by Donald Bain
Detective Raff turned and extended her hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking it.
Detective Raff appeared to be about forty years old. She wore minimal makeup, just a bit of lipstick, and her brown hair was wrapped tight in a bun. She wasn’t in uniform and certainly didn’t look the part of a police detective, which, of course, is the idea behind undercover police work.
The sheriff was also not in uniform this morning, but the car was “in uniform”; unmarked police cars used by undercover cops always seem to be midnight blue sedans. At least that’s been my experience.
We pulled away and headed back toward Jack and Meg’s home. As we approached it, I saw that Cole’s car sat in the driveway.
“Do you know whose car that is?” Hualga asked.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s Sylvester Cole’s.”
“Cole, huh?” the sheriff responded. He turned to Detective Raff and said, “Ramos’s agent.”
The drive to the sheriff’s office was quiet for the most part, with the exception of the police radio, which chimed in from time to time. I took out a pad of paper and a pen and scribbled notes, hoping that my visit this day would shed light on: “autopsy report,” “fingerprints,” “aluminum bat.”
As we approached the driveway leading to police headquarters, two satellite TV trucks came into view. I didn’t need my face plastered all over the five o’clock news, and was thankful when Raff steered away from them and pulled up behind the building into a private area, where we entered through a back door.
The mood inside the busy station house was pleasantly positive and upbeat, almost festive, a far cry from most police headquarters I’ve experienced. Sheriff Hualga was certainly an affable leader. As we snaked through winding corridors toward his office, he high-fived clerks and other officers, asking, “How’s it going today?” and saying, “You’re looking good this morning.”
We arrived at his office, at the end of a narrow hallway. He pulled up a chair for me and offered to get tea or coffee.
“Tea would be lovely, thank you.”
“Tea it is,” he said. “I’ll be right back. I could use a cup of coffee myself. Make yourself at home.”
Hualga’s office reminded me of a quintessential bachelor’s pad. Pictures hung crooked on the walls. A couple of crates overflowed with papers. On his desk was a picture of a teenage girl who I presumed was his daughter. There were several plaques on a chair that he evidently hadn’t gotten around to hanging yet. Two Styrofoam cups, one lying on its side, sat atop his brown wooden desk. A plastic tray that resembled an in-box had a sign taped to it on which was written in black capital letters, EX TEMPORE. “Without preparation.” Maybe he approached the business of policing with that philosophy, I thought. Next to his desk was a table with a computer and speakers on it, and next to that were several formidable metal file cabinets. Taped to the side of one of them was a photocopy of an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo. I got up to take a closer look.
“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.”
I turned to face Detective Raff in the doorway with her arms crossed. Did she think I was about to riffle through the files?
“Oh, hello, Detective,” I said, startled. “I was getting a closer peek at this picture. I know his face, but I can’t—”
“That’s Jon Stewart,” she said, “from Comedy Central’s Daily Show. The sheriff is a huge fan.”
“Of course,” I said. “Yes, it’s a funny show. Our sheriff back in Cabot Cove, Maine—that’s where I live—is a big fan as well. I see it’s made out to the sheriff.”
“Yes,” she said, entering the room and joining me by the file cabinets. “Mr. Stewart was here recently for some sort of promotional appearance, and the sheriff got to meet him. He’s a sweetheart. The sheriff asked for a signed photograph and Mr. Stewart didn’t hesitate to give him one.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “It’s always heartening when a celebrity takes the time to accommodate his or her fans.”
“You certainly fall into the category of celebrity,” she said, taking a chair in a corner of the office as I returned to my seat.
“Oh, I hardly think so,” I said, “but I do have some very loyal readers. Whenever I get to meet them in person—which I love to do—I try to go out of my way to show my appreciation. After all, without readers an author has nothing.”
The sheriff interrupted our conversation as he returned carrying the tea and coffee. I was glad that Hualga wasn’t one of those bosses who considered such chores beneath him.
I took a sip of my tea while Hualga searched through a pile of papers and folders on his desk.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come on in,” Hualga said.
A clerk handed him an envelope. “This was just delivered,” she said.
He opened the envelope and pulled out its contents. “Good,” he said. “Junior Bennett’s autopsy report.” He scanned the first couple pages of the report. “Hey, Raff, look at this.” She walked to his desk and read over his shoulder. He looked up at her and raised his eyebrows.
“Sorry to hold you up, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I’ve been anxious to get this.”
“Please,” I said. “I don’t mind at all. I’ve spent enough time with Sheriff Metzger to know that when a much-anticipated autopsy report comes in, it takes precedence over anything else that may be going on.”
“Appreciate your understanding,” he said.
I waited silently until he’d concluded his reading of the report.
“Anything unexpected in it?” I asked, deliberately curbing my enthusiasm so as not to appear eager to read it.
“Nothing glaring,” he said, picking it up to read it again.
“I assume the report indicates that Junior was indeed hit with a blunt instrument, consistent with the preliminary report?” I said.
“That’s right,” he replied. “The autopsy shows that Mr. Bennett’s nose was broken and that his two front teeth and left incisor tooth were chipped. There was also a split lip. And a blow to the left side of his head.”
I quickly considered what he’d just said. “Sheriff, the split lip, cracked teeth, and broken nose are consistent with being struck in the face by a fist. But it wouldn’t be consistent with a blow to the left side of the head with a baseball bat, would it?”
“Hard to say,” he responded. “It is interesting, though.”
He carefully placed the autopsy report back into the envelope and was equally careful to place it out of my reach on his desk. He clasped his hands together, sat erect in his chair, and said, smiling, “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m really sorry to have kept you here so long. I want to ask you just a few questions. As you can imagine, this is a big case, with some important people involved. I’ll be honest with you. While I need to question you as part of the investigation, I’m also hoping to tap some of your experience with murder. We have more than our share of auto theft here, but not many murders.”
“I’m happy to help,” I said, “although I must warn you that my ‘experience,’ as you term it, has usually been purely accidental, classic examples of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Or at the right time,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you, not only as a best-selling author but as a pretty successful amateur sleuth, too.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “I’ll do anything I can to help clear Ty.”
“You’re that certain he’s innocent?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You can’t be plainer than that. Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, I have a problem. I know of Ty’s troubled past, and unfortunately the rest of the nation now does, too. This is a sexy story that’s all over the news. Problem is, Ty’s past paints a picture of a troubled ballplayer who might have been experimenting with drugs, who was definitely associated with a gang in his younger years, and who maybe killed his teammate for money, drugs—”
“No,” I said firmly. “I can’t speak a
s to whether or not Ty ever used drugs when he was younger. I rather doubt it. But I definitely do not believe that he is involved with drugs now.”
“How can you be so sure, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“If Ty were doing drugs, he wouldn’t be the wonderful player that he is,” I answered.
“I can name plenty of major-league players—good ones, too—who’ve been involved with drugs,” he said.
“Are you a baseball fan, Sheriff?” I asked gently.
“Nope. Not my sport. Never got into it. Too slow.”
“It’s true, Sheriff, that a number of recently celebrated stories about major-league ballplayers and drugs have made the news. However, you should also know that the minor leagues have a very strict drug-monitoring policy. A player would have a very tough time surviving in the minor leagues if he was doing drugs—any sort of banned substances.”
The sheriff sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Sounds like you’re a big baseball fan, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Since coming to Mesa, I’ve been reminded of how much I always enjoyed watching a baseball game. Ty and his promising career added an extra fillip to that. It’s been a number of years since I attended a game as exciting as that championship the other night.”
“Always exciting when a game, any game, is won in the final minutes. Tell me something. How do you come to know so much about the minor-league drug-monitoring policy?”
“There’s no mystery to it,” I said. “Earlier this summer I attended the wedding of a friend’s daughter at the Otesaga Hotel in Cooperstown. I spent a long weekend there and took a tour of the Baseball Hall of Fame. During the tour, our guide spoke at length about the minor-league drug policy. Ironically, when I got back home, the local newspapers were filled with stories about a player on the Portland Sea Dogs, a Boston Red Sox farm team, who was suspended because he’d failed the drug test. It was a big deal because the boy was from the next town over from Cabot Cove, where I live.”
“So you’re a Red Sox fan, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Perhaps if I followed baseball more closely, I would style myself a fan. But the Rattlers’ game the other night was one of the few games I’ve attended in person, although I do recall seeing a local Little League game about fifteen or twenty years ago because the ten-year-old son of a friend was playing. I remember that I didn’t enjoy it because the parents were more fiercely competitive than the youngsters.”
“What a shame.”
Do it now, Jessica, I thought to myself. He’s in your corner.
“Sheriff, do you suppose I could take a peek at the police report? Perhaps there’s something in it that I could—”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s official police business, part of an ongoing investigation.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I can appreciate the predicament you’re in. It’s my understanding that you came to Mesa for a little R and R with your friends the Duffys. Right?”
“Right.”
“And you’re still here in Mesa, days after their son has been arrested for murder, not to vacation but to give the family support.”
“It’s true. My visit to your lovely state and city is no longer a vacation. I am now a friend to friends in need.”
“I understand you were at the Biltmore Spa the other day with Meg Duffy.”
His question took me by surprise, and I hesitated before answering. How did he know that?
“Yes, we were,” I said.
“Was that the vacation part of your stay here, or the friend helping a friend in need?”
“Actually, a bit of both. When I arrived, the Duffys gave me a gift certificate for a day at the spa. A few days after Ty’s arrest—when things had calmed down somewhat—and at the insistence of Meg and Jack, I went to the Biltmore to use the gift certificate for a little of that R and R you alluded to.”
“And Meg Duffy also had a certificate?”
“No. That was my doing. I felt that Meg could use a massage, too, and offered to buy her a treatment.”
“And that would be the friend helping a friend in need part, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, are you aware that several of the players work at the spa as personal trainers, and that H.B., Junior Bennett’s father, is a frequent, almost daily, client?”
“I didn’t know that before I arrived for my treatments, but I learned it when I was there.”
“How did you learn it?”
“My masseuse told me,” I answered.
“I ask this,” he said, “because someone brought it to my attention and I found it curious that Mrs. Duffy was at the spa at a time like this.”
I looked at him and waited for him to continue.
“A word to the wise, Mrs. Fletcher. There are lots of rumors flying around, lots of gossip if you will, lots of nasty accusations. How the family comports itself at this time is under scrutiny, maybe unfairly, but that’s what happens.”
He was right. Despite my good intentions, my efforts to help Meg through this difficult time may have backfired.
Hualga continued. “What little evidence we have points to Ty as not only having a motive for this murder but having opportunity. He’s my prime suspect. There are no witnesses other than Ty’s best friend to say Junior was still alive when Ty was sleeping off a bender in the car. That means his alibi is weak; it still places him on the scene at the Crazy Coyote that night, and that makes it difficult.” He looked at me, took a deep breath, leaned over his desk, and said, “Between you and me, the police report isn’t conclusive. The evidence is circumstantial. Also off the record, I’m not convinced the right man is under house arrest. I think our killer may still be out there.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Here,” he said, handing me a file folder. “Changed my mind. You take a look. But if anybody asks, I didn’t give it to you.”
He winked and leaned back in his chair.
I skimmed the report. Nothing jumped out as being strange. But then I got to item number five on page seven: “Footprints found at scene adjacent to the body (inconsistent with forensics).”
I continued to read, going as fast as I could for fear Hualga would change his mind and take it away from me. According to the report, the murder weapon, the aluminum bat, was found in “Dumpster number 7345, on the northwest corner of Thompson Stadium.” No other details were given.
I handed him the police report and asked, “May I see the forensic report?”
The sheriff smiled. “I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve never read any of your novels. I intend to rectify that. I’ll bet you’re a real good mystery writer.”
“I try to be. The problem is that while I’m supposed to be writing fiction, reality too often rears its ugly head.”
He gingerly opened another folder and handed me a document stamped FORENSICS. “I can let you take a quick look,” he said, “but I have to get going in a minute. Detective Raff will give you a lift home.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, knowing that meant I wouldn’t have the report in my hands for very long. I wasn’t sure why I was suddenly privy to all of his files and reports, but I was glad nonetheless.