John Feinstein - Change-up - Mystery at the World Series

Stevie felt his stomach getting queasy-perhaps because he hadn’t eaten for almost seven hours; perhaps because the story was taking a scary turn.

“I don’t think this cop is going to be too happy to hear questions like that,” Stevie said.

“You’re right,” Kelleher said. “But if he’s retired, he may be more willing to talk. You go find him while I see if anyone in baseball has heard the name Donald Walsh.”

“You think the guy is in baseball?”

“No idea, but it’s a logical place to start. The name doesn’t ring a bell as anyone I know in journalism, but I’ll check around on that too.”

“Okay. I’ll call you back after I find Hatley.”

“Good. Be careful with him. Cops sometimes have mean tempers, especially if you’re questioning the quality of their police work.”

“Great,” Stevie said. “I wish Susan Carol was here to charm him.”

“So do I,” Kelleher said. “But you’ll be fine. Act fourteen and dumb.”

“I am fourteen and dumb,” Stevie said.

“Nah, just fourteen and in new territory. You can do it.”

Stevie hung up and pulled Miles Hoy’s card out of his pocket and was about to dial his number when he realized his head was pounding and his stomach really was growling. He looked down the block and saw a McDonald’s. He put the phone back in his pocket. He knew he had to see officer James T. Hatley. But he didn’t have to do it on an empty stomach.

Miles Hoy was delighted to hear Stevie’s voice. When Stevie asked him if he knew where 14 Brill’s Lane was, Hoy laughed. “Sure I do. Jim Hatley’s place? I’ll be right over to get you.”

It was shortly after one o’clock and Stevie was still finishing his vanilla milk shake when Hoy pulled up. He knew Hoy was going to ask why he wanted to see Hatley, so he was prepared when he asked the question: “The ladies at the courthouse thought he might have known my grandfather.”

That answer seemed to satisfy Hoy, which was a relief to Stevie. Ten minutes after Hoy had picked Stevie up, he turned the cab onto a dirt road with a battered sign that said Brill’s Lane.

“Easy to find,” Hoy said. “It’s the only house on the road. There it is up there.”

He pointed to his right at what looked like an old farmhouse.

“What’s Officer Hatley like?” Stevie said, suddenly realizing he should have asked Hoy if he knew him before they were almost on top of his house.

“First, don’t call him Officer,” Hoy said. “He retired a sergeant. Beyond that, he’s like any cop-or ex-cop. He likes to hunt and fish, and he’s a no-nonsense guy. Not exactly a barrel of laughs.”

“Married?” Stevie asked.

“Was,” Hoy said. “His wife apparently left him. I think he might have had some kind of drinking problem years ago. That was before I got to town. They had kids, but they’re grown. He lives alone.”

They pulled into a dusty driveway with a pickup truck sitting in front of the garage.

“You’re in luck,” Hoy said. “He’s home. You want me to wait?”

Part of Stevie did want him to wait, but he figured he was going to need some time with Sergeant Hatley.

“Can you come back in about half an hour?” he asked.

“Sure, kid.” He waved off the twenty-dollar bill Stevie had taken out. “I’ll just run you a tab, it’ll be easier that way.”

Stevie got out of the cab and watched with some regret as Miles Hoy backed down the driveway and headed off. But he squared his shoulders and walked up to the front door. There was a screen door, and as he approached, he could see someone standing in the doorway. He could also hear barking-loud barking.

“Mac, be quiet,” Stevie heard the man say.

He didn’t open the door when Stevie walked up.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a tone Stevie did not think sounded very friendly.

Just looking at retired sergeant James T. Hatley was intimidating. He was huge, at least six foot three, Stevie thought. His head was shaved and he had a mustache and a goatee. He was probably in his midfifties, and he wasn’t smiling. The barking dog stood next to him. Stevie was a cat person, so he didn’t know breeds, but this one was big and looked mean.

“Sergeant Hatley, I’m sorry to bother you-” Stevie began.

“Then why are you?” Hatley interrupted.

“I just need maybe five minutes of your time to ask a couple questions-”

“About what?” Hatley said.

“About Norbert Doyle and-”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you about Norbert Doyle or about the accident,” Hatley said. “It’s all in the report. There’s nothing more to say.”

How did he know I wanted to ask about the accident? Stevie’s mind was screaming.

“Yes, Sergeant, I did read the report-”

“You’ve got fifteen seconds to get off my property,” Hatley said. “You should have told your cab to stay. Now you’re gonna have to walk.”

“Hang on, hang on,” Stevie said. “Hang on for just a minute.”

“Ten seconds,” Hatley said.

“Just one question,” Stevie said, pleading. “Why didn’t you give Doyle a sobriety test?”

“Time’s up,” Hatley said. “I’ll give you a five-second head start on Mac because you’re a kid. The guy said someone might show up, but he didn’t say there would be kids involved.”

The guy? Stevie’s mind raced. Walsh! It had to be Walsh.

“Please,” Stevie said, almost pleading. “Let me explain why this is important.”

Hatley pushed the screen door toward Stevie and said, “Okay, Mac-go!”

Stevie didn’t wait any longer. He turned and ran as fast as he could, keenly aware of the big dog right behind him. His backpack slapped against his back, and he knew the dog was going to run him down any second. He tried to lengthen his stride and felt himself trip. He went sprawling in the dirt and covered his head instinctively, waiting for the dog to attack.

“Mac, stop!” he heard from somewhere in the distance.

The barking and growling stopped. Stevie looked back and saw the dog no more than a step from him, standing stock-still. He couldn’t see Hatley, but he could hear him.

“Get up and walk off my property,” he said. “Say one word, take a single step in my direction, and I won’t stop the dog.”

Stevie was aware of a sharp pain in his shoulder, and he knew he had cut himself in several places, including his mouth because he could taste the blood.

“Get up now !” Hatley said. “I don’t care if you broke your leg. Get up and get moving.”

Slowly Stevie stood up, his shoulder throbbing, blood oozing from several scrapes. He looked back long enough to see Hatley standing in the yard, halfway between where Stevie was and the front door. He resettled his backpack on his back and started walking.

If only he could walk all the way home.

STEVIE WALKED TO THE END OF BRILL’S LANE before he even glanced over his shoulder. Seeing no one, he stopped and took his backpack off so he could check to make sure his computer hadn’t been damaged when he fell.

It appeared to be fine, as was his phone. He then dialed Miles Hoy. “That didn’t take long,” Hoy said. “Hatley any help?”

“Not exactly,” Stevie said, not interested in explaining but knowing Hoy would ask him about his bloody lip and the state of his clothes. His shoulder was throbbing, but the pain wasn’t that bad. “Can you come pick me up at the end of Brill’s Lane?”

“Give me ten or fifteen minutes. I came back downtown to eat. I forgot to get lunch.”

Stevie didn’t argue. He hung up, found a grassy spot near the road to sit, and dialed Kelleher. When he told him what had happened, Kelleher’s first response was, “Oh jeez, your dad’s going to kill me. I told him you couldn’t possibly get into trouble.”