equipment room. The bats and gloves were all over the floor.
Around the next corner was the main player area, with the trainer’s room on one side of the corridor, the main dressing room on the other. I looked in as we passed. Instead of players and reporters, there were half a dozen men in suits. Instead of television crews, there was a police photographer. Instead of hilarity and celebration, there was the slow, sober work of observation, the beginning stages of the investigation.
Munro and I continued around the next corner, past the manager’s office, where his colleague was questioning Craig, to the players’ lounge. Someone had fired up the coffee machine, and Munro poured two cups. He handed one to me and we sat facing each other diagonally from two couches in a corner of the room.
“What connection was there between Thorson and Sanchez?”
“I can’t think of anything except the obvious. They didn’t have much to do with each other. I can’t imagine that they would have seen each other off the field except at team functions or charity appearances. They didn’t have much in common.”
Munro nodded, taking notes in a spiral-bound book. The affability was gone. Now he was at work. I wasn’t used to being on this side of an interview and didn’t like it much.
“There are factions on the team, then?”
“Well, the Latin players tend to stick together, probably more for language than anything else. Blacks tend to be close to blacks, whites to whites. The religious group crosses race and language lines. The older players hang out with each other, as do the rookies. But there isn’t hostility among the various groups, so they aren’t factions in that sense.”
“Who were Thorson’s close friends?”
“No one on the team. He was a star. Some players were in awe of him, others resented him. He was a loner. He wasn’t part of the clubhouse practical jokes or anything.
“I guess you could say that the other players tolerated him, but he wasn’t really liked. Except for Archie Griffin, the rookie. He liked him. But he likes everyone.”
“Who were his enemies, then?”
“I’m not saying he had enemies, just no close friends. Don’t put words into my mouth.”
“But there must have been some who had more reason to dislike him than others.”
I didn’t really like where this was taking us. Inevitably, I was going to cast suspicion on one of the players, and I wasn’t in any position to do that. Besides, I couldn’t believe any of them could have done it.
“Look, there were a lot of guys who didn’t like him, but these men aren’t criminals. Some of the fielders had a problem with him, for example, because he would blame them for his losses but give them no credit when he won.
“Others resented how easily success came to him. These would be the ones who had to struggle to make it to the big leagues and to hang on once they got here.
“The manager didn’t like him because Thorson was a pipeline to Ted Ferguson, the owner. I could go on through the whole team and give you reasons. Hell, the clubhouse kids didn’t like him because he was a lousy tipper. But none of this adds up to a motive for murder.”
“I might be the best judge of that,” Munro said. “What about people outside the team?”
Like his agent. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten about Craven. I told Munro about my conversation with Morris, stressing that all I had was gossip and speculation. Then it was my turn to ask questions.
“When do you think he was killed?”
“It’s hard to pin it down yet. The coroner could only say that it was sometime in the last twelve hours. So it could have happened any time during the night. Probably earlier rather than later. We’ll know better after the autopsy.”
He closed his notebook and stood up.
“You’ve been very helpful. Are you ready for the dressing room?”
I butted my cigarette and stood up.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Chapter 12
The Titan
Around the next corner was the main player area, with the trainer’s room on one side of the corridor, the main dressing room on the other. I looked in as we passed. Instead of players and reporters, there were half a dozen men in suits. Instead of television crews, there was a police photographer. Instead of hilarity and celebration, there was the slow, sober work of observation, the beginning stages of the investigation.
Munro and I continued around the next corner, past the manager’s office, where his colleague was questioning Craig, to the players’ lounge. Someone had fired up the coffee machine, and Munro poured two cups. He handed one to me and we sat facing each other diagonally from two couches in a corner of the room.
“What connection was there between Thorson and Sanchez?”
“I can’t think of anything except the obvious. They didn’t have much to do with each other. I can’t imagine that they would have seen each other off the field except at team functions or charity appearances. They didn’t have much in common.”
Munro nodded, taking notes in a spiral-bound book. The affability was gone. Now he was at work. I wasn’t used to being on this side of an interview and didn’t like it much.
“There are factions on the team, then?”
“Well, the Latin players tend to stick together, probably more for language than anything else. Blacks tend to be close to blacks, whites to whites. The religious group crosses race and language lines. The older players hang out with each other, as do the rookies. But there isn’t hostility among the various groups, so they aren’t factions in that sense.”
“Who were Thorson’s close friends?”
“No one on the team. He was a star. Some players were in awe of him, others resented him. He was a loner. He wasn’t part of the clubhouse practical jokes or anything.
“I guess you could say that the other players tolerated him, but he wasn’t really liked. Except for Archie Griffin, the rookie. He liked him. But he likes everyone.”
“Who were his enemies, then?”
“I’m not saying he had enemies, just no close friends. Don’t put words into my mouth.”
“But there must have been some who had more reason to dislike him than others.”
I didn’t really like where this was taking us. Inevitably, I was going to cast suspicion on one of the players, and I wasn’t in any position to do that. Besides, I couldn’t believe any of them could have done it.
“Look, there were a lot of guys who didn’t like him, but these men aren’t criminals. Some of the fielders had a problem with him, for example, because he would blame them for his losses but give them no credit when he won.
“Others resented how easily success came to him. These would be the ones who had to struggle to make it to the big leagues and to hang on once they got here.
“The manager didn’t like him because Thorson was a pipeline to Ted Ferguson, the owner. I could go on through the whole team and give you reasons. Hell, the clubhouse kids didn’t like him because he was a lousy tipper. But none of this adds up to a motive for murder.”
“I might be the best judge of that,” Munro said. “What about people outside the team?”
Like his agent. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten about Craven. I told Munro about my conversation with Morris, stressing that all I had was gossip and speculation. Then it was my turn to ask questions.
“When do you think he was killed?”
“It’s hard to pin it down yet. The coroner could only say that it was sometime in the last twelve hours. So it could have happened any time during the night. Probably earlier rather than later. We’ll know better after the autopsy.”
He closed his notebook and stood up.
“You’ve been very helpful. Are you ready for the dressing room?”
I butted my cigarette and stood up.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Chapter 12
The Titan
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