I finished my coffee and went back to the motel to get my car. I had a mid-morning breakfast meeting with Jamie McDaniels. Donny Campbell had sent me a text that it was all set up. We met at Devon’s Diner on the outskirts of Barakat, several farming communities north of Butterfield.
McDaniels wore bleached white khaki shorts, a dark blue T-shirt, running shoes, no socks. He had tight muscles in a very Randy Johnson sort of way that I forced myself not to examine. I said, “Congratulations. You pitched a great game last night.”
He replied with a simple, “Thanks.” We ordered breakfast, talked a little baseball, mentioned a few hitters he’d faced.
Finally, I said, “I need to ask a few questions.”
McDaniels said, “Donny said I should trust you. He didn’t explain much.” He had a hatchet face and a high, reedy voice, hairy arms, and a worried frown. “You’re going to be playing for the team?”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re some kind of undercover investigator?”
I said, “You’ve been getting threats lately.”
“Yeah. Not the same ones the others have gotten. These are real specific. I’m supposed to throw games. That reporter, Murray, asked me something about it. I don’t know how he found out. I bet he was fishing. I denied knowing anything.”
Murray had mentioned he was getting his data from reporters from around the league. He didn’t say which ones.
Our food came, and we ate as we talked. I asked, “You have any notion who might want you to throw games?”
“No. I’m just a guy. I want to get to the major leagues. I work hard. I was the star of my high school team in Grants, New Mexico. I always dreamed of just getting this far. I want to go as far as I can. Diet, exercise, practice. That’s all I do. Every day. Diet, exercise, practice. That’s all I’ve done since eighth grade.”
“That must get pretty tough, discouraging.”
“No, I love it. As long as it gets me to the majors. I listened to all my coaches and managers from when I was ten. Instead of playing video games, I spent my time studying how-to-play-baseball videos. Some of the pitching ones I watched hundreds of times. A few of my coaches actually knew something helpful. They always claim they need to teach me fundamentals. What the hell do they think I’ve been doing since I was ten? Every one of them, including the current idiot, Trader Smith, thinks they know it all and that I’m just a stupid kid. I know how to get what I want. I just need to be good enough, and I’m good enough now.”
“Why won’t they let you into the majors?” I asked.
“Fucking seasoning. They all say the same god damn thing. I need more seasoning, like I’m some kind of piece of meat getting basted.”
“You’ve gotten threats.”
“They started the first day of the season.”
“Written or verbal?”
“Most came on the phone. I didn’t save any of the written ones. First, I figured it was some bullshit crank.”
“What did they say?”
“I’d be dead if I didn’t go easy on certain players on certain teams.”
I said, “Those don’t sound like the threats that Knecht told me about.”
“They aren’t. I’ve never gotten the ‘you will be hurt’ or ‘get out of town’ threats. I sometimes think Knecht is crying wolf about them. I think he tries to use it to get sympathy from people.”
“Your teammates have gotten them.”
“Knecht would be the one who would have access to put the threats in the places they’ve been found.”
“You think he’s that kind of guy?” I asked.
“I think he’s greedy and would do anything to advance what he wants. Do I think he’d sabotage his own operation? I think anything is possible with somebody as driven as he is.”
“What did you do about the threats to yourself?”
“I didn’t report them to Knecht or Smith. Our manager is just as useless as the owner. I confronted the players they mentioned.”
“That was gutsy.”
“No, it wasn’t. I wanted to know what the hell was going on. I wanted to know why I was supposed to sacrifice my career for theirs.”
“What did they say?” I asked.
“They all denied any knowledge of it. There was nothing I could do. Nobody admitted getting any of the same kind of threats. After a while I decided it had to be some crank. Even at this level, you get the crazies coming out.”
“What did the voice on the phone sound like?”
“Real deep voice, but kind of distorted. Sort of like one from a computer.”
“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.