Three Strikes and You're Dead

by Donald Bain

  “The only fingerprints found on the bat were Junior’s?” I said.

  “That’s what it says.”

  I turned a page, looking for the details. There had been a single thumbprint on top, and some latent prints, inconclusive, beneath a blood smear on the head of the bat. The neck of the bat, where a batter would grip it, had been wiped down with a cloth; the forensics team had recovered white cotton fibers that had clung to the metal.

  “We never found whatever the killer used to wipe off the prints,” Hualga said.

  “White cotton,” I said. “That could be a T-shirt, and almost impossible to trace, unless you found the garment itself.”

  “We didn’t, and we checked every Dumpster in the vicinity of the Coyote as well as Thompson Stadium. It wasn’t Ramos’s shirt. He was wearing blue.”

  I sat up pencil-straight in my chair, repositioned my glasses, and scanned the paper à la Evelyn Wood searching for the word “footprint.”

  Myriad footprints found at scene. Appear to be made by sneaker-type shoes, sizes varying between 9 and 13. One set of prints found, not consistent with sneaker sole print.

  Behind the report was a set of police photographs of the crime scene, including close-ups of the footprints. I studied them carefully before returning the folder to Sheriff Hualga.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Thank you for meeting with me like this,” I said. “I really appreciate being able to talk with you about what happened that terrible night at the Crazy Coyote.”

  “Sure, Mrs. Fletcher,” Ty’s friend and teammate, Carter, said in his usual friendly tone. “Anything we can do to help Ty.”

  “The very best thing you can do is just tell me the truth. In other words, don’t embellish the story because you feel it might make Ty look better.”

  “Just the facts, ma’am,” said Carter in an attempt to emulate Jack Webb from Dragnet, the popular TV series of yesteryear.

  Another of the players, Sam Bobley, slapped him on the arm and said, “You’re too much, man.”

  I’d asked some of the players to meet me, with the promise of lunch. Actually, I’d asked Carter to arrange it. He’d called the Duffys to speak with Ty and I had answered the phone. Ty was in the shower and the Duffys weren’t home. It was a spur-of-the-moment act on my part, asking Carter if he’d be willing to get some of the players together to meet with me. He readily agreed, and suggested we all meet at Burrito Heaven, an upscale fast-food eatery in Mesa.

  It turned out to be not exactly heaven, but it was a good place for us to gather. A busy restaurant with a tin roof, the place had a noise level loud enough to buffer our conversations so that others wouldn’t overhear. At the same time, we managed to secure a large booth in a corner of the spacious room that separated us somewhat from other diners. Carter ordered a burrito practically the size of the hedgehog that had dashed in front of me near Hedgehog Lake; I ordered a taco salad with spicy chicken.

  Three players besides Carter had agreed to join me for lunch. There was “Speedster,” or Sam Bobley, the smallest kid on the team (everything being relative, that made him about five-eleven). He was also the fastest, hence his nickname. Another kid, who was called “Murph,” had come. His real name was Billy Murphy, and he was a catcher on the team, the huskiest of the players and the most reserved, at least at this juncture. Billy Nassani, the first baseman, was already familiar to me. He was one of the team’s leading home-run hitters, and he had hit a beauty during the game I’d attended on that fateful day. Home-run hitters have a way of being remembered. Carter assured me that these were the smartest kids on the team and would be the most articulate about what had happened.

  “Any other players joining us?” I asked Carter.

  “Long said he might try to make it,” Carter answered. “He had to work. Got one of those cushy personal trainer jobs at the Biltmore.”

  Steven Long. Lily’s boyfriend, I thought. Interesting. I hoped he’d show up.

  “Sam, why don’t you begin by telling me your best recollection of what happened that night,” I asked slowly and deliberately, not wanting anyone to feel rushed. I wanted them to process things fully and to think clearly.

  “Where do I start?” he said. “Okay.” He wiped his mouth, eliminating a small glob of sour cream and salsa. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled. “We were all hanging out at tables in the back, having a beer and tequila Jell-O shots. I went up to the bar. Well—I mean . . .” He looked quizzically at Carter.

  “It’s all right, man,” Carter said. “The truth.” He winked at me. Sam was obviously reticent about divulging that they’d been drinking, and I wondered if he, too, was underage.

  “Anyway, next thing I know, there’s all this commotion and everyone’s running out the back door. There’s Junior on the ground with blood pouring out of his nose and all over his face. I saw Ty there, too. He had some blood on his hands and was wiping them on his shirt. I remember that because I thought it was crazy. I mean, he had a nice shirt on.” The boys laughed. Sam continued, “And then he tried to help Junior up off the ground, but Junior was shouting for him to get away, calling him dirty names and stuff. Next thing I know, there’s Carter helping Junior off the ground. I didn’t see where Ty went. I went back inside. Most of us did. It was starting to rain. Besides, I didn’t want to be involved if the cops came.” Another furtive glance at Carter. “Half of us would have been nailed for underage drinking, so we wanted to keep a low profile. I mean, the cops come in there sometimes, but they know we’re Rattlers and most of the time they let us off the hook. It’s like we’re famous or something.” Sam looked at the others for approval. Carter nodded in agreement while the others looked ready to plead the Fifth against self-incrimination.

  Among my many thoughts at the moment was the conviction that Sheriff Hualga wouldn’t be too happy to hear about some of his officers turning a blind eye to underage drinking.

  “So, you went inside,” I said. “Did you see Junior come back in, or Ty?”

  “Gee, no,” Sam said. “I can’t say that I did. I saw Carter come back in, though. I asked him what happened and where Ty and Junior went—” He looked at Carter.

  “It’s all right, man,” Carter said encouragingly. “I have nothing to hide. Go ahead.”

  “And Carter told me that Ty punched Junior and that he was afraid Junior was going to get up and kill him, so Carter said he dragged Ty away and put him in his car. Carter said Ty wasn’t feeling so great. Ty doesn’t drink a lot. Maybe a beer or two, but we were doing shots that night, too.”

  “Ty said he was nauseous and felt groggy,” Carter chimed in. “And I was really afraid that things between Junior and Ty would get worse, so I put Ty in my car. He sprawled on the backseat and was out, like he’d passed out or something. He was gone really fast.”

  “Carter, how do you think Junior’s blood got on Ty’s shirt?” I asked.

  “He wiped his hands on his shirt to get the blood off his hands after he punched Junior,” said Carter. “Just like Sam said.”

  “Yeah,” interjected Sam. “I saw him do it.”

  “Sam, who do you think killed Junior?” I asked.

  “I really don’t know. I mean, I guess it’s possible that Ty maybe woke up and saw Junior near the car or something and killed him then. I don’t know. I know they hated each other, or at least Junior hated Ty. Maybe Ty didn’t know what he was doing because he was, like, drugged or something.”

  “No way,” said Murph. “There’s no way Ty did this.”

  “Yeah, no way,” said Carter. “Believe me. Ty was in no shape to kill anybody. He was out of it.”

  “The thing that struck me as weird that night,” said Nassani, “was Junior’s car.”

  “Huh?” asked Carter.

  “He had his old man’s brand-new car. Big bad green Mercedes convertible.”

  “Why was that weird?” I asked.

  “ ’Cause Junior was always complaining how selfish and cheap his dad was, how he never
let Junior drive his cars or boats.”

  “That’s right,” Murph said. “And H.B. had just gotten that car, like, that morning because at dinner at Patsy’s after Junior’s service, I overheard him tell Buddy that he had picked it up from the dealer the morning of the championship game and never even had a chance to drive it.”

  “And I heard he’s going to sell it now,” Nassani continued, “because he just can’t keep the car knowing that Junior had been the last one to drive it.”

  “You don’t think maybe H.B. gave Junior the car as a gift to celebrate the team’s victory?” I said.

  “No way, Mrs. Fletcher,” Murph said. “Junior would’ve been bragging if the car was his. He’d never let us forget it if he got a new car. I bet he just found it in the garage and took it. I can’t imagine that H.B. let Junior take his Mercedes to the Coyote.”

  “He probably didn’t even know,” Carter suggested. “He would’ve have killed Junior if he did.”

  “Except he’d be a little late,” said Murph with an inappropriate snicker.

  My disapproving expression prompted him to say, “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Everyone is under a lot of strain over what happened.”

  There were nods all around the table.

  “Ever see Junior use an aluminum bat?” I asked no one in particular.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have one,” said Nassani. “I have one. It’s my lucky bat.”

  “But you can’t use it in the games, right?” I said.

  “Right,” he said. “It’s just, like, it’s my rabbit’s foot sort of.”

  “I don’t have an aluminum bat,” said Sam.

  “Me neither,” said Carter. “I left my aluminum bats from high school and Little League back home. I hope they’re still there. My mom has a habit of holding yard sales and selling anything that isn’t tied down.” He chuckled.

  “Has anyone seen Ty with an aluminum bat?” I asked.

  “Nope,” said Carter. The others shook their heads in agreement.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Sam said. “Aluminum bat. I remember someone—who was it?—someone telling me that after the last game, some guy wanted the players to sign his aluminum bat.”

  “Yeah, I remember that,” Murph said.

  “He was a fan, right?”

  “Uh-huh. It was that dweeb. The fan club dweeb.”

  The “dweeb” description seemed to be the general consensus.

  “You met him, Mrs. Fletcher. Remember?” Carter said. “At Patsy’s after Junior’s service.”

  “You weren’t at Patsy’s, dude,” said Sam.

  “Oh, right. Not Patsy’s,” Carter said, shooting me a glance.

  “Let’s get back on track,” I said. “Did anyone sign the aluminum bat?”

  “No, and the guy was ticked off about it,” Nassani recalled. “We were too busy celebrating. We told him—hey, I think I told him I’d sign it later, another time. I wonder if he was at the Crazy Coyote.”

  “Did any of you see him?” I asked. Ty had said he was there.

  “Yeah, I did,” Murph said.

  “Me, too,” said Sam.

  “He always wants to hang out with the team,” Carter added.

  “Was he carrying the bat?”

  “I didn’t see it, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

  “Did any of you see the bat at the bar?”

  Denials all around.

  “Anybody ever see H.B. with an aluminum bat? Do any of you suppose that he might have had an aluminum bat in his car?” I asked.

  “Maybe he kept one in the trunk for protection or something,” Carter said. “But nobody ever saw him swinging one or anything.”

  “Did they find fingerprints on the bat?” Murph asked, somewhat nervously.

  “Yes, they did,” I said. “They found Junior’s fingerprints.”

  Nobody said a word. Finally Nassani said, “Not Ty’s?”

  “No, not Ty’s,” I answered.

  “So how can they say Ty did it?” Sam asked.

  “That’s a good question, Sam,” I answered.

  “Those are the only fingerprints they found?” Carter asked.

  “I believe so.”

  “Well, just ’cause there aren’t any other fingerprints on it doesn’t mean no one else touched the bat,” said Sam.

  The other players looked at him.

  “I mean, someone could have wiped the fingerprints off the bat,” he said. “Right?” he asked, looking my way.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Then, anybody could have done this,” Carter said. “Even H.B.”

  “Yeah, he’s a weird dude,” Nassani said. “He and Junior never got along.”

  “I saw him hit Junior once,” said Sam. “After a game. Junior was a good player, but I think he was nervous all the time because he knew he’d hear it from his ol’ man if he struck out or made an error.”

  “I think Junior hated his father,” said Nassani.

  “I don’t know about hate,” Murph said. “But it wasn’t a good relationship, that’s for sure.”

  That H.B. had hit Junior was news to me. Neither Ty nor the Duffys had ever mentioned a physically abusive relationship between Junior and H.B. Still, the idea that a father would kill his own son was too grim for me to deal with at the moment. Evidently, the young men at the table had the same feeling. It got very quiet.

  “As long as we’re talking about Junior’s family,” I said, breaking the silence, “what about Mrs. Bennett, Junior’s mother?”

  Carter shrugged. “She was never around, but Mrs. Washington was. Buddy’s wife was always there for us. Wonder how she’s doing.”

  “Not too good, I think,” said Sam. “I hear she’s gone from bad to worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “She sounds like a wonderful woman. And Buddy, at least from what I could determine from his speech at the celebration dinner, seems like a rare find, a dedicated and decent man.”

  “If it wasn’t for Buddy, I wouldn’t still be on the team,” said Murph. “He really helped me adjust. Man, I owe him big time.”

  “Buddy’s the best,” said Nassani, and the others agreed.

  “H.B. always fights with him, though, mostly about Ty,” said Carter.

  “That’s because Buddy knows that Ty’s more talented, and that frosts H.B.”

  “They used to argue a lot because H.B. is so cheap,” said Bobley. “Mr. Washington was always fighting with him over money.”

  “Yeah,” Murph said. “I remember the day we all got the memo saying we had to use the water fountains, that the franchise would no longer provide Gatorade or bottled water for the players.”

  The boys laughed. “That lasted for a day,” Carter said. “I think Buddy said he’d walk if H.B. didn’t provide drinks for the team members and managers.”

  “As flashy as H.B. is, he’s a real cheapskate,” said Murph. “And I think he bets on the games, too.”