Abby, of course, was more concerned with our son’s impending suspension than my dead baseball player story. She’s a mom.
“So your only lead is this Leopold kid that Carole Drabek suggested?” she asked, wiping the kitchen table of the debris only a six year old with an autism-spectrum disorder and his two-year-old sister eating like a two year old can create.
“Lead?” I asked. “Yes, Mrs. Columbo, that’s the only lead I could drum up in close to an hour of work. What do you suggest?”
“Well, if the principal can’t help you ...”
“I haven’t spoken to Mr. Breen. He’s at a conference in Denver until Monday, which you’ll recall will be too late.”
“Okay, then.” Abby sat down at the table to think while I filled the dishwasher. If I let her do it, the knives all point up and the person who empties it (me, again) is in constant danger of impalement. “We can eliminate at least half the parents in town, since they don’t allow toy guns of any kind.”
“You know,” I interjected, “I had a whole set of toy guns from the Magnum, P.I. play set when I was a kid, and so far I haven’t shot so much as one person.”
“There was that time they interrupted the Yankee game with election results,” she reminded me.
“I just said I wanted to shoot someone. Besides, it was the ninth inning of a tie game, and there were two men ...”
“Anyway, those parents can be eliminated.” Abby is nothing if not focused. “So let’s see the class roster.”
I closed the dishwasher, hit START, and then handed her the roster, which I’d left on the kitchen counter, now freshly cleaned. I sat down across from Abby so I could ogle her more efficiently.
She scanned the roster. “I don’t know a lot of these names,” she said. “How about you?”
“I’m probably about ten percent behind you,” I admitted.
Abby pursed her lips. That made it hard for me to concentrate on the task at hand, but I managed.
“I’ll start with the name Carole gave me,” I said. “If that’s a dead end, I’ll think of something else. But you know Carole knows something, or she wouldn’t have passed that along.”
Abby nodded. “I can’t think of anything else either,” she said, and stood up. It was still warm enough for her to be wearing shorts, which was entirely unfair on her part. Her legs made me think thoughts that could not be printed in a family newspaper. “What do you want to do later?” she asked me.
“Depends. Before or after the kids are asleep?”
She saw the look on my face. “You’re impossible,” she said.
“No. Just highly improbable.”
The next morning, after dropping the children off at their various storage facilities for the day, I drove back to Kilowatt Park to talk to Dave Crenshaw, the team president. He started out with the same stunned confusion that Paterson had expressed, but when I asked if there were any question that his star closer Escobar had suffocated under the weight of his teammates, Crenshaw bristled.
“Don’t blame his teammates,” he scolded me. Crenshaw was a thin man, dressed in a suit with no tie, and already a small “47” band around his left arm, Escobar’s team number. “He didn’t die because of them.”
“I wasn’t suggesting ...”
But Crenshaw was on a roll. “We do more than just train these boys to be ballplayers, you know,” he said. “Most of them aren’t ever going to get a sniff of the Major Leagues. So we try to give them a feeling for how to get through life. We connect with the community. We watch out for their welfare. I don’t want you writing some crazy article that blames them for a freak accident that took the life of one of their own.”
That seemed like an awful lot of defense in response to very little offense, and it threw me off. “I’m not blaming anybody,” I said. “I’m just trying to understand what happened.”
“What happened is that Ramon died,” Crenshaw said. “I had a team that had won a championship, league officials waiting in the clubhouse to hand me a trophy, the first one we’ve taken here in the twelve years I’ve owned the team, and Ramon just ... died. You tell me what to make of that, Tucker.”
The interview didn’t really go anywhere, but it was interesting that both Paterson and Crenshaw had offered reasons the teammates piling on to Escobar wouldn’t be a factor in his death.
On the way back to my car, though, I noticed two young men getting out of an SUV in the parking lot. You could tell they were athletes; they had the requisite swagger and an air of invincibility.
I approached them, and spoke to the smaller of the two, mostly because I could actually see his face without standing on the hood of the car. He was a very young man, probably not yet twenty, with a dark complexion and the kind of build that suggested to me he was an infielder.
“What happened to Escobar is very sad,” he said, making a sad face to illustrate. “Very sad.”
He identified himself as Melvin Montenegro, the Kilowatts’ second baseman (so I mentally patted myself on the back for guessing). And he said he and his companion, the outfielder Armando Cortez (who spoke no English) were in the pile-up the night Escobar had died.
“What happened?” I asked.
“He just didn’t get up,” Montenegro said with a shrug. “Everybody else got up, but not Ramon.” He repeated the sad face, in case I’d missed it the first time.
The other ballplayer, who resembled a giant redwood, began to speak very quickly in Spanish, and his companion turned to listen to him. I don’t speak Spanish (I took Latin for four years in high school, so I’m covered if I ever run into a ballplayer from ancient Rome), but occasionally, Cortez sprinkled English words into his soliloquy, and my ears would prick up. After at least half a minute, Montenegro turned back toward me to translate what Cortez had said.
“He says he’s very sad about Ramon, but he didn’t see anything special, either,” Montenegro told me.
I waited a few seconds. “That’s it? He talks for half a minute, and I get one line?”
“I’m boiling it down,” Montenegro answered. “He’s real upset.”
“I heard some words of English. He said ‘cream,’ and he said ‘clear.’ Now, how do those words enter into how he’s sad and didn’t see anything?”
Montenegro’s face clouded over. “We don’t wanna talk no more,” he said. He gestured to Cortez, and they started toward the entrance.
“Hey, come on!” I tried. “Just tell me what it means.” But they were gone. “You’re never going to make it to the Show if you don’t know how to do an interview,” I said, but I’m not sure whether I was talking to the two men who had just walked away, or to myself.
I called the public information officer at the Edison police as soon as I got back to my phone. I’d never spoken with Dorothy Levin before, but she was cut from the same cloth as every other police spokesperson I’d ever known. The minimum of information was offered, requiring the maximum of effort on my part. It’s not an unusual game, just a tiring one.
“Ramon Escobar’s post-mortem report is not yet available,” she said immediately on hearing the reason for my call. “There’s no evidence of foul play at this time.”
“That’s an ironic baseball metaphor, don’t you think?” I asked. Sometimes humor will help loosen up a source.
“I apologize if my turn of phrase was inappropriate.” I didn’t say it worked every time.
Against all logic, I decided to push on. “The information officer at the hospital said Escobar had probably suffocated. Is that the police department’s assumption as well?”
“The M.E.’s report is not available,” Levin repeated. “We can’t make a determination until that report has been released.”
Well, that was tremendously helpful.
It had been too late yesterday to call Dr. Randall Medavoy, so I placed the call now. Randy was an invaluable source, since he actually worked at the Middlesex County Medical Examiner’s office, and he always answered my calls because I dated hi
s wife in college and he thinks I know something he doesn’t. Which I don’t. But there’s no reason to tell him that.
“What is it this time, Tucker?” Randy began. We have a very warm relationship.
“Ramon Escobar of the Edison Kilowatts,” I said. “And it’s nice to talk to you too.”
“The report—”
“Hasn’t been released yet. Tell me something I haven’t heard from the cops.”
“You know I can’t do that, Tucker,” Randy answered. “I can lose my job.”
“I’m not going to quote you,” I assured him. “I’ll refer to sources within the medical examiner’s office.”
“And you think they won’t know who that is? How many people work here who would have access to an autopsy like that?”
“All right, Randy,” I said. “I had to ask. By the way, is your home number still the same? I was thinking of calling Renee, and I wanted to make sure I had the right number.”
Now, my history with Renee Medavoy (then Renee Klimowitz) consisted of going to maybe three movies and a dinner, and got as intimate as teenagers become in a PG-13 film about something other than teenagers getting intimate. But I’ve never told Randy that, and for reasons that escape all explanation (except that she likes to mess with his mind), neither has his wife. Part of that misconception is based on the fact that he’s never seen Abby, and doesn’t realize I wouldn’t jeopardize my own marriage for Heather Graham, Halle Berry, and Salma Hayek all at once. Let alone Renee Klimowitz.
“Give me a break, Tucker,” Randy whined. “I don’t know anything about Escobar except that it looks like he died from a pulmonary problem, like large air bubbles in his lung.”
“Is that consistent with a bunch of players piling on top of him?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said. “It’s more consistent with junkies, actually. They don’t know how to do intravenous injections.”
“That would do it?”
“Only if you inject yourself with air, and who does that?” Randy sounded impatient. Imagine—someone impatient with their friendly freelance reporter.
“So was Escobar a junkie?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” Randy said. “No track marks on his arms or any of the usual spots.”
“Any idea what ‘clear’ or ‘cream’ might have to do with it?”
“No, but it sounds delicious.” Randy thinks he’s witty.
“He came to the E.R. in his uniform. Did they find anything in his pockets? Anything he had with him?”
“Nothing,” Randy said. “Except a small tin of chewing tobacco, and yes, it was chewing tobacco. Gross, even dangerous in the long term, but it didn’t cause air bubbles in his lungs.”
“How long before you know for sure?” I asked.
“Couple of days. But by then, I’ll have changed my phone number. Good-bye, Tucker.”
Some people have no sense of humor.
The Escobar story was going so well (that’s sarcasm) that I decided to concentrate my attention on the Water Gun Caper, and I walked the six blocks to the Brinker residence (where I would have to exercise extreme self-control—not one of my strong suits—to not ask if Hans could come out and skate).
A woman a few years younger than me (so about thirty-three), dressed perfectly for cleaning a house (minus the rubber gloves), opened the door and considered me. She looked puzzled. This was natural, as we’d never seen each other before.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I certainly hope so,” I answered. “I’m Aaron Tucker. My son Ethan is in your son—” Here I really had to work hard not to chortle. “—Leopold’s class at school.”
She smiled. “Hi, Mr. Tucker. I’m Constance Brinker. Come on in, but please excuse the way the place looks.” She stood to one side and gestured me into an immaculate living room. Every object in the room had been dusted within an inch of its life, and the carpet had probably been vacuumed twice already today. I felt like I was walking on virgin snow, except without the ice that makes your socks wet.
And they had just moved in a month ago. We’d been living in our house for seven years, and I was pretty sure there were still some unpacked boxes in the basement.
“It’s amazing you’ve done so much with the house in such a short time,” I said. Open with a compliment; people will follow you anywhere from there.
“Oh, we’ve barely scratched the surface,” Constance said. “The place is in total chaos.”
I looked around at the total chaos, a room with every book in place, every wooden surface gleaming, every window freshly washed. “If this is chaos, what does order look like?”
Her mouth tightened a bit, and I imagined she was sizing me up and finding me wanting. “Come back in a couple of weeks and see,” she said. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Tucker?”
People don’t like it when you suggest their children are anything other than perfect. So you have to ease your way into it. “Well, I was just wondering,” I said, “if Leopold ...”
“We just call him Leo,” Constance informed me. “And I’m Connie.”
“Thanks, Connie; I’m Aaron. I was wondering if Leo owned a water pistol that looked like this one.” I reached into my jacket pocket and produced the offending piece of plastic.
But before I could brandish it, Connie’s face flattened into an irritated frown. “Is that what this is about?” she asked. “The water pistol thing? You’re all bent out of shape because some kid brought a little water gun to school?”
“Actually, no,” I said. “I’m all bent out of shape because my son is being suspended for bringing it, and he didn’t bring it.”
Her expression went from annoyed to offended. “And because Leo is the new kid in school, you figured that he had?” she asked.
“Look, I’m not suggesting anything. If it’s not his water gun ...”
Connie looked at the yellow plastic in my hand and smiled condescendingly. “Leo wouldn’t bother with something that small,” she said. “He likes the ones that take about a gallon of water. He can barely lift them when they’re full.” She pointed toward the back door of the house, through the kitchen, where a truly massive plastic weapon, marked “Soakin’ Suds,” leaned against the doorframe.
“Ah yes,” I said. “Ethan loves those.”
“Oh sure,” Connie said. “The name didn’t register before. You’re Ethan Tucker’s dad. Leo talks about him.”
When you have a kid like Ethan, that’s not necessarily what you want to hear. But I tried to be casual. “Oh really? What does he say?” So maybe there was a little edge evident in my tone, but not a lot.
Connie looked a little reluctant and said, “He says Ethan always has a different way to look at things.”
“He says Ethan’s weird,” I offered.
She blushed. No, really. “Leo didn’t say weird,” Connie said. “He said wacky.”
“Wacky?”
Connie looked me straight in the face and smiled. “Leo’s a little ... wacky himself,” she said, and the atmosphere in the room relaxed significantly. “He used to love this computer game called Wacky Jacks, and he adopted the word. He thinks most things are wacky.”
“He’s right,” I told her.
She leaned on the edge of the absolutely spotless, mirror-shined piano and seemed to be thinking. “So who did bring the water gun to school?” she asked herself.
“A good question. Who lets their kids have such destructive, dangerous toys?” I allowed myself a slight ironic grin.
“I’ve only been in town a few weeks,” Connie said in a confidential tone, “but if I had to guess, I would say the gun belongs to Britty McCawley.”
“Britty?” I asked.
“I think it’s short for Brittany. I met her parents at Back to School night, and the kids played once. She seemed pretty rough-and-tumble.”
“Thanks, Connie. We should get the boys together sometime,” I suggested, being careful as always to avoid the term “play date” because it
sounds like it involves play dinner and a play movie. “If Leo doesn’t think Ethan’s too wacky.”
“I think Leo would like that,” Connie said. “And you can see the house when it’s not such a mess.”
I spotted an eyelash on the windowsill across the room. “Yeah,” I told her. “That’d be a treat.”
It was a couple of hours before I’d have to pick up Leah and deal with Ethan’s inevitable crisis of the day, so I called Jim Furda at Infield to give him an update on the Escobar story. He listened patiently, and then asked a question I wasn’t really expecting.
“Why are you concentrating on the cause of death?”
I took a moment before answering. “Isn’t that what the story’s about?”
“No. The story’s about a promising young player’s life cut short and what it does to his teammates, his coaches, and the organization,” Furda answered. “We’re not a news magazine; we talk about baseball.”
“The kid might have been murdered, Jim,” I reminded him.
“Good. So you can write us the piece we asked for, and sell that side of the story to True Crime.”
“You mean even if it turns out something was up, you don’t want to know about it?” That couldn’t be right.
“That’s exactly right,” Furda said.
“It would be all over the newspapers, on TV, even some of the Internet sites might pick it up.” If I could convince him his publication was getting scooped on a story it had assigned, Furda might very well relent.
“And we’ll come out six weeks later than all those, anyway,” he answered. “Write the puff piece, Aaron. It’s what I hired you to do.”
“I know that, but ...”
“But nothing. Go talk to the players, get some weepy reaction, and then file the story. You have until Monday.” And he hung up.
This left me with something of a conundrum. I’d been working the news angle on the story, something I’d been trained to do when I was a newspaper reporter, and my editor—my boss—was saying he didn’t want that. The easy thing would be to do exactly what Furda said and simply write a standard feature on a young life cut short.
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