Strike Three, You're Dead

by Josh Berk

“Looking for clues,” she said. “Check out everything.” It was then that I noticed her spy camera, peeking out of her pocket. She was secretly recording everything in the dugout, collecting footage we could examine later. “And make note of everyone who has access to this dugout. That’s our suspect list.”

  But they were mostly just players. A few other guys I didn’t recognize. Maybe the trainer. Could he be a suspect? He seemed innocent enough, but what did I know? Mike didn’t seem to be worried about searching for clues. He was chatting with all the players and getting them to sign a ball. I couldn’t believe it! I had forgotten to even bring anything for an autograph! Each guy signed it and passed it to the next guy. Some of them were stretching, some were just relaxing. Some were getting ready to take their turn at batting practice. It seemed like a pretty fun life.

  Before long, Famosa whispered something to Maria in Spanish, and she shot something back. He said it again. Maria sighed.

  “He says we have to go,” she said.

  “Do you think we got what we need?” I asked.

  “I do!” Mike said, admiring the ball.

  “I think so,” Maria said, patting the spy camera. “I’ll watch this tonight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Maria’s spy camera had an attachment she could snap on that allowed her to watch the footage without having to hook it up to a computer. She spent the next hour staring into the eyepiece. I was getting bored waiting for the game to start and had already eaten a cheesesteak, so I kept pestering her.

  “See anything?”

  “No!”

  “See anything?”

  “No!”

  “See anything?”

  “I’ll let you know when I do!”

  She never let me know. The footage was useless. The game was a letdown. I won’t say much about who won other than that Dad was the only happy person in the car on the way back.

  We headed home feeling bummed. Being in the dugout was cool. And the ballpark is always great. But it was a fairly disappointing night. The Phils lost. No clues were found. It was a waste of time. Judging from the silence in the car, I wasn’t the only one feeling down.

  Dad jumped in, trying to cheer us up. “I think what we need is a more scientific method,” he said. We groaned. “Hear me out! You’ve been running around, chasing every suspect you can think of. If you’re trying to start at fifty thousand people and narrow it down one by one, you’ll never solve this. You need to start with a list of zero and add suspects. Then take that small list and cross everyone off one by one.”

  “That’s what we’ve been doing!” I said.

  “Well, who have you crossed off?” he said.

  “You, first of all,” Mike said. Dad laughed. “And Famosa. Plus, all the players who were on the field at the time. Lenny said RJ was fine before the game, so we’re thinking this had to happen during the game. Remember how the trainer took RJ a drink? It caught my eye. I’d never seen that before. The poison had to be in the water bottle! So the person who poisoned RJ had to be in the dugout!”

  “That would be just a few substitute players, the manager and coaches …,” I said.

  “Rafael Boyar was in the dugout,” Maria said. “I’m always bummed when he’s not in the lineup. But why would he want to hurt RJ? No one in that dugout had anything like a motive,” Maria said.

  The discussion went on like this for a while, getting nowhere. We reached Mike’s house first, and Dad pulled into his driveway to drop him off. Mike hopped out of the car, then stopped and looked back. He gestured for me to roll down the window.

  “Here, Lenny,” Mike said. “I want to give this to you for your collection.” He tossed me the ball he’d gotten all the guys to autograph. I dropped it. It rolled onto the seat of the car.

  “Nah, Mike,” I said. “You keep this one. I owe you.”

  “Excuse me!” Maria said. “Who set this whole thing up?!”

  “Yeah!” Other Mike said. “And don’t forget who made the ‘for the honor of Mizlon’ speech back at the mall.”

  “Oh, you don’t want the ball anyway,” Mike said. “And, Maria—don’t you think Lenny deserves it? He was so close to his dream of being an announcer, only to have it slip away. That’s gotta hurt.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” she said. “But don’t think I’m giving Lenny a birthday gift. Too bad. I had the perfect present in mind: a stuffed groundhog.”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny,” I said.

  “One more question, Dr. Norbeck,” Mike said, leaning into the car window from the dark driveway. “Forget motive for a second. Let’s forget why and focus on how. Serious question: is there anything that could be slipped into someone’s drink to make them die like RJ did? Forget whether it’s likely or not. Just is there a pill or something they could give a person that could make an otherwise healthy guy have a heart attack?”

  “It’s unlikely,” Dad said. “But maybe some heart medicine, used incorrectly. It would be hard to come by, though.”

  “Hard, but not impossible, right?” I said.

  “Right,” he said. “But pretty hard. Unless you had a prescription.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Hearing Dad say what he did about heart medicine caused a major click in my brain. Not just a click, a loud thwack, like a fastball getting mashed by a slugger. Solving a mystery was just like understanding a baseball play. Follow the ball. Third base to second base to first base. One, two, three. It was as clear to me as a line drive to the forehead. You’re out. Now it was just a matter of applying the tag. I had been thinking about it all night, piecing clues together, going over everything. Who had access to the dugout? Who had access to heart medicine? Who had a reason to want Weathers dead?

  Okay, it wasn’t quite that simple. I spent most of the night arguing with myself. “Could it be? No, it couldn’t. But maybe? Yes! It has to be! Does it?” Yes, both halves of that conversation were me. It’s bad enough to talk to yourself, but really worrisome when you start to answer. I couldn’t get it out of my mind, though. Even my dreams returned to the question, waking me up to debate it over and over again. Finally, I just got up and watched the clock, waiting for it to be no longer too early to call Mike. I broke down at about eight o’clock.

  “I know who did it,” I said to him on the phone first thing in the morning. “And I know why.”

  “Who is this?” Mike said.

  From those words, it was a short trip to where this tale began: me and the Mikes, crouched behind a dirty shed, waiting to die. It was a pretty dumb idea to go out there to the murderer’s house on our own. I know it was. Believe me, I know. We should have asked an adult. We should have called the police. We should have at least asked Maria—who was, quite honestly, the toughest of the four of us—to go along. We should have done a million different things. But we went for it alone. Just me and the boys. Just Lenny and the Mikes.

  I didn’t even know what I thought we’d find. A final clue? Proof? I thought we needed one more thing to seal the case tight. So we rode our bikes out to the weird part of town, where everything is wilting and worn. It was a long ride, and even though we were excited, we took our time. We rode slowly, like cowboys coming home after a long day on the range. No one made jokes about our fake biker gang. No one joked about anything. We hardly talked at all. Once we had the place in sight, we parked our bikes and went the final few hundred yards on foot.

  As we walked, we began to talk. I started, “Think about when it happened. RJ had given up eight runs in the first inning. Just one out. His ERA was two hundred and sixteen. A record. The worst of all time.” I was getting excited, walking faster, making circles around the Mikes. “I know what that feels like. To be the worst ever. It’s a terrible feeling. You’d want to end it any way you could.”

  “Are you saying—?” Mike asked.

  “Right. At the exact moment that RJ’s ERA became the worst in history, the former record holder had a chance to make sure it would stay there always. If
RJ pitched another day—even recorded one more out—he would not go down in history as the worst ever. And he was young. He had a whole career ahead of him. He wasn’t going to pitch in only one game. He wasn’t going to get shipped off to war.”

  “Are you saying—?” both Mikes asked this time.

  “Yes. The man whose name would be erased from the record books was standing right there in the dugout, armed with a deadly drug. Blaze O’Farrell killed R. J. Weathers.”

  “I see he had a motive. That sounds like a pretty reasonable ‘why.’ Nobody wants to go down in history as the worst ever at something.”

  “You’re telling me,” I said. All along I had been saying I was the worst ever, but really I wasn’t.

  “But how?” Mike asked. “How could he slip the poison into RJ’s drink?”

  “That’s easy, sports fans,” I said. “The hidden-ball trick.”

  They nodded. It made sense. Blaze was in the dugout the night RJ died. He had the poison on him. And he was a master at deception. Maybe he already had the medicine with him and sensed an opportunity too good to pass up. An opportunity to get his name removed from the record books. He had to be the guy.

  “What are we going to do?” Other Mike asked as we got close. “Knock on the door and tell him we’re here to make a citizen’s arrest?”

  “No, we’re just looking for clues,” I said.

  “Clues like what?” Mike asked.

  “Remember when we thought we found stuff to make a bomb? I don’t think it was for bomb making. I think it was heart medicine. And my dad said that heart medicine could be used to kill someone and make it look like a heart attack!”

  “To the garbage barrel! That’s where we saw the nitro-whatever.”

  “To the garbage barrel!” Other Mike said, giggling. It was sort of funny.

  We stealthily made our way around Blaze’s property, searching for the vial that might have killed R. J. Weathers. We found the garbage barrel and lifted the lid. It smelled awful. Like a used diaper wrapped in roadkill. And left to rot in the sun. Why did it have to be so hot?

  I dug through the black garbage-y sludge and found a small bottle just like the one we had found last time we were here. I was able to wipe off the stink and hold the bottle close enough to read the smeared lettering. It was a challenge to hold it that close without throwing up, but I did it. Nitroglycerin. Boom.

  “We got what we need,” I said. “Now let’s get—”

  And that’s when we heard the sound of breaking glass. Bottles, raining down on us. Again. Mike picked up the lid of the trash can and used it to block the bottles. Each one, chucked at major league speed, was blocked easily. He was like a knight wielding a shield. No, he was like a catcher blocking wild pitches. Wherever the throw was, he countered it easily.

  “If we get out of this alive,” I said, “you really should try out for catcher. You have my support. One hundred percent.”

  “Thanks, Len.”

  The bottles kept pouring down. Blaze must really have drunk a lot. Or never taken out the garbage. Or both.

  This was getting old. Blaze must have thought so too. Because he took it to the next level.

  “Time to end this!” he shouted. Uh-oh.

  “End this? What does that mean?” Other Mike asked quietly.

  “Time to end yoooooooou!”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  And that, sports fans, is exactly where we started this tale. There were prayers. There were promises. There were tears. There were three friends who just wanted summer to be fun. There were three friends who just wanted to have justice done. There were three friends who just did not want to die.

  And then we heard it. A blast shattering the air. Too loud to be a gun. It had to be a bomb. Could it be?

  It was quiet for a minute. Maybe more. Who could tell? The next thing we heard was a confusing sound. A shouted voice, somewhat recognizable, cutting through the silence.

  “I am armed and I know how to use it,” the voice said. It seemed to be coming from the driveway.

  “Dude, what is going on?” I asked Other Mike.

  “Is that Courtney?” Mike said.

  “I think it is!” I said, peeking out from behind the trash can. “She doesn’t really have a gun, does she?”

  “I think that noise was just her car backfiring!” Other Mike said.

  “But Blaze does have a gun!” I yelled. “Courtney, look out!”

  Blaze came at Courtney, raising his gun and pointing it shakily at her. He glanced at us over by the trash cans. He looked confused. I felt confused, too. And scared. He closed one eye and crouched a little, like he was going to shoot. But before he could squeeze the trigger, Courtney’s right arm went back—and then Blaze went down!

  She had flung something at him and nailed him right between the eyes. He was out cold. Maybe dead!

  “Nah, he isn’t dead,” Courtney said as we rushed over to her. “At least, I don’t think.” She walked over to him and poked him with the toe of her sandal. She grabbed the gun and flicked the safety on. She stuck it in her purse. He groaned and coughed slightly. “See?” she said happily.

  I walked over and said, “Blair O’Farrell, I am placing you under citizen’s arrest for the murder of R. J. Weathers.” I had no idea if that worked, but it seemed like the thing to do.

  Blaze stirred again. His wrinkled face looked sad, like a baseball glove left out in the rain. “I never meant to kill him,” he said quietly. “I just wanted to end his career. I couldn’t resist it. So many years I lived with the shame. The worst pitcher ever. Ever! In the whole history. Of all Major League Baseball. Me.” He spoke in short, sobbing bursts, taking breaks to honk his nose into a yellowed handkerchief. “To live with that every day? Every morning when you wake up, you play that same scene over and over and over again. That same awful inning. Ball four, ball four, ball four, wild pitch, home run by that godforsaken Bill Nicholson. I even walked Putsy Caballero. Stupid Putsy Caba-freaking-llero.”

  I stifled a chuckle. This really wasn’t a time for laughter, but come on: Putsy Caballero.

  Blaze continued: “And then of all the rotten luck—to get shipped off to war and never have a chance to take the mound again? Let’s face it: I’m an old man. My time on this earth is short. I don’t want to be remembered as the worst ever. But I never meant to kill that kid—honest. I just thought I could slip something in his drink, maybe get him pulled from the game, maybe he’d never come back, maybe he’d get sent to the minors and I could die in peace. Maybe I’d lose my place in the record books. I didn’t know it would kill him. I swear.”

  I didn’t know what to say to all this. Then Mike quietly said, “Len, you were right.”

  And I felt proud. I was right. Blaze O’Farrell had used the hidden-ball trick.

  The police showed up to violently disrupt the silence, their sirens wailing like crying babies. Their tires kicked up dirt and mighty clouds of dust. Two large officers came sprinting out of their cars.

  “Let me see your hands!” one of the cops yelled, and Blaze didn’t put up a fight. The other snapped on the handcuffs and the first stayed to talk to Courtney. She gave him the gun from her purse. He smiled. They talked while Blaze waited in the police car, stuck in the back like a kid. And before long they were gone.

  “I’m still a little confused about one thing,” I said.

  “You’re confused about a lot of things, Lenny,” Courtney said. “Believe me.”

  “Ha … ha,” I said. “But what the heck? You really were armed? What did you hit him with?”

  She showed me the device. I had no idea what I was looking at.

  “It’s like a homemade blackjack,” she said. “You know, like the old rock in a sock.”

  “What? What’s it made out of?” I was impressed.

  “Easy,” she said. “I grabbed a baseball from your room and stuck it in a bikini top. Makes a pretty awesome weapon. I like to stock up.”

  “Unb
elievable,” I said.

  The Mikes echoed me. “Unbelievable.”

  Courtney smiled and shrugged. “The ball had a bunch of writing on it, so I washed it off.”

  “What!?” I yelled. “The autographs!”

  “Kidding, Len, kidding,” she said with a smile. “It’s just an old ball. You need to relax, really.”

  “You’re insane, you know that?” I asked.

  “No, I’m just very savvy,” she said. “I’m actually trained in the martial arts. I’ve been watching you like a hawk all summer, you just haven’t realized it. I’m here to protect you. Why do you think your parents hired me, Lenny? My height? My hair? My tan?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I have a question: how did you find us?” Other Mike asked.

  “Easy,” she said. “Lenny’s phone has GPS tracking. I’ve been watching you guys pretty much all summer.”

  “It does?” Other Mike asked. “Hey, Len, I told you I had the feeling we were being watched all summer!” He looked triumphant, then suddenly sad. “Man, I thought I was going to invent the bike GPS. No one is going to buy a bike GPS if phones already have one.”

  “Time for a new dream, warlock,” she said, ruffling his hair. He laughed. We all laughed. It was a weird moment, and we didn’t know what else to do but laugh. Blaze was no doubt headed to jail. I was no doubt headed to being grounded. Courtney was no doubt headed to a bright career as a CIA agent or a ninja. Mike was no doubt getting back on the baseball team—behind the plate instead of on the mound. He was going to be great. Other Mike was most certainly not heading downtown to give away his computer to poor children. Mike’s sister, Arianna, should not hold her breath waiting for her brother to start being nice to her.

  And that’ll do it from Schwenkfelder, sports fans. It shaped up to be a real wild one, and the result was in doubt right up until the last pitch was thrown. But thanks to some razzle-dazzle and a solid team effort, the good guys came away with the victory. Ain’t that swell?