Dying to Play

by Mark Zubro

  As we took our first steps, I asked, “You’re sure about security?”

  “Yep. They’ve just got the entrances covered with electronics. They’ve got random patrols like the one we ran into yesterday. We’ll see or hear them coming.”

  A half-moon shone and the stars were bright as we stepped through the night. Crickets chirped, mosquitoes whined, and fireflies danced. It was almost windless. Near the pole sheds the air hung heavy with the aroma of cow. We passed three football field-long sheds filled with animals.

  At the fourth, Jerry tapped my shoulder and motioned me toward a window. We peered inside.

  I could see long rows of benches with vials and funnels and pulleys and chemical containers. There were occasional dim emergency lights.

  I whispered, “Where are the guards?”

  “It’s mostly big, burly college kids. The one we ran into yesterday afternoon must have gotten lucky when he stumbled on our car.”

  “Are these buildings wired?”

  “Pretty much. I found a way to crawl under and get inside from below.”

  We crawled under the building. It smelled less like cow and more like musty earth. Using elbows, knees, hands, and feet we crept twenty feet. Jerry lifted a trapdoor.

  I whispered, “Why is there a trap door?”

  “I think it’s where they used to run an outlet for cow shit.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry about sensors inside. They only have motion detectors set to sound an alarm. I disabled two of them inside here earlier, and we can do any others if we have to now. There’s no surveillance cameras.”

  He scrambled through and turned and gave me a hand.

  We stood amid the vast array of tables. We used pencil thin flashlights. He pointed to several wall mounted alarms that neither blinked nor glowed.

  We walked down the central aisle. There were conveyor belts and work stations. We found one wall lined with unlabeled vats.

  Several voices broke the quiet. We shut off our lights and dropped to the floor. They were outside. The locks on the doors were rattled. Then the voices moved on.

  We resumed our inspection.

  By the time we were inside the third building, I said, “There’s nothing here that says they’re doing something illegal. Supposedly he’s providing elixirs.”

  “Do they do any good?”

  “No idea. Murray says a lot of people in the town think they’re great.”

  “The whole town is addicted to drugs?”

  “Hell if I know.” In the next building we found what looked like bottles of finished product. There were unlabeled glass containers crammed with different colored pills. Rows of bottles filled with multi-colored liquids sat on deep shelves. I pointed at them and said, “Lydia Pinkham’s’ Vegetable Compound.”

  “Who?”

  “More of a what. Not important.”

  We entered four more buildings and found a variety of chemical-making equipment and finished product in jars, boxes, and bags. No neon signs said ‘illegal drugs here’. In the last one Jerry said, “If they’ve got secret or underground lairs, I haven’t found them.”

  “Can we take a look around the house?”

  Jerry led the way.

  It was after one in the morning when we looked through the large picture window into Hopper’s front parlor. We were on the other side of a wide, poorly-lit lawn. A can of bug spray and a set of binoculars sat next to each other in my field kit. Jerry pulled out a pair of night vision goggles.

  The driveway was filled with cars.

  Through the window we saw Hopper, Sebastian Rotella, Trader Smith, Brandon Saldovi, Todd Timmons with his bushy red beard, Krunst, Bordine, Meyers, Ornstein with a small bandage on his head where his huge zit used to be, and the two guys from the limousine. They crowded the room and all had drinks in their hands.

  I said, “What the fuck?”

  Jerry said, “That is the correct technical question.”

  We continued to monitor our surroundings for the guard patrols. We spoke in low voices.

  I said, “Wish we could hear what they’re saying.”

  Jerry said, “We could ask the guy hiding in the bushes to the left of the window.” He handed me his night vision goggles.

  I looked. It was Murray. “What the hell?”

  “Want me to sneak up on him? Capture him?”

  “He might call out and alert someone to our presence.”

  A door slammed on the left side of the house. A siren began a full-throated, gurgling whoop-whoop. Floodlights flashed on. The people in the room jumped to their feet. Guards emerged from the darkness.

  I heard a voice yell, “Get the dogs.”

  Murray sprinted toward our position.

  I saw one of the guards lifting a shotgun. Jerry’s gun was in his hand. He fired and hit the shotgun as the guy pulled the trigger. The guard’s shot went wild. Then they all had guns out blasting away. They shouted to each other.

  Murray, who hadn’t stopped sprinting, rushed past our position about ten feet to our right. We dodged deeper into the trees after him.

  He wasn’t hard to follow as he crashed through the woods. When he’d gone far enough to run out of breath, he stopped. I tackled him and put my hand over his mouth. I said, “It’s Mike King. Shut up, they’re right behind us.”

  SATURDAY 1:32 A.M.

  I felt Murray nod. He and I leapt to our feet. Then the three of us rushed through the night. When we neared our car, I heard the barking of dogs in the distance. We jumped in and roared away.

  Murray gasped several times then said, “Thanks.”

  Jerry asked, “Where’s your car?”

  “They won’t find it. I hid it where we used to come to drink when we were kids.”

  “What were you doing there?” I asked.

  He leaned forward so that his arms lay on the seat backs. “Spying.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “Only bits and pieces. The windows were open but they had ceiling fans on. From what I could make out, they’re all mad at each other, and they’re all in on it.”

  “Smith is a traitor?”

  “Must be.”

  “And Timmons and Ornstein are in it with Hopper.”

  “Apparently.”

  “In on what and mad about what?” Jerry asked.

  “They’re mad about the bus crash. They’re all blaming each other for stupidity. Some of them are mad at Hopper for Skeen’s death. He said his drugs are harmless. Nobody claimed to know anything about Czobel. The only thing they agreed on is their hatred for Connor Knecht, but they were also worried about you, about the investigation. If they find you, you’re dead. They don’t know how many operatives you have, but they’re determined.”

  “What about drugs?”

  “They didn’t say much. The big thing is there’s supposed to be an attack on the stadium tonight.”

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jerry asked, “Why do an attack so close to the bus crash?”

  “I heard Hopper order the stadium attack before the rest got there. We should call the cops and warn them.”

  I said, “But Rotella’s in on it with them.”

  “Call Connor Knecht and warn him.”

  I did. Finished, I asked, “Why’d they arrest Hempil?”

  Murray shrugged. “I think they’re going to try to pin everything on him.”

  “Everything? Skeen’s murder, the bus crash, and Czobel’s death?”

  “If they can’t pin it on you.”

  SATURDAY 2:18 A.M.

  We met Knecht in the park across the street from the stadium. He had two custodians and the teenage guard, Kosta Boone, with him. The minions he planned to hire for safety after the bus crash weren’t scheduled to arrive for a day and a half.

  Duncan and Georgia joined us from the bed and breakfast. If we could, we wanted to catch whoever it was in the act of doing the sabotage.


  We decided to place ourselves strategically around and inside the stadium. We’d leave our cell phones on a conference call line.

  I trotted through the shadows past the darkened gates and around the outfield fence. I used more care than ever as I got to the foul pole in left field. Distant emergency lights didn’t illumine anything this far away. I climbed the short fence. I hunched down close to the seats along the third base side and made my way toward the dugout.

  I paused ten feet away. I raised my head above the wall to the stands. Empty, dark witnesses to so many broken dreams, silent, emotionless. Nothing moved. I inched forward enough to peer into the dugout. No one. A towel left on the bench the only remnant of sports equipment.

  The first passage I entered had a mural on the wall on the left of a cowboy riding a mustang in a rustic corral.

  The lock on the door to the weight room was easy to jimmy. I eased it open. Too new to squeak. Another emergency light. I entered. No cover to hide me here, but I saw no one.

  I arrived at the door to the locker room. Still no sound. The air was cool. The door was unlocked. That was wrong. I stepped inside. I found a large mound of equipment in the center of the floor and an unopened can of gasoline sitting next to it.

  I heard loud banging on the door that led to the grandstand. I opened it. Murray and Jerry stood on the other side.

  Jerry had a scrawny teenager in one hand.

  “Who’s he?”

  “We found him building a pyre under the grandstand. There were at least two more, but they ran.”

  The teen was short and emaciated. He had sad brown eyes. He might have been sixteen.

  Murray demanded, “Who told you to set a fire tonight?”

  The kid stood in the middle of the circle of us in the locker room. He began to cry.

  I got him a chair and handed him a towel so he could wipe his tears. I said to the others, “Could you leave us alone for a couple minutes?” The two of them left.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “José.”

  I said, “I’m not going to report you to the authorities.”

  “I should believe that why?”

  “I haven’t called the police. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “They threatened us. My mom and dad are here illegally.”

  I said, “You were told if you didn’t do damage to the stadium, they’d be deported?”

  “Yes. We have to do whatever Charlie Hopper says. We have no choice.”

  “Why not report him to the police?”

  “Him and Rotella are friends. We get nothing from the police. Tonight, we were supposed to start the fire at several spots.”

  “We can protect you, get you legal counsel.”

  “I’m not testifying. My parents will get sent back. Even though I was born here, they could make trouble for me.”

  “They who?”

  “Hopper.”

  “Did he directly tell you to cause damage?”

  “No, one of those big college kids. I don’t know his name.”

  “Have you done other damage?”

  “All the damage has been done by us. We’ve all been threatened.”

  “Do the immigrants make the drugs?”

  “Some of us. We follow the formulas that the college kids give us.”

  “Do you know anything about the bus sabotage?”

  “No, none of us would do that.”

  “Do you know who moved a dead body around?”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  I brought all the others in. We had to decide what to do with the poor kid. Jerry took him to the locker room while the rest of us discussed the situation.

  We talked far into the night and got nowhere near a solution. What was driving all this? Fear? Desperation? A master plan of hate gone mad? Hatred for Knecht? Czobel’s investigation? And what would stop their madness?

  We decided that the next day Jerry would meet with DEA people while Duncan worked on the phone and the flash drive. Georgia would do lawyer things connected to Hempil and Jose and any of the immigrants who wished help. I’d begin questioning more people.

  We feared that we’d find the trailer park for the undocumented workers abandoned, and if any of them were left, that they would be unwilling to testify. As for the college kids Hopper was using, none of us had a way to break into that circle. Jerry put the kid we’d caught to work cleaning up the mess and then turned him over to Georgia.

  It was well on toward dawn when I returned to Campbell’s room. He’d given me a key earlier. Our embrace was fierce, our kissing torrid, our passion intense. It was deep into early morning when we finished for the third time.

  SATURDAY 10:23 A.M.

  I woke after too little sleep. Turns out Donny was frisky in the morning as well. He was even better than the night before.

  Torrid passion was great but there was work to do. After a last kiss, I left, stopped at the bed and breakfast for a shower and a change of clothes.

  I checked with Duncan. He still hadn’t broken into the phone or the flash drive. He’d been up all night and his tie was slightly undone, a sure sign he was under stress.

  I called Georgia. She was in lawyer mode down at the jail working on Hempil’s release, with Jose and his parents, and with the few illegal workers who were left. Jerry was meeting with his DEA connections.

  Murray had told me Skeen’s wife had arrived. Through the funeral home, the reporter had found out that she was staying at a motel one exit east of town.

  When she opened the door, I introduced myself and said, “I’m a private investigator, not with the town or the league.”

  “Hah! That’d be a miracle.”

  I said, “I’d like to find out who killed your husband.”

  She deflated. “This whole thing is for shit.”

  Leaving the door open, she walked back into the room. I followed.

  She sat in an understuffed easy chair. I placed myself on the edge of the bed.

  I said, “I can’t get straight answers from most of the people involved in this whole thing.”

  “That was my husband’s life. I didn’t get many straight answers from him. It’s why I was divorcing him. Turns out it was a good thing I waited. Now I inherit everything.” She gasped and her hand flew to her throat. “Was that an awful thing to say?”

  I said, “You must have had it rough.”

  “Got that right.”

  “Was your husband doing drugs?”

  “Of course. Jesus, all you people are stupid. He’s been doing them for years.”

  “You never said anything?”

  “Nobody bothered to ask the stupid wife. And why should I testify against him? Alive, he was my meal ticket. Dead, he’s of lesser value, so why kill the goose while he’s laying the golden eggs? He had his women in every major league and minor league town. I didn’t care. I had no reason to kill him.”

  “You actually saw him inject drugs?”

  She laughed. “Saw him! I helped him. You know it’s not easy sticking with the damn protocols you have to follow to not get caught. Some things you take, and they’re out of your system before any random test. Some drugs you use to mask things. Monitoring the whole regimen can get very complicated, much less taking care of the stuff that had to be injected.”

  “Was he buying drugs locally?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Was he injecting himself here?”

  “He usually had one of his doxies do it. There was always one of them willing to play nurse.”

  “No illegal drugs were found in his condo here.”

  “His local connection or his local doxy would have them.”

  SATURDAY 12:15 P.M.

  I headed to Deborah DiMassi’s second floor in the back apartment. I had to knock three times. She opened the door, saw me, and started to cry. She flung the door open and rushed back inside. I hurried after her.

  I caught up with her at the kitchen sink. She fille
d a glass with water from the tap, slurped, gulped, coughed, and dropped the glass. It shattered on the floor. I got a rag, mop, broom, and dust pan. I swept and swabbed and dumped the shards in the trash bag under the sink. I found a plastic cup, filled it with water, and held it out to her. She took it and sipped. Tears streamed down her face.

  “Why don’t we sit down?”

  She nodded and plunked herself onto a plastic covered kitchen chair. She began to blubber and weep. I grabbed a fistful of paper napkins from a plastic holder on the kitchen counter and placed them on the table next to her hand. It took nearly five minutes for the tears and sniffles to stop. She blew her nose, picked up the cup, and sipped more water.

  After she took several deep breaths, I asked, “How can I help?”

  She plunked the cup onto the table top. A small bit of water sloshed out. She ignored it. When she spoke, her voice was shrill. “They’ve all been here! They’ve been accusing me. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have any friends in this town. They’re all against me. Tyler was my last friend, and he’s dead.” The tears started again.

  I heard the baby begin to cry. She began to get up and stumbled. I rose and said, “I’ll get him.”

  The baby was in the crib in a back bedroom. I picked him up and held him. I brought him to the kitchen and sat with him in my arms. He shut his eyes and sighed. Deborah gave a vinegary smile. I got up and began to hand the child to her, but it immediately began to fuss. Perhaps it sensed her upset. DiMassi dropped her arms. I cradled the kid and sat back down.

  While I waited, I rocked the baby and made sure his mother was supplied with napkins and water.

  When her tears were back under control, I asked, “Who’s been here?”

  “All of them.” She gulped, and shook her head. “The police.”

  “Rotella?”

  She nodded.

  “He’s your father.”

  “He’s evil incarnate.”

  “Why?”

  “I got married to the boy he wanted me to, mostly to get out of the house. That jerk was some abusive local asshole who left town. After I divorced him, I moved back in with my parents. I couldn’t afford to be on my own. Then I got pregnant. My mom died of breast cancer just before the baby was born. My dad threw me out.”