I gazed at the guys around me. Everybody I saw was clowning around and happy, teasing, making ribald comments. The atmosphere wasn’t much different than an adolescent locker room, which most of these guys weren’t that far away from anyway. They laughed, kidded. Nobody seemed to notice me.
Was the note a dire warning or a friendly bit of advice? I took a shower, changed, got my wallet and watch from the equipment lock-up, and strode into Smith’s office. I showed him the note. It was twelve point type in a Courier New font and printed on plain white paper.
After he glanced at it, I said, “I’m not sure getting threats like everybody else is quite what anyone meant about being a part of the team.”
Smith said, “Don’t tell anybody you got this. Knecht wants to keep your presence secret.”
“Telling them I got the same kind of note doesn’t reveal what I’m up to. In fact, it gives me reason to ask questions. How possible is it really that what I’m doing is going to be kept secret? I’m going to be talking to a lot of guys. Eventually they’re going to catch on, if someone doesn’t out and out blab in the first place.” I didn’t tell him about Ornstein’s comment that seemed to indicate my presence had been broadcast along some kind of small town inner-circle network.
Smith thought for a moment. “You’re right. It does give you an excuse to ask questions, but for as long as we can, we’ve got to keep it quiet about who you are. If the press found out you were here, there would be hell to pay. This is a small town. It would make headlines.”
Swell, I thought, headlines in Butterfield. In the history of the universe it didn’t seem like a big deal to me. I already had two reporters deep in my confidence. I wasn’t about to tell Smith that. Keeping the truth about my connection to the reporters was a little dicey, but I’m the one who decides what the client gets to know.
There was a knock at the door. Malcolm Dowley came in. He wore a sport coat, tie, and jeans. He had a note in his hand. He hesitated when he saw me.
“It’s okay,” Smith said.
“I got one of those threat deals,” Dowley said. He held out the note. Smith glanced at it then passed it to me. It said, “Get out or die.”
“Get out of what?” Dowley asked. “Get out of town, get out of baseball, get out of Dodge?”
I said, “I got one, too.” I showed him then asked, “When did you get this?”
“I found it just now when I went to put on my street shoes. Is somebody gonna call the cops?”
Smith nodded. “I’ll call them.”
After he hung up from the police, I said, “We should call Connor Knecht.”
But the owner was nowhere to be found.
Sebastian Rotella, the Butterfield chief of police, showed up in fifteen minutes. He was in his mid-sixties with heavy jowls, large half-moon sweat stains under his armpits, and a paunch that he needed pants several sizes larger to contain. He asked us details and took notes then said he’d add it to the ones he already had.
I asked, “Have you found out anything about those others?”
“Nope.”
Dowley asked, “Did you do anything about them?”
“Yep.”
“What did you do?” Dowley asked.
“My job.”
Undaunted by the cryptic answers, Dowley asked, “Is Tyler Skeen’s death an official murder investigation?”
Rotella glared at him for an uncomfortable length of time. Finally, the cop said, “I’m holding a press conference tomorrow. I’ll make an official announcement then.”
“What killed him?” Dowley asked.
“Can’t give you that.”
“Any suspects?” Dowley asked.
“Yeah,” Rotella said, “people who ask too many questions.”
I said, “I heard a rumor about his meds being mixed.”
Rotella said, “Some rumors are truer than others.” He left.
I said to Smith, “You should get in all the hired help now and ask them who was in here during the game.”
“Rotella should have questioned them,” Dowley said.
Smith sighed, “He did after the first few notes and got nowhere.”
“Maybe we should try,” I suggested.
“I tell you, we’ve asked that kind of thing before,” Smith said. “Nobody admits anything.”
“You can’t do nothing,” Dowley said.
I asked, “Why not give it a try?” Unless Smith had a reason to keep me from asking questions, this was the kind of opening I was looking for. Whether Smith figured this out, or reasoned that he didn’t have a choice, he gave in.
First, he summoned the guard for the locker room door. It was Kosta Boone, a kid still in his teens. He didn’t wear a uniform, or have a gun. He had a badge on the shoulder of his short-sleeve blue shirt that said “Security.”
The kid said, “I watched the door. I only let players in and the guys who worked for the team. Nobody else got in.”
“You step out to look at the game?” I asked.
He hesitated then mumbled, “Ah, no.”
I’d bet my best mitt he was lying.
“Step away to go to the washroom?” I asked.
“The washroom’s in the clubhouse. I’d have seen anyone. It only took a second.”
“Step away to talk to your girl?” I asked.
“No.” He was getting a little defiant.
I asked, “Who checks the people using the weight room?”
“Not me. It’s a separate door. People with season passes show them at the gate to get into the park and then take a separate entrance.” The kid left.
I asked, “How does access to the weight room work?”
Smith said, “When they come through the turnstile, they can show their yearly season pass and walk right in. They know they’re not supposed to come in here. It says so on their season pass.”
“Who was in charge of watching the door from the weight room to the locker room?”
“Nobody. It’s never been a problem.”
“Who checks the passes at the turnstile?”
“The kids who work at the gates. They’re also the ones who do the cleaning. They’ll still be here.” He sent for them. While we waited, he said, “They’re mostly college kids doing summer jobs. Nice kids.”
All of them reported numerous people with season passes using the weight room. No one had watched as the patrons turned to go to the special entrance.
The equipment manager and the trainer admitted to being in and out of the locker room. They claimed they saw nothing.
Before they all left, we made a general announcement to the team. Dowley and I stood next to Smith who did the talking. There were grumbles, grunts of frustration, and several calls of dismay, but none of them admitted seeing anything.