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

“I’ve heard the term. But tell me exactly what that means, will you?”

“It means you won’t be quoted, but I can use the information in a story if I need it.”

She nodded. “Okay. I think that works for me.”

She paused again. Stevie wondered if it was okay to take notes when you were talking on background.

When she started to talk, he completely forgot about taking notes.

“I had finished my freshman year at Virginia Tech,” she said. “As you might have guessed, I was a basketball player…”

Stevie knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t resist. “How tall are you?” he asked.

“Six three,” she said. “I was six three when I was fourteen. Believe me, it wasn’t fun.”

Stevie decided to shut up. Her height was not part of the story.

“Anyway,” she continued. “The baseball team put out the word in the community that some of the players and their wives were looking for babysitters, and the Doyles hired me to sit for their twins right after I got back from school in early June. I was working as a camp counselor during the daytime and I liked making the extra money at night.

“They were very nice people. Most of the time I would sit when Mr. Doyle was pitching and Mrs. Doyle wanted to go to the game. But this was an off night and they were going out to dinner.

“I put the twins down just after sunset, about eight-thirty,” she said. “It was a perfect night. Not even that hot. I sat on the back porch reading.

“They had said they wouldn’t be that late-maybe ten-thirty or eleven. By midnight I was beginning to wonder what had happened. There were no cell phones then, so I couldn’t try to call them. I tried the restaurant, but they had already left. I started work at my day job at seven, so I was getting a little concerned. About midnight I called my parents. They said they’d come over and stay with the kids so I could go home to sleep. They got there just before Officer Molloy showed up.”

“Officer Molloy?” Stevie said. He hadn’t heard that name before. “The report on the accident was written by-”

“Officer Hatley,” she said. “That’s what I heard later on. Nothing stays secret in a small town for very long. This is where the story has always been a little bit murky to me.”

He waited, hoping they had arrived at the place where she might clear some things up for him.

“Officer Molloy told us there’d been an accident, that the Doyles’ car had hit a tree. I remember my mom saying, ‘Oh God, Joe, are they okay?’ My parents knew Joe Molloy- know Joe Molloy-pretty well. Anyway, I remember he shook his head and said, ‘He is. She’s not. I’m afraid she’s dead.’

“I sort of freaked out right then. I’d never known anyone who died except my grandmother.”

She paused a moment. “I know I’m dragging this out, but I’m getting to the part that may be important to you.”

Stevie just nodded.

“When I calmed down a little, Officer Molloy was describing the scene to my parents, and it sounded pretty terrible. He said the car was totaled. He said Norbert was incoherent, trying to get up to get to Analise. He said he left the scene to come tell us what was going on after Sergeant Hatley got there.”

Stevie was rocked. There had been no mention in the report that another officer had been at the scene or, perhaps more importantly, that another officer had been there before Hatley.

“The police report doesn’t mention Officer Molloy at all,” he said.

“I’ve never seen it, but I guess I’m not totally surprised,” she said. “My dad asked Joe Molloy why he had left the scene if he was the first one there. He said that Jim and Norbert were close friends and that Jim had wanted to stay with Norbert and handle the situation.

“I remember thinking that sounded reasonable, nice even, but also maybe a little suspicious. My dad said, ‘Joe, was the pitcher drinking?’

“And Joe just said, ‘That’s a fair question. I’m sure Jim will check that out.’”

“Did you know there’s no mention in the report of any kind of Breathalyzer being taken or any sobriety check at all?” Stevie said.

“Well,” she said, “there was nothing in any of the papers or the TV reports about Mr. Doyle drinking. My dad wondered if maybe Jim Hatley had taken care of his friend the baseball player. I thought maybe they’d checked and found out he wasn’t drinking…” She paused. “So the report says he was never tested? That doesn’t sound right.”

“It doesn’t say anything about a sobriety check. Just that he swerved to avoid an animal.”

“He didn’t pitch again that season,” she said. “I remember that. They said it was the cracked ribs and his collarbone. But I remember the initial doctor’s report said he’d be out two to three weeks, and there were six weeks left in the season.”

She let that hang there without going on. Stevie’s mind raced. He looked at his watch. Almost three-thirty. “I know you have to go to practice,” he said. “But one last question. Is Joe Molloy still around here?”

She smiled. “I thought you’d ask me that,” she said. “He’s the deputy chief of police now. He’s probably at the station. Miles can help you find him, I’m sure.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She stood up and Stevie felt a little bit dizzy looking up at her again. “I liked the Doyles, they were always very nice to me. The kids were cute and smart. Watching him pitch the other night, I felt happy for him. But I’ve always wondered what really happened that night. Maybe you’ll find out.”

“Maybe,” Stevie said. “I hope so.”

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll take you back to Miles.”

WHEN THEY WALKED BACK TO THE CAB and Stevie asked if he could go next to the police station, Miles Hoy asked the question Stevie’d been waiting for: “When are you going to tell me what you’re really looking for here?”

Stevie nodded. “You’re entitled,” he said, and on their way to the police station, he filled him in. Hoy listened and said little.

“I wasn’t here back then,” Hoy said after a pause. “I was still working in Atlanta.”

“What brought you here?” Stevie asked.

“My grandparents owned a house here and they left it to me. I’d always liked Lynchburg -it’s a nice, small town. People are friendly-even Jim Hatley, most days. I drive the cab and I also do some part-time coaching at the junior high school. Keeps me busy enough.”

Stevie asked him if he knew Joe Molloy.

“Everyone knows Joe Molloy,” he said. “He’ll be chief when Bob Lawson retires in a few years. Good man. I think you’ll like him.”

The police station, as it turned out, was behind the courthouse, just across a parking lot from the back door. It was just before four o’clock when they pulled up. Hoy volunteered to come inside and try to smooth the way for him-Stevie gratefully accepted the offer.

They walked into the small one-level building and found a burly cop with a mustache sitting behind the desk. “What’s up, Miles?” he asked in a friendly tone. Stevie doubted he would have been greeted quite so warmly on his own.

“Young man here needs a minute with Chief Molloy,” Hoy said. “Is he around?”

The desk cop, whose name tag said J. G. Brendle, looked at Stevie as if waiting for him to explain. When Stevie stayed quiet, he just shrugged. “He’s here,” he said, picking up the phone. “Let me see if he’s busy. Why don’t you guys have a seat.”

Brendle put the phone down a minute later and said: “Miles, you’re in luck. He’ll be right out.”

A few seconds later a door swung open and a tall man with blond hair and an easy smile walked over to them.