THE GREENSOX MURDERS
JEAN MARIE STINE
Emily Ketchem's face was the pale purple caused by strangulation. The green, 48-inch sport lace was cinched tightly into the skin of her neck. Detective Sergeant Norman Ellison didn't need to untie it to know it was just like the one they had found around Edward Pitchur's neck two weeks ago.
Ellison had been called in from the ballpark, where he'd been rooting for the Greensox. Not that it mattered, he might has well have been alone in the stands. His favorite team was in the bottom of the rankings for the fourth year in a row, and the stadium was practically deserted. Now Ellison knew he would be returning immediately - in his official capacity.
Those laces, like the home team's patented green socks, were their trademark. They were made exclusively for the Greensox, worn by the players - and no one else.
Two weeks ago, the presence of one around Edward Pitchur's throat had seemed as if it might be incidental. Detective Sergeant Ellison had visited the team headquarters then, but the visit was merely perfunctory. He had realized that the green lace might have been a clue pointing toward the team. But it might also have been no more than a pilfered souvenir that the murder's hand sized upon impulsively at the moment of the killing.
Now Ellison knew the lace's presence was more than coincidence. A killer didn't use something like that twice in a row without there being a pattern to it.
Sergeant Norman Ellison felt a chill run down his back. He hoped he was wrong and the murders weren't part of a pattern. If they were, there would be more murders to come. More purple faces, their throats constricted tight by 48-inch Greensox sport laces.
* * *
Fred Frawley, the Greensox manager, was the first person Detective Sergeant Norman Ellison saw when he entered the team headquarters back of the stadium. The manager was stomping out of the owner's office, a dark frown creasing his brows. A short, stout man, who smoked short, stout cigars, Frawley had once been a celebrated catcher before an accident had paralyzed his left arm and sidetracked his career.
Frawley was so angry he almost collided with Ellison before he noticed the detective.
The little manager stopped short. Frawley's expression changed from furious to grouchy (Ellison somehow felt this was meant to convey friendliness, perhaps even warmth).
"What brings you back here, Sergeant," Frawley growled around his cigar. "The team's batting is a crime. But you can't arrest them for that."
Ellison shook his head. "Another murder."
Frawley took the cigar out of his mouth with his good hand and gaped at the detective in astonishment.
At that moment, another figure joined them. It was Durant Jems, the team's beaknosed equipment manager.
Jems watery blue eyes widened. "What's this I'm hearing? Are my ears deceiving me? A murder."
"That's right," Ellison said. "A woman this time. With another one of your signature shoelaces knotted around her neck."
Frawley's mouth fell open and his cigar fell unheeded from his lips. "The hell you say," he strangled.
"Our shoelaces," Jems shocked expression grew deeper. He struck himself on the forehead. "And I'm in charge. It's a catastrophe."
"The woman was named Emily Ketchem." Ellison watched both men for any sign of reaction.
Frawley's scowl remained unchanged. Jem's watery blue eyes looked blank. "Mean's nothing to me, kid," Frawley growled. "Me either," Jems shook his head.
"Thanks," Ellison said.
"I can't believe it," Jems said. "Whata situation. It ain't my boys got enough trouble? First, the whole team might get sold and moved to an icebox like Philly. Now it's murder."
Sergeant Normal Ellison smiled, then he thanked both men and made his way to the owner's office.
Kate Tracy had been out of town when Ellison had visited the Greensox after the first murder. This time she was in. According to local gossip, which Ellison knew to be true, Tracy had long maintained an extra-marital affair with a local department store magnate who as silent partner in the club.
A tall, gracious woman with a New England accent, Tracy rose to meet him. "What can I do for you, Sergeant?"
He explained.
"The services of my entire staff are at your disposal, Sergeant," the Greensox owner said when he had finished. "We'll be pleased to help you any way we can."
"Could you check your records of past employees, season ticket holders, etc. - and see if the names of either victim come up."
"You may count on it, Lt.," Kate Tracy promised. "This could mean publicity for the Greensox if it keeps up. And I don't mean the good kind."
The Greensox supply room was just off the locker room. The whole area was filled with a thick, sweet-sour smell Ellison could tell was compounded of male sweat, liniment, and over-ripe laundry.
"Just so there's no mistake about it," Ellison said, holding out a plastic evidence bag with the thin green murder weapon in it. "Could you identify this?"
Durant Jems took the bag and his watery blue eyes peered past the beak of his nose.
"Wait a minute!" He punctuated the expression by hitting his forehead again with the flat of his hand. "This is another kettle of fish! These are the new laces! We just started using these little honey's last week."
Ellison was startled. "How can you tell?"
Jems pointed. "It's the plastic tips. Can't you see? They're shorter than the old ones by a sixteenth of an inch."
Jems looked up, his pale blue eyes puzzled. "They only arrived last week. Now what do you think of that?"
Ellison thought fast. "Did you give them out to the whole team?"
"Not a chance," Durant squinted up at him. "Ms. Tracy's no spendthrift. We replace 'em when they need them, not before."
"Who have you given these out to so far?" Ellison asked.
"Only three of my players," Jems said. "James, Dukenfield, and Sydney."
Then the equipment manager looked up and struck his head again. "You don't suspect my boys? They may murder the game. But not each other! Besides, this ain't no Fort Knox. We keep the equipment locked up, but it ain't much of a lock. A five year old could get in here if he wanted."
Ellison smiled. "I don't suspect anybody. I'm just trying to eliminate possibilities."
"Just like Sherlock Holmes!" Jems said admiringly. "'When you've eliminated every possible explanation, then whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be the truth'," he misquoted.
"Believe me," Ellison said wearily, "I'm no Sherlock Holmes."
"Neither was Basil Rathbone," Jems said irrelevantly."
Stewart James, the team's shortstop, was sitting alone in the team's cafeteria, his long lanky figure propped behind a steaming cup of coffee.
Sergeant Ellison took a cup of decaf and walked over. "Detective Ellison, homicide. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"
James looked up at him quizzically. "Not at all, Detective. Not at all." He waved a lazy, negligent hand at an empty chair. "Delighted to have you join me."
Ellison sat down.
"Gonna be quite a change in chilly Philly," James drawled. "Getting my long underwear now."
Ellison's curiosity as a Greensox fan was peaked. "So Tracy is really selling the franchise to Philly?"
"That's the rumor," the shortstop said. "Gonna miss sunny San Leandro. Gonna miss a lot of the staff here, too, they're some great old guys."
Then James' thin, pleasant, mid-west shopkeeper's face sharpened into focus. "Homicide you say? What's the matter, did our star pitcher kill everybody's favorite catcher?"
Like all Greensox fans, Ellison knew James was referring to Porter Sydney and Claude Dukenfield. The two had feuded publicly and even exchanged blows over Dukenfield's playing that year. Dukenfield had piled up an impressive record of errors - both behind the base and at bat - contributing to the team's currently dismal standing at the bottom of the league.
"No," said Ellison, "a woman named Emily Ketchem."
Like the others, James showed no sign of recognition at the name. "Never heard of her to my knowledge, Sergeant. What can I do for you?"
Ellison showed him the baggie with the shoelace.
James looked at it, shrewd eyes questioning under shaggy brows. "One of our shoelaces again? This is getting to be quite a habit."
"Your equipment manager says this is from a new batch," Ellison said, watching the catcher closely. "He says he's given these out to only three people, Sidney, Dukenfield and you."
If James was disturbed by this news, he didn't show it. He popped a stick of gum in his mouth and began chewing it calmly. "Wall, I guess he'd know about that. Of course, just about anybody could have helped themselves when he wasn't looking. Nobody exactly stands guard over the supply room, you know."
And that was exactly the problem, James thought - anybody could have. "I know," he replied. "I'm just eliminating possibilities." He glanced down but observed James closely for a reaction to what came next. "I assume the laces Jems gave you are still in your shoes?"
"Wall, you know, Sergeant," James drawled as placidly as ever, "that's a funny thing. I just broke mine yesterday and had to use the left over lace from an old pair to get through today's game. I guess that kinda looks bad for me, doesn't it?"
"Not necessarily," Ellison said. "But I will have to check on it."
"Of course," James waved his hand airily again. "you've got to do your duty."
If he had anything to worry about, Ellison couldn't detect it.
Claude Dukenfield, the Greensox's controversial catcher, was a man of well-padded girth. He possessed enormous arms, and an enormous swollen nose whose broken veins indicated his favorite dissipation. "The Duke" as he was affectionately known to fans, was more than a bit fond of the grape - or alcohol in any form.
"No time for autographs, my boy," Dukenfield said, when Ellison walked up to him. The Duke stood with a three iron, methodically swinging away at a series of golfballs he'd lined up on a practice field just behind the team's headquarters. "Can'' you see I'm involved in an undertaking of the utmost importance?"
The catcher hit as sweet a shot straight down the center of the range as Ellison had ever seen.
"I'm Sergeant Ellison, of the homicide squad, and I'd like to ask you a few questions about a murder."
Dukenfield's next shot veered wildly to the left. "Gads," the 3-iron twirled wildly between his fingers for as moment. "Murder. Whose murder? Not that oaf Dukenfield, I hope?"
"No," Ellison said. "A woman named Emily Ketchem."
Dukenfield heaved a deep sigh of relief. "Never heard the woman's name before you uttered it, I assure you. And how may I be of assistance? Since I perceive that a man of your magnitude would not dally for autographs or idle chit-chat."
"She was strangled with this." Ellison held out the shoelace.
"An infernal device. Take it away," The rotund catcher stepped back. "And what do the myrmidons of the law want with me?"
Ellison explained about the new shoelaces.
Dukenfield became nervous. "Gads! Some knave pilfered both mine only yesterday."
"You're shoelaces were stolen?" Ellison asked. "Did you report it?"
"To whom, my boy? I thought it petty pilferage at the time. An ardent fan who esteemed some trinket of mine. Or that oaf Dukenfield. He's low enough to sink to such a trick, just to annoy me. He knows I can't play my best when I'm annoyed."
"What did you use for laces today?" Ellison interrupted.
"I was sidelined today, my boy. Sidelined. Bursitis of the biceps," the catcher rubbed his arm.
"Thanks." Ellison made a mental note to verify the catcher's condition with his doctor.
"Am I to consider myself a suspect in this heinous crime, officer?" Dukenfield asked.
Ellison smiled. "No more than anyone else. I'm just trying to eliminate possibilities."
"Alas, sergeant," the catcher replied. "I fear I have implicated rather than eliminated myself."
So far, Sergeant Norman Ellison thought grimly. He had three immediate suspects - plus the entire team, everyone who worked for the Greensox (and perhaps the stadium) and a half million more, since anyone in the city (or even from another city) could actually be the killer. And so far he had failed to eliminate a single individual.
James and Dukenfield's stories sounded suspicious. One that flimsy by itself would have thrown suspicion on the person who told it. But two left things right where they had been before - up in the air.
Ellison found Porter Sydney just preparing to leave with a beautiful woman in a tight red dress. Sydney was adjusting the knot of a very conservative tie that perfectly set off his very conservative and expensive suit.
"May I help you?" the Greensox star pitcher asked in his pleasant, melodious voice.
"I'm Sergeant Norman Ellison of Homicide, and I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time," Ellison said taking out his notebook again.
"Surely," Sydney smiled politely. He turned to the young woman. "Gina, would you excuse us for a few minutes, please?"
When they were alone, the Greensox pitcher smiled again. "Homicide, you say? That is fascinating. Homicide bespeaks murder. Could our esteemed catcher have met with his just reward at last?"
"No," Ellison said. "A woman named Emily Ketchem. Strike any bells?"
Sydney's gleaming black face showed no sign recognition. "I can't say that it does, Sergeant. Is this in any way related to the murder we heard about last week?"
"The same kind of murder weapon was involved," Ellison said, watching for any reaction.
Sydney's face showed mild surprise. "Greensox shoelaces?"
"That's right," Ellison replied. "Only this time, the killer used the new type Durant Jems just started giving out."
Sydney's face showed understanding at last. "Oh, and I am one of those who was given a pair? Do I have that right, Sergeant?"
"Yes," Ellison admitted. "Can you account for yours?"
"Oh, indubitably." The Greensox pitcher smiled. "They are in my shoes in my locker here."
Sydney opened the locker and produced the shoes. Threaded through the eyeholes of each was an identical green ribbon.
Or were they? Ellison bent forward, compared the tips in the two laces. "One of these is from the new batch," he said. One is from the old batch. Where is the new one's mate?"
Sydney stopped smiling. He looked genuinely concerned. "I assure you, Sergeant, I have absolutely no idea."
So far he was batting zero, Sergeant Norman Ellison thought as he made his way back toward the entrance to the building. His stomach was beginning to rumble and he was thinking about grabbing some fast food he could eat while filling out his report back at the station house.
"Sergeant!" It was Kate Tracy, the team's owner.
She came up and slipped an arm through his.
"I just want to thank you and the department for keeping the connection between the club and the killings out of the newspapers so far. Bad publicity could really hurt the Greensox right now."
"Mam, as far as we know right now, there is no connection between the club and the killings," Ellison said. "Most likely the murderer's some crazy fan. And as the captain said, I don't know what good it would do to have the media running around hysterical about a serial killer at the moment. Our job's hard enough."
Tracy arched her very aristocratic brows. "And speaking of jobs, Sergeant, how is yours going? Are you making any progress?"
"Not a lick."
"Ms. Tracy," a voice, Ellison recognized as belonging to Frawley, growled. "Got a moment."
Ellison saw the woman's brows gather in a frown.
"If I have to," she replied. "Sergeant-" her smile was dazzling. "-you will forgive me?"
"Certainly," he said.
"About my compensation package if the team goes off to Philly..." Frawley began.
The two walked off, but before they had gone a dozen steps, Ellison could tell from their posture that they were arguing again.
Ellison remembered the scene he'd encountered when he'd first entered the building. This was the second time since arriving at the Greensox headquarters that Ellison had discovered a motive for murder. But none of them had anything to do with the murder he was investigating - or did they?
Could the motive for these killings somehow be tied up with the club's problems, Ellison wondered. Or was the killer really a mentally deranged fan who had a fetish for the teams patented laces and penchant for strangling the life out of his (or her, murder was an equal opportunity employer these days) fellow humans?
Sergeant Norman Ellison was still turning these questions over in his mind when he opened the front door of the Greensox headquarters and stepped into the glare of camera lights and flashbulbs.
The parking lot was filled with the media. Reporters, television crews, sound men, location vans, snaking cables, newspaper photographers - and their staffs - were all crowded together just in front of the door.
And they had all, it seemed, been waiting for Sergeant Norman Ellison.
"Sergeant Ellison," the nearest reporter asked, while a television camera zoomed in on his face, "Is it true that a Greensox shoelace was used in the strangulation deaths of Edward Pitchur two weeks ago and Emily Ketchem tonight?"
Then with their pencils posed and the tape in their cameras whirring away - the press waited for his reply.
Three weeks and two additional murders later (Arturo Firstenberg, and Maria Segundo), as Sergeant Norman Ellison drove back to the Greensox headquarters for what seemed his umpteenth visit, he was still no closer to finding the killer. In fact, he was no closer to finding even a motive for the killings - than he had been the day of Emily Ketchem's death.
As a result, the media were having a field day. Newspapers and television news broadcasts were playing up the "Greensox Shoelace Killer" for all it was worth.
Every time anyone associated with the investigation or the team stepped out the door, they were besieged by reporters asking for a comment on each new development - or lack there of.
Tracy and Frawley always refused to comment. But many of the team members, especially Dukenfield and Sydney knowing any publicity might translate to future television commercials and product endorsements, were only too glad to provide fodder for the evening news. Even Durant Jems had gotten into the act; unable to explain how the killer could have obtained access to the new shoelaces, he had blurted before one million viewers, "It's a mystery to me. It's a situation that calls for a Sherlock Holmes."
Ellison had grinned, but he had known what a bonanza that statement would be for the press. And sure enough, the night's news had led off with: "Does the Bay City Police Force Need Sherlock Holmes?"
Meanwhile, police investigators had checked deep into the lives of every member, past or present, of the Greensox management, team and staff. Fired and disgruntled employees received an especially heavy going over. Police computer experts had even combed through the records of everyone who had ever bought a Greensox season ticket.
But not a single lead connected anyone involved with the Greensox in anyway with any of the four murder victims: Ed Pitchur, Emily Ketchem, Arturo Firstenberg, and Maria Segundo. In fact, Sergeant Ellison thought, not a single thing seemed to connect the victims with each other.
The only thing their investigation had turned up was the fact that the two most recent murders had been committed with the new shoelaces - and that the murderer always struck during home games.
Attendance at Greensox home games had risen astronomically once this news got out.
Ellison felt he was up against a stone wall, with the media howling at his heels, the mayor leaning on the chief of police, the chief leaning on the captain and the captain leaning on him.
Ellison knew that if he didn't crack the case soon, he could look forward to spending the rest of his career with the police force assigned to a dreary desk job in some remote and unimportant precinct.
He turned his car into the Greensox parking lot.
As he was locking his car, Ellison saw Kate Tracy getting out of her limo by the building entrance.
She waited for him to join her.
"They've been treating you badly in the press, haven't they?" she said in her New England drawl.
"It could be worse," Ellison grinned.
"Are you coming here to announce you've found the killer?" she asked.
"I wish," he said ruefully. "It's just another fact finding trip."
"Well," she grimaced philosophically, "your loss had been our gain. Attendance is very much up, I'm afraid."
"I heard," Ellison answered. "Well, at least it's good for my favorite team."
Fred Frawley and Durant Jems were talking at the far end of the hall by Tracy's office as Ellison and the team owner entered the building.
Jems threw up his hands and walked off, shaking his head. Frawley, chewing angrily on his cigar, turned to the club owner. "What's this I hear about you finally reaching a decision without notifying-"
The short, stocky manager suddenly noticed Ellison's presence.
"Uh, hello, Sergeant," he said nervously. "Look, this is a private conversation, do you mind if we go into Ms. Tracy's office."
"I understand," Ellison answered. "I just want to eliminate some possibilities."
The first person Sergeant Ellison ran into was the catcher, Claude Dukenfield. The Duke was in uniform, twirling a pair of bats around his shoulders to limber up.
"Ah, Sergeant," the catcher said in his nasal twang, "back amongst us again I see. Does this mean a speedy conclusion to the case? Or have you merely favored us with your presence in a search for further clues?"
"Neither," Ellison responded. "I'm just trying to eliminate some possibilities."
"I believe you sing that siren song quite often, Sergeant."
Ellison shrugged. "It's what police work is all about."
Hey, Duke!" the shout came from down the corridor. "Wait up."
Porter Sydney came hurrying up, a broad smile on his face. "Put 'er there, bro'," the pitcher said, sticking out his hand to be slapped.
Dukenfield, slapped his hand and grinned back.
"Wait a minute, Ellison said, I thought you were suppose to be enemies."
"A mere ruse, a minor hoax perpetrated in a good cause - namely our bank accounts," the catcher beamed.
"Let me be the first to announce, Sergeant," Sydney said. "We have just signed a six million dollar contract to star in a series of commercials for a popular underarm deodorant - as a result of what my good friend here calls 'our little ruse.'"
"We will appear as the mortal enemies public has come to expect," Dukenfield explained. "We argue over everything - including which of our employer's deodorants is best the 'long lasting'-"
"-or the 'super strength'," Porter finished, laughing. "We got the idea from those two tennis players, King and what's his name. Look at all the publicity and money they earned from their feud."
And the two men went off laughing down the hall.
Inside the Greensox locker room, Ellison discovered Stew James, the shortstop, in earnest conversation with Durant Jems.
James turned to face him, still placidly chewing gum. "Heard the big news yet, Sergeant?"
The equipment manager, turned his pale water eyes on Ellison, too.
...
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