Die Like an Eagle by Donna Andrews

Holmes said about theories?”
    â€œâ€˜It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data,’” I rattled off. And as I continued, Dad chimed in so we were reciting in unison. “‘Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.’”
    Sherlockian trivia had been as much a part of my childhood dinner table conversations as fascinating medical facts.
    â€œPrecisely.” The chief looked only mildly startled by our Holmesian duet. “It’s much too early to speculate on whether Mr. Henson was himself the target or whether he was merely the victim of an unfortunate physical resemblance to the killer’s real target.”
    â€œDid Randall mention that one of his cousins saw Biff having a fight with one of the Pruitts?” I asked. “And he didn’t mean just an argument; they had to be pulled apart. I only got it third hand, but it stuck in my mind.”
    â€œI’ll look into it.” The chief made a few more notes. “Did Randall happen to say which cousin? Or which Pruitt?”
    â€œHis cousin Cephus, and I don’t know which Pruitt, but probably one whose kid is on the Yankees.”
    The chief nodded and scribbled.
    â€œMy money’s on Biff as the target,” Dad said. “After all, people don’t very often yell ‘Kill the umpire’ in real life.”
    â€œAnd when they do, they’re usually just venting,” Horace added. “Has anyone ever really killed an umpire?”
    â€œNot since 1927, to the best of my knowledge.” Yes, the chief would know something like that. “And baseball was a much rowdier game in the late eighteen-hundreds and early nineteen-hundreds. I doubt if this murder has much to do with baseball—historically, most of the violence against umpires, or for that matter players and coaches, has been committed in the heat of the moment—during the game or shortly thereafter.”
    â€œYeah,” Horace said. “And there’s not much baseball going on around here between ten p.m. and two a.m., so heat of the moment won’t fly as a mitigating circumstance.”
    â€œAnd remember,” the chief added, “Lem Shiffley didn’t use Mr. Henson as an umpire in the fall season, so to my knowledge, Mr. Henson hasn’t officiated at a game since the end of last year’s spring Little League season, a good nine months ago. I’m sure a few parents are still complaining about some of his more egregiously bad calls in the playoffs, but I have a hard time believing that any of them would still be in the throes of homicidal rage. I’m not discounting Shep’s—or Biff’s—involvement in baseball as a possible motive, but I suspect we’ll need to look off the diamond for the killer’s motive.”
    And I suspected he’d be relieved to find the motive outside baseball. After all, the chief was such a passionate Baltimore Orioles fan that he’d named his sons after his favorite ballplayers. And at least one of his sons had followed suit—the one whose untimely death, with his wife, in a car crash had made Henry and Minerva the custodial grandparents of Frank Robinson Burke, Jr., Calvin Ripken Burke, and Adam Jones Burke.
    â€œWell, idle speculation won’t solve this,” the chief said. “Horace, if you’re finished here for the time being, why don’t you head over to Mr. Henson’s place to search there?”
    â€œYou’ve made arrangements with Sheriff Whicker, then?” Horace slid out of the banquette and picked up his forensic kit.
    â€œNo,” the chief said. “If at all possible, I’d like for you to see it exactly the way he left it, not the way it will look after some nosy Clay County deputy finishes contaminating anything that might have evidentiary value.”
    â€œYeah,” Horace said. “They’re not so good on subtleties