Safe at Home (17 page)

The sports sections of the Detroit papers featured stories about Joe’s role in the capture of the Daylight Stalker, which gave the large crowd of reporters something extra to talk to him about before the game. I stood on the edge of the scrum outside the dugout and listened to the questions. It didn’t take very long for them to get to the point.

“Was the man who disarmed the murderer your lover, Joe?”

The questioner was an overweight stringer for
USA Today.
Joe looked him in the eye and nodded.

“Yes, he was.”

“Is he with you on the trip?”

“No. He has gone back to California. He has his own work to take care of.”

“Do you think this will take some of the heat off you from the fans?”

“I haven’t felt much heat from the fans,” he said. “I didn’t do what I did for the publicity. Or to take heat off, as you say. I’m just glad I was able to be of some help. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get ready for the game.”

The crowd dispersed when Joe left the dugout and went to the batting cage. One of the reporters came over to me. He is a man with whom I have had a sporadic relationship since I came on the beat. Sally calls him Mr. Same Time Next Year, since we only do it when I visit Detroit.

“So, you’re right in the middle of the action again, Kate,” he said. “Trouble seems to follow you around. Or do you go looking for it?”

“I do my best to avoid it,” I said. “How was your winter?”

“I got married. How was yours?”

“Not as eventful as yours. Congratulations.”

“That doesn’t mean things have to change between us,” he said.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” I said, wondering what I’d ever seen in the creep. “But I think I’ll take a pass this time around.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, then walked away.

I sat on the bench and watched the Titans taking batting practice. They were laughing and playing the same tired jokes on each other they did every day. There’s something comforting in the rituals, even for me. It seemed like just another night at the ballpark.

Until the fans arrived. Then it turned ugly. The rocket scientists in the bleachers didn’t seem to have been impressed by Joe’s heroics. The banners they hung in left field expressed their feelings eloquently: “Fairy go home,” “Queer City,” “The Pansy Garden,” and “Bugger off, Kelsey.” When the Tiger left-fielder took his position, he went through an elaborate dumb-show of denial, and the banners were put away with glee until the bottom half of the inning.

Every time Joe came to bat, the chants started: “FAG-GOT, FAG-GOT.” Whenever he went to left field, they threw things at him. He got drenched with beer several times. The umpires actually stopped the game at one point, when the barrage got really bad, and the stadium announcer told the fans that further behaviour of that sort would result in ejection and possible forfeiture of the game. Uniformed cops took up positions among the rowdier fans.

Joe ignored them, held himself in control, and turned his anger into his play. He hit a two-run home run and an RBI double. In the field, he made one spectacular diving catch of a ball that was destined for extra bases and jumped high at the fence to pull another ball back into the park. The final score was 3–2 for the Titans. It was all Joe’s game, which made the fans even angrier.

In the clubhouse afterwards, the mood was chippy and defiant. Now Stinger and Goober were odd men out, as player after player praised Joe and condemned the fans. It was a tribal thing. When one of their own is under attack the way Joe was out there on that field, the members of the clan close ranks. Even Red O’Brien didn’t temper his praise for his left-fielder.

“I’ve always said that this team can win the whole thing,” Red said. “If Joe keeps playing the way he has been, he can win the whole thing by himself.”

After I filed my story, I joined the other Toronto writers and the television crew in the bar for the usual post-game wind-down, and it was 3:00 in the morning by the time I got back to my room. Finally alone, I had to face what I had been avoiding since the afternoon before: remembering.

I began to shake and cry. I felt the fear I hadn’t allowed myself to feel before. I thought about Dickie, about the sparks of remorse that had made him give himself away. And I thought about T.C., and what would have happened if we hadn’t found him.

Then I thought about the other children and their shattered families. I finally fell asleep, the blankets wrapped around me like a shroud, and dreamed violence and rage.

In the morning, early, Andy phoned.

“I watched some of the game last night,” he said. “That was pretty ugly.”

“Yeah, but maybe it was the best thing that could have happened,” I said, then told him about the players’ reactions. “I expect that it will put a lot of people on Joe’s side. What’s happening up there? Has Dickie confessed?”

“He says he’s waiting for the best offer from the papers. He’s asked for a laptop computer to write his memoirs.”

“Jesus.”

“Typical. We don’t need a confession, though. We’ve searched his house and found enough evidence to tie him to the three murders here and the ones in Timmins.”

“What sort of evidence?” I asked, not sure I really wanted to know.

“Newspaper clippings in scrapbooks, some Polaroids. He had a locked filing cabinet in his den. His wife was forbidden to go into the room.”

“How is she?”

“Not great. There are reporters and cameras camped on her front lawn. Her parents have flown in from Vancouver to be with her, and I imagine she’ll go back with them as soon as we’re through with her.”

“Didn’t she suspect anything?”

“No, and she’s beating herself up about it. She sees things in retrospect that she didn’t at the time and blames herself for the deaths.”

“Poor kid.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel?”

“The way I always do after a case. Relieved. Depressed. Sorry I couldn’t have stopped him sooner.”

“And angry?”

“A little bit. I wish you were here.”

“So do I.”

“I’m sorry about the way it has been for the last little while.”

“So am I.”

“It won’t get better, you know. I’m a cop. That comes first.”

“I know.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re gone for a week?”

“Yeah. We go to New York after the game tomorrow night.”

“I’ll call you there.”

“If you like.” I wasn’t giving him much. There was a bit of a silence.

“I’ll look in on T.C. and Sally, make sure they’re all right. And Elwy.”

“That would be nice.” More silence.

“Oh, by the way. The department wants to give you another citation. Also Joe and Sandy.”

“Oh, goody.”

“Damn it, Kate. Stop doing that. I can’t stand noncommittal. Yell at me, why don’t you?”

“I’m not mad, just confused. I’m delighted about the citation, especially for Sandy and Joe. A little macho recognition will go good right about now.”

“Knowing me hasn’t been very safe for you.”

“It’s not your fault that I keep sticking my nose in. I’m sorry I’m being like this, but I’m just emotionally exhausted. And physically, too, for that matter.”

“Well, get back to sleep. I’ll call you again.”

“If you like.”

I went back to sleep, an escape from things I didn’t want to deal with. Or couldn’t. My last waking thought was a belated pang of anguish for poor Beth Greaves and her baby son.

At 2:00 in the afternoon, the phone woke me again. The housekeeper wanted me to take down my Do Not Disturb sign so her staff could clean the room. I told them to come on in and went down for some lunch, stopping at the newsstand on the way.

Happily, columns in both the major newspapers condemned the behaviour of the fans. Their boorishness had created the backlash I had hoped for. Maybe things would ease up for Joe after all.

After lunch, I went back to my room and worked out, using the back of a chair for my barre, sweating off my blues. I took a long shower, then went down to the lobby to wait for the ballpark bus. The autograph hounds swarmed any player who let himself be caught. Watanabe smiled at me from the middle of one pack. I waved.

Life goes on. Baseball goes on too, no matter what happens in the real world. The teams are in a cocoon of schedules, routines, game times, bus times. Their only contact with the outside world is through the adoring fans, and that’s not reality either.

The bus pulled in at 4:45. The players piled on discussing that day’s episode on
The Young and the Restless.
Stinger yelled at the bus driver. Tiny began teasing. Hugh Marsh, head down, worked with his stats. I opened my book.

The sun was shining. It was a great day for a ball game.

Heartfelt thanks to those who encouraged and helped me with this book: The Ontario Arts Council, Lee Davis Creal, Ellen Seligman, James Polk, Mary Adachi, Hidemi Kihira, Charles Gordon, Ruth Gordon, Sara Murdoch, Staff Sergeant Bob Adair, Andy Moir, and Henri Fiks (the Wizard of DOS).

Alison Gordon
is a Canadian journalist and writer. As the first woman on the baseball beat in the Major Leagues, Gordon was a trailblazer in the field of sports journalism, covering the Toronto Blue Jays for the
Toronto Star
for five years. Gordon is also the author of the Kate Henry mystery series, pitting the sleuthing talents of a baseball journalist against dangerous felons. The series includes the titles
The Dead Pull Hitter
,
Safe at Home
,
Night Game
,
Striking Out
, and
Prairie Hardball
.

Safe at Home © 1990 Alison Gordon

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EPub Edition December 2014 ISBN: 9781443442503

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

Originally published by McClelland & Stewart Inc. in 1990. First published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. in this ePub edition in 2014.

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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