eleven, Susan Carol was extremely tall. E
rin James was at least three inches taller. She smiled down at him, her hand out, and said, “What can I do for you, Steve?”

  Stevie managed to find his voice. “I-I wanted to ask you about the night Analise Doyle died,” he finally managed to say.

  Erin James frowned down at him for a moment, then walked back behind her desk, indicating that Stevie should sit in the chair opposite. He was grateful that they were both now sitting.

  “Why don’t you tell me why you want to know about that night,” she said.

  Stevie nodded. He explained to her who he was and walked her through everything that had happened since he’d met Norbert Doyle-leaving out only the part about Susan Carol’s Faneuil Hall meeting with David Doyle. He wasn’t sure if he should be giving her so much information. Kelleher probably would have counseled him to say “I’m a reporter working on a possible story” and leave it at that. But something told Stevie that telling her everything was the best way to get her to trust him. Or maybe he was just dazzled by her. He couldn’t be completely sure.

  When he had finished, she leaned back in her chair for a moment.

  “That’s quite a story,” she said. “I watched Norbert pitch the other night. I hadn’t thought of him in a long time. And I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take the media to dig into his past and come back here. Turns out it was just two days…”

  Stevie wasn’t sure what to say next. He wondered how Erin James felt about her old summertime employer.

  “I always wondered,” she finally said after a long pause, “if the truth would ever come out.”

  “What is the truth?” Stevie asked.

  She put up a hand. “I don’t know what the truth is. If Norbert Doyle told you his wife was killed by a drunk driver, I suspect he was talking about himself. But I’m no more sure about that than you are.”

  “What do you know? What do you remember about that night?”

  She sat and looked out the window for a moment. “Do you want me to talk for the record?” she said. Stevie had taken out his notebook after they sat down.

  “I don’t know how to answer that,” Stevie said. “Right now I’m looking more for information than quotes. We could go on background if you’d be more comfortable.”

  “I’ve heard the term. But tell me exactly what that means, will you?”

  “It means you won’t be quoted, but I can use the information in a story if I need it.”

  She nodded. “Okay. I think that works for me.”

  She paused again. Stevie wondered if it was okay to take notes when you were talking on background.

  When she started to talk, he completely forgot about taking notes.

  “I had finished my freshman year at Virginia Tech,” she said. “As you might have guessed, I was a basketball player…”

  Stevie knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t resist. “How tall are you?” he asked.

  “Six three,” she said. “I was six three when I was fourteen. Believe me, it wasn’t fun.”

  Stevie decided to shut up. Her height was not part of the story.

  “Anyway,” she continued. “The baseball team put out the word in the community that some of the players and their wives were looking for babysitters, and the Doyles hired me to sit for their twins right after I got back from school in early June. I was working as a camp counselor during the daytime and I liked making the extra money at night.

  “They were very nice people. Most of the time I would sit when Mr. Doyle was pitching and Mrs. Doyle wanted to go to the game. But this was an off night and they were going out to dinner.

  “I put the twins down just after sunset, about eight-thirty,” she said. “It was a perfect night. Not even that hot. I sat on the back porch reading.

  “They had said they wouldn’t be that late-maybe ten-thirty or eleven. By midnight I was beginning to wonder what had happened. There were no cell phones then, so I couldn’t try to call them. I tried the restaurant, but they had already left. I started work at my day job at seven, so I was getting a little concerned. About midnight I called my parents. They said they’d come over and stay with the kids so I could go home to sleep. They got there just before Officer Molloy showed up.”

  “Officer Molloy?” Stevie said. He hadn’t heard that name before. “The report on the accident was written by-”

  “Officer Hatley,” she said. “That’s what I heard later on. Nothing stays secret in a small town for very long. This is where the story has always been a little bit murky to me.”

  He waited, hoping they had arrived at the place where she might clear some things up for him.

  “Officer Molloy told us there’d been an accident, that the Doyles’ car had hit a tree. I remember my mom saying, ‘Oh God, Joe, are they okay?’ My parents knew Joe Molloy-know Joe Molloy-pretty well. Anyway, I remember he shook his head and said, ‘He is. She’s not. I’m afraid she’s dead.’

  “I sort of freaked out right then. I’d never known anyone who died except my grandmother.”

  She paused a moment. “I know I’m dragging this out, but I’m getting to the part that may be important to you.”

  Stevie just nodded.

  “When I calmed down a little, Officer Molloy was describing the scene to my parents, and it sounded pretty terrible. He said the car was totaled. He said Norbert was incoherent, trying to get up to get to Analise. He said he left the scene to come tell us what was going on after Sergeant Hatley got there.”

  Stevie was rocked. There had been no mention in the report that another officer had been at the scene or, perhaps more importantly, that another officer had been there before Hatley.

  “The police report doesn’t mention Officer Molloy at all,” he said.

  “I’ve never seen it, but I guess I’m not totally surprised,” she said. “My dad asked Joe Molloy why he had left the scene if he was the first one there. He said that Jim and Norbert were close friends and that Jim had wanted to stay with Norbert and handle the situation.

  “I remember thinking that sounded reasonable, nice even, but also maybe a little suspicious. My dad said, ‘Joe, was the pitcher drinking?’

  “And Joe just said, ‘That’s a fair question. I’m sure Jim will check that out.’”

  “Did you know there’s no mention in the report of any kind of Breathalyzer being taken or any sobriety check at all?” Stevie said.

  “Well,” she said, “there was nothing in any of the papers or the TV reports about Mr. Doyle drinking. My dad wondered if maybe Jim Hatley had taken care of his friend the baseball player. I thought maybe they’d checked and found out he wasn’t drinking…” She paused. “So the report says he was never tested? That doesn’t sound right.”

  “It doesn’t say anything about a sobriety check. Just that he swerved to avoid an animal.”

  “He didn’t pitch again that season,” she said. “I remember that. They said it was the cracked ribs and his collarbone. But I remember the initial doctor’s report said he’d be out two to three weeks, and there were six weeks left in the season.”

  She let that hang there without going on. Stevie’s mind raced. He looked at his watch. Almost three-thirty. “I know you have to go to practice,” he said. “But one last question. Is Joe Molloy still around here?”

  She smiled. “I thought you’d ask me that,” she said. “He’s the deputy chief of police now. He’s probably at the station. Miles can help you find him, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She stood up and Stevie felt a little bit dizzy looking up at her again. “I liked the Doyles, they were always very nice to me. The kids were cute and smart. Watching him pitch the other night, I felt happy for him. But I’ve always wondered what really happened that night. Maybe you’ll find out.”

  “Maybe,” Stevie said. “I hope so.”

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ll take you back to Miles.”

  15: THE GOOD COP

  WHEN THEY WALKED BACK TO THE CAB and Stevi
e asked if he could go next to the police station, Miles Hoy asked the question Stevie’d been waiting for: “When are you going to tell me what you’re really looking for here?”

  Stevie nodded. “You’re entitled,” he said, and on their way to the police station, he filled him in. Hoy listened and said little.

  “I wasn’t here back then,” Hoy said after a pause. “I was still working in Atlanta.”

  “What brought you here?” Stevie asked.

  “My grandparents owned a house here and they left it to me. I’d always liked Lynchburg -it’s a nice, small town. People are friendly-even Jim Hatley, most days. I drive the cab and I also do some part-time coaching at the junior high school. Keeps me busy enough.”

  Stevie asked him if he knew Joe Molloy.

  “Everyone knows Joe Molloy,” he said. “He’ll be chief when Bob Lawson retires in a few years. Good man. I think you’ll like him.”

  The police station, as it turned out, was behind the courthouse, just across a parking lot from the back door. It was just before four o’clock when they pulled up. Hoy volunteered to come inside and try to smooth the way for him-Stevie gratefully accepted the offer.

  They walked into the small one-level building and found a burly cop with a mustache sitting behind the desk. “What’s up, Miles?” he asked in a friendly tone. Stevie doubted he would have been greeted quite so warmly on his own.

  “Young man here needs a minute with Chief Molloy,” Hoy said. “Is he around?”

  The desk cop, whose name tag said J. G. Brendle, looked at Stevie as if waiting for him to explain. When Stevie stayed quiet, he just shrugged. “He’s here,” he said, picking up the phone. “Let me see if he’s busy. Why don’t you guys have a seat.”

  Brendle put the phone down a minute later and said: “Miles, you’re in luck. He’ll be right out.”

  A few seconds later a door swung open and a tall man with blond hair and an easy smile walked over to them.

  “Miles, what have you brought me today?” he asked, hand out as he approached Hoy.

  “Someone who has some interesting questions for you, I think,” Hoy answered.