“Knock on the door, and I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”
Hugs all around. I was almost sorry to see them go. I wasn’t looking forward to the scene with Andy.
I closed the door, and we stood for a moment in silence. Then we both started speaking at once. When I realized that he was apologizing, too, I shut up.
“It was my fear coming out in anger,” he explained. “When the dispatcher told me your message, I went crazy.”
I, of course, began to cry, while he looked embarrassed.
“But, goddamn it, you shouldn’t have gone to the park and put both of you in danger,” he said.
He was right, but I was saved from admitting it by the telephone. A vaguely familiar woman’s voice asked for Andy. He talked with his arm around me. It was obvious that he was being interviewed. He ran through the story in an extremely circumspect manner, using all the tortuous circumlocutions cops hold so dear, then handed the phone to me, with a wicked smile.
“Hello, Kate, it’s Margaret Papadakis. I wonder if you would mind telling me about what happened in Withrow Park today. I gather you were quite the heroine.”
It was the sound of someone speaking through clenched teeth.
Chapter 33
Andy left shortly after my conversation with Margaret, and didn’t come back until 2:00, by which time I was long asleep. I woke just enough to notice he was there. He wriggled, settling himself into a comfortable position to sleep, rather like a dog circling his sleeping spot before he lies down. We were both too exhausted to do anything more than exchange affectionate murmurs.
The next morning we read all the papers over coffee. There were banner headlines in my own paper, with Margaret’s story on the front page, along with statements from the publisher and managing editor. Both emphasized the presumption of innocence, and that Dickie had no criminal record. They had also provided him with a high-profile lawyer, the kind of guy who, when he takes a case, everyone assumes his client is guilty.
There were two more pages inside the front section devoted to the story. My eyewitness account was there, along with interviews with kids who were in the park when it happened, and predictable statements from some of my colleagues: “I can’t believe it . . . he was so quiet . . . he just did his job . . . we never suspected . . . this can’t be true.” There was a photograph of Dickie and Beth, captioned, inevitably, “In happier days.” And there was a picture of me, too.
“Margaret’s story is a piece of work,” Andy said, when it was his turn to read the story. “She doesn’t seem to want you to get any credit in the arrest.”
“And then the headline writers put ‘Our Kate’ all over the rest of the page,” I laughed.
The World was low-key in its story. The self-important grey journal of record seldom stooped to reporting local stories, keeping its national audience in mind. Serial murder is still rare enough in this country that they did give it a full page, with a small story on the front. I was referred to as “a local sports reporter.” So was Dickie.
The Mirror took Dickie’s logo shot from his Planet column and blew it up to fill the tabloid front page, a nice touch in a competitive newspaper market. There were four more pages on Dickie and the arrest inside, but the scantily clad brunette on page three expressed no opinions.
Andy was out the door by 9:00, assuring me that any business the police had with me could be conducted over the phone. Personal business was another matter, but I didn’t need to stay in the city. I called Jake and told him I would be able to make the Titan charter and packed for the six-day road trip to Detroit and Cleveland.
I was depressed, for some reason. I guess it was a natural rebound from the adrenalin high I’d been through the day before. I didn’t much feel like a road trip, but staying home would be worse. I wanted to get away from the newspapers and broadcasts.
I got to the airport half an hour early, dropped off my bag with the travelling secretary, who gave me the gate number and my boarding pass, then went to the self-serve coffee shop to wait. Stinger Swain and Goober Grabowski were a few places ahead of me in line. They didn’t see me, but I was close enough to overhear them.
“The way I figure it,” Swain declaimed to his sidekick, “Preacher was just jealous. He wanted the little boy for his self.”
Grabowski didn’t share in his buddy’s guffaws.
“I don’t know, Stinger,” he frowned. “The guy had a knife and all. I think it was pretty brave of Joe.”
Wonder of wonder. Dissension in the redneck ranks.
“Don’t you go getting soft on me,” Swain scoffed, as they got to the cash register. “You got any of that funny money on you? I’ve only got American.”
Grabowski pulled out a handful of coloured Canadian bills and dropped a blue one on the counter.
“You’re gonna owe me one in Dee-troit,” he grumbled, picking up his change.
I couldn’t resist stopping by their table.
“I see someone read the newspapers to you this morning, Stinger,” I said.
“Oh, looky. Here’s the lady detective,” he sneered. “When you going to start wearing a badge?”
“Our heroine,” Grabowski chimed in.
“I couldn’t have done it without Preacher,” I said. “He was the real hero. What he and his friend did really took balls. Don’t you think?”
That shut them up. For the moment, anyway. I went to the farthest empty table I could find and opened my book.
Gradually, half a dozen other players drifted in to the coffee shop, dressed according to the Titan travel code, in jackets and ties. Some of them were more sartorially splendid than others. Eddie Carter had on his usual silk Italian number, with pleats in his pants straight out of the forties. Gloves was professorial in a tweed sports jacket. Tiny challenged the seams of his pin-striped suit. Kid Cooper, the rookie, was with him, dressed in something that looked as if he had bought it for his high school graduation. He probably had. Atsuo Watanabe was a surprise, all in black and white, very high fashion, with an unconstructed jacket and soft kid leather shoes.
I overheard a lot more conversation about Dickie’s arrest, of course. A couple of the players stopped by my table to talk about it. But Preacher didn’t appear until just before it was time to board. When he walked into the departure lounge, Eddie Carter was the first to cross the room and shake his hand. He wasn’t the only one.
It wasn’t exactly high fives all around, but a dozen players offered manly punches on the shoulder and awkward pats on the back. Joe smiled shyly and mumbled his thanks.
We got on the plane and settled into our usual seats. First came Red O’Brien and the coaches and other team personnel, followed by the writers and broadcasters, with the players in their own territory in the rear. Joe ended up in the row just behind me, with Tiny on the aisle seat next to him.
“So, what do you think of the Preacher now, Kate Henry?” boomed the deposed first baseman. “Ain’t he the man?”
“He sure is, Tiny,” I said, over my shoulder. “How are you doing today, Joe?”
“I’m fine. How’s T.C.?”
“I haven’t seen him since last night, but I’m sure he’s fine. He’s going to be the most important kid in his class. He’ll love it.”
“Of course, it was just luck,” Tiny said. “The man just happened to be at the right place. I can’t remember when I’ve been invited over to Kate’s house for some barbecue.”
I turned in my seat to check that his teasing smile was in place before answering.
“If I had to feed you, Tiny, I’d have to take a second mortgage out on my house.”
“And you know it,” he said.
Keith Jarvis, the Mirror beat writer, was the last one on the plane, breathless and rumpled.
“Damn cab had a flat on the 427,” he said, stepping over me to his window seat. His shoulder bag whacked me in
the jaw. The plane’s engines had started by the time he got his seat belt fastened.
“You gotta get up a bit earlier in the morning, Keith,” Tiny said. “Especially if you want to beat Kate Henry to a story.”
Jarvis glared at me. I reached back and punched Tiny’s knee.
“Well, Tiny,” Jarvis said. “It’s hard to compete with a paper that will do anything for a story, even hire a murderer.”
I opened my book and got set for a bumpy ride.
Chapter 34
The sports sections of the Detroit papers featured stories about Joe’s role in the capture of the Daylight Stalker, which gave the large crowd of reporters something extra to talk to him about before the game. I stood on the edge of the scrum outside the dugout and listened to the questions. It didn’t take very long for them to get to the point.
“Was the man who disarmed the murderer your lover, Joe?”
The questioner was an overweight stringer for USA Today. Joe looked him in the eye and nodded.
“Yes, he was.”
“Is he with you on the trip?”
“No. He has gone back to California. He has his own work to take care of.”
“Do you think this will take some of the heat off you from the fans?”
“I haven’t felt much heat from the fans,” he said. “I didn’t do what I did for the publicity. Or to take heat off, as you say. I’m just glad I was able to be of some help. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get ready for the game.”
The crowd dispersed when Joe left the dugout and went to the batting cage. One of the reporters came over to me. He is a man with whom I have had a sporadic relationship since I came on the beat. Sally calls him Mr. Same Time Next Year, since we only do it when I visit Detroit.
“So, you’re right in the middle of the action again, Kate,” he said. “Trouble seems to follow you around. Or do you go looking for it?”
“I do my best to avoid it,” I said. “How was your winter?”
“I got married. How was yours?”
“Not as eventful as yours. Congratulations.”
“That doesn’t mean things have to change between us,” he said.
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” I said, wondering what I’d ever seen in the creep. “But I think I’ll take a pass this time around.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, then walked away.
I sat on the bench and watched the Titans taking batting practice. They were laughing and playing the same tired jokes on each other they did every day. There’s something comforting in the rituals, even for me. It seemed like just another night at the ballpark.
Until the fans arrived. Then it turned ugly. The rocket scientists in the bleachers didn’t seem to have been impressed by Joe’s heroics. The banners they hung in left field expressed their feelings eloquently: “Fairy go home,” “Queer City,” “The Pansy Garden,” and “Bugger off, Kelsey.” When the Tiger left-fielder took his position, he went through an elaborate dumb-show of denial, and the banners were put away with glee until the bottom half of the inning.
Every time Joe came to bat, the chants started: “FAG-GOT, FAG-GOT.” Whenever he went to left field, they threw things at him. He got drenched with beer several times. The umpires actually stopped the game at one point, when the barrage got really bad, and the stadium announcer told the fans that further behaviour of that sort would result in ejection and possible forfeiture of the game. Uniformed cops took up positions among the rowdier fans.
Joe ignored them, held himself in control, and turned his anger into his play. He hit a two-run home run and an RBI double. In the field, he made one spectacular diving catch of a ball that was destined for extra bases and jumped high at the fence to pull another ball back into the park. The final score was 3–2 for the Titans. It was all Joe’s game, which made the fans even angrier.
In the clubhouse afterwards, the mood was chippy and defiant. Now Stinger and Goober were odd men out, as player after player praised Joe and condemned the fans. It was a tribal thing. When one of their own is under attack the way Joe was out there on that field, the members of the clan close ranks. Even Red O’Brien didn’t temper his praise for his left-fielder.
“I’ve always said that this team can win the whole thing,” Red said. “If Joe keeps playing the way he has been, he can win the whole thing by himself.”
After I filed my story, I joined the other Toronto writers and the television crew in the bar for the usual post-game wind-down, and it was 3:00 in the morning by the time I got back to my room. Finally alone, I had to face what I had been avoiding since the afternoon before: remembering.
I began to shake and cry. I felt the fear I hadn’t allowed myself to feel before. I thought about Dickie, about the sparks of remorse that had made him give himself away. And I thought about T.C., and what would have happened if we hadn’t found him.
Then I thought about the other children and their shattered families. I finally fell asleep, the blankets wrapped around me like a shroud, and dreamed violence and rage.
In the morning, early, Andy phoned.
“I watched some of the game last night,” he said. “That was pretty ugly.”
“Yeah, but maybe it was the best thing that could have happened,” I said, then told him about the players’ reactions. “I expect that it will put a lot of people on Joe’s side. What’s happening up there? Has Dickie confessed?”
“He says he’s waiting for the best offer from the papers. He’s asked for a laptop computer to write his memoirs.”
“Jesus.”
“Typical. We don’t need a confession, though. We’ve searched his house and found enough evidence to tie him to the three murders here and the ones in Timmins.”
“What sort of evidence?” I asked, not sure I really wanted to know.
“Newspaper clippings in scrapbooks, some Polaroids. He had a locked filing cabinet in his den. His wife was forbidden to go into the room.”
“How is she?”
“Not great. There are reporters and cameras camped on her front lawn. Her parents have flown in from Vancouver to be with her, and I imagine she’ll go back with them as soon as we’re through with her.”
“Didn’t she suspect anything?”
“No, and she’s beating herself up about it. She sees things in retrospect that she didn’t at the time and blames herself for the deaths.”
“Poor kid.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel?”
“The way I always do after a case. Relieved. Depressed. Sorry I couldn’t have stopped him sooner.”
“And angry?”
“A little bit. I wish you were here.”
“So do I.”
“I’m sorry about the way it has been for the last little while.”
“So am I.”
“It won’t get better, you know. I’m a cop. That comes first.”
“I know.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re gone for a week?”
“Yeah. We go to New York after the game tomorrow night.”
“I’ll call you there.”
“If you like.” I wasn’t giving him much. There was a bit of a silence.
“I’ll look in on T.C. and Sally, make sure they’re all right. And Elwy.”
“That would be nice.” More silence.
“Oh, by the way. The department wants to give you another citation. Also Joe and Sandy.”
“Oh, goody.”
“Damn it, Kate. Stop doing that. I can’t stand noncommittal. Yell at me, why don’t you?”
“I’m not mad, just confused. I’m delighted about the citation, especially for Sandy and Joe. A little macho recognition will go good right about now.”
“Knowing me hasn’t bee
n very safe for you.”
“It’s not your fault that I keep sticking my nose in. I’m sorry I’m being like this, but I’m just emotionally exhausted. And physically, too, for that matter.”
“Well, get back to sleep. I’ll call you again.”
“If you like.”
I went back to sleep, an escape from things I didn’t want to deal with. Or couldn’t. My last waking thought was a belated pang of anguish for poor Beth Greaves and her baby son.
At 2:00 in the afternoon, the phone woke me again. The housekeeper wanted me to take down my Do Not Disturb sign so her staff could clean the room. I told them to come on in and went down for some lunch, stopping at the newsstand on the way.
Happily, columns in both the major newspapers condemned the behaviour of the fans. Their boorishness had created the backlash I had hoped for. Maybe things would ease up for Joe after all.
After lunch, I went back to my room and worked out, using the back of a chair for my barre, sweating off my blues. I took a long shower, then went down to the lobby to wait for the ballpark bus. The autograph hounds swarmed any player who let himself be caught. Watanabe smiled at me from the middle of one pack. I waved.
Life goes on. Baseball goes on too, no matter what happens in the real world. The teams are in a cocoon of schedules, routines, game times, bus times. Their only contact with the outside world is through the adoring fans, and that’s not reality either.
The bus pulled in at 4:45. The players piled on discussing that day’s episode on The Young and the Restless. Stinger yelled at the bus driver. Tiny began teasing. Hugh Marsh, head down, worked with his stats. I opened my book.
The sun was shining. It was a great day for a ball game.
Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks to those who encouraged and helped me with this book: The Ontario Arts Council, Lee Davis Creal, Ellen Seligman, James Polk, Mary Adachi, Hidemi Kihira, Charles Gordon, Ruth Gordon, Sara Murdoch, Staff Sergeant Bob Adair, Andy Moir, and Henri Fiks (the Wizard of DOS).
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