The Dead Pull Hitter

by Alison Gordon

  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.

  “I guess you could say that the other players tolerated him, but he wasn’t really liked. Except for Archie Griffin, the rookie. He liked him. But he likes everyone.”

  “Who were his enemies, then?”

  “I’m not saying he had enemies, just no close friends. Don’t put words into my mouth.”

  “But there must have been some who had more reason to dislike him than others.”

  I didn’t really like where this was taking us. Inevitably, I was going to cast suspicion on one of the players, and I wasn’t in any position to do that. Besides, I couldn’t believe any of them could have done it.

  “Look, there were a lot of guys who didn’t like him, but these men aren’t criminals. Some of the fielders had a problem with him, for example, because he would blame them for his losses but give them no credit when he won.

  “Others resented how easily success came to him. These would be the ones who had to struggle to make it to the big leagues and to hang on once they got here.

  “The manager didn’t like him because Thorson was a pipeline to Ted Ferguson, the owner. I could go on through the whole team and give you reasons. Hell, the clubhouse kids didn’t like him because he was a lousy tipper. But none of this adds up to a motive for murder.”

  “I might be the best judge of that,” Munro said. “What about people outside the team?”

  Like his agent. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten about Craven. I told Munro about my conversation with Morris, stressing that all I had was gossip and speculation. Then it was my turn to ask questions.

  “When do you think he was killed?”

  “It’s hard to pin it down yet. The coroner could only say that it was sometime in the last twelve hours. So it could have happened any time during the night. Probably earlier rather than later. We’ll know better after the autopsy.”

  He closed his notebook and stood up.

  “You’ve been very helpful. Are you ready for the dressing room?”

  I butted my cigarette and stood up.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Chapter 12

  The Titan dressing room was a mess. Socks and jock straps lay in soggy little heaps on the floor. The plastic sheets on the lockers hung askew, partially torn from their thumbtacks. The television platforms were still up.

  There were champagne and beer bottles everywhere: on the floor, in the garbage cans, propped on the tops of lockers. There was even a full one inside a cowboy boot in front of Swain’s locker. He must have gone home in his shower slippers. The room reeked of sweat and sweet wine.

  Yellow tape outlined a path through the dressing room to the showers. In rest of the room, half a dozen men were picking through the debris, taking photographs and looking for clues in the chaos. The whole place was filthy with black fingerprint powder. I didn’t envy them their work.

  “You’ve got an impossible job here,” I said. “There must be a hundred and fifty people who had a legitimate reason to leave fingerprints here yesterday afternoon alone.”

  “That many?” Munro looked alarmed.

  “There are twenty-nine players on the roster. Add four coaches and the manager, the trainer, his assistant, the equipment manager, half a dozen bat boys and clubhouse kids. The ground crew. Security staff. There must have been sixty reporters and television people here before or after the game. The owner, the public relations director and other front-office people, and even the players’ wives and girlfriends. It was a mob scene.”

  Munro looked gloomier by the minute. He ran his right hand through his hair again as he looked around the room.

  “What time did you leave yesterday afternoon? Was Thorson still here?”

  “Yes. There was a clubhouse meeting about Sanchez. The game ended just before four. I was here from about ten minutes after that until the meeting started, which must have been at four-thirty. Then there was a press conference after which I talked to the wives and waited for the players’ meeting to be over. I guess I got back to the office at about five-thirty.”

  “How did the players react to the news?”

  “They were shocked, of course, but they were mainly talking about whether they would play the rest of the season. They decided to wait until today to make the decision.”

  “And Thorson?”

  “I didn’t notice anything in particular. But his wife fainted when I told her.”

  “I wonder what that was about,” he said.

  “I’ve heard she’s pregnant.”

  “Are there any problems in the marriage?”

  “Not that I know of, but I wouldn’t necessarily know. He screwed around a bit on the road. I don’t know whether she knew about it or, for that matter, cared. Athletes have pretty strange relationships with their wives. They’re not like real people. Or not any people I know. They live in a time warp, stuck in the fifties when daddy worked and mummy stayed at home. I sure couldn’t be married to one of them.”

  Munro allowed himself a small smile.

  “What was Thorson like after the game yesterday?”

  “He was part of all the euphoria. He wasn’t right in the middle of things, but he was here, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. It was his finest moment, and he was milking everything he could out of it. The only one he had any harsh words with was me, come to think of it. Does that make me a suspect?”

  “Just don’t leave town, lady,” he said, but he was still smiling. He looked tired. I felt sorry for him.

  “If we’re through, I’d better write my story. If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

  We exchanged business cards, and I started out the door. In the hall, I ran into Moose. He looked awful. His face was pale and blotchy, his eyes bloodshot.

  “What are you doing here? I’ve been leaving messages for you everywhere. We’ve got a press briefing in the boardroom. The rest of the guys are there already. Five minutes.”

  He brushed past me and went to talk to Munro. I phoned Jake from the pay phone in the lounge. They had cobbled a story together on the police desk, so I dictated a few paragraphs about Craig and told him I’d try to get some more for the final edition. Jake said they’d hold it until twelve-thirty.

  The boardroom was packed. Reporters sat in all the available chairs and there were television cameras and lights in place. I scrunched past two crews and found a spot to sit, nodding at the shocked familiar faces.

  This was not a situation in which any of us felt comfortable, and we didn’t know how best to handle it. We are the bearers of good tidings, usually, nothing more tragic than a demotion to the minor leagues or a couple of weeks on the disabled list. We deal in fantasy, in myth and symbolism, escape from the daily harsh realities and murder most foul.

  The low murmur of voices stopped when Moose and Munro came in. Moose began the proceedings.

  “As you all know by now, there has been a second murder. Titan pitcher Steve Thorson was found dead in the clubhouse a few hours ago.”

  He paused, looked down, and took a deep breath. Moose was as uncomfortable as t
he rest of us. Munro was the only one who looked relaxed.

  “Staff Sergeant Lloyd Munro is in charge of the investigation, and he is here to answer any questions you might have. I’ll tell you anything I can from the Titan angle. Staff Sergeant Munro?”

  Munro had done up his tie and buttoned his jacket in honour of the cameras. He stood.

  “Sometime last night or early this morning, Steve Thorson was apparently assaulted with a baseball bat in or near the shower room in the Titan clubhouse. His body was found at approximately eight-thirty this morning by Craig Murphy, age fifteen, one of the clubhouse attendants. At this time we have no suspects in custody.”

  “Does it look like an inside job?”

  “Yes, we are operating on the assumption that the perpetrator was someone familiar with the layout of the stadium.”

  “You mean you suspect one of the players?”

  “Not necessarily. It could have been a member of the organization, other stadium staff—even a member of the media.” Munro stifled a small smile. “There are many possibilities, all of which are being investigated.”

  “Do you think there is a connection with Sultan Sanchez’s murder?”

  “If there isn’t, it’s one hell of a coincidence.”

  “Moose, what about tomorrow’s game?”

  “We don’t know yet. Ted Ferguson is talking to the league office in New York. We’re scheduled to play the Tigers and Yankees this week, and they’re in a fight for second place, so the games are important for them.”

  “Have the players been contacted?”

  “Red and the coaches have been on the phones all morning. The players will be meeting here at eleven, and those who wish to speak to the media will be available immediately afterwards. We’ve opened the press box for you to work in. The clubhouse is, for obvious reasons, closed.”

  “What about Thorson’s family?”

  “His wife, Sandi, was told immediately. Her parents were already in town, and his parents are scheduled to arrive this morning. We have representatives at the airport to meet them. Also, Dolores Sanchez. Of course, the organization will do anything we can to help both families.”

  Moose’s clichés echoed dully in my ears. Some of the reporters asked for up-to-date statistics for Sanchez and Thorson, giving new meaning to the phrase “lifetime stats.” They asked if the Titans would be wearing black armbands when they took the field.

  This was getting me nowhere. It was getting close to eleven, so I decided to slip out and see if I could catch any of the players before they went into the meeting.

  There were policemen guarding all the doors: the umpires’ tunnel, the Titan offices, even the visiting clubhouse. There was no way to get on the field. I went down the corridor to the team parking lot.

  I recognized Stinger Swain’s silver Corvette and Flakey Patterson’s beat-up old Jeep. As I stood there, Tiny Washington pulled up in his white Cadillac with Joe Kelsey, Eddie Carter, and Slider Holmes, a rookie recently called up from the minors.

  We all shook hands, made strangely formal by the circumstances. They were dressed somberly in dark suits and ties.

  “Tell me what you know,” Tiny said.

  I told him about Craig, and about Staff Sergeant Munro.

  “The poor kid,” Joe said. “What an awful thing.”

  “So what are you going to do,” I asked. “Are you going to play, or what?”

  “That’s what we’re here to decide,” Washington said. “We were talking about it on the way over, and we want to go ahead. It’s all we know how. We’ll dedicate the playoff series to Steve and Sultan and get on with it.”

  “I think they’d do the same,” Kelsey said.

  “Are you kidding,” said Carter, bitterly. “They wouldn’t think twice. Not with a World Series ring on the line.”

  Washington looked aggrieved.

  “Cut that out, man,” he said. “All’s it’s going to do is get you in trouble. Even if you are right.”

  They went inside the stadium. I waited in the parking lot and managed to talk to a dozen players. All were shocked and confused, but most were ready to play. I took the elevator to the press box and called Jake again.

  “The players are in their meeting now, but it sounds as if they’ll vote to play. Do you have room for a short sidebar?”

  “Yeah, go for it. I’d like you to stay down there today and keep tabs on what’s going on. I’ll talk to you in an hour. Don’t be late.”

  Moose came into the press box to announce that another press conference was about to begin. Red O’Brien and David Sloane, the player representative, had statements to make. I went back downstairs.

  There were no surprises. The players had decided to finish the season as originally scheduled. Sloane explained:

  “We are shocked and saddened to lose our teammates Steve Thorson and Pedro Sanchez, and we intend no disrespect. We feel the only way to honour their memory is to win the World Series. They both would have wanted it this way.”

  And, yes, the players would be wearing black armbands. Sloane closed his remarks with a prayer.

  Afterwards, Red announced that the league president had given the team permission to add two players to the playoff roster. He was bringing up Harry Belcher, a right-handed starter for the Titan Triple A club in Edmonton. Belcher would arrive later that night. Slider Holmes, who had not been eligible for the playoffs, would take Sanchez’s spot on the roster.

  I raised my hand.

  “Moose, have any funeral arrangements been made?”

  “Not yet. After the bodies are released by the coroner, the families will be taking them home for burial. We plan to hold a memorial service here, probably on Thursday, but we haven’t sorted out the details. I’ll keep you informed.”

  After I wrote and filed my final story, I went to Moose’s office. He was on the phone at his desk, surrounded by stacks of paper. He hung up and motioned me in.

  “Can I help you out with those credentials? I’ve got a bit of time.”

  “That would be great. I’m just ordering lunch. Want some?”

  I accepted, gratefully, and pulled up a chair at the corner of his desk. He passed a stack of applications to me.

  “Put these in piles according to what you know about them. If you’ve heard of the writer or the paper they’re probably okay. Then we’ll go over them together.”

  We worked in companionable silence for half an hour, interrupted only by the constantly ringing phone. Occasionally one of us would read out a name for confirmation or amusement.

  “Mary Lynn McConnachy from something called Sports Today in Oshawa. Who does she think she’s kidding?”

  “Get this, Kate. Ryerson journalism school is trying to send a staff of eight. One of them is allegedly doing a thesis on how the media cover a major sporting event.”

  “Why don’t you recommend they try the curling championships in Hamilton next spring?”

  “These guys must think the applications are being processed by computers.”

  “Or extremely naive elves.”

  When our sandwiches arrived, we took them to the staff lunchroom, but it was full. Moose got us soft drinks from the machine, then set off down the hall.

  “I’ve got to get away from my phone before my head splits. Let’s go to the scouts’ office. It should be empty.”

  He found the right key on his ring and let us in to a small, windowless room with a couple of bare desks and a blackboard on the wall. Moose closed the door behind us. The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Calendar was hanging on the back of it. Still turned to June. I could guess why.

  “Have you got anything for a headache?”

  I dug in my bag and found my pill bottle.

  “Two,” he said.

  “What do you think, Moose? Who done it?”

  “I don’t k
now. Who could have something against both of them?”

  “What if they’re not connected? What if someone with a grudge against Thorson took advantage of Sanchez’s murder to get rid of Steve?”

  “Could be.”

  “What if Thorson found something out about Sanchez? Then the killer had to shut him up.”

  “You’ve been reading too many mysteries, Kate.”

  “Let’s be logical. Gamblers?”

  “What’s the point of killing Thorson after he’s pitched?”

  “Drugs?”

  “Sanchez might have used them, but not Thorson.”

  “No, he wouldn’t tamper with the perfect body. Okay, let’s forget motive. What about opportunity?”

  “It’s got to be someone inside.”

  “Not necessarily.” I told him about the tape on the door between the dugout and the clubhouse.

  “What if someone outside had a confederate tape the door so he could get in later. All he’d have to do is hide somewhere in the stadium after the game, then sneak in.”

  “I wonder what Thorson was doing there?”

  “Maybe someone arranged to meet him.”

  “Funny place for a meeting.” Moose crumpled his sandwich wrapper and tossed it towards the wastebasket. It hit the rim and bounced out.

  I did the same and made the shot. Swish.

  “A buck says you can’t do that again.”

  “Best two out of three,” I said, and retrieved the two paper balls.

  We each made one of our first two shots. I missed the third, and Moose rebounded his off the bookcase. I dug out my wallet and paid up.

  “I do believe I was just hustled. Let’s get back to work. I’ll give you another hour. I’m babysitting tonight and I’ve still got some work to do.”

  “T.C.?”

  “Yeah. He’s pretty upset. Sultan was his buddy, especially after he gave him a glove on Saturday.”

  “That’s tough.”

  He opened the door and held it for me.

  We’d sorted through most of the applications by three-thirty. I left him in his office and went to the clubhouse. I asked the constable at the door if Staff Sergeant Munro was free.