Murder at Fenway Park (19 page)

T
he morning after the big game, I realized I was wrong. It still mattered very much what happened to me.

The first thing I did after I rolled out of bed was check the
Boston American,
skipping to the sports page and the box scores. There I was:
Rawlings
—1 at bat, 0 hits, 0 runs scored. It read like the epitaph of an utterly fruitless endeavor.

That summary didn’t convey the tense thrill of that one at bat—the mental skirmish with Johnson, the physical hazard of putting myself in the path of his fastball, the gratifying jolt of meeting the ball with the meat of the bat. Next time I faced Johnson, I’d tag another line drive off him—harder. And it would fall in for something that looked more substantial in the box score. Next time...

Jimmy Macullar’s words echoed through my brain,
I had my time in the big leagues and I was satisfied.
Those words didn’t apply to me yet. I hadn’t had my time, I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to play ball—for many more years. And to keep playing ball, I would have to solve the Macullar murder. Maybe Corriden’s, too.

I didn’t think I could do it alone. Not in the twenty-nine days that remained in the season—perhaps all the time that was left me before O’Malley and Tyler would start warming up the electric chair.

With enough time, I could do it by myself. But I didn’t want to risk racing the calendar on my own. I knew one person who might be able to help me—if he would be willing. And if I could find him.

I spent the afternoon in the Boston Public Library. I’d left home by the front door; it didn’t matter if I was being followed—how could Tyler object to a trip to the library?

In the reading room, I spread out all the New York newspapers they had. Flipping through page after page, I could find no Karl Landfors in any byline.

An elderly man came up to me and asked, “Are you reading
all
of these?”

“No, I’m finished.” I handed him the paper I had just leafed through, then pulled it back. “Sorry, I’m
not
finished. Be done in a minute.” The man scowled as I flipped to the sports page. It wasn’t there. “Here, I’m done with this one.” Somewhat placated, he took it and walked away muttering something about a hog.

Next paper, sports page, an article on the Highlanders. There!
by Fred Lieb.
Back to the front page for the name of the paper:
New York Press.

The Red Sox were in New York, on the last Eastern road trip. Then a home stand, a final trip to the West, finish the season at home, and then the World Series. Would my arrest follow next? The gun that killed Macullar planted in my room and O’Malley there to “find” it? ...
it’ll turn up in your possession.

The first game of our series against the Highlanders was scheduled for one in the afternoon. Billy Neal was still asleep when I quietly left our room and ducked out of the hotel by a service door.

I had breakfast at a delicatessen, then took the subway downtown to look for Spruce Street. I found it between City Hall and the Brooklyn Bridge, and soon located the skyscraper I was seeking.

A directory in the lobby listed the floor I wanted, and after the longest elevator ride of my life, I stepped out into the chaotic city room of the
New York Press.
One vast open space was filled with reporters typing at their desks, copy boys scurrying through the aisles, phones ringing, ticker machines clattering, editors bellowing.

I stopped one harried copy boy and asked directions to Karl Landfors. He pointed to the furthest corner of the room, where the activity was at a slower pace.

Landfors didn’t see me as I approached. He was tucked away, out of the mainstream of the room, at a small chipped desk that bordered a storage area. Cartons of typing paper were stacked in a low wall behind him. Obviously, Karl Landfors was not a bigshot. That made me feel better about him.

Holding my hand way out in front of me, I spoke to get his attention. “Karl?”

He appeared startled when he looked up and saw me. “Rawlings?”

My hand felt heavy and clumsy sticking out unnoticed. “It’s Mickey, please. I want to apologize. About when we met before... I behaved like a jerk.”

Landfors visibly relaxed, finally saw my hand, and grasped it. “Well, I behaved like an ass, so I guess we’re even.” He offered me a seat, and then looked around to see if he could find one. Grabbing a chair from an unoccupied desk, he placed it across from his and I sat down. He seemed very aware of the humbleness of his furnishings. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice.

“You’re probably wondering why I came here,” I said.

“I think I can guess. You want to ask me about Peggy.”

I reddened and quickly corrected him. “No. That’s not it. Actually, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell her anything about me being here.”

“Oh—Well, as you wish.”

“You dug up some dope on Bob Tyler. There’s no way I could have found out that stuff. I have no call to ask you for help, especially after the way I acted at—the last time we met—but, I didn’t kill anybody. And that doesn’t seem to make any difference to the police. They say I killed another guy now—Jimmy Macullar. I think Tyler might be holding the cops off until the season’s over, but that’s only a few weeks away. If I don’t prove what really happened by then, I’m going to be framed for it. I’ve found out some things on my own, but there’s a lot more to do and I don’t have much time. You know how to get information. What I want to ask is: Could you get some for me?”

Landfors looked interested. “I could try. After all, we do have a mutual friend”—I felt myself going red again—“uh, sure, I’ll try.”

“Thanks.”

“Landfors! Where the hell’s that Debs piece?”

Landfors yelled back to what I assumed was an editor, “Fifteen minutes!” To me he said, “I’m sorry, Mickey, I have to get this article done right now.” He sounded dejected. “The
Press
is supporting Teddy Roosevelt. So they run hatchet jobs on the other candidates—mostly Woodrow Wilson, but they like to take shots at Taft and Eugene Debs, too. They think it’s funny to make me do the Debs story—I’m the only Socialist here. My editor will have to do the slanting though; I’m writing a straight piece. Anyway, can we get together later?”

“Sure. I have an afternoon game at Hilltop. How about tonight?”

“That’d be fine. Why don’t you call me after the game? I’ll be here.”

“You’re on. It might be late, though. I have to get out without anyone seeing me.”

“I’ll wait.”

After the game, and some evasive maneuvers that may or may not have been necessary, I met Landfors for dinner at a small German restaurant. Our choice of meeting place was a poor one for discussing crime-solving. The grandmotherly waitresses, homey atmosphere, and simple hearty food were suited for friendly good times, not discussions of murder.

Over steaming plates of red cabbage and knockwurst, with steins of dark beer close at hand, Landfors and I worked stiffly on some conventional conversation before embarking on the specifics of the murder cases.

“How was the game?” he asked.

“Good. We won three-two.”

“Did you play?”

“No. Did you get your article done?”

“Yeah. Then they butchered it, just as I expected.”

“Why do you stay there?”

“The paper was pretty good until a couple of months ago. Then Frank Munsey bought it to give Roosevelt a newspaper forum in New York. I figure maybe Munsey will sell the paper after the election, then we can back to reporting the news again. Besides, the job is pretty much just to pay the rent. It’s my book I’m really interested in. I should have it finished by next year.”

I was impressed. “You’re writing a
book?
”

Landfors nodded. “Yeah, it’s like—do you know who Upton Sinclair is?”

“Sure, he wrote
The Jungle,
right?”

It was Landfors turn to be impressed—well, not impressed, actually he looked surprised. “Yes. You’ve read it?”

“No, I just heard about it.” That seemed to better fit his expectations.

“Well, I’m writing something similar to
The Jungle,
except it’s about the garment industry.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t make myself sound interested, but Landfors didn’t seem to notice.

“You remember the Triangle Factory Fire last year?”

“I heard about it.”

“Well, I was
there.
I had to cover it for the
Press.
The worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life. The factory was up on the tenth floor, and it was a complete blaze. When I got there, burning people were falling down onto the sidewalk.

“The girls who ran the sewing machines were trapped in the shop—no way to get out. Bastard owners had all the doors sealed so none of the girls could sneak out with a scrap of cloth or a button or anything. When they caught fire, the girls had to jump—it was the only way out.

“And they kept coming down. The worst thing was the sound when they hit: sizzle, thud. Again and again. Been over a year, and I still can’t get it out of my ears. A hundred and fifty of them died.

“So I’m doing the only thing I know how to do: I’m writing about it. About all those damn sweatshops.” Landfors had a ghastly look on his face, and I knew he was again seeing those women fall burning from the sky and hearing them land. I had experienced the recurrence of horrific events so many times in the last few months, that I knew exactly what he was feeling and sympathized with his anguish.

I decided Karl Landfors wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

We sat silently for a while, letting the heavy food settle in our stomachs while we each pursued our own thoughts. Our plates were long empty and our steins newly full. We quietly belched up cabbage and sipped our beers.

Since Landfors had already raised a grim topic, I felt no inhibitions about bringing up the murders of Red Corriden and Jimmy Macullar.

I could tell Landfors was an excellent reporter. Though I was willing to reveal to him everything I knew about the cases, he managed to coax even more out of me than I thought I could give. He prompted me for details I omitted, and sometimes reworded what I said to give the events a perspective I hadn’t seen before.

I told him the things I’d withheld from Peggy: the bat in my bed, the gunman who shot at me in Fenway Park, that I was being followed. And I reported what Peggy had heard: Tyler’s order to kill me if I kept poking around. His eyes widened at these disclosures.

But it was when I told him what I had last said to Peggy that Landfors reacted most strongly. He squawked, “Oh my god!” Then he said, “It’s a good thing you didn’t tell her that to her face. There would have been another murder.” He understood my motivation, though, and I again made him swear to say nothing to Peggy. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him to keep his word—after all, he’d known her for years and had no obligation to me. But deep down maybe I wouldn’t have minded if Peggy found out why I’d behaved as I had.

After everything was out, Landfors went over various parts of the complex tale. He seemed especially taken with my idea about Ty Cobb killing Red Corriden. “I read about Cobb attacking the fan in Hilltop Park,” he said. “At the time, I thought if he weren’t a baseball player he would have been arrested on the spot—he certainly
should
have been. I didn’t know about that episode in Cleveland. Your theory sounds good, but do you really think he can be convicted? Even if you can get solid evidence, there are very powerful special interests who’ll want to see him keep playing baseball.”

“I don’t know ... I suppose I haven’t really thought about it for a while. I guess it’s pretty callous of me, but lately I’ve only been thinking about Jimmy Macullar’s murder—that’s the one
my
neck is on the block for.”