Dying to Play

by Mark Zubro

  “Rotella’s been mean to me. Some of his deputies too. Except Raul, the guy you saved. He’s nice, but Rotella hates my dad. My dad’s a judge. He didn’t want Rotella to be police chief. Before he was chief, that asshole tried to arrest me once. He got in a lot of trouble for that. Rotella’s not real popular among some segments in town, but when the last chief retired, nobody in town could agree on a local replacement. He was a compromise which means everybody’s unhappy he got the job. I think he’s unhappy he got the job. I think some of his deputies were really pissed.”

  “You don’t believe all the threats are real or the fires arson?”

  “Arson? Ha! That whole outhouse thing was a couple of teenagers from the local high school pulling a prank. All the local kids know who did it. Nobody’s going to tell because it’s all gotten mixed up with this adult bullshit.”

  “What about when somebody tried to burn down the stadium?”

  “Knecht could have done that himself.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s an asshole. He won’t hire me. Says I scare little kids.” He hadn’t missed a twitch yet. Imagining the teasing he must have endured all his life, I felt sorry for him. “Knecht hates my dad. He gave rulings against him. My dad opposes his projects. Knecht hates opposition. He is a hateful, mean man. I think he’d try to kill people who oppose him. Knecht is crazy. Some of the townspeople who are against him are nice to me. They never make fun of me. Knecht does.”

  “You like Tyler Skeen?”

  “Over the hill. Playing days should have been over years ago.”

  “You know baseball.”

  “I’m not stupid like people think.”

  “Didn’t I see you in the crowd greeting Skeen at the park?”

  “Yeah. The entourage paid me. They didn’t know who I was, but that blond reporter, Czobel, was nice to me, too.” A smile delayed the twitch for a millisecond.

  “You liked him.”

  “He was nice.”

  Had he and Czobel had some kind of relationship? Had the reporter taken advantage of Hempil? Used him? Paid him? Or Czobel was desperate one night and was willing to take any local guy who was willing? The same as he’d done with me?

  “How did that crowd scene work every day?”

  “Not all of us went every day. We kind of switched off. I guess it was for the pictures they took so they wouldn’t look the same.” He wasn’t that oblivious.

  “Do you know Old Charley Hopper?”

  “Of course. Is he a suspect?”

  “I’m just asking questions.”

  “Who and what you ask about means something. I’m not stupid.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I apologize.”

  He met my eyes for nearly half a minute in total silence without twitching. “No one’s ever apologized to me.”

  What a life he must lead.

  He took a deep breath and twitched. “Old Charlie’s nice to me. He gives me potions. Sometimes they help my twitching. Nothing’s going to cure it, but he can make up anything.”

  “Anything that would kill somebody?”

  He drew away from me. “Charlie’s a good guy.”

  “Someone could have taken advantage of him. Got him to make something he didn’t know would be used to kill somebody.”

  “No, Charley is smart, although I don’t like the college kids he uses, and the undocumented workers are all afraid of him, but they all laugh at me behind his back. The illegals make homophobic comments in Spanish. They think I don’t understand.”

  “How do you know they’re undocumented?”

  He gazed at me a moment then mumbled, “I guess I don’t.” He stopped talking for a few moments and the twitching subsided. After half a minute, he sighed and resumed, “He’s got some mean ones now. Big guys. To help him with heavy things. I don’t like them.”

  “Do they help Charlie do illegal things?”

  “Charlie doesn’t do illegal things. He’s nice to me.” This was his first show of anger. I backed off and switched topics. “Who do you think might be behind all this?”

  He looked as if no one had ever asked his opinion before.

  Hempil paused a moment, nodded, then glanced around at the people milling around the ballpark. He leaned close to me. “I know stuff that would help.”

  “If you’re willing to tell me, I’d be interested.”

  He scooted closer to me. His left arm and leg brushed mine for an instant. He smelled like deodorant and male sweat, not offensive.

  He whispered, “You know Skeen was married?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, he was dating Deborah, a waitress at Millie’s. You know Millie’s?”

  I noticed his twitching became less violent. I said, “I’ve stopped there.” Then asked, “You ever go to any of Tyler Skeen’s parties?”

  “Trying to see if I’m a suspect?”

  “Yes.” He may not quite be on the same wavelength as the rest of us, but no matter what the town might think, the guy had some smarts.

  “I got in a couple times. Anybody could.”

  “You look around?”

  “Yep. I know everything about him. I found out what his injuries are. I found out what kind of medicine is usually prescribed for them. I found out the kind of snack foods he likes. I found out he gets his clothes made by designers. He even flew one out here to make him a couple pairs of jeans. Isn’t that kind of a big waste of money? They’ve got zillions of jeans at local stores. I don’t think being rich is as good as it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Who’d you tell all this to?” I asked.

  “I put out a weekly news bulletin on the Net. I have to do it anonymously or I’d be caught. Don’t worry, I haven’t put out anything on you yet.”

  If it was on the Internet, a determined killer didn’t have to get into Skeen’s apartment to find out about his meds. Sure, it could be just as simple as Skeen could have casually mentioned what he was taking in the course of any number of conversations. From everything I’d heard, he certainly loved to talk about himself. With the immense amount of data on the Internet, how would a killer happen on this one site? Then again if you searched Skeen’s name, Hempil’s site might eventually show up.

  I said, “It could be dangerous for you to know all these things. I can’t protect you.”

  “You’re investigating.”

  “I have a license. Do you want to accidentally get yourself into the middle of something that could get you hurt?”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “No more sneaking into the park.”

  “Okay.”

  A gentleman with grizzled-cut gray hair shuffled toward us. He used a cane in his halting steps. Hempil said, “Shit. That’s my dad. Kosta Boone musta called him. Can’t anybody in this town keep their mouth shut? I gotta go.”

  Hempil took tentative steps toward his father. When he got to the older man, Edwin reached out a hand. His father slapped it away. I heard one imperious word, “Come.”

  Edwin Hempil slunk after his father. Just all too sad.

  WEDNESDAY 5:46 P.M.

  Inside I asked for Connor Knecht. He was out. I wasn’t sure what the point was of me still playing for the team. I went to the locker room and got into my uniform. The cup and the tightness of the polyester blend felt great. I had my pants and shoes on when Malcolm Dowley walked in. He sat down next to me and said, “I just got bawled out. Smith told me that I asked too many questions and that I was a troublemaker.”

  “Why don’t you stop asking questions?”

  “I should.” He shrugged. “I think of myself as really smart and really brave.” He shook his head. “I’m probably not going to have a career in baseball, but there’s still a chance.”

  “Maybe somebody else will pick you up.”

  “You’ve got to have talent to support a mouth like mine. I’ve got some but not enough. I always forget this isn’t a game. This is a business and these guys are in it to make money. I’ve stuck
around because I work my butt off.” He paused, then asked, “Who are you really?”

  I smiled. “A private eye hired to investigate all this shit. My being on the team is supposed to be a cover.”

  “I figured something was up. Something is wrong in this town. I’m not sure I wouldn’t be glad to get traded.”

  Connor Knecht walked into the locker room. He invited me up to his personal box.

  Once inside the box, I said, “Half the town knows I’m here investigating. I didn’t tell. What the hell is going on?”

  “How dare you speak to me in such a tone?”

  “It’s a simple enough question. I’m not interested in a baseball career or in sucking up to you. I’m interested in solving your problems. They keep getting bigger. Two cops have been injured. The chief of police is actively hostile. Are you part of covering up what happened to Tyler Skeen?”

  “I suggested to the head of the hospital that the town didn’t need more controversy.”

  “And why would he collude in that and why would the chief of police go along? The chief seems to be your enemy.”

  “The head of the hospital is a cousin. The medical examiner is an in-law.”

  “So because the town is inbred, you’re covering up a murder?”

  “Representatives from the league and the owners of the big team have called. I can’t believe this. I got the impression some of them might be happy Skeen is dead. It is actually going to save them millions of dollars. They’re up to something. I don’t know what. I can’t take any more bad publicity.”

  I said, “Covering up a murder is not going to endear them or you to anybody. And when the cover-up comes out, and you have to assume it will, the publicity will be worse. This guy was a star. I don’t know why the chief is letting you get away with it, or how the owners of the big team expect to get away with it. Unless the police chief or some combination of evil plotters are all stringing you along and setting you up to be the fall guy.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody. There’s nothing to catch me on. You’ve got to sort this mess out. Precise information will come out in a few days. We’ve got tox screens going to the state. When they come back, we’ll know more. This has got to be controlled.”

  “Not with people getting shot.”

  He said, “Maybe that was your own incompetence. And you were with that reporter, Marty Murray. Does he know what you’re doing?”

  “I need help in getting information. I’ll take it anywhere I can get it.”

  “The press can’t know.”

  “Look,” I said. “You want results? I can’t be hampered by whatever rules you think are important. If people in the town know who I am, this whole cover of being on the team is useless.”

  “No. We’ve got to keep this secret as long as possible.”

  I thought it was kind of nuts, but he was the client and it was his money.

  Back in the locker room, I finished dressing for the game. I thought about his notion that some member or members of the big club deliberately killed Skeen to save money. It was a lot of money. I couldn’t rule it out.

  I’d noticed Smith yelling at players during practice and at the games but tonight he seemed especially enraged. During the home half of the third, he was screaming at Ralph Olsen, the kid who I thought was thinner than Craig Counsell, and the one who was in Dowley’s room this morning. Smith bellowed, “I’d rather be coaching in a rookie league than dealing with assholes like you. You walked five guys.”

  The kid defended himself. “I struck out six.”

  Smith pointed his finger at Olsen and tapped the young player’s chest as he reached the end of each sentence. “You’re wasting your chance. A million kids would give anything to have what you got. A million…”

  Dowley who was sitting next to me muttered, “Don’t let Smith catch you looking at him during one of his ‘rage’ attacks. That could set him off and make things worse.”

  “He like this often?”

  “If he’s under stress.”

  After that the game proceeded normally. Smith put me in to play catcher in the last inning. I caught the ball and didn’t flub anything. My knees weren’t quite as limber as they had been, but everything worked okay. I didn’t get to bat.

  WEDNESDAY 10:17 P.M.

  As I approached my car in the stadium parking lot, my cell phone rang. It was Duncan. He said, “Georgia is just back with her Lithuanian. I filled her in on what you’re doing.”

  Georgia refused to purchase a cell phone. She preferred to have people leave cards in silver trays with her butler. She felt that people should learn to follow her preferred procedure. She wasn’t having a lot of luck with that.

  She came on the phone and gave a throaty acknowledgement in her whiskey rumble. She said, “I think you’ve got a big problem.”

  “The Lithuanian wants to marry you?”

  “Not today. Tomorrow maybe. I’m concerned about your disappearing corpse.”

  “It wasn’t a relationship. I didn’t do it.”

  “Not this time, according to you. No, your problem is, I think the dead body is going to turn up again.”

  “It sure didn’t turn up today. A simple theory is they buried it deep in the woods or dumped it in the Mississippi.”

  Georgia said, “If I was shooting at you, and I was moving dead bodies around, and if you weren’t dead, and I wanted you eliminated, where would I put the dead body?”

  “Shit.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I should have thought of that. Shit.” I wondered if it was too late. I checked my first impulse to dash to my motel room. No question that’s where I’d put the body if I was involved in a convoluted conspiracy to destroy someone.

  Maybe I had time yet. You can’t just tote a corpse around town in broad daylight. They’d have to wait for the town to quiet down. Guys from the team would be coming from the park back to their rooms. Malevolent plotters would have to wait until late to scurry around with corpses. There almost certainly had to be more than one person involved, or it could be a strong and resourceful killer. Maybe Campbell’s presence the night before had been fortuitous and put them off.

  I drove to the street behind the motel. Once out of the car and into the humid night, I sought the friendly shadows. The back of the motel was even more poorly lit than the front. I was unlikely to be seen. I eased through the gravel and weeds and chunks of pavement in the empty lot in the back to the section of the u-shaped motel behind my unit. The bathroom window was easy to force open with barely a breath of noise. With care I was able to squeeze through. The bathroom door was open.

  I looked through the opening.

  An unmoving body sprawled on the bed. It was Czobel. He stank.

  Shit.

  I couldn’t leave him there. I doubted if I had much time. I wrapped him in the sheets from the bed. I couldn’t be sure he didn’t leave DNA in my room, or I wasn’t leaving traces of my DNA on him. Nothing to be done about that now.

  It was unnerving carrying his corpse around. Even shutting my mind to the body’s reek wasn’t enough. My eyes watered. The heat didn’t make the carrying easier. I didn’t want to risk taking him out the door. Through the back window he and I would go. Before exiting, I eyed the surrounding area carefully. No one that I could see. When he was halfway through the window, I lost hold of the body. It thunked to the ground.

  I scrambled after him, crouched low to the ground, surveyed the area again, picked him up, and lugged him to the car.

  As I stored him in the back seat of the Escort, I heard sirens and then saw Mars lights. I could see headlights glowing in the front of the motel. I drove away with my lights off.

  I figured the most logical place to put him now was where he belonged. I drove to Skeen’s condo.

  I discharged my gun in the woods to distract the guard at the front door. When he went to investigate, with another fireman’s carry, I returned Czobel to his original resting place next to the sliding door. As I gaz
ed at the body, I had a brief flash of the Barbara Paul book, But He Was Already Dead When I Got There, in which various suspects move a corpse to try and divert suspicion away from themselves. One of the funniest mystery novels I’d ever read.

  I took the tree route out that we’d used the night before.

  I drove to the bridge over the Mississippi, made sure no one was around, then dumped the sheet from my room into the river.

  As I drove back along the nearly deserted Interstate, I called Duncan and told him the story. He wished me luck.

  I used the only pay phone I knew of in the village, the one in Millie’s, to alert the state cops and the national media to the existence of the corpse in the condo. The phone was in the hall on the way to the washroom so I waited to call until there was no one around. If the police were part of the cover-up, I wanted to make sure someone else knew of the body’s whereabouts. I didn’t want to keep coming back to my room, finding a dead body, and then have to go toting it around the countryside.

  I also called Murray.

  I said, “I found the dead body.”

  “Where!” The eagerness in his voice annoyed me.

  I said, “In Skeen’s condo.”

  “But it wasn’t there.”

  “It is now.”

  “How’d it get there?”

  “I don’t know a lot of walking corpses.”

  “Somebody wants to get you,” he said.

  “Got that right.”

  “The cops all showed up outside your hotel room.”

  “You and I were known to have been hanging around together at the condo. If they want to talk to me, they’re going to want to talk to you.”

  “Oh.”

  The real question was who the hell was moving corpses around. They had been trying to kill me and now implicate me. Or were there two sets of conspirators? Killers and corpse carriers? And why? This was making less and less sense.

  Back at Edna’s motel, I ripped off new sheets from an abandoned cleaning cart next to the ice machine. At my room, I left the doors and windows open. I turned on the exhaust fan in the bathroom. Duncan had, of course, added a can of mosquito repellant to my emergency kit. I covered myself in it as the insects began to gather.