Riders Down

by John McEvoy

  “One of the country’s top riders, Randy Morrison,” Matt continued, “is on record with the FBI saying that somebody calling himself the Professor said he had killed this jock’s half-brother as well as other jockeys in order to get their relatives to intentionally lose races that he chose. I’ve got this information on good authority, but I had to promise not to identify Morrison in my story.

  “And Moe Kellman’s Uncle Bernie, the ‘world’s oldest bookie,’ died under suspicious circumstances after having dealings with a so-called professor from the University of Wisconsin. I think Bledsoe pulled all this crap. His grandmother’s bequest had threatened to run out, and he needed money in order to score a huge inheritance. So he decided to take a bunch of money out of horse racing, jockeys and bettors be damned.

  “No, they don’t yet have Bledsoe in custody. And I didn’t name him. But they’re onto this guy, just as I said in my story, which is solid as it is written, I guarantee you. I’ve been working on this for weeks. This is beyond knockout stuff, Harry. It’s in the stratosphere,” Matt said.

  Cobabe got up from his chair and walked over to the window that overlooked the Chicago River. He stared out silently for several minutes, his back to Matt. Then he returned to his seat. “Let me ask you this. What if we go with your story and they can’t find Bledsoe and he sets his sights on you? He wouldn’t be the first madman to harm a newsman who helped expose him. Have you considered that possibility?”

  “Of course I have. But they should have this guy in custody within hours. Besides, with a story this good, well, Harry, I’ll take my chances. This is once in a lifetime stuff.”

  ***

  Detective Popp called Matt at home the next evening. He was not in a good mood. “To sum up the situation,” Popp said, “they took Bledsoe in for questioning in Madison this morning. I was there. A friend of mine, Ralph Schmitz, heads the Madison detective squad. He conducted the questioning. Bledsoe just laughed at us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean just that,” Popp continued. “We told him he could get a lawyer if wanted. He said, ‘If I need a lawyer, I’ll be it. And for what? You say you saw me leave Heartland Downs with some friends of mine who were lucky enough to win a Pick Four. So what? They got lucky and won big money, enough to quit their jobs and start a long vacation. More power to them. But what does that have to do with me? What am I charged with?’

  “Of course,” Popp said, “Bledsoe is right. We can suspect him all we want, but there’s no evidence connecting him to a crime. Except for being an arrogant, obnoxious asshole. He was just toying with us, Matt. I guess we jumped the gun on this one,” he added. “Now the bastard is on the alert. And we don’t have any idea where his friend Murray and Murray’s girlfriend are. Schmitz got a search warrant and went through their apartment. No sign of them, no indication of where they went on the vacation Bledsoe talked about. Maybe we’ll get something out of them when they come back, whenever that is.”

  Matt took a deep breath as he completed jotting down notes he’d made as Popp talked. “What if they don’t come back?” he said softly. “This is bad. Where the hell do we go from here?”

  ***

  Where Bledsoe had gone following the police station interrogation was Doherty’s Den. He had left the interview room in the station with a smirk on his face for the frustrated policemen. But inside he was seething. He took his regular seat at the bar, and when Doherty brought over his beer he also slid yesterday’s copy of the Racing Daily in front of Bledsoe. “You’ve been following the races lately I notice. Did you see this story?” Doherty said, his finger on the headline above Matt’s byline. “Seems they’re looking for some Madison guy in connection with fixed races. How about that?”

  Bledsoe drained the beer glass and slid it toward the barkeep. “Yeah, how about that?” he answered. He read Matt’s story rapidly, feeling a surge of bile in the back of his throat. The fucking media! Had this reporter, O’Connor, helped tie him to Jimbo and Vera? O’Connor was obviously serving as a conduit for the authorities.

  Doherty asked if he wanted another beer. Bledsoe, his face flushed with anger, declined. He slapped a $10 bill on the bar before striding out the door.

  Eyebrows raised, Doherty reached for the bill. “Bledsoe has never tipped me in his life,” he said to Lorie, the waitress who was ready to call out a drink order for a table in the rear. “Claude must be losing it,” he laughed.

  ***

  The night was becoming cool, but Bledsoe didn’t notice. He walked rapidly west on State Street, shoving his way rudely through the occasional clump of students talking outside bars and restaurants, then turned right toward Langdon Street. He crossed that corridor, which houses most of the university’s sororities and fraternities, and continued on until he came to a pier that jutted out into the dark, windswept waters of Lake Mendota. There was no one else in sight as he sat at the edge of the pier, clenching and unclenching his big hands, mouth grim.

  The high he enjoyed earlier that day when he had laughingly slammed the legalistic door in the frustrated faces of the two police interrogators was gone, replaced by a surge of anger at this dangerous development. The fact that investigators had traced his license plate was bad. So was the fact that they had evidently connected him to Jimbo and Vera via that license plate. Of course, the “dim duo” would never testify against him. Still, the suspicions being fanned by this reporter, this O’Connor, apparently linking Jimbo and Vera to him were causing some ripples of apprehension. And who was this goddam horse racing hack to be coming along at this point, writing about “zeroing in on a Madison resident”? Now, when all of Claude’s brilliant planning was about to pay off. Now, when Claude should be celebrating the prospect of soon gaining Grandma Bledsoe’s millions.

  In the past months, Bledsoe had discovered that the danger involved in crimes he’d committed acted upon him like an ultra strong mood-elevating drug. He remembered a famous comedian being asked years ago what cocaine made him feel like, and the man replying, “It makes me feel like having more cocaine.” Bledsoe found himself reacting similarly in the situations that had seen him gun down jockeys and kill Marnie Rankin, and smother Jimbo and Vera, getting away with every one of those acts. Tonight, the desire for another such high was overcoming his usual pragmatism. Sweeping that desire along was his anger at being fingered for questioning—after all the brilliant precautions he had taken to avoid it.

  Gazing out across the gently pulsing lake, Bledsoe knew he should be preparing to flee Madison, to bury himself in one of the countless obscure niches in this vast nation, insuring both anonymity and continued freedom. He had money, brains and time. If he stuck to his impeccably designed plan, he could easily disappear. But tonight he could feel his self-control seeping away, and he didn’t give a damn. Could he manage one more shot that would be heard around the racing world? Why not? Besides, the temptation to again impose his will was too strong to resist at this point in his life.

  “Fuck hubris,” he said, as he got to his feet. “The Professor is ready to give another lesson.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Rick turned his dark blue Chevy Cavalier off Northwest Highway and zoomed onto the grounds of Heartland Downs Racetrack. He was already nearly ten minutes late for his scheduled interview appointment with Marcus McGee, a famous country-western singer recently turned thoroughbred horse owner.

  Rick and Ivy had exchanged harsh words earlier in the morning. Ivy had asked Rick to drive her into Chicago’s Loop, where she was to audition for a part in a new play slated for a late winter opening. Traffic was awful, and they jawed at each other in mutual irritation as the Cavalier crawled its way down LaSalle Street. As usual, before such a tryout, Ivy was jumpy, apprehensive and irritable. Rick was both nervous for her and angry at himself for having agreed to challenge rush hour traffic when he had such an important interview appointment with the singer at the racetrack. Their clashing vibes threatened the old Cav
alier’s already weakened air-conditioning.

  They missed the light at Monroe by one car. Rick drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as Ivy triple-checked her makeup in the rearview mirror.

  “I didn’t tell you who I ran into leaving the track last night,” Rick said, uttering the first civil words of their contentious morning. Ivy said nothing.

  “Old guy I’ve seen around for years. Marty Hogan. Dressed shabby, but clean, if you know what I mean. Trained horses years ago and went bust and now just hangs around the track. He knows who I am, says ‘Mr. Rothmeyer, can you spare some change for a cup of coffee?’

  “‘Marty, you can’t buy a good cup of coffee for change anymore,’ I tell him, ‘but I remember you. I used to bet your horses. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll buy you a drink over at Jeers.’

  “‘Oh, no,’ Marty says, ‘I don’t drink.’

  “So I reach into my pocket and pull out the five-dollar cigar I was saving for that night and offer it to him. ‘No,’ Marty says, ‘I don’t smoke.’

  “‘Okay,’ I say, ‘here’s a sawbuck. Put it on the horse that’s my best bet in the paper tomorrow. You’ll win a few bucks.’

  “Marty looks at me and says, ‘Oh, no, Mr. Rothmeyer, I don’t gamble.’”

  The light changed and Rick continued down LaSalle before turning on Dearborn. Ivy continued to look straight ahead, saying nothing.

  “So,” Rick said, “I told this broken down, sanctimonious little ingrate bum, this Marty, I said Marty, ‘Sometime soon I want you to meet my darling significant other, Ms. Ivy Borchers.’

  “Marty says, ‘Well, why would you want that?’

  “Because,” said Rick, wheeling onto Monroe, quoting himself, “I want to show her what can happen to a man who doesn’t drink, smoke or gamble.”

  In front of the theater Ivy, who had not said a word for the past ten minutes, shoved open her car door. As she was getting out Rick fired a final shot. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he snarled. “Remember, in your profession all your prayers will be answered, if you’re willing to accept the fact that most of the time the answer is no.” She shot him a vicious look as she slammed the car door shut. Rick pounded the accelerator in order to gain entrance to a slim opening in the traffic and begin heading for the freeway and toward the racetrack. Almost immediately, he felt guilty for what he had just said to Ivy. He dialed her cell phone, intending to apologize. She didn’t pick up his call.

  As a result, Rick was still seriously strained when he was waved through the entrance to the press parking lot by a Heartland security guard. Then his blood pressure took a real jump, for in his reserved parking space sat a battered old Buick sedan, its back tires flatter than Ralph Nader’s presidential hopes. Frantically, he looked up and down the row of parked vehicles. Each parking slot was clearly marked with a rectangular green sign set atop a slender, five-foot pole. White lettering on the green background spelled out the names of those track employees and press box workers assigned to the spaces. Then Rick grinned and gunned the Cavalier forward. He’d remembered that this was Matt’s day off. He drove nearly to the end of the row and wheeled into the space marked O’Connor—Press. Moments later, newspapers and briefcase in one hand and laptop in the other, Rick hustled up the brick walk to the Heartland Downs clubhouse.

  ***

  Late that afternoon, long after the last race of the day had been run, Rick’s walk to his car was jaunty. In contrast to that morning, he was in a great mood. He’d had a long day, but a good one. Marcus McGee had showed up for the interview even later than Rick, thus taking the onus off the tardy newspaperman. The singer had proved to be amiable, interesting and very knowledgeable about his new hobby, horse racing. He’d better be, Rick thought, since he’s already sunk more than a million bucks into buying young horses. McGee also turned out to be an enthusiastic and heavy-handed bettor, and after Rick gave him two horses to wager on that afternoon, and both had won at good odds, their new relationship solidified. McGee had returned to the press box to thank Rick and had gifted him with three copies of his latest CD.

  Rick’s story on McGee was slated to run in his paper’s features section the following week. Rick felt confident the story would be well received. He was excited at the prospect and eager to tell Ivy about it. The memory of their morning spat, the likes of which dotted their lives with regularity but were usually soon forgotten, had completely receded.

  At the bottom of the slight rise leading from the clubhouse down to the parking lot, Rick turned left for a few steps, in the direction of his parking space. Then he remembered that his car was in Matt’s slot today. He retraced his steps. Walking across the deserted lot he took no notice of the only other car remaining. It was parked to the west of him in the huge parking lot, the descending sun behind it.

  Claude Bledsoe slouched in the driver’s seat of his blue Toyota. Scrunched down as he was, binoculars poised just above the steering wheel, he was very uncomfortable. He’d been in this position for nearly two hours, waiting for Matt O’Connor to go to his car in the space reserved for him. When a man finally came down the brick walkway and, after a small hesitation, headed toward O’Connor’s parking space, Bledsoe grunted with satisfaction. He trained the binoculars on the man and saw him striding toward the Cavalier. “Well, lookee here,” Bledsoe said softly. He put the binoculars down on the seat beside him and reached for the rifle which lay across the floor.

  Rick opened the trunk of his car and placed his briefcase, papers and laptop inside. Then he bent down to open the briefcase, thinking he’d take out one of the McGee CDs and listen to it on the drive home. To the west of him the barrel of a Model 700 Remington was thrust through the open driver’s side window of the Toyota. When Rick straightened up and reached to pull the trunk down, the top of his head was blown apart by a single seven millimeter Magnum shell. There was a brief pink haze of blood and tissue in the evening air. Then came the thud of Rick’s body toppling onto the warm asphalt. It was followed at once by the sound of the Toyota’s engine starting. The Toyota sped through the parking lot and through the Heartland Downs backstretch toward the west exit, scattering the Mexican kids, sons and daughters of backstretch workers, who were playing soccer on the dusty, straw-speckled road that ran between the long horse barns.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  From a pay phone at the Lake Forest Oasis on Highway 94 north of Chicago, Bledsoe called the Heartland Downs press box. Posing as prominent trainer James Burkhart, he asked for Matt. The receptionist replied that O’Connor “was in the building but I don’t know where. Shall I give him a message?” Bledsoe, satisfied as to O’Connor’s current whereabouts, hung up on her.

  Bledsoe trotted back to his car and sped down the ramp heading south. As he slipped into the stream of traffic, massive rain clouds began to advance swiftly from the west. Bledsoe gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles shone white in the gathering gloom of the afternoon.

  His rage both propelled and disturbed him. Against his will, the wound in his massive ego continued to widen. He hadn’t been outsmarted, no, but he had been undone, partially as a result of the snooping by this persistent newspaperman. For the second time in his life, Bledsoe felt drastically diminished—much like he had that long-ago summer night at the lake when Greta Prather had so cruelly spurned him. It was a feeling he could not countenance. It would have to be replaced by an act of revenge that would restore him, make him complete once again.

  Bledsoe had been galvanized into action that noon. Returning home from his Chinese literature class, he had turned on the television news and heard his name. “Authorities are seeking for questioning a Madison man, Claude Bledsoe, in connection with the fatal shooting yesterday of Chicago sportswriter and horse racing handicapper Rick Rothmeyer. Bledsoe is well known locally for having spent decades as a University of Wisconsin student,” the television reporter said.

  The man continued, “Rothmeyer was shot to death last evening in the
parking lot of Heartland Downs Racetrack near Chicago. A security camera attached to a light pole in the parking lot captured the shocking event on videotape. Bledsoe is believed to have shot Rothmeyer from a distance of some seventy-five yards, using a rifle. He then fled in a blue Toyota Corolla. Police refused to speculate as to a motive. Police retrieved the videotape after Rothmeyer’s body was discovered by racetrack maintenance workers. They then traced the car’s license plate to Bledsoe. This is a photo of the suspect, who is considered armed and dangerous.”

  Bledsoe’s Wisconsin driver’s license image, blurry but recognizable, appeared on the screen. I don’t remember sneering like that, he thought. But it sure as hell was him, all right, and he realized he had made two terrible mistakes. This, for a man with thirty-two years of straight A university academic work behind him. He had not only killed the wrong man, he’d never even given a thought to the possibility that a racetrack parking lot would be equipped with security cameras, never suspected that they had been installed years earlier following a rash of auto break-ins and tire thefts by tapped-out horse players.

  Continued the television reporter, “This is the fourth murder in recent months involving men who work in American horse racing. Before Rothmeyer was killed by a single rifle shot, three jockeys were killed in similar fashion at three different sites around the country. No motive for any of these killings has ever been established.

  “For more on this story, we’ll go to reporter Mary Rodriguez in Evanston.” Ms. Rodriguez was shown standing next to a tall, blond, somber-looking man. “I am with Matt O’Connor outside of his Evanston home,” she explained. “Mr. O’Connor is a racing journalist who was a long-time colleague of Mr. Rothmeyer.”