Strike Three, You're Dead

by Josh Berk

  I had to break in here. “Dude, what the heck? Other Mike wasn’t even watching the game? Ask him why he missed my big inning!”

  “He says he forgot,” Mike said. “Probably got obsessed with the new Warlock Wallop.”

  “Tell him he’s a jerk,” I said.

  “Ah, tell him yourself,” Mike said. “I’m tired of being your secretary. Just be careful with the computer.”

  “I knew the yak was only an empty threat!” I said.

  Mike pushed the chair back and got up from the computer, rolling his eyes. “Wow, you are definitely a great detective. I don’t really have a rabid yak in my house. How you figured that one out, the world will never know. You’re, like, Norbeck Holmes.” He lay down on the floor, looking like he might fall asleep. I was just getting started.

  Me: hey, it’s me, lenny.

  Other Mike: I can’t believe Mike’s letting you use his computer!

  Me: I know. this is a big day for us all.

  Other Mike: It’ll probably be your last day.

  Me: the yak is just an empty threat. you might be right though. my parents will kill me if they found out i snuck out!

  Other Mike: How’d you do that??

  Me: hidden-ball-trick-style.

  Other Mike: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Me: listen, I need your help with something on the computer. if I send you a link to a message board, can you figure out the identity of the person behind the screen name?

  Other Mike: Uh, maybe?

  Me: you don’t sound very confident.

  Other Mike: Well, it’s hard. People like to be anonymous online. I could probably figure out the IP address maybe? That’s like the identifying address for any computer. Doesn’t always tell you who the person is, but it’s a start. Send over what you have and give me a minute.

  I laughed and sent Other Mike the link to PhilzFan1’s Bedrosian’s Beard profile. “What are you laughing about?” Mike said from his spot on the floor.

  “IP address is a funny computer term,” I said. “It sounds like ‘I pee.’ ”

  “Sure does,” Mike agreed. “What does it mean?”

  I explained to him what Other Mike had said, that each computer on the Internet has its own address, called “I pee,” for some reason. We made dumb jokes and laughed about that for a few minutes. Possibly we were getting delirious from exhaustion. Then the computer beeped again. Other Mike, coming through in the clutch!

  Other Mike: Well, you’re not going to believe this.

  Me: you got the name of the guy making those posts?!

  Other Mike: No, but I do have the location.

  Me: yeah? then we can just find out whose house that is and we’re on our way!

  Other Mike: Well, it’s not a house.

  Me: what then?

  Other Mike: If I’m doing this correctly, and I always am, the person posting behind the name PhilzFan1 is doing so from a library.

  Me: huh.

  Other Mike: Not just any library.

  Me: huh?

  Other Mike: OUR library!

  I let that sink in for a moment. I must have looked like I was in shock because Mike glanced up and said, “You okay, Len? You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “Get over here and read this,” I hissed.

  Mike looked at me, then at the screen, then back at me. “Whoa,” he said.

  Other Mike kept typing. He explained that if you checked the time on the post from yesterday, you could tell it was made really early in the morning. The library wasn’t even open yet!

  I looked at Mike. Mike looked at me. The cursor blinked. Other Mike was thinking too. It was a tense moment. But like a couple of teammates who’ve spent years playing next to each other, we each knew what the other was thinking without saying a word: Who could possibly be in the library before it opens, unless they worked at the library? I suddenly heard a voice from upstairs.

  “Miiiiiiiiiike!” It was Arianna. “Who are you taaaaaalking toooooooo?”

  “Crap,” Mike whispered to me. “You gotta get outta here.” Then he called up to his sister. “It’s just the TV, Ari,” he said. “Go back to bed.”

  “I’m getting Mom!” she said.

  I did a quick impression of a late-night infomercial so Ari would think I was the TV and nothing else. I adopted a corny talk-show voice and said, “For just three easy payments of fourteen ninety-five, you can have not one, not two, not three, but four thousand knives sharper than the teeth of an angry yak!”

  “Good one,” Mike whispered. He cracked a smile but wiped it away. “Don’t make me laugh. You better go!” Then he called back up to his sister in a somewhat louder voice, still quiet enough not to wake his parents. Sort of a screaming whisper. I love the scream-whisper. “Don’t bother Mom, Ari,” he said. “I’ll let you use the computer all day tomorrow.” Then he turned to me and said in a real whisper, “I hate you, Leonard Norbeck.” But he said it with a smile. “See you at the library first thing in the morning?”

  “First thing,” I said. “Tell Other Mike. Let’s get there before they open so we can scout it. I’ll bring the telescope.”

  “Of course you will,” he said. “Of course.”

  I pounded his fist and darted toward the window. Out into the night. Rounding the bases. Heading home. I barely felt my feet move as I sprinted. I was carried by the wind and distracted by the new information. PhilzFan1 worked at the library? Who did we know that worked in the library and was a Phillies fan?

  The only and obvious answer was Mr. Bonzer. Was Mr. Bonzer really PhilzFan1? Did he spend his mornings before the library opened posting angry rants on the library’s computer? And could he have been the one who had something to do with the death of R. J. Weathers? I kept asking myself these questions over and over again, like maybe I was hoping to come to a different conclusion. It’s like when they show old ball games on TV during the winter and I watch them anyway and root for the good guys to win even when I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they lose.

  It made me feel uneasy, imagining this guy I talked to every day actually being a psycho stalker and a murderer. If Mr. Bonzer was PhilzFan1 and a murderer, could, I don’t know, Mike’s dad be a secret health food nut? Could my teachers all be hired assassins in the summers? Could Courtney the Caretaker have a double life as an ultimate fighter? I had to put aside this train of thought for a much more immediate concern: getting back into the house.

  Getting out was one thing. By the time the parents heard the noise of me leaping out of the garage and then came to check whether I was in my room, they’d see “me” and go back to bed. They’d see hidden-ball-trick Lenny made out of pillows and shirts and Fuzzy Monkey. But if they heard a noise on my way back in? They’d bump into me in the hallway. It struck me that maybe the fake Lenny fooled no one, and they’d be waiting for me in the driveway. I’d be a dead duck—like when the ball arrives ten seconds before a runner tries to steal second and all he can do is hang his head and accept his fate. But if they woke up and found me missing, there would be some evidence. Right? There would be sirens and calls to the Mikes, right?

  I approached my house, and for a second I barely recognized it. Had they done something to it in my absence? Impossible. I checked my cell. I had only been gone just over an hour and a half. Plus, it was the middle of the night. Had something in me shifted during that time? It seemed like everything was changing. Just the other day it seemed like the biggest thing in the world was winning this contest. Now there was a murder and I was sneaking out of the house and the whole world had gone crazy.

  I had to use all the strength in my skinny arms to pull myself up through the window. Then I had to close the window, cross the dark garage, open a few doors, and get into my bed without arousing a slumbering cardiologist. These were all challenges, yes. But the weird thing is, I did it. Perfectly. I did it. I snuck out of the house. And back in. I put on my pajamas and got into bed. My heart was pounding in my throat, and for some
reason I felt like I could taste blood. Yet my parents didn’t wake up. I closed my eyes. And I didn’t feel scared. I felt … happy? I knew it was wrong to feel happy, but this was way more exciting than just announcing an inning. This was big. I needed to dig deep, to honor R. J. Weathers’s memory, and his family, and every great baseball player I admired who’d want to know the truth.

  CHAPTER NINE

  My Phillies alarm clock blared “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” at 7:43 a.m. After a few pounds of the old snooze bar, I was raring to go. Well, not quite raring …

  The library opened at nine o’clock, but we wanted to be there before nine, if possible. Mom and Dad were already gone for work by the time I got out of bed. Courtney was there, hanging out inside, which probably meant it was going to rain. She was like a human weather report. She was baffled that I was up so early, but I told her that I wanted to get a jump on going to the library, which, technically, was true.

  “Are you okay, Lenny?” she asked as I made my way into the kitchen. “You’re acting weird even for you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, quickly pouring myself a bowl of cereal. It was heart-healthy cereal, so it sort of tasted like Styrofoam packing peanuts, but I was in a hurry.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I hear you had a rough night.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You could say that.” What did she know about it?

  “Your dad was telling me a little about it before he left this morning,” she said. “Oh, and he told me to give you this.” She handed me a piece of paper folded in half. I opened it up. It was a printout of an email from one of Dad’s doctor friends. The time stamp showed it was sent early this morning.

  Hey, Dr. J—

  Yeah, I was here when they brought the pitcher in, doing my night down in the ER. Not all of us get the sweet cardiologist hours.

  Anyway, yeah, it’ll be some time until we get all the results back, of course, but I’ll tell you what I saw: nothing. No signs of drugs, no signs of trauma, no signs of anything. I did my time in sports medicine back in college when steroids were everywhere, and this guy looked nothing like any of those guys. The kid looked like he died peacefully. Like a healthy, normal kid who just went to sleep. Definitely weird. Definitely suspicious circumstances.

  I’m not saying it’s foul play, but I ain’t ruling it out. Looking pretty likely, to tell you the truth. But we’ll get to the bottom of it. I’ll keep you posted. Why do you ask? Thinking about changing careers and becoming a homicide detective?

  Probably goes without saying, but don’t repeat any of this. The press is crawling all over here and the hospital is trying to keep everything nice and private.

  Tell the missus hello. More soon.

  My first thought was: Dad has a friend who teases him and uses smileys in emails? And calls him “Dr. J”? Weird. My next thought was, of course, that this was something huge. I was going to honor the doctor’s wish to keep it out of the press, and certainly wasn’t going to blab to Bedrosian’s Beard. But I had to tell the Mikes! “Thanks,” I said to Courtney once I remembered my manners. I folded the paper up and stuck it in my pocket. Wait until the guys see this!

  As I rode to the library, I wondered what I would find. Was I about to unmask PhilzFan1? It wasn’t just my mind playing tricks on me. Something fishy really did happen last night. RJ’s death wasn’t from drugs, and it wasn’t an accident. Even to a doctor it seemed like a weird case. Foul play. Was I about to solve a murder? Would the Mikes even show up? Then I saw them and smiled. The two of them were spinning around the parking lot on their bikes. They were the best friends ever, but terrible spies.

  “Dudes,” I said. “Don’t be so obvious. This is undercover work.”

  “Oh, right,” Other Mike said. “Wait—why?”

  “We’re trying to catch a killer here. We don’t want anyone to see us. Come on. I have a good spot in mind to set up the telescope.”

  “Hey, do you ever have the feeling that we’re being watched?” Other Mike said. “I’ve had that weird feeling, like, all summer.”

  “No,” I said. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re the ones doing the snooping.”

  “I don’t know,” Other Mike said, whipping his head around nervously. “I feel like someone’s watching us.”

  Hearing him say that made me feel nervous, and I started looking around too.

  “Would you two shut up?” Mike said. “Not that it matters. We’re too late.” He sat on his bike, not going anywhere, just spinning the pedals with his feet. “Look,” he said, pointing across the parking lot. “There are a few cars here already. If you were hoping to catch him walking in, it’s probably too late.”

  “Yeah, we were here a half hour ago,” Other Mike said.

  “Snooze bar,” I muttered. “It’ll be the death of me. That’s what Mom always says.”

  “She’s onto something,” Mike said.

  “Well, who else could be in there?” I asked. “Besides Bonzer, I mean. A crazy janitor? Do libraries have janitors? Did you see anyone go in? What if a homeless person is living in the library?”

  “Beats me. The cars were here before we were,” Mike said with a shrug.

  “There’s always tomorrow,” I said.

  “As if you’ll be up early tomorrow,” Other Mike said. “That would be like a pitcher hitting a home run. Eh? Eh?” He smiled. Other Mike was always really proud of himself when he made a baseball reference. They didn’t come naturally to him, so he liked to celebrate.

  “Okay, change of plans,” I said.

  “How so?” Mike asked.

  “The time has passed for observation,” I said. “Now is the time for interrogation.” It was something I had read in a spy book, and it sounded cool. The Mikes laughed, but they were willing to go along with the plan.

  We waited for the library to open, and I marched right in to find Mr. Bonzer. The boys followed. Mr. Bonzer looked sinister sitting there at the desk. Like he did have it in him to be a killer. His teeth looked sharper and pointier than I remembered, like the teeth of a shark. Maybe it was just in my head. Like when you’re in a bad mood and every song in the world seems like a sad song or when you’re extremely tired and you see someone running and you can’t fathom how or why it’s possible to be in such a hurry.

  I kept myself cool. I had to improvise. What do you do when you’re behind the plate and your star pitcher doesn’t have command of his best pitch that day? If he’s known for his curve but his curve isn’t working? You change it up. You call for the fastball. You roll with it. Just get him talking. See what he has to say.

  I made that hand gesture that meant “Step aside, Mikes. The Lenmeister has got this one.” It seemed like something a real detective would do. Um, right?

  “Good morning, Mr. Bonzer,” I said.

  “Morning,” he groaned, sipping from a bright red Phillies coffee mug.

  “Tired?” I asked, narrowing my eyes a little. I was trying to seem tough and also to see if I could notice any other details around his desk. There wasn’t much. It was a mess of papers—catalogs, envelopes, and of course a lot of books. Nothing overtly sinister, but you can never tell. I would have loved to get a look at his computer screen, but he kept it turned at an angle that made it impossible to see. Tell me that’s not a bit sinister.

  “Slightly tired, yes,” Bonzer said, looking like he would never leave that chair. He was like a hibernating bear stuck in a cave. “I’ll snap out of it soon.” He held up his coffee mug. “Thanks for asking. How about you? You’re up early. I’ve never seen you three here before noon.”

  “Well, I’m working on a, um, project,” I said. “It’s due tomorrow. I had to get an early start.”

  “What kind of project? More baseball research?”

  “No, it’s for … school.”

  “You are aware that it’s summer vacation. Which makes it kind of unlikely that you have a school project due tomorrow. Just saying.”

  “It’s summer
school,” I said.

  “You go to summer school? At Schwenkfelder Middle? I was just there talking to the summer-school kids about the library. I didn’t see you.”

  Why was he thwarting all my efforts? I was unthwartable!

  “No, it’s not real school. It’s, um, like, something my parents make me do.”

  “Home heart surgery—stuff like that?”

  “Hey, how did you know that my parents are cardiologists?” (What I really wanted to ask was: Are you a master spy?)

  “Small town, Leonard. There aren’t a lot of Norbecks.”

  Why is he counting Norbecks?

  “True that,” I said, for some reason.

  “So, what is this project you’re working on? Something I can help you with?”

  “It’s actually about, um, libraries,” I lied.

  “Then I’m the man to ask, I suppose.” He stroked his beard.

  “Yes, well, see … my parents wanted me to learn more about a city institution or whatever, and I chose the library. I have a bunch of questions I need to have answered.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful! A noble civic institution if there ever was one. Not that I’m biased. Do you have the questions with you?”

  I patted myself down like I was looking for the paper. I looked like a confused coach unclear if I was telling someone to bunt or steal second.

  “I forgot it?” was the brilliant excuse I came up with.

  “Do you remember any of the questions?” he asked with a sigh. But a friendly sigh. He really was a nice guy. Isn’t he?

  I paused for a second and scratched my head. Why does head scratching equate to thinking? Monkeys are always scratching themselves, and I doubt they’re thinking much of anything. Maybe about riding bikes. I saw a monkey riding a bike once at the circus. I wondered how they got a bike that small. Focus, Leonard!

  Maybe I could lure Bonzer away from his desk and give Other Mike a chance to snoop around. With his computer skills, if he could get access to Bonzer’s computer, he could find out for sure if his computer was the one with the IP address that matched the one we had for PhilzFan1!