by Mark Zubro
“Any background noises you remember?”
McDaniels shook his head.
“And the written notes?”
“I got two of them. They were in my room at my apartment.”
“Where were you on the nights you got these?”
“Both times I found them, I was stopping at the apartment to get a change of clothes after road trips. Lots of times I sleep at my girlfriend, Cyndy’s. Not always. She’s a waitress and sometimes she has to do the late shift.”
“So the notes could have been there for a while.”
“I guess.”
“And somebody must have known your movements.”
He thought for a moment. “I guess, yeah. I found both of those on Sunday nights. Mostly I sleep at Cyndy’s when I’m not pitching. I’m not going to let this bullshit ruin my career. I’m going to fight back. I want to know what the hell is going on. I want to know who’s responsible, and I want them to pay.”
“I’m going to try to find out.”
“If I can help, let me know.”
I said, “One last thing, I see you have a wedding ring.”
He blushed. “My wife is here now. I was being honest with you. When she’s not here, I like to…”
“Cyndy’s okay with this?”
“She hasn’t complained.”
Lucky him.
TUESDAY 11:07 A.M.
Next, I met with Murray at the Pitstop TruckStop. We drank coffee in the last booth in the back.
As soon as I sat down, he leaned forward. “I’ve got something important. I have a source in the hospital. This isn’t official. Nobody’s ready to make an announcement to the media, but he’s been doing this a long time. He knows drugs and murder. Any rural medical person has seen everything from meth lab explosions to all kinds of deaths from all kinds of drugs, mixed and unmixed. Tyler Skeen’s death was definitely murder. They think someone was mixing new meds with his meds from the injury. Besides all those, he may have been taking performance enhancing drugs of all kinds. In some combination they killed him.”
“Could it have been accidental? Or suicide? Or maybe he was just stupid?”
“My source says definitely murder. Somebody switched meds. They were supposed to be painkillers. They looked the same, but they weren’t. Of course, sources have been known to be wrong.”
“Switching meds can’t be easy,” I said. “Getting him to screw them up can’t be either. Whoever prescribed them to him has to be the first suspect along with whoever was providing him with the performance enhancers.”
“Yeah, but anybody who’s been to his place might have had access and would be a suspect, and a lot of people have been to his place. Some of the guys even slept over, although passed-out-on-the-floor-and-couldn’t-be-moved might be a better description. I can confirm there was lots of booze. One of my cousins runs the local liquor store. Business has never been better. The regular guys are used to cheap booze and cheap motels. I also heard there were drugs at the parties. Most of them can’t afford designer drugs on their salaries. There were lots of folks in and out who could have switched meds.”
“Were you ever there?”
“Twice, before Skeen knew I was the local reporter, and even then he didn’t give a big shit about me until I began writing columns that he considered critical. His condo was supposed to be like this one continuous party after the games.”
“No curfew? No hassles with the owner?”
“Tyler Skeen was the show,” Murray said. “He was the real thing. Everybody wanted to be his friend. If you got a chance to be in the presence, you went. Even Knecht got caught up in it. Down deep, he’s a small town boy trying to play with the big kids. If you hung around Skeen, you might not be in the show, but you could bask in the glow of someone who was. For a lot of people basking is enough. Nobody’s got a list of who was in and out of his parties.”
I said, “Knowing which meds he was on, how to make fake ones or get the wrong ones, presumes some pretty specific knowledge. That should help narrow down a suspect list.”
“I don’t know who on the Mustangs would have that knowledge.”
“His entourage might know.”
“That bunch doesn’t budge one inch from the official line. If it’s not a cliché, they don’t say it.”
“Who locally?”
“There’s always rumors about Old Charlie Hopper.”
Czobel had mentioned him. “Who’s he and what rumors?”
“An old asshole who owns this big farm north of town. He makes what he calls elixirs. Fake shit.”
“Anybody get invited to Skeen’s parties more often than somebody else?”
“The better players on the team who could bring unattached female friends showed up a lot.”
“Guys were pimping for him?”
“They didn’t have to pimp for him. In shape or out of shape, being a major league player means you’re among the hottest of the hot. They come to you.”
“He have any particular woman he was interested in locally?”
“Deborah DiMassi, down at Millie’s, the restaurant and bar place near you. In public she was always indifferent to him, but I know better. I may be the only one besides the two of them who knows what’s up. She’s a good friend of mine. She said it was complicated. He’s married, and she says she’s got standards, but she had a crush on him. I’m sure of that.”
Murray lowered his voice. “I think maybe money was involved. She wouldn’t let him touch her unless he made promises. Hard to believe a star athlete needing to make promises to get women. That’s what she told me.”
Czobel had mentioned her earlier. Maybe it wasn’t as big a secret as Murray thought. I would talk to Deborah.
“Any negative feelings among the players about being invited or not?”
“I haven’t found any yet. I can let you meet my hospital source later tonight. He says the prescribing doctor claims to have kept complete records. That everything was in perfect order. That what he prescribed was very safe.”
I said, “A clever killer or an honest man. Unless the drugs that killed him didn’t come from the regular pharmacist. I’ve got something else. Which reporters told you about the threats about throwing games?”
“One of the reporters from the Quad cities. I can give you his name. He heard a rumor. I started to put two and two together. It struck me that Skeen had an easier time against some teams.”
“You or the other reporter have any proof?”
“Not yet.”
I told Murray about my conversation with Jamie McDaniels. When I finished, he said, “McDaniels and Skeen did not get along. I heard McDaniels got thrown out of the condo. They supposedly almost came to blows several times. Lots of big ego on both sides.”
“Enough to cause murder?”
“I hadn’t thought of McDaniels as a suspect. I’m not sure.”
We agreed to keep in touch and left.
TUESDAY 12:30 P.M.
Murray told me that Deborah DiMassi hadn’t gone in that morning to work at the diner, and that she lived a half a block away from the restaurant above a beauty salon. I plowed through the humidity to where she lived. Down a short alley, a set of stairs led to her second floor, outside entrance. No reporters here so far. None of them had found out the connection, or the sports reporters of the world had decided to give decency a try. Not a chance.
I had to knock several times before someone answered. Deborah and a baby in her arms peered through the screen door at me. Tracks of tears smeared Deborah’s face.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I heard you were close to Tyler Skeen. I’m sorry for your loss.”
New tears came to her eyes.
“I don’t know you.”
“I’m investigating his death.” Let her think I was a cop.
She began to cry. The baby began to fuss.
I said, “People who were close to him can be most helpful at this time.”
“How do
you know about us? You’re not from here.”
“May I come in and explain?”
She didn’t seem eager, but she didn’t slam the door in my face either. Maybe she just needed somebody to talk to. She unlatched the door. The living room was done in early yard sale. I could smell kitty litter. Sorry, if you’re a cat person, yes, we can all smell the cat shit, no matter how often you say we can’t.
I sat in an armchair which was covered in a pink and purple afghan. She placed the baby in a playpen crib then slumped onto the couch. The child gurgled to itself and picked up a plastic rattle.
DiMassi was pretty and even I noticed her immense mammary glands. My straight male friends often pointed this or these out to my obliviousness.
She said, “I never had a lot of friends, but now, no one will talk to me. Because I always gave Tyler Skeen the cold shoulder, some say I missed a chance. Fools. The old biddies in town won’t talk to me because they think I was having an affair with him.”
This sounded seriously contradictory. “You wouldn’t give him the time of day in public?”
“He’d come here sometimes late at night.”
“The town biddies knew about it?”
“The town biddies gossip about me. They always have since I hit puberty. They’re a jealous, vicious group of bitches.”
“Why wouldn’t you acknowledge knowing him in public?”
“He’s married. I’m not a whore.” She sniffed and wiped a tear. “When he came over, he was always charming. He was sweet. He brought me flowers.”
“Did you always meet here?”
“Yes.”
“Did his entourage know of your friendship?”
“I don’t know if they knew or not.”
“He’d sneak over here?”
“Yes.”
“Why sneak when he’s rich, and he could have had almost any woman he wanted?”
“He was sensitive about my reputation.”
“But some people knew?”
“Who told you?”
“Marty Murray.” I didn’t mention that Czobel had also told me.
“Marty shouldn’t have.”
“Marty’s worried about you. He hoped I could help.” Maybe a bit of a stretch. “He trusted me. He hoped you’d trust me, too.”
“Trust you about what?”
“They think he was murdered.”
“Is that Marty being overly dramatic?”
“Supposedly it’s true.”
“He just collapsed at the game. How do they know it was murder?”
“Somebody messed with his meds. You know anything about them?”
“I never saw his drugs. I only saw him here.”
Did her eyes shift a bit too much at this answer? Was it too quick? Too pat? I didn’t believe in detectives having instant insight without justification. Right now I just had a twitch.
“Did he talk about enemies, problems?”
“He talked a lot about everything. Mostly how wonderful he was. I didn’t care. He was nice to me.”
“How’d he wind up coming here?”
Deborah began to cry. “I can’t talk about this. I can’t. Please go. Please.”
I stood up, said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and left.
This was the first person I’d found who was sad Tyler Skeen was dead.
TUESDAY 1:45 P.M.
I grabbed a burger at Rallon’s Drive In on Main Street near the ballpark. Grease encrusted the outdoor menu, the speaker, the burger, its wrapper, and the hands of the teen who handed me my food.
I thought I’d start with the people opposed to the stadium. The leader of the opposition had an office in downtown Butterfield.
Main Street looked like a photo of a downtown in a small Midwest town at the height of the Great Depression. A few tired businesses struggled in the heat and the economy. I saw a travel agency with a blue-rinse-haired woman behind a ten-year-old computer, and a used car dealership with seven very used, rusted, and crumbling but not vintage cars. City Hall, the chamber of commerce, a beauty parlor, and a drugstore shared a building at the only intersection in town with a traffic light.
In all the newspaper reports, L.P. Ornstein, attorney-at-law, had been the spokesperson for the Knecht opposition. His office was in a storefront half a block down from City Hall. According to the signs still stenciled on the window to the left of the front door, it had once housed a Laundromat. Ornstein sat at a desk visible from the wide front windows.
He might have been in his early thirties. I’d been expecting a much older man. He gave me a friendly smile, stood up, and offered me his hand. He wore a simple gold wedding band. Ten or fifteen years ago he might have played basketball for the local high school team. He said, “You’re the private investigator Connor Knecht hired. I was expecting someone older.”
“Is there somebody in town who doesn’t know who I am?”
“There must be some secrets in this town, but not many. We have spies in Knecht’s camp.”
“Spies? Is this a war?”
“Sometimes it feels that way to us.”
“I heard you were the leader of the opposition to Mr. Knecht.”
“I heard you were a very successful private investigator.”
“Is it supposed to be a secret that you led the opposition?”
“No.”
“Then why not talk about it without changing the subject?”
“Because I may know what you are, but I need to know who you are, what you’re up to.”
I said, “I got Knecht’s version of the truth. I’d like to hear the other side. Seems to be a lot to sort out in this town.”
He paused. “I suppose that’s fair enough. Even more, I checked you out. You are supposed to be a very good investigator. Did a lot of work for gay clients.” He leaned his elbows forward on the desk. His blond hair was thinning. About an inch above his hair line was the dome of a zit the size of an eraser head. It shone yellowish-green. Every few moments he’d touch the spot lightly.
If he was hoping for details on the cases or my sex life, he would have a very long wait. I said, “I work very hard for all the people who employ me.”
He cleared his throat. “I can at least give you some background. A lot of this is public knowledge anyway. Connor Knecht’s great-great grandfather founded the town. My great-great relatives were among the first to arrive right after. I want to make sure you understand this. The town doesn’t have a feud going like the Hatfields and McCoys. Far worse. It’s more like the Middle East but with both sides fully armed and exchanging nuclear bombs. Hell of a lot of angry history.”
“Nobody’s tried to reconcile the two sides?”
“Not since just after World War II when a teenage son from our side and a teenage daughter from their side began dating. The parents busted it up. The two kids committed suicide from the tallest church’s bell tower. The enmity has been even stronger since then. One side or the other burned the church down. A few say the fire might have been an accident. In time that was just another addition to the long list of things we’ve been blaming each other for.”
“That sounds horrible, but it doesn’t sound like the kind of feud that would include outsiders, like ballplayers.”
“It includes anybody who comes through town. I’m not saying there’s a murder on every street corner. This isn’t downtown Chicago.”
I didn’t bother to correct the misconception. Downtown Chicago was one of the most crime free parts of the city and had been for years, as long as you didn’t count the parade of indicted aldermen flowing through City Hall.
He was continuing, “The fights are the lifeblood of local politics. Lots of people worked against the new ballpark and the new condos. Knecht wants all kinds of new developments. He bought a lot of land before he came back, before anybody knew what was going on. It was all done on the sly as if he had something to hide. He even wants to build a theme park in the county. We aren’t that far from the Dells. No theme park is going
to be able to compete with that.”
Wisconsin Dells, more crass materialism in the wilderness than you could shake an environmentalist at.
Ornstein said, “Knecht made his first land purchase fifteen years ago. His moving here and trying to take over the town wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment plan.”
“You’re sure he wants to take over the town? Except for the ballpark, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of town to take over.”
“It’s people and tradition as much as bricks and buildings. We’ve got a nice little town here. Sure, we’ve got problems, but development such as Knecht envisions has and will continue to destroy the quality of life in Butterfield.”
“People who get jobs because of him might disagree.”
“Knecht isn’t building all this to get jobs for the poor unfortunates of this world. He doesn’t care about anyone except himself. I’m not sure why Knecht would have a reason to complain. He’s won most of the fights. We’ve been able to delay and alter, but not stop.”
I said, “Maybe he doesn’t want his ballpark burned down. Tyler Skeen was murdered.”
“I heard the rumor. If Sherriff Rotella wasn’t on our side, I might be tempted to say he was an incompetent boob.”
“Fights within factions?”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“What’s Rotella’s problem?”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“Players have been threatened.”
“Maybe Knecht did that himself. He gets more sympathy that way. He hires you for window dressing or maybe to make people tremble.”
“When I drove in, I noticed people fleeing in terror down the Interstate.” This got the barest wisp of a smile from him.
He said, “We’re a tough bunch. People in the town are angry. Knecht’s stadium caused the largest tax increase in this county in fifty years. People were pissed. We’ve got some very strident anti-tax people around here.”
“They commit a lot of murders?”
“Not that they tell me about.”
“If Knecht is so disliked, how’d the tax increase pass?”
“He lied. People did get jobs. The economy did get boosted. It all just got boosted in ways that helped Knecht and not always the town.”