Murder at Fenway Park (8 page)

The Tiger management was prepared: to avoid paying a fine to the league for failing to field a team, nine local amateurs were recruited to represent Detroit. In the farce that followed, the Athletics hitters fattened up their batting averages, teeing off for twenty-four runs against the sham “Tigers.”

An outraged Ban Johnson canceled the Tigers next game.

To me, the world seemed to have gone slightly crazy.
Baseball players on strike?
In support of
Ty Cobb?

I played poorly in our Saturday game at Fenway, my head filled with a perplexing jumble of bewilderments. The baseball world was the one that had always made sense to me. I understood the game and every nuance of its strategies. And, until now, I knew what ball players thought and felt. Even under suspicion of murder, I had been able to find a small haven of stability on the baseball field. But with Ball-dom now beginning to resemble Oz, I could find no respite anywhere.

The Sox were scheduled to leave for a western road trip on Sunday. This would mean two weeks without seeing Peggy, a separation I didn’t look forward to right now. Even if no romance would bloom, I still felt a need for her friendship.

After the game, I decided that I had to talk to Peggy and tell her all that had happened.

I rushed to the theater, and ran up to Peggy at the ticket booth. “I really need to talk to you tonight. I have to leave for a road trip in the morning. Can I come back here after the show is over?”

Peggy looked taken aback, but she nodded and said, “Yes, certainly.”

“Okay, great. I’ll be back later.” With that, I bolted from the theater.

I returned two hours later, after eating a fast supper and packing my bags. A chilly drizzle had begun outside, so instead of leaving the theater for a walk, we stayed inside, sitting next to each other in two front-row chairs.

I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, staring blankly at the stark white screen in front of me. By not looking at Peggy, I was less self-conscious, and the words poured out of me in an uninterrupted torrent.

I quickly recounted the off-season I had spent playing winter ball and pickup games. To help excuse my failure to write, I tried to make my activities since last fall sound especially hectic.

With a deep breath, I proceeded to detail my arrival at Fenway Park, the horrid experience of finding the body, the questioning by the police captain, Bob Tyler’s warning not to talk, and the nearly unremitted distress and confusion I felt ever since I came across the murdered man. I told her, too, of the death of Red Corriden, and my suspicion that the killings might be related, possibly part of a series.

Finally, I turned my head to look into Peggy’s eyes, and confessed, “I don’t know what to make of all this. I just know I feel terrible. I feel I have to find out what happened—or what’s happening. But the police think I’m a suspect, so if I start asking questions they may think I’m trying to cover myself somehow.”

Peggy looked thoughtful, not at all shocked, as she absorbed all I said. She seemed to take my strange tale in stride, and I admired—and envied—her composure. After minutes of silence, she spoke slowly and calmly, “Well, first off, I don’t
think
you’re in any real trouble. If the police considered you a suspect, I doubt they’d leave you alone. They would have questioned you again by now.”

“Maybe Tyler has the police holding off. He told me the day after it happened that
he
didn’t believe I had anything to do with it. And he did seem to have a lot of influence over the cops who were at the park.”

“Do you think Mr. Tyler meant it about believing you, or was he just trying to sound supportive?”

I was ashamed, but I filled in a detail I had previously omitted. “Well, I, uh, I got sick when I found the body. Tyler said a murderer wouldn’t throw up”—I decided I didn’t have to be completely detailed and skipped the fact that I vomited on the corpse—“at the scene of the crime.”

I quickly looked at Peggy to see how she would react. There was no sign of amusement on her face. She said, “Oh. Well, he probably does believe you’re innocent then.”

She fell silent and her brow furrowed a little—and I couldn’t help noticing that her frown looked very endearing. After some more minutes, she said, “I suppose you’re going to have to find out what happened somehow. But I don’t know how. Can I think about it, and we’ll talk when you get back?”

“Yes, sure. I didn’t really know what I thought you could do. But just telling you about it helps.”

I walked Peggy home through a light steady rain, neither of us saying much. She kissed me on the cheek when we got to her door, and I went home feeling much better that at least someone else was sharing my worries.

But I hadn’t told Peggy everything. I didn’t tell her about the bat left on my pillow. I didn’t tell her that being considered a suspect wasn’t my only worry.

T
he weather cleared by early Sunday morning. It looked as if it would be a beautiful day for a picnic or a walk through the Arnold Arboretum. I wished that I could spend the day with Peggy in one of those deliciously genteel pursuits. Instead I was on my way to South Station to join my extremely nongenteel teammates for our long western road trip. And I was on my way to finding out what happened to the murdered man at Fenway Park.

I’d decided that I would have to take some initiative and find out what occurred that first day I entered the Red Sox ballpark. I was going to start asking some questions. But what questions? And who would have answers?

Should I look into the Fenway murder by itself or should I start with Red Corriden’s death and try to find the connection to the other man. Were their deaths necessarily connected?

It could have been coincidence. Corriden was a likely enough mugging candidate: a young fellow in what was probably an unfamiliar city. He easily could have wandered into a rough part of town and stood out as an inviting robbery target. As for the dead man at Fenway Park, he was in a stadium that had just been filled with thousands of people including drunks, gamblers, and pickpockets. In the hectic congestion that followed the game, almost anything could have happened. He could have been pulled aside to be robbed, or maybe he met someone for a fight. After all, as much as I distrusted him, Bob Tyler was truthful about one thing: Boston is a big city with its share of violent crimes.

Robert F. Tyler... I’d thought about his warnings to me, and concluded they were mostly scare tactics. It was obvious that he was lying when he pretended to be so concerned with protecting me, and I’d started to think—and hope—that maybe he wasn’t honest with me when he claimed I was Captain O’Malley’s leading suspect.

Then there’s Jimmy Macullar. I didn’t have a clear read on him, but he seemed a decent enough man. The only strike against him was that he worked for Bob Tyler. Macullar could be my best bet for answering questions. He might not know much, but I had a feeling he was aware of a lot more than Tyler would want him to know.

I decided I would talk with Jimmy Macullar on this road trip and see what I could find out. And then—I wasn’t sure.

The train ride from Boston to Cleveland was a grueling one. I never could sleep in a sleeper car—especially not in the criminally uncomfortable upper berths to which rookies and utility players are assigned. This Pullman was even worse than usual. The heavy curtains of my berth trapped in the odors of all its previous occupants, few of them sufficiently bathed. And a recent occupant apparently tried to mask the smell with a cheap stogie, only adding to the vile stench.

I felt drowsy and sluggish when we arrived at League Park late Monday morning. This was the day when the game scheduled between the Tigers and the Athletics in Philadelphia would not be played. Since Detroit was the next city on our road trip, we didn’t know if we would have any games to play when we got there. When would the Tigers be playing baseball again?

We lost an unmemorable game to Cleveland, with both teams preoccupied with the more interesting contest of Ban Johnson versus the Detroit Tigers.

That evening, the
Cleveland Plain Dealer
reported the resolution of the Tigers strike. Between Johnson’s typically heavy hand, and uncharacteristic cooperation by Ty Cobb, the Detroit players were convinced to call off their walkout. Johnson threatened the Tigers with banishment from baseball if they didn’t return to the field. Cobb thanked them for their support, and urged his teammates to play again. Johnson then announced that Cobb’s suspension would run ten days more. This was great news for the Red Sox: our series against Detroit was on, and the Tigers would be without the services of Ty Cobb.

With the Tigers situation settled, I paid more attention to our second game against the Naps. Larry Gardner’s ankle was getting better, but not well enough yet to play. I was still filling in for him at third base. In the fourth inning, I suddenly had the eerie feeling that I was in Red Corriden’s shoes when Nap Lajoie dropped a bunt down the third base line. He had it beaten out easily, but I threw anyway, well over Jake Stahl’s head, giving Lajoie an extra base as the ball landed in about the twentieth row of seats. Stahl let loose with some loud cussing, making up fascinating combinations I had never heard before. He left me in for the rest of the game, though—he had no choice, with Gardner as lame as he was.

In the final game, each time Nap Lajoie came up to bat I again had the feeling I was standing in the spikes of a dead man. Somehow I felt connected to Red Corriden though I never even met him. The unnerving sensation made my legs go soft and quivery, and reminded me that my primary mission on this trip was to talk to Jimmy Macullar.

We left Cleveland by boat, my first experience with that evil means of transportation. The choppy waters of Lake Erie left my insides so shaken that I longed for the relative comfort of a Pullman car.

In Detroit, we went on to a three-game sweep over the Cobb-less Tigers. After the series, the trip half over, I told myself that I really should talk to Macullar soon.

I tried to prod myself into action again after we took two out of three from the White Sox in Comiskey Park. Only a few days of the road swing remained.

These western cities must have had plenty of attractions in the nightlife department. Clyde Fletcher didn’t make it back to our hotel room once in the first three cities. He did show up at the ballparks, but not looking very well. In the West, he didn’t even get to recuperate from Saturday night outings, since Sunday baseball was legal here.

I wanted to ask Fletcher if he knew anything about Jimmy Macullar. I thought it might be a little easier to approach Macullar if I had a better feel of what the man was like. I knew that if my roommate could manage to find activities to occupy his nights in Cleveland, I would never see him at our hotel in a wild town like St. Louis.

Before the final game with the White Sox, while the rest of our team was taking batting practice, I approached Fletcher as he sat on the dugout bench looking bleary-eyed. “How’s it going, Fletch?”

Hchoowook. Shptoo. Schplat.

I tried to sound casual. “Say, you know that fellow Jimmy Macullar at all?”

“Who?”

“Jimmy Macullar. He seems to be with Mr. Tyler a lot. I think he’s his assistant or something.”

“Mister
Tyler?” Fletcher smiled and spat again. Then he grumbled, “Hell, Bob Tyler ain’t nobody. Used to be a flunky for Ban Johnson, that’s all. That’s how he got where he is now.”

My attention was distracted by shouts from the dugout runway. The echoes of the words made them tough to decipher, but they were definitely angry ones. They grew louder as they neared the dugout, and clearer. One voice was Jake Stahl’s, threatening, “It’s gonna cost yuh fifty if yuh don’t get your ass out there
now.
”

“What the hell should I practice
for?
I been here a month and all I do is sit the goddam bench. I don’t gotta practice sitting!” This voice was a gruff one; I wasn’t sure whose.

“I’ll
decide when you play. I never wanted you anyway.”

“Well you
got
me, so you goddam well better
play
me.”

“You
don’t tell me what I better do. I’m sure as hell not benching Carrigan just to make you happy. Now get out there!”

Billy Neal sullenly plodded out of the runway, his face a picture of angry frustration. He slowly climbed the dugout steps and walked out to the batting cage. He was doing as Stahl told him, but flaunted his unhappiness with each step. I felt sorry for Neal; I could sympathize with wanting to play but being blocked by better players. It was a situation that was very familiar to me.

I nudged Fletcher, and nodded out to the field. It didn’t seem a good idea to let Stahl see us sitting down. We were on the infield grass before Stahl came out of the dugout.

I got back to asking Fletcher, “What about Jimmy Macullar?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I guess now Tyler’s got a flunky of his own. Don’t really know him, though. Why?”

“I don’t know... no reason... guess I was just wondering. He always seems to be around, but I wasn’t sure what he does.”

“Probably just a charity case. Heard he used to be a ball player once. Hmmph—musta been about a hundred years ago. Got washed up, so now he hangs around doin’ errands and whatever. Hope I never got to kiss the ass of somebody like Tyler to get by.” Hchoowook. Shptoo. Schplat.

Fletcher hadn’t told me much, but what little there was didn’t encourage me. If Macullar’s livelihood depended on the good graces of Bob Tyler, he might not want to tell me anything that Tyler could object to. But I’d see when we got to St. Louis.

The series against the Browns turned out to be another easy one for us as we swept them without one close game. I had a pretty successful road trip, playing every inning of every game. I knew my performance wasn’t good enough for me to keep the position when Gardner’s ankle got better, though. I’d need to boost my batting average by a good fifty points to have a shot at his starting job.

The trip wasn’t quite over yet. Before getting back to Fenway Park, we had a two-day train ride ahead of us. Only two more days to talk to Jimmy Macullar.

Lurching my way down the aisle of a sparsely occupied club car, as our train passed through Pennsylvania farmland, I spotted Jimmy Macullar alone in a window seat staring quietly out through the pane. This was it: my best chance so far, and possibly the last one I would have before reaching Boston.

I approached his seat without him noticing me. He seemed absorbed in either his thoughts or the passing cornfields.

“Mr. Macullar?” I had to repeat his name once more before he heard me.

“Oh. Hello, Mickey.”

“Is anyone sitting here?”

“No. Would you like to?” He sounded vague and distracted.

“Uh, thanks.” I sat down next to him and he smiled at me vacantly.

I tried to start off the conversation with a safe subject. “I heard you used to be a pretty good baseball player,” I said. Fletcher had mentioned nothing of Macullar’s skill level, so that was my own embellishment. I figured it couldn’t hurt.

Macullar seemed flattered. “Oh, I don’t know if I was
good.
But I wasn’t bad.” His voice faded as he added, “My, that was a long time ago.” Then he turned his gaze back to the window.

I tried to bring him to what I was hoping would be a conversation. “You were in the majors?”

He turned to me again. “Hmm? The majors? Oh, yes. I played six seasons in the big leagues.” He added with a smile, “That was just after there was a major league to play in.” He paused, and then somewhat more animatedly asked, “You know who the first team was I played for?”

I shook my head no.

“Syracuse.
Syracuse
had a big-league club. Eighteen hundred and seventy-nine that was.” Macullar’s head now faced forward, tilted slightly up, his eyes focusing on sights that were history by the time I was born. The array of wrinkles that fanned out from his eyelids seemed to perk up at the view. He talked on, steadily and softly. “The Syracuse Stars. One year in the National League and that was it. A one-year franchise, and now it’s forgotten....

“It was different back then. All this fuss now about statistics, RBIs. There was no such thing as an RBI when I was playing. And stolen bases—nobody kept track of them.

“The game was played different, too. Take pitching. I remember this: when I was with the Stars, the pitcher’s hand had to go below his bett—they weren’t even allowed to throw sidearm. It all had to be down underhand... I saw one pitcher get around that, though—he had his pants cut extra long so his belt was up across his chest. He looked like a clown, but he beat the rule—seems there’s always somebody who thinks he’s better than any rules or laws.”