Killing the Curse

“Hetzel draws skillfully on top-level reporting experience, a keen understanding of the often fragile (and sometimes twisted) human condition and his lifetime membership in the fellowship of long-suffering Cub fans.

The man, in other words, knows his stuff.

Killing the Curse truly touches ‘em all.”

—Jack Greiner, attorney, lecturer, and lifelong Reds fan

RICK ROBINSON

Authors Rick Robinson and Dennis Hetzel

WITH

“A true Cubs fan, Dennis Hetzel long ago blew by the first four stages of grief and now resides in the final stage – acceptance. Killing The Curse imagines the consequences of a deranged fan’s inability to achieve this peaceful state and does so in a gripping thriller that holds the reader’s attention like a perfect game.”

DENNIS HETZEL

—Brian Davis, sportscaster

KILLING THE CURSE

The Chicago Cubs haven’t won a World Series for more than 100 years or even played in one since 1945. Now they’re positioned to win the Series for the first time since 1908 – if only curses and bad luck don’t haunt them as usual. That’s what happens when a swarm of gnats helps the Boston Red Sox tie the Series at three games each.

No one wants the Cubs to win more than Luke Murphy, President of the United States and lifelong fan. Leading the disbelievers is Murphy’s boyhood friend, Bob Walters, a sports radio talk-show host with a beautiful daughter and a big ego who built ratings by being “the man Cub fans love to hate.”

The Cubs have someone else on their side—a brilliant, crazed fan who will do anything to make sure they win. Anything. It starts with an attack on the father of Boston’s best pitcher and grows into an escalating threat that could destroy Murphy’s career, expose childhood secrets, and kill hundreds of innocent people.

Everything comes to a head as Game Seven unfolds — a game the Cubs must win no matter what.

Dennis Hetzel with Rick Robinson

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books, Inc.

Terra Alta, WV

Killing the Curse

by Dennis Hetzel with Rick Robinson copyright ©2014 Dennis Hetzel All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Headline Books, Inc. To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.PublisherPage.com 800-570-5951 Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9780-9-38467-99-1 Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935745

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S T AT E S O F A M E R I C A

To so many long-suffering Cubs fans, especially the late Paul Hetzel, who was born in 1908 on Chicago’s West Side, less than a month after the Cubs won the World Series.

They haven’t won one since.

And to Cheryl and Linda, wonderful spouses who remain patient and amused.

“You know the law of averages says: anything will happen that can. That’s what it says. But the year the Cubs last won a National League pennant was the year we dropped the bomb on Japan.”

—Steve Goodman, A Dying Cubs Fan Last Request (1983) “Them Cubs, they aren’t gonna win no more.”

—Billy Sianis, owner of The Billy Goat Tavern (October 6, 1945)

Prologue Chicago, 1945 Leonardo “Leo” Profita paced nervously back and forth across the expensive Oriental rug that created an explosion of Asian color on the hardwood floor in front of the door to his father’s office. His olive skin and dark hair contrasted handsomely against his brown, custom-tailored suit, white shirt with French cuffs and imported silk tie – the one swimming in brick-red paisleys on a steel gray background. He took a folded handkerchief from his back pants pocket and wiped it slowly across his brow.

“Sit down, Leo,” said the short, burly man sitting in a metal chair just to the left of the office door. He used a clipper to prod away at his fingernails as he spoke. “You’re making me nervous. Your old man will be off the phone in a minute. Then you can go in and talk to him.”

“I know Sal,” Leo replied, as he timidly put the handkerchief back into his pants. He was embarrassed at the fact his father’s driver had quickly recognized how anxious he appeared. “This is just a big day for me.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sal replied as he clipped the nail on his index finger and then blew it on the floor. “Your old man’s been tellin’ everyone around the neighborhood that his boy graduated from Notre Dame and is going to own a radio station. He’s very proud of you,” Sal said, nodding, “bein’ the youngest and all.”

“Thanks, Sal,” Leo replied, as he wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs. “You’ve really been a good friend to Pop 7

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ever since Mama died. We really appreciate all you do. Today, though, I really want to make him proud of me for something more than just going to school. That’s why I’m so damned nervous.”

“You’ll be fine kid,” Sal replied. He put his nail clipper into his jacket pocket and checked his watch. “Since your mom died, all he does is talk about his boys.”

The pride that Emilio Profita had for his four children – all boys – was what made Leo so edgy. His brothers were all older and had been quite successful as professionals and businessmen in Chicago. Leo desperately wanted to have the same kind of success as his older siblings. More importantly, because he was the youngest, he sought the approval of his father. The emotional connection with his father was important to Leo. “Sally, send in my boy,” came the shout from behind the thick wooden door with the shiny brass knob.

Sal winked at Leo as he opened the door. “Go get ‘em, kid.”

A strongly built man, with thinning, slicked-back salt-andpepper hair and a weathered face, Emilio Profita came bounding from behind the desk in a custom-made, silk suit that displayed a gun-metal blue sheen. Once the door was shut, Emilio embraced his son and kissed him on both cheeks before squeezing those same cheeks between his thumbs and forefingers. Emilio was a first-generation American who spoke in a deep Italian accent, adding and dropping vowels as he spoke. “How’sa my boy?” he asked.

“Great, Pop,” Leo replied. He never talked much business with his father before this meeting and worried for days about how it might progress. He was relieved by the warm embrace.

“Thanks for doing this for me.”

“Hey, you’re doing this on your own,” Emilio said, as he made his way back to the big desk. He sat down and pulled the big leather chair on wheels up to the edge. “You’re a big-time graduate of Notre Dame. They’re the Fightin’ Irish, and we’re the fightin’ Italians. I’m just a humble father trying to help his son whenever I can.”

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Emilio Profita was hardly just a “humble father.” He was known throughout Chicago as the owner of six successful, exclusive men’s clothing stores, including a three-level flagship operation near the famous Marshall Field’s department store in the downtown Loop. He catered to Chicago’s most influential and nefarious citizens. However, many suspected the family riches had roots in what had been called the Profita “laundry business,” starting with financial work for Al Capone’s illegal endeavors during Prohibition.

“Well, all I know is that I couldn’t have done this without you,” Leo replied, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper with a short, hand-written list scribbled on it. “The lawyers are going to file the final papers today and I want your advice on the call letters I should use for the new station.” After handing the list to his father, Leo sat down into the dark maroon, wing-back leather chair and studied his father’s expression with eager anticipation.

Emilio raised his chin and struck a studious pose as he looked carefully through his reading glasses at the letters scribbled on the stationery. The old man pursed his lips and slowly exhaled, as he read the four or five different choices of call letters his son decided upon for his new AM radio station. It came as no surprise to Emilio that at the top of his son’s list was WCUB. Leo Profita spent days and days in the shadows of Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs, as he grew up. When the boy and his chums from their Italian neighborhood were not in the right-field bleachers watching a game, they were outside pitching pennies while waiting for a home-run ball to make its way onto Waveland Avenue. When the Cubs were on the road, the same boys were stationed in some neighborhood alley in their Harlem-Belmont neighborhood playing stickball, adopting the names of players in the Cubs starting lineup and playing as if the pick-up game somehow counted in the National League standings. Leo wore his blue cap with the red “C” like a badge of honor for the entire world to see.

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As Leo sat there waiting for what seemed like an eternity, he was ready to argue that use of WCUB as the new station’s call letters made good business sense. It was late summer of 1945, and the Cubs were likely headed to the World Series, an interesting distraction as World War II rolled to a still-uncertain conclusion.

Though the Cubs hadn’t done well in the most recent years, such success was a not-unheard-of event for the colorful, rowdy and winning Cubs teams Leo watched during the 1930s. It was fun to see the Cubbies winning again, even if meant fielding a roster of modest talent and playing teams riddled by losses of stars who were serving their country in the war. Leo rationalized that people would listen to a station named after the Cubs.

The elder Profita took off his glasses and placed them on the desk in front of him, pondering his son’s first major decision in his new business.

“Well, Poppo,” asked an anxious Leo Profita leaning forward in his chair. “What do you think?”

“About what?” Emilio replied with a coy smile.

“The call letters, Pop,” Leo said with hope in his voice.

“We’re going to be the owners of WCUB.” “Leo, Leo, Leo,” Emilio said in his clipped, immigrant English. “When you let your heart rule your head, you gotta hobby.” The old man shook his head. “But, you’re not in business.”

“But Pop … .”

“No buts,” said the powerful patriarch, waving his hands for emphasis. “I got a lot of friends, Leo … people who might advertise with your new station. You know … friends, on the South Side who like the White Sox.” Leo prepared for that response and quickly replied. “That’s another league, Pop. They won’t even play each other unless they end up in the World Series. It happened in 1906, and that’s not likely to ever happen again.”

Emilio got up from his chair and went to a family picture hanging on the wall. He pointed at a man in the picture, Antonio 10

Dennis Hetzel

Bonomini, Leo’s uncle. “Your mother’s brother, Antonio, used to do business with Arnold Rothstein.”

“So,” Leo replied. He tried to disregard the comment, but he knew where his father was heading. Uncle Antonio was a powerful man to be working with the likes of Rothstein. He owned several restaurants on the South Side and he hated the Cubs.

“You know what your mother’s brother thinks about your team,” Emilio responded. “If you name your new station after the Cubs, your own uncle would not listen to it. Lots of people on the South Side would turn it off. More important, people like your uncle would not spend their money with W-C-U-B.” Emilio smiled gently at his son. “Pick another name.”

When the old man mentioned Arnold Rothstein, the gangster who bribed key White Sox players such as “Shoeless Joe” Jackson to throw the 1919 World Series, Leo knew he was sunk. Leo was too young to know for sure, but he recalled his uncle saying that Rothstein used to visit regularly before he was murdered in 1928 over a huge gambling debt. Leo realized instantly he could argue for the rest of the day and not change his father’s mind. Leo grimaced, reached across the stately desk and gently grabbed the list from his father. He pondered the other call letters, pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and circled WCO before passing it back to Emilio.

“How about WCO, Pop?” Leo asked, looking up from the list. “You know, CO for Chicago. It’s a three-letter name that’ll be easy for people to remember.

“The area around the city is gonna grow and grow,” Leo continued, rapidly warming up to the promotional possibilities those call letters presented. “These soldiers, like our cousin Vin, will come home from the war and start families. There ain’t enough room in Chicago for everyone, not even in Oak Park or Evanston or Cicero either. But, no matter how far out they live, they’re still gonna say they come from Chicago. In their hearts, they’ll still be part of Chicago.”

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Leo knew that his old man would like the idea, and he was right.

Emilio smiled and tapped his fountain ink pen on the stationary. He looked at his son proudly as he opened his arms wide. “Now,” he said to Leo with respect, “you have a name for a successful business.”

The advice that Emilio Profita gave to his son regarding the call letters turned out to be good business advice indeed.

And the Cubs certainly weren’t destined to revisit their winning traditions of bygone days.

A few weeks following the meeting, the Cubs lost the World Series in legendary fashion to the Detroit Tigers. It would have been their first world title since 1908. The team seemed to have the championship in its sights when a local bar owner named Billy Sianis tried to enjoy Game Five in the company of his smelly pet goat. Sianis even named his pub the “Billy Goat Tavern.” P.K. Wrigley (of Wrigley’s Gum fame and owner of the Cubs) wanted nothing to do with a goat at the game. When he and the goat were escorted from Wrigley Field, Sianis placed a curse on the team. The curse would magnify in the coming decades as the ultimate symbol of Cubs futility.

In the years that followed, Leo Profita’s radio station grew in size and importance to the Windy City. He pulled some political strings after just a few years of operation to get approval to boost the radio station’s signal beyond the inner-ring of Chicago to cover the constantly sprawling suburbs and way beyond. He was smart at sizing up on-air talent, too, changing with the times and selling lots of advertising. Revenues flowed as WCO became one of the most profitable radio stations in America.

As AM radio formats changed in the ’70s, Leo determined that WCO would become primarily a sports station. That way he could pay the bills, keep the name and retain some focus on his beloved Cubbies, who went through years of ineptness before starting to improve in the late 1960s. Then he suffered through the failed pennant run of 1969 at the hands of the hated 12

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New York Mets – a team that only existed for a few years. Still, Leo was certain the ‘69 team’s success signaled, finally, that his team’s fortunes would change in the 1970s. That did not happen. If anything, the Cubs teams of that decade set new standards for futility.

Still, Leo Profita kept hope alive as the team again improved into one that could stir realistic hope.

That made things worse.

New quests for World Series glory in 1984, 1989 and 1998 seemed constructed only to break his heart. No matter how good the Cubbies looked in a particular year, odd, jinx-like things always seemed to happen.

In late 2003, a frail and cancer-ridden Leo Profita knew he was looking at his last chance to watch his beloved team play for the world title. The Cubs were in the playoffs against the Florida Marlins – another recently created team. Adding to the insult, the team played in a sterile ballpark in Miami in front of only handfuls of bored fans.

It happened again. Fate played a cruel trick on Leo Profita’s Cubbies. The Cubs had a big lead in Game Six. They were five outs away from going to the World Series for the first time since 1945.

The historic collapse began with Steve Bartman, a passionate Cubs fan who reached out to try to grab a foul fly ball, deflecting it from the glove of left fielder Moises Alou, who yelled at the spectators and threw his glove down in disgust. The umpires refused to call an out for fan interference. Pitcher Mark Prior then walked the batter, unleashing a wild pitch on Ball Four.

Two plays later, shortstop Alex Gonzales missed a ground ball that could have ended the inning with a double play, preserving the Cubs’ lead. Instead, the Marlins scored eight runs in the inning. Florida won that game and overcame another deficit one night later against Kerry Wood, normally an outstanding pitcher, to win the critical Game Seven. The Marlins then defeated the New York Yankees in the World Series.

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A few days after the Bartman incident, Leo sat in his office, watching the replay of the infamous sequence over and over again. “Damn Billy Sianis and his fuckin’ goat,” he muttered.

“I’m done. I’m fucking done.” Profita picked up the intercom on his telephone and called for his secretary.

The tall, attractive blonde walked into the office. “Yes, Mr. Profita?” she asked.

He flipped a ten-dollar bill on the desk. “Please go down to the corner grocery store and get me a pack of Camels,” he said.

“Without the filters.”

“But Mr. Profita,” she replied. “Your cancer.”

“I know,” Leo smiled warmly at the woman for her concern.

“I think I want a cigarette today.” He didn’t like it, but the Cubs had driven him back to the vice that was taking away his life.

Leo thought for a moment about what he was doing and then got a thought that literally made him laugh out loud.

“What’s so funny?” the woman asked.

“When you get back,” Leo instructed. “Call down to the Trib and ask Bob Walters to drop by this afternoon to see me.”

“Walters?” she asked quizzically. Bob Walters was a sports reporter at the Chicago Tribune and occasional sports talk-show guest who was constantly writing columns critical of the Cubs.

All Cubs fans, including Leo Profita, hated what Walters wrote.

“You hate Bob Walters. Why do you want to meet with him?”

Leo cocked his head and smiled. “That’s easy. I’m going to offer him a job.”

14

1 Lewiston, Idaho Before Game Six of the World Series This definitely qualified as a gray, ugly October morning in Lewiston, Idaho. Cold, clammy air seemed to drip from low-hanging clouds that swirled into hints of winter bluster to come. Occasional wind gusts rattled down the narrow streets of an older, drab part of town in which the surviving businesses mingled with boarded-up storefronts and small clusters of second-floor, walk-up apartments.

Depressing weather didn’t matter to Don Van Ohmann.

Not today. He felt great, like a million bucks bundled tightly and ready to burst. He wanted to share the great way he was feeling and why he felt that way with some of the people who meant the most to him. So, he turned to his coworkers at DonRay Automotive, the specialty store he co-owned in Lewiston.

Every morning they gathered at the front counter, sipping steaming cups of morning coffee as they spent a few minutes sharing personal news of the day, commenting on some outrage in national politics and then getting around to agreeing on the day’s priorities. The group included two younger employees and Ray Scheid, his best friend for 45 years and longtime business partner.

Van Ohmann scanned the group and quickly ran his hand across the top of his short-cropped gray hair.

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“The way I feel today, I guess I compare it to when I was racing,” he began, tapping the coffee cup on the front counter for emphasis.

He leaned over the worn wooden counter of the store, wearing a grin so wide it seemed to stretch past the sides of his thin, angular face. It was a face with the kind of lines that made a man look weathered and wise instead of simply old, and people told him he had a face that combined the craggy, angular good looks of the actor Scott Glenn with the unforgettable, earto-ear grin of Dennis Quaid–when Don chose to flash his smile.

Fading color photographs of Ray and Don standing with trophies in front of various sports cars from the 1980s through the early 2000s peppered the wall next to the front entrance. A pressed-wood shelf on the wall behind the counter sagged with the weight of trophies from sports-car races, both amateur and professional, throughout the western United States. Don Van Ohmann only displayed trophies from first-place finishes for the store’s walk-in customers to see.

“There’s a name for those who don’t finish first. It’s ‘loser’,” he liked to say. But now his perspective about winning and losing felt a little different.

“In a tight race, sometimes you’d get just enough edge on the other guy going into that last lap, or even the last turn,” he explained. “A moment would come when you knew – you just knew – that you were going to win short of some sort of unpredictable disaster. You’d finish that race with a shit-eating grin. You just couldn’t help it. At that moment, that single moment, as you headed to the finish line finishing that last lap, well, you felt like you were on top of the world. How could a moment be any better than that? You worked so damn hard, and other people worked hard, too, just so you could win. I always wanted to be the best, at least for a moment here and there. But it wasn’t just me. It took people like you guys—especially my man Ray. Ray, you are my master mechanic, my crew chief and my brother.”

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Don paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“I didn’t think there was any way to top that feeling,” he continued. “But I was too young and too dumb to realize when your kids grow up, and they have success, that’s even better than any race I could ever win. I’m so damn proud of Trey I could burst. In my book, he’s a winner no matter what happens in the rest of this World Series.” ”I get it,” Ray Scheid said, then repeated himself. “I get it.

We all feel that way about Trey, Donnie. The whole town feels that way.”

For a moment, Don looked slightly embarrassed, as though this open sharing of his feelings might be a little much.

“I don’t know why, maybe because I’ve been thinking so much about Trey and his mom lately, but it just really hit me today how much this means,” Don said. “It’s better than anything I ever could have imagined when I held him the first time as a little baby. I just don’t know how else to describe it.”

“And I think Janet is out there somewhere feeling the same way,” Scheid said in the quiet, knowing voice of a trusted friend.

“You and Jan did a great job with all three of your boys.”

Only Ray could say that in front of Don Van Ohmann – bring back the memory of Janet Van Ohmann, the love of Don’s life who died of an ugly, painful cancer and made Don a widower while Trey was in high school. That was when Don stopped racing. Jan made the request when she realized she wasn’t going to be around to see her sons begin their adult lives. The boys needed at least one parent, and even though Don never had a serious accident, they both agreed racing presented too many dangers to continue, and it certainly wasn’t making them rich. Ray couldn’t deny it. Life was fragile. They lived with the evidence every day as witnesses to Jan’s painful, inevitable decline.

To acknowledge Ray’s comment about Janet, Don offered a quick nod of thanks and a tug on the button-down collar of his forest green Woolrich shirt. In the brief silence, a sharp burst of 17

Killing the Curse

wind rattled the plate-glass window of the store, and a few lateOctober pellets of hail popped against the window in staccato bursts before leaving as fast as they arrived.

“Well, yes,” Don finally said, the face-wide grin returning to his face. “Today there’s a rich Hollywood guy on a ranch near Missoula, Montana, expecting some Ferrari parts pronto.

I better get moving. He’s paying beaucoup money for a fast delivery, and that’s a four-hour drive in normal weather.”

He pulled out a parts list he just printed out. There were other bits and pieces from their extensive inventory to deliver to a partner store in Missoula, too. There was an “SS 396” nameplate for a 1969 Chevy, an array of vintage BMW 2002 pieces, a tailpipe assembly for an old Volkswagen bus and some original chrome pieces for a ’63 Porsche that required serious re-chroming by an expert.

“I need some help loading everything into the Silverado.

There’s a lot to take,” Don said. He then decided he needed to add a final thought for his uncharacteristic display of emotion.

“And thanks for listening to my little rant. It means more than you know.”

Don walked back to the small owners’ office to grab his overnight backpack and other odds and ends he might need.

He didn’t know how long he’d be gone, but he had everything planned. He’d stay overnight in Missoula at a Holiday Inn Express near the airport. If Boston won the sixth game as he hoped, the baseball World Series would go to a deciding seventh game. He’d take a plane from Missoula to Denver, and then grab a United Airlines flight from Denver to Chicago.

No father in his situation would want to miss this game.

If the Series went to Game Seven, Trey would be the starting pitcher for the Boston Red Sox against the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field, one of the most famous sports venues in the world.

Trey had been great about flying him back and forth to Boston or Chicago so he wouldn’t have to miss too much work. The auto-parts store in Lewiston was a small operation specializing 18

Dennis Hetzel

in hard-to-find parts for classic and foreign cars. Any time one person was gone, especially one of the co-owners, it meant a lot of extra work for everyone else.

Don knew what Ray said was true. Everyone in Lewiston was rooting for Trey. The publisher of the local daily newspaper even agreed to ignore his sports department budget so the paper could cover the World Series in Boston and Chicago with both a reporter and a photographer, a task that normally would be left to outside news services. After all, the paper had been covering Trey Van Ohmann since he was a Little League star. They recovered some costs by convincing a few local advertisers to sponsor the coverage and sharing stories with other Idaho media outlets in Boise, Pocatello and Twin Falls. The TV stations in town came up with their own special coverage. Every public move Trey Van Ohmann made was being chronicled for proud Idahoans.

“Jesus,” Trey said in a tone of mock ire to the hometown reporter after the fourth game of the Series. “I can’t hitch up my pants without my brothers in Lewiston seeing a picture of it back on the farm and giving me even more shit than usual. Give me a break.”

Don would have laughed at that comment if he had been standing in the Boston locker room to hear it. He and Trey were grateful Trey’s two brothers had a lot more interest in farming the family land outside Lewiston in Nez Perce County than Don or Trey ever demonstrated. Travis and Tom had naturally gravitated to their grandfather’s lessons in how to make agriculture succeed in the sometimes-harsh climate of northcentral Idaho. They had a knack for it, too, with bumper yields of wheat, barley and lentils to show for it. But, no, Trey explained more than once to national sports reporters who profiled his life, his brothers didn’t grow potatoes. Stereotypes aside, that part of Idaho was not potato country.

After about 20 minutes of loading, Don slipped his Red Sox cap onto his head and climbed into the store’s recently purchased 19

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Chevrolet Silverado pickup to start the trip to Missoula. His thoughts returned to his late wife.

“Well, Jan,” Don thought. “Maybe Ray knows something.

Maybe you’re here in your own way to root for Trey.”

Janet Van Ohmann had been gone for 10 years now, but the dull ache of loss still lingered. He didn’t brood about the ache, but it was there just the same. He dated or hung out with a few female friends who provided good company and satisfied mutual needs. Still, he hadn’t met another woman who came even close to the chemistry he had with Jan. He knew on this day her smile would be as wide as his, and her eyes would have the sparkle only a proud mother would have.

The truck already was loaded for the drive with the parts carefully placed and secured under the shell cap that went over the pickup bed. The four-wheel-drive truck was outfitted to manage an Idaho winter, complete with fog lights and a sturdy grille guard protecting the truck’s nose. The pickup was selected in part because it was painted one of the primary colors of Trey’s Red Sox – a deep, metallic midnight navy blue that was so dark it seemed black at times. Red lettering with white trim ran along each side that said “Don-Ray Automotive / Specialists in Collector Parts / www.donrayparts.com.” A stickon Red Sox logo showing two overlapping, red stockings with white highlights occupied the corner of the sliding window in the rear of the cab, and a bright silver Boston Red Sox license plate holder around the Idaho plate completed the look.

In a few minutes, Don had the pickup pointed east on U.S. Highway 12, which meandered along streams and through passes for 170 miles from the western edge of Idaho to the Montana state line and then northeast into Missoula. On his first trip to Chicago, Don was surprised to see U.S. Highway 12 went through that city, too, on the way to the final leg of its 2,500-mile journey from Grays Harbor, Washington, on the Pacific Ocean to downtown Detroit.

Though he had been retired from racing for many years, he still enjoyed driving. The inside of a vehicle was a place where 20

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Don felt in control, safe and secure. He kept things organized and usually had the cab well-stocked with books on tape from the local library if he got bored with satellite radio or the music from his iPod. Safety and security were better than ever, too. The fourwheel-drive unit in the rugged truck could get you out of all but the worst scrapes in remote Idaho forests. He had his cell phone and, if that failed, the OnStar unit that came with all General Motors vehicles would respond either by his command or automatically if something really bad happened, like an airbag deploying. He drove fast but not too fast, testing his reflexes from time to time to see how much erosion in skill he could detect now that years past middle age were adding up.

He was in a mood to enjoy some tunes just now. The Bluetooth radio wirelessly connected with his iTunes account, and he ordered up some Dwight Yoakam to get a taste of some blues-tinged, rockabilly country music.

“Little sister, don’t you kiss me once or twice, tell me it’s nice and then you run,” he sang along to Yoakam’s cover of a classic Elvis Presley tune.

As Don approached the small town of Kamiah, it was time for a stretch break, and he needed food and fuel. He found his favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant among several along Highway 12 and quickly enjoyed some genuine flautas de pollo – tortillas rolled around spicy chicken and then fried.

The hot sauce the elderly Mexican proprietor handed to him tasted fresh and homemade. “Muy bueno, very good,” he said as he asked for more sauce and some extra tortillas to dip. Life was good. There was even a break in the clouds to provide a hint of sunlight.

Soon he was heading northeast, closing the distance to the Montana state line and then Missoula. He switched to satellite radio to see if ESPN Radio was talking about Trey, but the upcoming Game Six of the Series dominated the discussion, and Trey wouldn’t be pitching unless it went to a Game Seven.

For that to happen, the Red Sox had to win.

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After a few minutes of listening to sports talk, he switched to a book on tape, a political thriller by Vince Flynn, his favorite author, as he still hummed the chorus to “Little Sister.”

For miles and miles, he drove alongside the Lochsa River, just to his right, as he got closer to the state line and the Lolo Pass, a mountain pass above 5,000 feet in the Bitterroot Range.

Lewis and Clark passed this way during the famous expedition that started with President Thomas Jefferson and ended at the Pacific Ocean. U.S. 12 really hugged tight to the river in spots, and Don was old enough to remember his own father’s excitement when the national road was finally completed in the 1960s – not as an interstate but two lanes of pavement cutting through the Bitterroots.

Seeing the Lochsa brought back a lot of memories. It was a wild, crazy piece of water at some times of the year, and he and the boys enjoyed great times on whitewater raft trips when they were younger. Janet wasn’t much of an outdoors person, but she loved seeing “all my boys” have fun.

He was to the south of unincorporated Powell Junction when, oddly, it seemed as though the truck was speeding up and slowing down on its own, as though it were testing itself.

“What the hell?” he said out loud. He looked down at the odometer and noted the truck had 6,231 miles. It was practically new. “No excuse for there to be a problem,” he muttered.

Don knew it was unlikely he could pop the hood and diagnose anything on a modern vehicle through the powers of simple observation, but he didn’t like this. He pulled over as far as he could onto the shoulder and took a look. Everything seemed okay. His mechanical skills were no match for his partner’s, so he grabbed out his cell phone. The signal was at one bar, but he hit the number for Ray on his speed dial, and it went through.

“Hey, partner, what’s up,” Ray answered, obviously seeing the call was from Don. His voice was crackling, but conversation was possible.

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“The truck acts like it’s speeding up and slowing down on its own. Never felt anything quite like it,” Don said. “I pulled over to the shoulder somewhere east of Kamiah.”

“Is it running okay? Well, obviously it isn’t, but I mean, can you drive it?” Ray asked.

“Yeah, seems like it, but this is no place to have weird vehicle problems,” Don replied. “What do you think it is?”

“I suppose you popped the hood already and couldn’t tell anything,” Ray said. “Not surprising.”

“Yeah, you got that right.”

“Well, like they say when you call the dealer, it’s pretty hard to diagnose without bringing it in,” Ray said. “My best advice, partner, is to check every cable connection into every circuit board you can see. It sounds electrical, something in the computer modules. These vehicles today have way more brainpower than the Apollo moon capsule and probably more that can go wrong. Give everything a tug and a push to make sure connections are solid. If you pull out a plug, give it a good shake and blow through it for dust.”

Ray paused a few seconds and then said, “Hey, I just thought of something else.”

“What’s that?” Don said.

“There should be an engine analyzer in the tool box in the truck bed,” Ray said. “Plug it in. See if it tells you anything.

Otherwise, I’m out of ideas. Since you can drive it, I’d just be careful and get ‘er checked out at the Chevy dealer in Missoula.”

“Okay, that’s like a plan,” Don said. “Unless you hear otherwise, assume I did all that, and I’m on my way.”

“You got it, partner. Be well.”

Don ended the call, staring down at the engine bay that housed the “EcoTec 3” V-8 engine. Like most modern vehicles, it seemed as though every square inch of the compartment was crammed full of the engine itself, housings, hoses, circuit boards, plugs, belts and numerous accessories. As Ray suggested, he carefully checked the cables going into each electrical box and 23

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circuit board he could find, pushing them to make sure their connections were solid.

Then he retrieved the handheld mechanic’s engine analyzer from the tool box. He forgot they kept them in the three company vehicles. After all, they were an auto parts operation, and sometimes they needed to check vehicles for potential customers, though many of the old cars that interested them the most lacked computer ports. He located the connecting port under the dashboard and plugged in the analyzer. After a few seconds, the message returned that no problems had been detected.

There were a couple other code settings that indicated various activations. Don wasn’t quite sure what those meant.

He contemplated calling Ray back, but the readouts looked routine, and he was running late. He made a mental note to boot up his laptop that night and check out those readings on the website that repair shops, locksmiths and others used to interpret vehicle codes.

With a shrug, he got back in the truck, clicked his seat belt shut as always and resumed the trip to Missoula. He liked chilly air as a way to stay awake and alert on long drives, and it reminded him of his race-driver days, so he pushed the power window switch to lower the driver’s side window about halfway. The cold, bracing air would feel good for a few miles.

About two minutes later, as Don neared a particularly sharp turn close to the rushing river, the steering wheel suddenly locked, and the car accelerated simultaneously.

Don gripped the wheel and pumped the brakes as hard as he could, but he seemed to have no control. His eyes opened wide as he stared at the roaring water of the Lochsa River. He reached down to turn off the ignition, but it was too late. The Silverado had too much speed and momentum. The truck headed straight at a guardrail, crashed through it and went into the river, nose down, at more than 70 miles per hour.

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Don already was leaning forward, desperately fiddling with the ignition key to try to turn off the engine at the time of the first collision. His head snapped forward with a sharp jerk into the windshield as the air bag exploded into his chest.

As in most accidents, each second that passed seemed like an hour. Everything was in slow motion. He could tell he was losing consciousness as he watched events unfold to a tragic conclusion.

As the truck rolled over onto the driver’s side door in the river, Don knew he should loosen his seat belt and try to get a door open before clammy, cold water began pouring in through the lowered, driver’s side window. But his body no longer seemed to respond to mental commands.

His last thoughts on Earth came in lightning-like bursts about friends and family. He hoped Ray wouldn’t blame himself for giving bad advice to keep driving, but he knew Ray would.

He was sad he wouldn’t know how the World Series turned out. He prayed the boys would be okay. He found peace in the knowledge they were good kids, and he and Janet had done their best. Especially Janet.

Maybe, just maybe, he would see her again.

25

2 Streamwood, Illinois During Game Six of the World Series Tommy Czerski could not sit still as he stomped around the basement of his Streamwood home – one of those cookie-cutter suburban houses that lured thousands of blue-collar families from urban neighborhoods during the late 1950s. Moving to Streamwood had been a big deal. He still remembered. No one on either side of his family ever actually owned a home until then. It was the American dream, and a dream lived away from the changing landscape of the ethnic Polish neighborhood in Chicago where his grandparents settled.

Decades later, the dream lost its luster; the gleam tarnished dull by bad luck, bad choices and bad karma. Tommy couldn’t be sure which type of “bad” had the biggest impact. He was forced to move back to Streamwood with his aging parents after his wife left him. Now, with his parents deceased, the house was his – although the “short sale” foreclosure sign in the front yard suggested it might not be that way for long.

“Not that it matters,” Tommy thought to himself. “There are so many blank ‘For Sale’ signs on this street that my house has become just as anonymous as people think I am.”

Tommy mulled this over as he listened to the sixth game of Major League Baseball’s World Series on the radio with 26

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the broadcast television picture showing on the 16-inch screen of his laptop computer. He liked the radio announcers better anyway. They were fairer, he thought, to his beloved Chicago Cubs.

A tall man even his estranged family would characterize as gaunt, Tommy tried to ignore the sign in front of his house as just one more symbol of decline in the 50-year-old, suburban subdivision. He had dark, sunken eyes that formed a contrast to his thinning, curly hair. Tommy Czerski was the nameless, shy kid in any high school graduating class; the one whom the popular kids struggled to remember at their ten-year and twenty-year reunions.

“Say, isn’t that Tommy Something? What was his last name again .. Oh, yeah, Sure-ski,” they would say. “We called him Ichabod ‘cuz he was so damn tall and skinny, like Ichabod Crane.”

Game Six of the World Series was turning out to be too much for a true-blue Cubs fan like Tommy to handle. He taptap-tapped his pencil like a drumstick on his leg while his heart pumped like a horse heading down the home stretch at Arlington Park. Beads of sweat trickled off his unshaven upper lip onto the papers on his draftsman table. His pullover t-shirt hung damply from his bony frame. It was a knockoff he purchased from a vendor a block or two away from Wrigley Field years earlier, designed to look like a Cubs uniform top. The shirt had the name “SOSA” written across the shoulders in mediumblue capital letters, but the sweat on Tommy’s back hunched it together and made it read more like “SOS.” Tommy was seething at the play of the Cubbies. He silently wished he had not pawned his big-screen television set, though perhaps it would have been even more annoying to see what was happening on a 60-inch, diagonal screen in the privacy of his basement. He liked to watch the Cubs at a local tavern or even at a pub near Wrigley Field, but he knew himself well enough to know this was too intense to show himself in public.

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He probably had enough cash flow now to get a cheap television. But televisions were attention hogs, and he had projects to complete. Plus, he thought, a television would just tempt him to figure out a way to steal some neighbor’s cable – the same way he was stealing the electricity from old Mrs. Hasenberg next door and WiFi from the O’Neills two doors down. He especially needed juice for his laptop, which was the one possession he absolutely could not do without. With those needs addressed, his under-the-table income and his worker’s comp checks paid for gas, beer and other essentials. Some new friends provided all he needed for his electronic projects.

And he figured the foreclosure process could take months and months to play out.

Exhausted at the mental effort he was putting into the game, Tommy walked over to his mini-refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice in hopes of an energy burst.

Replenished, Tommy walked to the other end of the basement, which was finished only in the sense that it had some furniture pushed up against its cracked concrete walls. Boxes stood in one corner, overflowing with the remaining leftovers of his parents’ lives that he could not hock or sell on eBay. On the opposite corner from those boxes was what Tommy’s ex-wife labeled the “Cubs Shrine.” Three tall, pressed-wood shelving units were filled were filled with books and magazines about Chicago’s “lovable losers.” Tommy memorialized his and his father’s favorite players - Ron Santo, Fergie Jenkins, Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, Ryne Sandberg, Bruce Sutter, Gary “The Sarge” Mathews and more obscure ex-Cubs such as Jim Hickman. Their photos hung around the room along with various game-day giveaway posters.

Tommy picked up a tattered, blue Chicago Cubs recliner at a garage sale. It had a red-and-white Cubs logo sewn poorly into the fake blue leather in the middle of the headrest. He drank from a Cubs beer mug and even had a Cubs toilet seat in the small basement bathroom. The twin mattress lying on the floor was covered with unwashed Cubs sheets and a Cubs comforter.

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Sitting down at an old military surplus desk filled on one side with Cubs magnets and bumper stickers, Tommy went to his laptop and made the ESPN.com account of the game smaller as the inning came to an end, thinking about how easy it had been to figure out his neighbor’s WiFi password “ONEILLHOME” and then hack into the weakly protected network. The neighbors never noticed small ATM transactions and Amazon.com purchases that showed up on their credit and debit card statements over many months.

He pulled up one of his proudest accomplishments: an Excel spreadsheet of calculations measuring past performances of Cubs players and how the team reacted to various game situations. If the spreadsheet existed in paper form, it would have been dog-eared and almost unreadable from frequent handling.

He was constantly finagling with the complex formulas so he could assess how the Cubs players were performing to expectations and whether the team’s manager was making the smartest moves. A quick glance told him all he needed to know.

“Holy shit, Surrey,” Tommy said, referring to the Cubs’ often-controversial manager. “Get Rojas up in the bullpen.

Now.” Tommy almost shouted at the radio as he ran his finger down the computer screen. The play-by-play announcer told his listeners Robbie Hudson was up in the pen instead. Tommy groaned. “I couldn’t watch this fuckin’ train wreck on a big screen,” he said out loud as he gritted his teeth.

Slapping both hands repeatedly on the top of his head, Tommy tried to concentrate. He tried to put the game aside for a moment and contemplate the complex plans laying on the drafting table. Still, the more he tried to concentrate on the stacks of blueprints and printed-out calculations, the more he knew he was kidding himself about not paying attention to the game. He couldn’t help himself. Despite the importance of the work in front of him, Tommy’s spirits soared as the Cubs mounted an improbable rally to tie the score at 8-8.

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Unfortunately, Game Six didn’t have a happy ending, except for Boston Red Sox fans. It ended in another crazy, only-couldhappen-to-the-Cubs loss. A Charley Sexton song, “Ugly All Day,” kept rattling through his head. It started like this: This wasn’t a good day, darling I have been ugly all day I can’t seem to get past it Don’t know how long it’s gonna last...

“I’ll say it’s ugly,” he thought, since the Red Sox of all teams were one game from a World Series championship now.

Every Cubs fan was jealous of Boston, which faced its own curse for decades, legendarily tied to the sale that sent Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees in 1918 after Boston won the World Series. The irony was rich: The Red Sox won the 1918 Series in six games against none other than the Cubs. Fans sometimes forgot the legendary Ruth started his career as an outstanding pitcher. He pitched and won the first and fourth games of that Series. Many Boston fans believed trading Ruth brought a curse that took 86 years to exorcise when the team finally won the World Series again in 2004. Since then, Boston had become one of baseball’s most successful franchises. More World Series championships followed in 2007 and 2013.

Cubs fans only could dream of such a turn of events.

Enough was enough. Tonight Tommy’s attention had to remain focused on the task at hand. As much as he wanted to scream at the radio, hurl his laptop against the wall or write a script for a phone call to Bob Walters, the result of Game Six affirmed that Tommy had to remain single-minded of purpose.

After all, the future of the Cubbies might well depend upon him and him alone.

30

3 Chicago Morning after Game Six of the World Series Bob Walters sniffed the air in the vicinity of an empty can of milk chocolate Slim-Fast before he picked it up off the kitchen table and tossed it in the general direction of a small wastebasket next to the sink.

“For the win! At the buzzer!” Walters exclaimed before making a noise that was a pathetic imitation of a game-ending stadium horn. The Slim-Fast container banked off a lower cabinet, hit the edge of the trash can and bounced onto the floor with a noisy clang. A small amount of light-brown liquid seeped out onto the kitchen floor tiles.

“Damn,” Walters mumbled as he walked over and picked the can up off the ground. His knee hurt, and he grimaced as he bent over. Walters’ knee always seemed to hurt when looming cold fronts started offering hints of rain.

After gently depositing the Slim-Fast can into the waste basket and wiping up the residue of his missed shot, Walters sat down at the kitchen table to read the morning sports news. As was his custom, he started the process with the physical copy of the Chicago Sun-Times that plopped on his driveway every morning. He liked their sports section better than the coverage

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of the Tribune. That was even his dirty little secret when he worked at the Trib.

He immediately flipped the tabloid-sized newspaper over to the back page, where the sports section started. Walters was no techno-dinosaur. He understood and liked using the new technology. Still, as an old newspaper guy, Walters enjoyed the feel of handling newsprint and ink for a few minutes each day, especially because the station was paying for his subscription.

Meanwhile, he had to admit, the Web was God’s gift to radio talk-show hosts and their never-ending quest for fresh material.

After his initial cruise through the Sun-Times, he grabbed his iPad and quickly scanned through a dozen blogs related to Chicago sports and Major League Baseball. Then he tapped the link from his “favorites” list to the main sports page of ChicagoTribune.com. The smell of fresh coffee brewing was slowly overcoming the processed, chemical smell of the SlimFast, which he consumed three days after its expiration date.

Walter’s frown turned into a growing smile as he viewed the headline on the website’s lead story. It was amazing what a single headline could do to Walter’s emotions on the morning after a big game.

Walters pretty much knew the details of the underlying column. He watched the game unfold as best he could at Wrigley Field from what everyone dubbed the “exile corner” of the press box. Management said there simply were too many requests for credentials from “working journalists,” which didn’t include talk-show hosts. Several other radio hosts had better seats. No doubt the Cubs were sending him a message. He doubted it was a coincidence, especially when several colleagues stuck a sign that said “Bad Boy” on the metal, folding chair.

He read the article with great intensity. Chuck Holtzman’s columns often provided good ideas he could utilize on his show.

Reading such stories over a fresh cup of coffee was how Bob Walters liked to start his day.

Holtzman’s piece was a home run for Walters in every way.

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The curse returns as gnat attack brings Series tie

By Chuck Holtzman Chicago Tribune CHICAGO – Do you believe in curses?

For Chicago Cubs fans, it’s that time again.

Superstitious Chicago Cubs fans still claim the Cubs were jinxed in the 1945 World Series by a goat.

They had more ammunition in 2003 when the Cubs were a few outs away from going to the World Series for the first time since ’45. God, fate or happenstance lured a foul ball into the grasp of fan Steve Bartman, whose reach from the left field stands arguably prevented an out and opened the gates to a classic Cubs collapse.

This year, some claimed there was no way the Cubs could beat the Boston Red Sox, a team that has overcome its own bad karma and found great success.

It was the most improbable of match-ups; between two of baseball’s most iconic franchises; between the stilljinxed and once-jinxed.

And now we have the Night of the Gnat.

Poised to win their first World Series since 1908 -– a time so long ago it was the year Henry Ford produced the first Model T car—the Cubs expected to finally shed the curse Saturday night against the Red Sox in Wrigley Field.

But, after a promising start, that didn’t happen in a game that ended under bizarre circumstances with Boston winning 10-9. The Red Sox tied the Series at three games each with the deciding Game Seven set for tonight in Chicago, weather permitting.

Walters had a habit of tapping his foot on the ground as he read news stories. As a general rule, the toe tapping started slowly and then got faster when he saw opportunities for radio banter. The more his mind seemed to wind up from the 33

Killing the Curse

possibilities, the more his foot-tempo moved from slow blues to heavy metal. As Walters continued to read this article, his foot bounced rapidly on the floor. There were so many story lines in this one article it might fill up his entire show for the day.

Walters got up and carried his iPad to the kitchen counter.

He stopped reading and poured a second cup of coffee before he pushed on.

Just before the game, Red Sox pitching ace Trey Van Ohmann left the team after learning his father was killed in a traffic accident in his home state of Idaho.

Walters made a mental note to click on the hot link to the related story; then he kept reading.

It’s not known if Van Ohmann will return to the team to pitch the final game. Meanwhile, Red Sox manager Frank Washington surprised everyone but himself by sending 41-year-old pitcher Bruce Dixon to the mound.

The gamble didn’t work as both starting pitchers departed early.

In the top of the ninth with one out and the score tied 8-8, the Red Sox fashioned a two-run rally after Cubs reliever Robbie Hudson walked the first two batters and then was called for a balk that moved the runners to second and third. The Cubs hotly disputed the ruling, but Umpire Mike Shumate maintained that Hudson was in his windup when he faked a throw to second base.

Both Hudson and Cubs Manager Mike Surrey were ejected for arguing the call. The next batter, Jack Bruce Greene, laid down a surprise squeeze bunt and threw his bat down in disgust as he headed to first base. Greene saw that he bunted too hard, and the ball was moving quickly toward third baseman Paul Domaschko.

Domaschko, usually a sure-handed fielder, was distracted momentarily by a gnat swarm.

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Yes, a gnat swarm.

He failed to get his glove all the way down. The ball squirted past him and two runs scored.

In the bottom of the ninth for the Cubs, Darrin Cain powered a solo home run into the right-field bleachers, narrowing the Boston lead to one. Then Domaschko came to bat with a chance to redeem his error as thousands of fans stood and screamed in Wrigley Field.

However, Boston catcher Randy Petty fell into the stands next to the Chicago dugout as he caught a skyhigh foul ball to end the game.

Walters then skimmed through several paragraphs of predictable player quotes before getting to the story’s final paragraphs.

In the winning clubhouse, the Red Sox players acted loose and confident with the pivotal seventh game looming.

On the other side of the field, the Cubs had to wonder whether “Gnat Night” would follow the goat, Steve Bartman and other incidents to become the latest chapter in the Cubs’ never-ending saga of bizarre breaks and big collapses.

It’s enough to make you believe in curses.

“Gnats,” Walters mumbled to himself, still staring at his iPad as he sipped gingerly on his steaming hot coffee and finished reading the story. “Un-fucking-believable – Goddamned gnats.”

Walters thought long and hard about the implications of the story before saying in a practiced, on-air radio voice, “The Chicago Cubs have lost a World Series game because of gnats.”

Walters glanced up and peered to the heavens through the skylight in his condo. Overcome with joy at this gift-wrapped result, he acted as if he were communing with a higher power.

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“Sweet Jesus, I don’t know what the hell I did right,” he said aloud, then shifted into a Hell-Fire-and-Damnation preacher voice, dropping down an octave and adding a Southern drawl for vocal syrup. “Maybe it’s the power of grace,” Walters declared. “My sins are forgiven. Thank you, God. Thank you, Jesus. We will have F-U-N at our live show today.”

In Walters’ mind, the call-and-response of a congregation erupted at that point, nearly drowning out organ swirls that echoed back and forth with the power of Gospel and blues.

“Praise the Lord,” the imaginary congregation shouted back.

“Yes, dear friends,” Walters shouted, raising his hands with palms pointed up toward the sky. “Praise Him indeed. It’ll send my ratings in one direction – the Die-Rection of Greater Success.”

“Right on,” yelled one enraptured, imaginary congregant.

Right on, indeed, Walters thought, abruptly ending his imaginary, majestic moment at the Celebrity Pulpit of Fame and Fortune.

“And for a while last night, I thought this would be a crappy day,” he said smiling.

Walters walked to the table by his front door and grabbed his car keys. He snatched his Brooks Brothers navy blue sport coat and long leather overcoat from the hook on the wall. Then he headed out the door to make the drive to WCO with the knowledge this was not going to be just another day of sports radio.

After pulling out of his garage and onto his quiet side street, Walters merged his jet-black Lexus onto the main drag for a 20-minute crawl to the entrance ramp on the expressway.

As Walters started up the lane, he looked up at an electronic billboard with a stadium-like video board changing its message every twenty seconds or so. Walters winced when his own likeness popped up on the billboard.

Drivers moving slowly past the billboard did not see the harsh makeover job the ad agency had done to the image of 36

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Bob Walters – “Virtual Walters” or “Avatar Bob” were his nicknames for it.

When the radio station planned the ad campaign, Walters wanted to look the way any middle-aged man would wish to look. But the ad agency thought that sharpened reality was “better for the brand” than a software-enhanced Walters with one less chin, fewer creases and thickened hair. The gag in the billboard illustration was that Walters was surrounded by a bunch of midget-sized people in Cubs uniforms pointing their fingers at him. Because it was an electronic billboard, it was easy for the station’s marketing people to order quick changes to capture the latest events: BOB WALTERS – THE MAN CUBS FANS LOVE TO HATE! 2:00 until 6:00 pm Weekdays And Every Day Throughout The Series Will The Curse Continue As Game Seven Looms?

WCO – Chicagoland Sports Radio – 740 AM “The midgets are lame,” Walters mumbled as he pulled onto the Eisenhower Expressway – Chicago’s only freeway named after a Republican – and looked again at the billboard advertising his afternoon drive-time sports radio show. As the heavy traffic transformed Walters’ good mood into something darker, he groaned as he gazed back down at the road. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Walters began to maneuver to make the short drive to the studio of WCO as quickly as possible, thinking about ways he could work the gnats into his routine.

“This could be the best day yet for the man Cubs fans love to hate,” Walters stated out loud to no one but himself.

He based most of his career on being surly and curt. His column writing for the Chicago Tribune focused on a neverending stream of snarky comments critical of everything in the Cubs organization from the top management. He spared no one, famously in an article in which he bashed the grounds crew for improperly maintaining the iconic ivy vines that covered 37

Killing the Curse

Wrigley’s outfield walls. He prided himself at getting more hate mail at the Trib than the political columnist and the movie critic combined.

When Chicago’s Profita family lured him from the Trib for their afternoon drive-time radio show, he brought that same, venom-laced attitude to the air with the raspy voice of a sage sports reporter. He built a listenership via his vast knowledge of sports and his ability to turn on-air arguments into exciting radio. His sense of humor played well to his fans and prompted the haters to listen harder and call more often.

There were times, however, when Walters’ high ratings came with a cost. At his sports bar appearance the night before, someone scribbled pro-Cubs slogans and profanity all over his car in red Sharpie. A large penis and hairy testicles were drawn on the passenger side door along with the words, “Bob Walters is a big dick.” Walters didn’t notice the obscenity until he arrived at home.

As Walters pulled off the Eisenhower and up to a stoplight about a block from the studio, there was another electronic billboard staring at him. A young boy in the back seat of a car in the next lane looked at the billboard and then at Walters. The boy grinned wide enough to show Walters his missing middle tooth and waved excitedly.

Walters forced a sour grin and returned the wave with a half-hearted flip of his hand.

The boy’s mother looked at the scribbling on Walter’s Lexus and quickly instructed her son to look away.

Walters rolled his eyes at the billboard as the light turned green. “I swear my forehead is not that large,” he said. “The shine off my head makes me look like I need zippers on my T-shirts to get them over that giant noggin.”

His tendencies toward depression and anxiety at odd times were secrets between him and his shrink. Chicago traffic was not exactly what Walters needed to start his day. As he pulled into the parking lot next to the station, he took a few cleansing 38

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breaths, but his more-on-than-off smoking habit caused him to cough.

Ironically, the cough reminded him it was a good time for his first cigarette of the day. After pulling into his parking space, he reached in his coat pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights and lit one. He took a deep pull and enjoyed the nicotine rush. Smoking in your own car was one of the few places it still was legal in Chicago, and he was sure the city officials were working on that, too. As he stepped out of the car, some of the cigarette smoke rolled out with him.

Walters reflected on the fact that Boston’s wildly improbable victory forced the World Series to seven games. “A seventh game is good,” he mumbled to himself. “A seventh game is very good.”

Walters took a couple more quick drags before snuffing his cigarette out on the ground in the parking lot, mentally kicking himself for being so moody again. “Time to go to work,” he declared, then smiled. “It’s time to have some fun.”

39

4 Hilton Netherland Plaza, Cincinnati Morning after Game Six About 300 miles away in Cincinnati, Col. Charley Rayburn noticed the President of the United States was struggling to pay attention during the morning security briefing. “Need a break, Mr. President?” asked the President’s Chief of Staff.

President Luke Murphy’s head snapped in the direction of Rayburn. “No,” he stammered. Pausing and then showing a hint of a smile, he then asked, “Why? Do I seem like I need a break?”

Rayburn smiled sheepishly as he averted his eyes. “Do you really want me to answer that, Mr. President?”

Murphy’s dour mood broke. “No,” he replied. “I don’t think you should answer that one.”

“I didn’t think so,” Rayburn said.

“Yeah,” Murphy said as he dug the palms of his hands into his forehead. “Let’s take a break.”

“Good idea, Mr. President.” Rayburn had a knack for making the President think such thoughts were his own. “Take five, guys,” Rayburn announced. “Everybody out for a few minutes and give President Murphy some time to check the Vegas line on Game Seven.”

The staff members all smiled, but dared not laugh too loudly.

Rayburn could get away with ribbing the President about his 40

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beloved Chicago Cubbies, but others had to pick their spots.

Each excused themselves from the temporary White House that had been assembled in the suite of the old hotel.

President Luke Murphy was Chicago’s favorite son – a local politician who built a huge following from his base in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. He didn’t have the handsome qualities of a muscular athlete but rather that of a polished, self-assured guy – someone whom girls found “cute” and “deep” during the teenage romance years. His good looks only improved with the chisel of middle age. Now, some described him as a slightly shorter version of the actor Jon Hamm, who played the flashy, confident advertising executive Don Draper in the television series “Mad Men.” Murphy’s black hair had not yet succumbed to the attack of gray that seemed destined for every person who occupies the White House. A former federal prosecutor, Murphy had a vitae of victories in so many high-profile corruption cases it would make other politicians salivate. Two former Illinois governors and a Chicago City Council president were doing hard time thanks to Murphy’s efforts. With the support of Chicago’s business elite, Murphy’s rise to prominence was meteoric – Congress, Senate, Presidency.

“I have the morning press clips,” Rayburn said, putting a stack of papers in front of him. “Want to go over them?”

“Not particularly,” Murphy replied shrugging his shoulders.

It was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. “Anything in that stack I really need to know?”

Rayburn thumbed through the articles. “Chairman Engh got pulled over for driving drunk last night.”

Murphy slumped forward in his chair. Blair Engh, a Congressman from South Florida, was chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. Despite his reputation as a party animal when he was away from home, Engh cared about policy and was otherwise politically smart. What’s more, he had been a huge help to the Administration on several key economic proposals that landed in his committee.

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“That’s just pathetic,” Murphy sighed. “Sonofabitch got so loaded at last year’s White House Christmas Party that a driver for one of the Joint Chiefs had to take him home.”

“I remember it well, sir,” Rayburn replied. “He kept trying to tell one of the White House maids they weren’t watering the plants enough – after he patted both her butt cheeks. And then he poured some bad beer from one hand and some good Kentucky bourbon from another all over them. The plants I mean.”

“I told you we should have leaked the Christmas party anecdote to one of our media friends,” Murphy stated as he shook his head. “Maybe that would’ve convinced Blair to get some help. Jesus.”

Rayburn ignored the comment and pressed on. “It’ll be a question at the press briefing today. What do you want to say?”

Murphy thought for a moment. “The first lady and I are hopeful the Chairman will seek the professional help he obviously needs, and we’re there for him and his family during this difficult time,” Murphy said.

“You want to tell the White House press vultures Engh needs treatment?” Rayburn was surprised at the boldness of the suggestion. “What about the cable talkers? Your critics at MSNBC who think you’re too conservative and the ones at Fox who think you’re too liberal will wet their pants in excitement.”

“He puked in the back seat of the Joint Chief’s car,” Murphy replied. “How much of a damn warning sign did we need? The man needs help. I’ve used the bully pulpit on policy. Why can’t I use it to help a member of my own party?”

“He’ll be mad,” said Rayburn. “For all you know, he’ll claim he’s innocent, and the cop had it in for him.”

“But maybe he’ll lay off the Miller Lite,” Murphy snapped.

“Or, at least develop better taste in beer.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rayburn, making a mental note to do nothing about Congressman Engh except to bring it up again with Murphy in about an hour.

“Anything else?” Murphy asked.

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Rayburn shook his head. Murphy stood up and his eyes shifted nervously around the room, as if looking for any staff members who may have snuck back into the room. “Charley?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“What is the Vegas line on Game Seven?”

Rayburn knew the answer to the question, but did not want to deliver the news. “Red Sox by one and a half, sir. They are assuming Van Ohmann will pitch.”

“Fucking odds makers,” Murphy mumbled. “The Cubs are playing at home for Christ’s sake.”

Rayburn decided to move on. “And the Press Secretary wanted me to pass along a media request.”

Murphy turned and looked at Rayburn.

“Moose from Bob Walters’ show called and …”

Murphy winced at the mention of Scott “Moose” Skowron’s name. That name always brought back painful memories for Murphy of his one-time, grade-school nemesis who now was bound to a wheelchair by a freak childhood accident. “No,” he whispered softly, shaking his head as if to whisk the picture of Moose from his brain.

“I didn’t say what they wanted yet, sir.”

“I know what they want.” Murphy said. “But, I’m not doing Bobby’s show today.” Murphy used the name “Bobby” with the familiarity of someone with whom he shared a long history.

“You sure, sir?” Rayburn asked. “He’ll have a big audience today and he always treats you with respect – at least more than he gives most guests.”

“I’ve put up with Bobby Walters’ shit all of my life; even enjoyed it sometimes,” Murphy said. “I even stood by him after the accident that killed his daughter.” He paused in a reflective mode. “Hell, the first lady was the one who got him into rehab.”

Murphy shook his head. “I just don’t want to talk to him today. It’s too painful. I won’t be rational. Certainly not Presidential.”

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Murphy paused. As a lifelong Cubs fan, Murphy knew he was going to be angry, disgusted and distracted throughout the entire day. Still, it was Bob Walters who was asking. He owed him. He’d owe him until one of them went to the grave.

“Oh, shit. Ask me again after the speech,” he sighed.

Murphy’s speech to the National Association of Energy Suppliers was going to start in about 15 minutes in the 1930s-era Hall of Mirrors ballroom of the Hilton Netherland Plaza. The hotel was a beautiful monument to French Art Deco elegance.

Walking into the lobby was to step into an elegant time capsule of Egyptian floral designs, rare woods and German silver.

There was even a legend about a ghostly “lady in green” who wandered the halls after the death of her husband when the hotel was under construction in 1931.

The President had landed in Cincinnati the afternoon before to raise money for Ohio’s senior senator, who was in some danger of losing his bid for re-election due to a number of problems. Murphy was no fan of Sen. Eric Stewart. He thought Stewart lacked political courage and was a sexual pig to boot – “a combination of Mitt Romney’s shape-shifting with Bill Clinton’s moral compass” was how Murphy put it. But, political reality mattered more than his personal opinions. He needed Stewart’s support in the Senate. The show must go on.

Murphy had personally requested a second event in Cincinnati for the morning following Game Six. This created evening time for him and Rayburn to watch most of the game in Murphy’s spacious suite at the Netherland, complete with Chicago-style Italian beef sandwiches flown in for the occasion.

The gnats spoiled what Murphy hoped would be a private victory celebration.

As Murphy started the final preparations for his morning appearance, he reviewed the changes to his speech to what promised to be a friendly crowd. Someone inserted a dumb, cliché line about the Chicago loss. Murphy took a red pen out of his suit jacket and inked the joke out of the speech. “Let’s go,” Murphy instructed Rayburn.

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“Very good, sir,” Rayburn replied. He went to the door and grabbed the shoulder of the lead for the President’s Secret Service detail. “Let everyone know Shortstop is ready to roll.”

All presidents and their families have code names given to them by the Secret Service. Ronald Reagan was Rawhide.

Jimmy Carter was Deacon. Bill Clinton was Eagle. And, because Murphy had played a few games as a backup infielder at the small college he attended, he got the code name of Shortstop.

The first lady, well known for her influence, was called The Manager.

The agents herded Murphy and his staff through the food preparation areas and other back corridors familiar to every president and his security detail. Murphy tried to make himself focus on the task at hand as cooks, waiters and other hotel staff members applauded and smiled as he passed, awaiting the hand-wave and quick smile of Presidential acknowledgment in return. Like most people who lived at the top of the prominent person pyramid, Murphy had become skillful at appearing to pay attention to random groups of people while actually thinking about something else.

They were walking down a narrow corridor behind the Hall of Mirrors as “Ruffles and Flourishes” led into “Hail to the Chief.” Murphy adjusted his tie and looked at Rayburn and smiled. “Play ball,” he said.

“Go Cubs Go,” Rayburn smiled in return as Murphy turned and walked on stage to rousing shouts and cheers.

Murphy strode to the podium and took in the adulation.

“I understand my opponents have put a bunch of gnats in the HVAC system of this beautiful old hotel just to annoy me this morning,” he said to laughter, before going into a mock form of the kind of presidential address that emphasizes seriousness and tragedy. “Now I realize most of you are Cincinnati Reds fans,” he said, “and I realize you LOVE beating the Cubs, but I call on your National League Central Division loyalty so we can stand together against the Red Sox Threat.”

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The crowd chuckled in appreciation of the President’s humor at the expense of his favorite team. Some even offered polite applause, and a good number stifled the urge to yell “Go Reds” on behalf of their own team. Indeed, the Cubs used a late-season surge to push the Reds out of the playoffs and make Chicago fans wonder if this indeed was the year to shed the curse.

“Well, neither my opponents nor their gnats can stop the progress we are making on this economy as we strive toward energy independence,” Murphy boomed in an obvious prompt for the crowd to burst into applause. They jumped to their feet as he declared, “The people in this room are a big reason why that is happening. And I need your help to continue the progress we are making.”

As the crowd offered its loud support, Murphy contemplated a tasteless question he wished he could ask out loud in public: “Can I call the EPA and rescind the ban on any pesticide that might kill fucking gnats?”

46

5 Chicago Morning after Game Six WCO was located in a scruffy-but-interesting part of Chicago’s near West Side – one of those neighborhoods on the cusp of extremes. Walters called it an “urban margarita,” as though a planner with God-like powers tossed the good, the bad and the toxic into a blender and didn’t realize the result was a mess until he sobered up in the morning and saw what he did.

In a 1970s breakout of frenzied urban renewal, the planners leveled portions of decaying city blocks only to replace them with boring boxes and strip centers wearing mansard roofs like ugly hats. The developers and contractors made a lot of money along the way, as did the city inspectors and perhaps some of the planners. This, of course, was the Chicago way.

The few older buildings that survived were the potential gems. You just had to squint past the grime to see the flourishes underneath. Windows of all shapes and sizes were encased with flying cherubs and decorative bric-a-brac. Intricate woodwork provided testimony to care and craftsmanship of bygone days.

Stained glass still showed above and along the sides of many entrance doors. It wasn’t unusual to find such treasures and more behind walls and under drop ceilings. However, the age of those buildings showed like the lines of an old woman’s face.

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Open prostitution and drug dealing kept flaring up. Street people were all around. The big, well-connected developers weren’t ready to place big bets on the neighborhood yet, even with lucrative tax breaks and the legendary under-the-table deals that marked Chicago politics. The neighborhood teetered at a critical fork in its future road.

Walters had a love-hate relationship with the city blocks where he spent many of his waking hours. It was a fairly annoying and occasionally scary place to go to work every day, but the positive signs also caught his journalist’s eye.

A recent graffiti crackdown erased some obvious scars, and the relatively low cost of real estate combined with a convenient location to many of Chicago’s offerings started to lure some merchants and young, professional couples.

The neighborhood was a metaphor for how Walters felt about some Chicago sports fans. When their teams were losing, the fans reminded him of the crack whores who always came back to the street within a few days of any police sweep. The diehard fans knew they had a bad habit but could not seem shake it, and their feverish support enabled the team owners to shirk what Walters felt was a deep-enough commitment to onfield success. That was inevitable when fans continued to spend money on bad teams in the nation’s third-largest media market.

“Imagine going to your favorite restaurant, and only being satisfied if the meal tasted good three or four times out of every 10 visits, or if you knew you wouldn’t like more than half the items in your supermarket shopping cart,” Walters would say on the air. “You’d shop or dine somewhere else. Same thing applies here: If the stands were emptier and the ratings were down, I bet you would see the Cubs shake their curses—not to mention their butts—a lot faster.”

Then, when the locals were winning, everyone was just two or three beats too cool, jumping on the bandwagon. Walters felt that Cubs fans were the worst.

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“But I guess I shouldn’t complain too much,” he once remarked to his agent, Manfred “Manny” Stanley. “I’ve made a good living annoying the hell out of these people.”

Like the Cubs on this morning after a bad loss, the neighborhood seemed to show a particularly ugly face as it awoke from the cover of the grim, gray light of a late October morning filled with threat of a cold, chilling rain.

As Walters did a few laps around his car in the parking lot, trying to work the kink out of his bad knee that was making him limp, he glanced at the saloon on the corner across from the radio station and smiled. The KoKo Nutt was a dive with cheap, vinyl barstools and a concrete floor. It closed for only a couple of hours each day so the owners could hose the floor down, shove the overnight proceeds into a night deposit slot, spray Glade in tactical locations and prepare for the adventures of another day.

“If the neighborhood does go the other way,” Walters thought to himself, “the Nutt could become a trendy gay bar.

They could even keep the same name.”

After closing time at the KoKo Nutt – unless it was a real you-might-freeze-to-death Chicago winter night – some of the bar’s patrons with nowhere to go would wander across the street to sleep on a narrow strip of indifferent grass near the studio’s employee entrance. Walters knew most of the habitual homeless by name. He stepped gingerly over a few vials of broken syringe glass in the parking lot and spotted Luis, who was one of the regulars, dozing under a blanket of the morning Chicago Tribune.

“Damn,” thought Walters as he approached the thin man.

“The Trib used to have at least four sections. Now they’re down to just two. Bums on the street probably miss the old, fatter paper even more than the subscribers.”

That was a good line. He paused, pulled his writers notebook from his back pocket and scribbled the thought on a fresh page.

“I’ll have to use that the next time I’m really ripping their sports section,” he said.

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“Hola, Luis,” Walters said, hitching his tailored khakis up over his stomach. “Que pasa?”

The older Hispanic man stirred, opened his eyes and smiled a crooked grin at Walters. Luis had more missing teeth than the kid Walters waved at minutes earlier. “Mornin’ Meester Bob. You in early?”

“Late, Luis,” replied Walter. “I had a bad morning. You must have overslept today.”

“Damn,” Luis said, as he struggled to sit upright on the bench. “What time ees it? Did I miss the morning meal call down at the church?”

Walters looked at his watch. “Its 9:45, pal,” he said. “Looks like no runny scrambled eggs for you this morning.”

“Sheet,” Luis said angrily. He reached down and tied his shoelace. “I’m hungry.”

“Here,” Walters said, reaching into his wallet and handing Luis five bucks. “Don’t spend this on booze. Go get yourself a breakfast sandwich and some coffee.”

“Thanks, Meester Bob,” Luis replied sticking the five in his pants pocket. “I’ll keep all ‘da riffraff away from your car today.” Luis stood up and looked at the car and then back at Walters. “Sheeet. What da fuck happened, Meester Bob?” “Some dickhead left me a love note last night,” Walters replied. “I’ll be having a car service come by in an hour or so to buff all the marks off of it. Don’t run them off.”

“You can count on me, Meester Bob,” Luis replied, proudly thumping his fist on his chest.

“You ‘da man, Luis,” Walters said as he waved his goodbye.

“Remember, spend that on food.” Walters somehow doubted his admonition would go toward anything but liquid nourishment.

“Hey, Meester Bob,” shouted Luis as Walters neared the studio entrance. “You gonna rip on ‘dem Cubbies today?”

“The Series is all even at three apiece, Luis,” Walters replied, giving Luis bait for a conversation they both enjoyed in which he took the opposite of his usual view. “Hey, they just might have a chance if we get the game in tonight.”

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“No way, man.” Luis reared back his head and laughed.

“Dey gonna lose. Dey always lose.”

“Luis, I’m surprised at you. Are you giving up on the Cubs already?”

“Dey gonna lose, Meester Bob,” Luis repeated. “Don’t bother me none. I’m a White Sox fan.”

“I know, I know,” said Walters. “You like the Sox even though they took bribes and threw the Series in 1919.”

“You bet,” said the old man. “Old news. Old news. So, you go ahead and rip ‘em today, Meester Bob. You rip ‘em good.

And I’ll look after your car. Right after I get me a sammich. A breakfast sammich. Then, I’ll listen to you rip ‘em.”

“Not to worry, Luis,” Walters replied. “I’ll rip ‘em.” Walters turned and opened the door to the studio. “I’ll rip ‘em. It’s what I do.”

Walters was only weeks away from a contract expiration.

He was negotiating with management, and the World Series controversies he stirred on the radio were definitely helping his bargaining position. The overnight ratings for his afternoon drive-time talk show were higher than they had been since he accepted Leo Profita’s deathbed offer of employment more than a decade earlier.

Maybe Leo Profita was angry when he made the offer, but it was shrewd as well. Walters was a profitable celebrity over the hundreds of square miles WCO’s 50,000-watt signal penetrated.

After dark, if the atmosphere was right, you could hear WCO from western Pennsylvania to the Colorado-Nebraska line.

Streaming Internet and satellite radio now spread his message anywhere, anytime. His high salary reflected his equally high ratings.

Unfortunately, the Profita family missed out on the big money that unexpected success for the Cubs would bring. They sold the station to Audio Force Media, a new corporate radio conglomerate backed by venture capitalists, two years before the Cubs’ latest season. The deal had been heavily leveraged, 51

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and everyone knew there was no patience for results other than those that paid off sooner rather than later.

Walters stumbled on his sore knee as he walked inside the station. “Shit!” he said to no one in particular as he got on the elevator. “I need to retire and head to Florida. My knee won’t hurt as bad in the fall down there.”

Walters walked into the station lobby. The morning drivetime show was being broadcast over old, scratchy speakers that made the voices of the morning co-hosts sound fuzzy. The incessant, juvenile-sounding forced laughter of the morning team wasn’t helping his mood. He thought the two of them equaled a bad joke.

Billy Terwilliger relied on toilet humor and other sorts of cheap gags straight out of the tip sheets for radio hosts who had deficiencies in original thought. Billy didn’t even make an effort to give credit to the places where he stole material.

His sidekick, Trevor Brunson, was a former hockey star for the Chicago Blackhawks with the face of someone who had been in too many fights. He had all the personality of a hockey puck.

Brunson was a one-man parody right out of “Saturday Night Live” or the “Dodgeball” movie in which a mythical host of the “The Ocho - ESPN 8” network would say things like, “Yes, Bob, I think the team with the most points is going to win this one.”

Before he got into the elevator to the fourth-floor studio, Walters realized he had a few minutes to kill, so he headed for the lunchroom area. The station manager surprisingly made a major improvement recently by buying a single-serving Keurig coffee maker for the staff, probably figuring that well-caffeinated sales reps and on-air talent only could help the bottom line. Melanie Fox, Walters’ favorite sales rep, was in front of him, pulling out a cup of something called “Maple Donut Delight” from the Keurig machine.

Melanie’s last name was a slight contradiction of imagery.

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She wasn’t ugly by any stretch, but she was a chubby, short, 40-something mother of three who had to work extra hard to succeed precisely because she didn’t immediately make car dealers and other radio advertisers drool on sight. Melanie also was friendly, focused, professional and persistent. She was that surprisingly rare breed in the world of sales: She really knew how to sell as Walters once crystallized with the comment, “You’ve got to remember, we’re selling air for chrissakes.

Melanie, you could sell radio time to the deaf.” She also had the prime responsibility for selling the Walters show to advertisers.

They worked together all the time.

“Hey, Mel,” Walters said. “What is that goop you’re drinking?”

“You know me, Bob, I’ll try anything once,” she said, showing off a fake fluttering of her eyelashes. “At least that’s what I told the guy at Tony Singleton Buick-Cadillac last week.

He looked me up and down, laughed because we’ve known each other a long time, and he knows I’d out him to his wife if he ever copped a cheap feel. Then he bought another big ad bundle. Did you hear their new spots?”

“You’ve done it again, Mel,” Walters remarked. “I almost ran, not walked, to Tony’s to trade in my Lexus.”

“And I appreciate you plugging him on the air,” she added.

“Your lead-ins showed a lot of enthusiasm. It really helps.

Especially these days.”

Walters knew exactly what she meant. While the station’s ratings were up this year, the industry blogs were filled with rumors of a major format change from local sports talk with its expensive and hard-to-manage anchors, led by Walters.

“Do you think we’ll switch formats?” Melanie asked.

“Geez, if we go the music route, it’ll probably be for some type of generic, automated schmaltz with a hokey name like ‘contemporary country’ or ‘smooth sound for the Windy City.’

Try selling that to Tony Singleton.”

“Consider the other options,” Walters responded. “How 53

Killing the Curse

about hard-core, angry-white-man political talk shows? Or maybe they’ll go full-time Spanish. Or maybe it’ll be religious programming – we could go from Cubbies to Catholics. Hey, maybe there’s something there. To follow the Cubs or the Catholics, you need lots of faith with scant evidence of success.”

That brought a laugh from both of them. So it went in AM radio. Everyone in the industry knew AM had passed its prime, especially for music, where it seemed unlikely any innovations would come fast enough to save it from FM, Pandora, satellite radio and iPods streaming wirelessly into everyone’s car audio systems. Most music programs on both AM and FM were approved by cost-conscious corporate executives and safely selected by software designed to maximize appeal to whatever specific audience group the station was targeting. Outside of some scattered rural areas, local news had become a joke at most stations, and few outlets even bothered to offer headlines at the top of the hour any longer.

But there were a handful of AM stations around the country that still could churn out big profits by virtue of sports talk, political talk or the broadcast rights to popular sports teams.

“What were we thinking, Bob?” Melanie said. “Radio is about as brutal as it gets. We’ve all seen it. Entire staffs losing jobs over fractions of rating points.”

“I gave up a nice ride at the Trib back when newspapers lived in Fat City,” Walters responded. “I did it because I thought WCO was special. It felt like Chicago. Plus, it’s the most damn fun I’ve ever had outside the bedroom, and sometimes it even beats that.”

Walters pulled his own cup of “dark Kenyan roast” out of the Keurig and giving Melanie a mock “don’t go there” look.

“This World Series is the best opportunity you and I are going to have to show what we’ve got,” he said, arching his eyebrows.

“Or, maybe you want to sell airtime for half of what you get for my show for brain-dead goofballs like Billy and Trevor.”

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“Can’t argue with that. Go get ‘em today, Bob,” Melanie said as Walters strode out the lunchroom door. “Just make fun of the Cubs and not Cadillacs.”

Walters punched a button to lift the sluggish elevator to the fourth-floor studio. When the door opened, a cute young blonde was sitting at the reception desk. Her name was Gina, but Walters called her “Stiletto” because she always wore tall high heels.

“Good morning, Bob,” Gina said in a bright and chirpy voice as Walters stepped into the lobby.

“You, too, Stiletto,” Walters replied. “And you’re far too perky for this early in the morning. Knock it off.”

“You can be mean on the radio if you want to, Bob,” she said. “But, I know you’re just a big old teddy bear. Save the surly old man act for some listener who will believe it.”

Walters reached into his wallet and found the business card for a company that did car detailing. He sighed and then tossed the card onto Gina’s desk.

“What’s this?” asked Gina.

“A gift from one of my listeners,” Walters replied. “I need to have some love notes buffed off my car. Will you call these guys and ask them to come by this morning?”

“Again?” Gina asked. This was not the first time Walters so enflamed listeners with his anti-Cubs rants that someone damaged his property.

“And, this time bill it to the company,” Walters said. “I’m tired of paying the price of my convictions. Let the company pick up the tab on this one. They pay me for ratings and I deliver.”

“Well you gave them that,” said Gina. “Your numbers were through the roof last quarter.”

“And, you know what?” said Walters, continuing as if he never heard Gina’s comments about his ratings. “I’m right. I’m going to keep saying it: There is no way the goddamn Chicago Cubs will win this Series. They can paint a mural of Wrigley on my windshield, and I’m not going to change my mind.”

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“You’re convicted,” said Gina. “You’ve got that.”

“Or at least I should be convicted,” Walters said, laughing.

“What’s the weather report this morning?” Walters said as he squinted at a television screen on the opposite wall that was broadcasting the local weather. The volume had been turned down so the office could be filled with the chatter of the morning crew. “We gonna get the game in tonight?”

“Cold rain. It’s set in for the day,” Gina replied. “I bet they call it by airtime.”

“Damn,” Walters replied. “That means I’ll have to broadcast two nights in a row from the bar.”

“It could get ugly,” Gina said, brushing some strands of hair away from her face. “Do you want me to get you a couple of off-duty cops again to help with security?”

“Yeah,” Walters replied. “But this time make sure they aren’t Cubs fans. Hell, during the Divisional playoffs, my protection hated my guts.”

“Right,” Gina said, laughing. “Get car buffed and cops who are White Sox fans. Check and check.”

“Ha ha,” Walters said sarcastically while reaching for the pink slips of phone messages on Gina’s desk. He shuffled quickly through them. “This it?”

“Pretty much,” said Gina, “but, depending on your mood, you may or may not like this.”

“What?”

When Gina didn’t reply, Walters cocked his head, looked at her and sighed. “Tommy from Streamwood.”

“Yeah,” Gina said, grimacing. Tommy from Streamwood was a regular caller to the station and a huge Cubs fan. “He has called you five times today. I think he called a couple more times, but hung up.”

“God.” Walters shook his head in mocking disbelief. “Did you hear the shit he said on the show last week?”

“He’s a true-blue Cubs fan,” Gina said.

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“He’s a true-blue goofball,” Walters laughed. “Anyway, the stuff he said last week was really wild. So I had Jason clip it together with a little speed-up and slow-down in the voice and some other audio trickery. So now it sounds like a whole crowd of nuts. I’m going to do a Cubbies responsive reading on the air when I’m live at Eger’s today.”

“Responsive reading?” Gina asked. “Like in church?”

“Yeah. I’ll say something and then Jason will replay one of Tommy from Streamwood’s wild rants, making it sound like a whole congregation. It’ll be great.”

“Dear Lord. Thanks for warning me. He’ll be on the phones as soon as you start.”

“When he does, put him through to me. I’ll have some fun with him on the air. Maybe he’ll even show up at Eger’s.”

“Just be careful, Bob,” Gina implored. “If the game gets called early, there will be a big crowd at Eger’s and most of them will be drunk.”

Walters winked at Gina as he turned. “Hell, Stiletto, if my knee doesn’t get any better, I may just be drunk myself.”

Walters pondered the pain in his knee as he made his way to his desk. When his knee throbbed like this, it was hard to stay in a good mood. It wasn’t the physical pain. The hurting reached far deeper by reminding Walters of the traffic accident that caused his limp and killed his 11-year-old daughter, Kristen.

Kristen was the younger of two daughters between Walters and his second wife, Mickey – a union that Walters wanted to believe could have worked out if not for the crash. Shortly after their divorce, he took a chance and mentioned his theory to Mickey.

“Bob, that’s simply delusional,” Mickey stated.

Young, brash, self-absorbed and wrapped up in his burgeoning career, Walters had not been very active in Kristen’s life. That night he had been trying to make amends by taking her to a dance practice. It was nearly two decades ago, but the memories of the accident remained fresh. Memories like that never faded away.

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The drunken driving alcohol limit was a lot higher back then; otherwise the accident would’ve been followed by jail time and even bigger headlines. But he understood why Mickey felt she had to divorce him. Her anger obliterated any hope for the marriage, and guilt stalked him whenever he happened to think about it – like when his knee ached, which was a lot more often these days.

The only good thing about the tragedy was Aimee. Even Mickey would have to admit Walters made an effort to become a better father to their younger daughter. He would never win “Dad of the Year,” but he had elevated his game for Aimee.

Walters made a promise to himself he would be more involved in Aimee’s life. For the most part – in fits and starts at times – he kept the promise, and she grew up into a very self-assured and interesting young woman with her dad’s quick wit, her mom’s looks and real perceptive powers.

Walters jerked his mind back to the moment at hand, and the aching knee that was making him limp a bit to the left as he walked toward his desk for some last-minute research before that afternoon’s show.

58

6 Cincinnati Late Morning after Game Six “I like the job I have now, but if I had my life to live over again, I’d like to have ended up a sportswriter.”

—President Richard Milhous Nixon As his Chief of Staff knew it would, the weird circumstances surrounding of the Cubs’ latest collapse continued to bug the President throughout the day. After America’s Number One Cubs fan read the Chicago Tribune story, he moved to a series of stories on ESPN’s Chicago website. It seemed to Rayburn that President Murphy was spending more time this day following sports blogs than he was reading the constant flow of information that reaches the Leader of the Free World.

Colonel Charley Rayburn rose to national military prominence in the early days of the Iraq war when he was awarded a Bronze Star and a full-bird colonelship for his intelligence work in Baghdad’s Green Zone. He later focused his attention on Afghanistan. While Rayburn was quick to divert attention away from himself, his superiors credited him with foiling a terrorist plot that, if successful, would have allowed Taliban regulars to infiltrate a U.S. military unit. Rayburn’s efforts sent seven high-ranking Taliban loyalists to classified locations and probably saved hundreds of lives.

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While in Congress, Murphy served on the Select Committee on Intelligence. He met Col. Rayburn at a briefing shortly after his return from the Green Zone. The pair immediately connected.

In Murphy’s first campaign for the presidency, he often called on Rayburn for advice on issues of foreign policy and national security. Murphy trusted Rayburn’s advice implicitly. Once elected, President Murphy made Rayburn his National Security Advisor. When his first Chief of Staff stepped aside, Murphy called on Rayburn to be his closest aide.

The image played well for Murphy. Rayburn was a squaredjaw caricature of a Marine recruiting poster and a perfect Chief of Staff to a bright and sometimes-brilliant President who freely admitted he had at least a mild case of Attention Deficit Disorder. And his attention definitely was easily diverted by the box scores in the Chicago Tribune. This day, however, Rayburn was allowing the President a little slack.

Finally, apparently, President Murphy had read enough. He smacked his BlackBerry phone in disgust against the armrest of the black limo taking him from the Cincinnati hotel to his suite on Air Force One. “Gnats,” Murphy kept saying to everyone and no one in particular. “Freakin’ gnats.”

“Speech went well this morning, Mr. President,” Rayburn said to Murphy. Murphy uttered some kind of inaudible grunt as he stared out the window at the people waving at the motorcade.

Rayburn thought for a minute about just staying quiet for the remainder of the drive to the Cincinnati airport. But there was going to be a lot of time between now, the plane flight and the arrival of the Marine 1 helicopter at the White House. Better to try and get him talking early.

“I think your message of energy independence resonated with the crowd,” Rayburn said. That was an easy conversation starter.

“It should,” Murphy replied drolly, still looking out the window. “We invited them.”

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“Yeah,” Rayburn replied. “But you’re going to need Ohio.

Hell, every candidate needs Ohio. And we’re getting excellent coverage today.”

Murphy paused, attempting to engage himself in the conversation. “I’m glad we invited those Kentucky and West Virginia coal miners to be on stage with us,” Murphy mumbled.

“Precisely,” Rayburn replied. “Those states are already in your column, but it will play well in the eastern part of Ohio, as well.”

The President silently nodded his agreement.

“Energy independence is the perfect way to kick-start the economy in Ohio and any other oil-and-gas-rich state,” Rayburn continued.

“Especially some states in play,” Murphy smiled. “Do they have fracking in Florida?”

Murphy’s improbable first run for the presidency hit stride with sympathy from voters during the Florida primary after an environmental fringe group called “Frack You” dumped oil on his family at Disney World. Frack You labeled Murphy their Political Target Number One after Murphy sponsored legislation in Congress to force approval of an oil pipeline from Canada and modestly restrict the regulatory power of the Environmental Protection Agency. He not only sponsored it, he shepherded the bill through Congress and convinced his predecessor to sign it. And Murphy became known for promoting the oil-and-gas drilling process known as fracking as a way to make America independent of its thirst for Mideast oil. Yes, Frack You had a lot to do with why Luke Murphy was president.

“And it wasn’t bad that you tossed a bone to the moderates on the environment,” Rayburn added.

The President shook his head in disgust. “It’s no bone. I believe it’s important. To hear these groups, you’d think I support dirty air and want to force their kids to drink toxic water,” he said. “Richard Nixon – Richard Goddamn Republican Nixon started the Environmental Protection Agency.”

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Embracing the moment, Murphy suddenly started quoting from his speech. “However, we can’t let environmental radicals who believe that no regulation will ever be strong enough strangle us in our quest to shed the shackles of energy dependence and create real, meaningful jobs for people who desperately need them,” he said in the deeper, resonant tone he reserved for such addresses.

“You got a standing ovation with that today,” Rayburn said.

Murphy blushed slightly at Rayburn’s reference to his earlier speech. “And I told you to quit using the word moderate.

The base equates that with liberal.”

“Yes, sir,” Rayburn replied respectfully. “The press questions were pretty easy, too. Not a bad morning.”

“I got more questions about the Cubs than environmental policy,” Murphy said, pausing to change the subject. “How much did we raise last night?”

“The campaign folks told me we could net over two million dollars.”

Murphy smiled at the number. “We even had some of the Bible-thumpers in the crowd, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Rayburn replied. “Where else are they going to go, sir? They won’t have a serious primary opponent against you for a second term. They know they can’t win. Better to join you than fight you.”

“I don’t want to pander to them,” Murphy said turning his gaze to Rayburn. “But I’ll need them next year. It will be a tight race and we can’t lose any of the base due to lack of excitement about the candidate.”

“Got it,” Rayburn replied. “I’ll make sure to throw guns and the Ten Commandments into the next speech.”

Murphy frowned at Rayburn’s joke. Showing a sly grin, the colonel shrugged his shoulders in response.

As they talked, a conga line of black Chevrolet Suburbans with smoked-glass windows sped west on a cleared-and-wideopen Interstate 275 to the Cincinnati airport in the Northern Kentucky suburbs. Murphy went back to scrolling through 62

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more of the postgame coverage about the World Series. That soured his mood. As he read one blog he asked without looking up: “Any environmental wackos around the hotel today?”

“Not according to the reports I’ve had thus far,” Rayburn said.

“I want an updated report before we land.”

“Roger that, Mr. President.”

“What do these assholes think powers their cell phones, iPads and Priuses?” Murphy remarked as he continued to read.

“You can’t make a vanilla latte at most Starbucks with wind power and solar energy. We still need coal. We still need oil. I wish that wasn’t true, too. But it is.”

“Yes, sir.” Murphy was rambling, and Rayburn was simply humoring him with agreement. At least he was not obsessing on the Cubs.

“That doesn’t mean anything goes,” Murphy continued. “It means responsible regulation. But it also means energy security has to be a priority. If those fuckers want to call me ‘Frack Man’ for that position, or because I take contributions from the oil industry, then go right ahead,” he concluded, stuffing the phone in his pocket.

“Anyway,” Rayburn added. “The oil toss at Disney was a net gain for you. You got so much sympathy coverage that it backfired on them. Any time you can get sympathetic coverage on TMZ.com and ‘Entertainment Tonight,’ you’re gold-plated.

When your family shows up in ‘People’ magazine with your kid brushing oil out of his eye, you’re pure gold.”

As they boarded Air Force One, Rayburn mentioned whether it really was a good idea to be at Game Seven of the World Series with a re-election campaign looming in a year.

“Screw that,” Murphy replied. “If they move Game Seven to tomorrow night, I’m going, and I’m staying to the end unless it’s a blowout. I’ll apologize later. Win or lose, I want to see it.

I think people will understand.”

“Except in Boston,” Rayburn mused.

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“Massachusetts wouldn’t vote for me anyway unless my opponent played for the New York Yankees and beat up nuns as a hobby.”

Murphy sighed for a minute. “And Charley.”

“Yeah Boss?”

“Have the Press Office call Moose back and set up that call with Bob Walters later today.”

64

7 Cincinnati-Northern Kentucky International Airport Late Morning after Game Six Everyone on Air Force One was readying for takeoff when President Murphy looked uncomfortably at his Chief of Staff.

“By the way, Colonel,” Murphy said. “Clear your schedule for tomorrow night.”

Rayburn was a bit shocked at the suggestion. “I hadn’t really planned on going on this trip with you,” he responded, hoping he could talk the President out of the suggestion.

“Well,” said the President. “You’ve been working like a dog since you took the job. I figured you could use a break. Game Seven will be a nice reward. I am predicting, based on what I hear from the best meteorologists in the world, that Game Seven will not be tonight, and that means I will be able to go.”

“I am not in this for rewards, Mr. President,” said Rayburn.

“In fact, I think I should have stayed behind on this one today. I should be getting ready to prep you for the Saudis.” He paused and added. “Besides, I’m not a big baseball fan.”

“Okay,” Murphy responded. “I didn’t want to get into this, but the first lady wants you on the trip.”

“The first lady, sir?”

“Yes,” A slight, impish grin forming at the edges of his lips, “The first lady wants you to get some Connie-time.”

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“Connie-time sir?” asked Rayburn, feigning mock ignorance. “I am assuming you’re referring to Connie Barlage— your executive secretary?”

“Yes, Connie my secretary,” the President responded. “And cut the crap, son. Apparently, the first lady saw the way you two look at each other every morning and felt like it would be good for you two to join us on the trip.”

“With all due respect to the first lady,” said Rayburn, “I don’t need to be a spectacle on ‘Entertainment Tonight’ or YouTube.”

“Here’s the deal,” Murphy said, putting his hand on Rayburn’s knee. “Connie is already in Chicago visiting her family. She is going to the game with us and then back to DC on Air Force One. You’ll be sitting next to her at the game and on the flight home.”

“But, I’ve got a …”

“You didn’t seem to hear me, Colonel,” Murphy cut Rayburn off. “The first lady thinks you and Connie work too hard.” Murphy’s voice turned fatherly. “Now you’ve never been married, son, so let me explain this to you.”

Rayburn knew he was going to be on the losing end of this conversation. “Use small words, sir. It’ll help me understand.”

“When the first lady is happy,” Murphy said, “I’m happy.”

“And if the first lady becomes unhappy?” Rayburn asked.

“Then I suppose you’re unhappy.”

“Damn, boy,” Murphy exclaimed. “You’re a regular Dr. Fucking Phil.” Murphy paused for effect while making serious eye contact with Rayburn. “The first lady has this planned. You don’t want to make the first lady, and, in the end me, unhappy?

Do you, Colonel?”

Rayburn sighed and forced a smiled. “No, sir. In fact, tomorrow night will be a great night to watch a baseball game.”

“Good,” Murphy replied. “The first lady will be glad to know you’ll be attending the game with us.”

“I love my job, Mr. President,” Rayburn added sarcastically while secretly feeling a stir about spending some relaxing time with Connie Barlage.

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The two men buckled up as Air Force One taxied for takeoff.

With a strong burst the big jet quickly cut upward through a sky that had temporarily cleared after several hours of drippy cold rain. To Murphy, the deep blue in the Midwestern sky seemed like the medium blue color of a Cubs’ baseball cap.

Murphy looked out the window and sighed, contemplating the Cubs on the precipice of becoming world champions after getting back to the World Series for the first time since 1945, and actually winning the title for the first time since 1908.

He kicked himself mentally for caring so much, making sure to blame his dad and several of his uncles, all of whom lived and breathed baseball until their dying breaths. For a moment, Murphy flashed back to the heated arguments, fueled by highballs and Meister Brau beer, back in the day. He could see them at July 4th cookouts at the West Side Chicago bungalow of his favorite aunt and uncle.

His dad and uncles would throw horseshoes until the summer heat got the best of them. Then they’d eat charred hot dogs or cheeseburgers and Aunt Ann’s homemade slaw as they sat in lawn chairs under a huge, old oak tree in the back yard.

Their shirts, usually plaid or madras, were opened by several buttons, revealing white, sleeveless T-shirts that popular culture later dubbed “wife-beaters.”

He could smell the charcoal smoke of Uncle Ed’s grill, and he remembered how he’d mill around with his other cousins, waiting to laugh at his uncle’s wagging finger to stay away from the grill “so I don’t have to explain to your mother why you got a burn instead of a hot dog.”

Even then, he liked being in charge, and he usually was the one who organized the cousins to maximize everyone’s opportunity to get served as soon as possible, barely recognizing that he was serving his own needs precisely as he served others.

In the typical nostalgia of childhood, it always was a sunny day in his memory as the charcoal smoke carved gray streaks into the sky and wafted behind the tiny garage that faced the alley.

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The old garage always needed paint, and it always was too filled with random stuff to possibly hold a car.

The loud, friendly disputes would erupt the longer the men talked about baseball, not politics. They all were products of being urban and Irish. They were blue-collar Democrats, people who believed that President Franklin Delano Roosevelt had saved America during the Depression. They worked hard and carried resentments about bad management screwing labor based on their own pride and real experiences. That made Luke Murphy a tough sell to some members of his family when he identified more with the other party as he began his political career.

While his mom and aunts shook their heads and gossiped about other things in someone’s kitchen, the uncles who were White Sox fans would take great joy in harassing Murphy’s dad and Uncle Ed, who both rooted for the Cubs. All the Murphy men were baseball fans to the core, though, so when they tired of talking about Cubs vs. Sox, Billy Goat curses and related Chicago sports topics, other friendly, heated arguments would break out. Who was a greater hitter? Mays or Mantle? Who was the best modern pitcher? Koufax or Gibson? Ford or Drysdale?

A minor bump in the ascent pulled Murphy back to the present as Air Force One first banked to the north after takeoff from the one east-west runway at the Cincinnati airport. The pilot then rolled the plane gently eastward, pointing the big jet back to Washington. Murphy looked down and saw Turfway Park, a horse-racing track in Cincinnati’s Northern Kentucky region, directly under the plane. Just to the north and rapidly approaching, Murphy saw downtown Cincinnati and the Queen City’s hilly, interesting skyline. He stared at the oddball tiara atop its newest skyscraper, the Great American Insurance tower.

Murphy liked the hills, and the way the city and its older suburbs hugged the banks of the Ohio River with a combination of developed lands and a dash of green space, including the home venues of the baseball Reds and football Bengals.

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His gaze moved along the river to the stately arches and blue-painted spans of the Roebling Bridge, which looked exactly like the Brooklyn Bridge at 70 percent scale. That made sense since the same engineer, John Augustus Roebling, created both. Roebling designed the bridge linking Cincinnati and Covington, Kentucky, before the far-more-famous bridge was built. When the Roebling was finished in 1866 after delays caused by the Civil War, it was the world’s longest suspension bridge. Murphy’s speech writers sprinkled some of the Roebling’s history into his morning speech, which covered America’s infrastructure needs as well as energy independence.

References to local history always played well.

Peering down, Murphy noticed a few cars crossing the bridge’s mesh-metal pavement a short distance away from two other Ohio River bridges, including the double-decked Brent Spence Bridge that was a major interstate artery.

It was a pretty scene, and if he had to be honest and objective, it was more striking than any city plopped on the flat Midwestern prairie, which started unfolding like a rolled-out tablecloth not even an hour to the north. Still, it wasn’t home, and he would have much preferred the view of Chicago’s much larger downtown and its many skyscrapers, especially on a clear night when a full moon would give thin, lower clouds a metallic blue, phosphorescent glow and the city would sparkle against the pitch blackness of the Lake Michigan shoreline – a lake that was so big it behaved like an ocean. Chicago was part of his DNA – more than Washington ever could be.

The Roebling Bridge emptied less than two blocks from the next landmark that grabbed his attention. He peered down at Cincinnati’s Great American Ballpark, visible through his window as the plane banked further for an eastward turn. It was home to the Cincinnati Reds, and it was a nice-looking, modern ballpark done in the old-fashioned style first made popular by Baltimore’s Camden Yards. It was a passable imitation of a cool, old ballpark; an effort to evoke the character of Chicago’s 69

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Wrigley Field or Boston’s Fenway Park, the gold standards of classic baseball fields.

The Reds’ park hugged the northern shore of the Ohio River, and Murphy remembered when he threw the ceremonial first ball of the season in Cincinnati on Opening Day. You could see the river and the hilly Kentucky shore from the higher seats.

Coal barges lazily made their way down the river, and on a nice weekend day, pleasure boats would zip up and down the river as well.

“It’ll never be Wrigley Field or Fenway,” he thought, “but really, it’s a pretty nice place for a ball game.”

Murphy cracked his knuckles, twisted his neck until he heard some adhesions loosen and leaned back in his seat, briefly shutting his eyes, trying to purge thoughts of gnats, Saudis, Chinese currency manipulation, angry Cuban-Americans, natural gas drilling and a dozen other things competing for this attention.

Suddenly, even through his closed eyelids, Murphy saw a flash and heard a deep thud. He jolted forward, looked out the window as the sky over the Ohio River turned a vivid orange and a smoky, red-orange haze billowed through the sky.

Great American Ball Park had fake, twin smokestacks in the center-field end. They were there to signify the steamboats that once plied the river, and they were designed to billow smoke whenever a member of the Cincinnati Reds pitching staff threw a strikeout. And they’d erupt in sparkly fireworks when a Reds player hit a home run.

As he looked out the window at the explosion, the President saw both smokestacks shake, seemingly hang in the air in suspended animation and then collapse. A massive dust cloud started billowing into the sky within split seconds of the collapse, opening a gaping hole into the side of the ballpark.

The co-pilot of the presidential jet saw the same thing. “Code Purple,” he yelled at the pilot, a signal to let thousands of hours of military training and instincts prompt an immediate action 70

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in an unknown situation. The pilot promptly forced the plane to take a combined turn-and-ascent to avoid a possible threat.

The turn was so sharp that papers slid off the presidential desk, and both Rayburn and Murphy, seated across from one another, had to brace themselves with their hands against the armrests of their chairs as they continued to stare out their windows. An alarm faintly sounded in the background. Secret Service agents immediately scurried into well-practiced duty positions.

“Charley,” Murphy said, his voice rising and words coming faster as he peered out the window as the scene rapidly receded to the southwest from the accelerating jet. “What the hell did we just see down there?”

71

8 Chicago Late Morning after Game Six Aimee Walters stood in front of her bathroom mirror, tossing her head from side to side to shake excess water from her thick brown hair. She leaned her naked belly against the cool porcelain sink while looking closely at her reflection in the mirror. Cocking her head, she gazed curiously at the image staring back at her.

The daughter of sportscaster Bob Walters, Aimee was a 25-year-old, short and shapely brunette with thin ruby lips that accentuated a sly smile that gave people the impression she knew something they did not. She had a girl-next-door wholesomeness look to her, but her dark dancing eyes oozed a sensuality that caught men – older and younger – in an erotic spell. A regular behind the bar at Eger’s Pub and Sports Bar since she turned 21, she could turn thrusting dirty glasses into soapy water into a ballet sexier than any stripper’s pole dance.

Part of Aimee’s beauty, however, was that she never fully understood why men were so attracted to her. As she ran the towel underneath one of her well-formed breasts, she stared down at a body that she assumed was far from perfect. She wasn’t fat by any means, but curvy. When an old boyfriend once described her as Rubenesque, she didn’t know whether to be

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flattered or offended until she looked it up. It meant “rounded in a pleasing or attractive way.” She was okay with that.

Aimee opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out her eye liner. When she closed the door, she looked closer at her reflection – she met her own eyes. Her father had always exclaimed that her beauty was in her eyes. He said her eyes could look right through men and peer into their very souls.

She leaned into the mirror, looked deeply into her own dark brown eyes and laughed. If she had mystical powers, she sure as hell didn’t see it. Most men she met never took their eyes off her boobs long enough to see her eyes. She was not sure of the effect her eyes had on most men. But, she knew how they affected her father. Ever since she was a kid, she had always been able to look right through her dad.

Family life had been tough for her. Her mom, Mickey, and her dad divorced soon after her sister died in the car wreck. The wreck changed everything. Aimee did not understand all of it at the time. That time in her childhood still seemed like a cruel joke. Her sister left her; then her father moved out.

She grew up differently from most girls in other ways, too. All Bob Walters ever knew in life was sports. So when he struggled to become a good father to Aimee, he did so the best way he knew how – by taking her to work with him to all the famous sports venues of Chicago.

Aimee often accompanied her father on a regular basis to places other kids only dreamed of visiting once or twice per year. Wrigley Field and Comiskey Park in the baseball summer were followed by Soldier Field in the fall to see the pro football Bears. Then it was winter with Bulls basketball and Blackhawks hockey at the old Chicago Stadium. Some college sports sprinkled into the mix, too, but Chicago was a great pro sports town. She grew up eating press box grub and knew many players by their first names.

One time, a youth hockey coach declared Aimee could not try out for his team because she was a girl. Jacques Hebert, the 73

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star center from the Blackhawks, accompanied Aimee to the community ice rink to personally send the coach to the penalty box for jerks. A brief conversation convinced the coach that Aimee deserved a chance. To no one’s surprise who knew her, Aimee ended up as one of the team’s top scorers and had no problem dishing out more hits than she took.

Because Aimee learned how to keep score sitting next to the official scorekeeper at the ballpark, she probably knew baseball better than any woman in the Windy City. In fact, she was more knowledgeable than most men. Between pouring Guinness and Old Style beers for her patrons at Eger’s, Aimee would consult her computer for updates on MLB.com. In the end, it may have been her knowledge of baseball that made the men at Eger’s go wild over her.

When Bob Walters was not at some sports event, he was hanging out with his daughter at Eger’s. The pub’s owner, Geoff Eger, was actually only one quarter Irish, on his grandmother’s side. But figuring that a Slavic bar would not have the same magnetic effect as an Irish Pub, Eger’s grandfather had opened the bar decades earlier with a feigned Irish background.

In earlier years, the Wrigleyville neighborhood around the bar wasn’t particularly special. The main attraction was Wrigley Field, of course, and the opportunity to catch home-run balls that went out of the Cubs’ park and landed on Waveland or Sheffield avenues, the two streets behind the outfield walls.

The Cubs didn’t draw many fans in those days, so parking was only difficult instead of nightmarish. Then as now, the best way to get to the park was via elevated train, and Eger’s was only a block away from the Wrigleyville El stop.

Several factors turned the Cubs from lovable losers into a trendy, cash-flow juggernaut. First was the advent of cable television that sent the signal of their home station, WGN, around the country. Second was their colorful, charismatic and hard-partying announcer with the big glasses, Harry Caray, who had a cult following of his own and could make even the dullest 74

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games entertaining. (Long-time Caray watchers insisted the “Mayor of Rush Street” – a nickname bestowed for his constant presence in the bars on that strip – was even more entertaining during his wilder, less-sober days with the St. Louis Cardinals, Oakland A’s and Chicago White Sox. When he moved to the North Side, Cubs and WGN brass ordered beer removed from the broadcast booth refrigerator.)

The tipping point arrived as the Cubs improved, starting in the late 1980s. They went from fielding unbelievably hopeless teams in the 1950s and 1960s to teams that were competitive enough to make occasional playoff appearances and raise realistic hopes. Maybe the World Series drought that started after the championship of 1908 might end before men walked on Mars or the human race disappeared, whichever came first.

The crowds around Wrigley Field grew to astounding levels for an aging ballpark that only held around 40,000 fans when bursting at the seams. And the neighborhood turned into a trendy place along with the team.

But Eger’s had been there seemingly forever, which was why Bob Walters loved it.

It was one of his favorite places to drink in Chicago. You could put a chisel through 50 years of cigarette smoke on the tacky wood paneling, although smoking was banned by politically correct fiat now. The green cloth on the pool tables had turned into a sort of faded olive in the opposite corner where the third-generation owner had built a small stage for weekend karaoke before he had the idea to invite Walters – billed throughout the Chicago area and worldwide on the Internet as “the man Chicago loves to hate” – to actually broadcast live from a bar a long fly ball from Wrigley.

After one night of hard drinking, Geoff Eger and Bob Walters came up with the bright idea to do it on Saturday afternoons, usually a slow time in the bar. “Saturday at Eger’s” had turned into a popular, profitable idea.

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Walters liked the extra money, he promoted the hell out of the bar and usually saved some of his best material for the live show, feeding off a crowd that usually turned into a weird cocktail of hecklers, diehard Cubs fans and Cubs haters who got a kick out of driving to Wrigleyville from the South Side and reminding them the American League White Sox, who had actually gone to a World Series and won in the current century, was the team deserving respect. With WCO as a co-sponsor, Eger’s only real extra expense was a special order of Irish stew for Walters and some beefy security people who sometimes had to get involved if the crowd was getting out of control.

As time went by, the crowd became a big part of “Saturday at Eger’s.” The costumes and hats got weirder and the confrontations got stronger as the audience performed for the cameras sending video to the Web and numerous cable outlets, causing one media critic to describe the spectacle as “what would happen if everyone on ‘Judge Judy’ dropped acid and showed up on ‘Let’s Make A Deal.’”

Along with boosting Eger’s bottom line, Walters’ live broadcasts from Wrigleyville had made a minor Chicago celebrity out of Aimee Walters.

The first week Bob Walters broadcast live from Eger’s Pub, the crowd was small and not very talkative. Every time Aimee brought Walters an iced tea designed to look like Scotch on the rocks, Walters had asked her a baseball question. Her answers were better than any of the comments he was getting from the drunken audience. For weeks Walters kept up the same routine, putting Aimee on the air whenever she was within reach. Aimee played her part of a dedicated, argumentative Cubs fan to a tee. Eventually, she became so popular that Walters gave her a segment on the show called, “Why My Dad Is Wrong.”

Aimee had her makeup on and was and making mental notes for her segment when her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID before answering.

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“Hi, Daddy,” Aimee said in a chipper voice. “Lots of rain out there today,” she said looking out the bathroom window at the dark rain clouds in the sky. “How’s your knee feel?”

“Pretty tight,” Walters replied. “I had to go take a couple of extra Advils this morning just to get moving.”

“Sorry,” Aimee replied as she walked from the bathroom to the adjoining bedroom. “You really ought to consider having that thing replaced this winter. You could rehab at spring training. The desert heat would feel good.”

“I think my original equipment can last another season or two,” Walters mumbled. He hated doctors and, like most seemingly confident personalities, he was terribly insecure. He always worried about what might happen if the station owners had additional opportunities to try to get by without him on the air.

“At least I know where I get my stubbornness from,” Aimee laughed. She balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear as she wiggled into a red thong. “Helluva ball game last night, huh?”

“Gnats,” Walters laughed. “Probably direct descendants from gnats off the ass of Billy Sianis’ damn goat.”

Aimee wedged into a pair of jeans that accentuated her curves. “So what’s up for today?” Aimee asked as she pulled a matching red push-up bra from a drawer. “I haven’t looked at the weather report yet.”

“I can’t imagine they’ll play the game,” Walters responded.

“I just talked to the meteorologist over at WGN. This front is set in. It’s going to rain all day and night.”

There was a pause as Aimee slid on her V-neck T-shirt with the Eger’s logo. “So are we doing an extended remote today?”

Aimee asked.

“Looks like it, baby,” Walters replied.

Aimee looked at the outfit in the mirror and adjusted her boobs under the T-shirt. “Damn,” she said. The word slipped out before she could catch herself.

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“I know,” Walters replied. He knew the longer, extended broadcasts could cut into Aimee’s tip money. “I’ve already talked to the station. They agreed to toss in some extra bread for you.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” Aimee knew her dad was lying and was paying her out of his own pocket. “This is a big week for tips and I could use the extra money.”

“Not a problem,” Walters replied.

“Anything special about the format today?” Aimee sat down at the kitchen table and began making notes on a small tablet.

“You should open with that Steve Goodman song.”

“A Dying Cubs Fan’s Last Request,” Walters interjected.

“Start at the chorus,” Aimee added. She started to sing: Do they still play the blues in Chicago When baseball season rolls around, When the snow melts away, Do the Cubbies still play, In their ivy-covered burial ground.

Unlike her father, Aimee was a Cubs fan. Still, she loved the idea of starting the show with a little humor.

“Good idea,” Walters replied.

“What else,” Aimee asked.

“Tommy from Streamwood has been calling all damn morning,” Walters said.

“Go figure.” Aimee rolled her eyes and wrote TOMMY on her pad.

“I’m putting together a tribute tape with some of his weirder moments on the air cut between last night’s play-by-play.”

“That’ll get a response,” Aimee laughed. Like most of their regular callers, Aimee had never met Tommy from Streamwood, but had a visual image of him in her mind. The thought of him hearing himself rant made her chuckle. “Anything else?”

“Well...” Walters voice faded. “Moose and I have got a request in for a call-in from President Murphy.”

“Murphy is a dick,” Aimee responded.

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Walters knew that his daughter disagreed with the President politically and was waiting for a negative response. “Let’s not degrade Chicago’s Favorite Son,” he said.

“Favorite son and biggest dick,” Aimee mumbled. “Maybe I’ll cover that in my segment.”

“Let’s stick to sports in why I’m wrong,” Walters admonished uncomfortably. “Don’t call the President a dick on the air, okay,” Walters instructed. “He’s my friend, hon.”

“I don’t care if he buys you champagne and hookers,” Aimee said. “He’s still a dick.”

Walters decided not to discuss politics with his daughter.

“Anyway,” Walters added, “while I’ve got him on the air, you can work the bar. Get a few tips.”

“All right,” Aimee relented.

“I’ll see you in a bit.” Walters hung up the phone and recited the chorus to Goodman’s Cubbie tribute: When I was a boy, They were my pride and joy But now they only bring fatigue, To the home of the brave, The land of the free, And the doormat of the National League.

79

9 Cincinnati, Ohio Early Afternoon after Game Six As FBI Special Agent Timothy Barnstable walked through the rubble in center field of Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati, he told himself there was good news and bad news buried in the debris piling up to his knees.

The good news was the Reds’ season was over. The local team had been knocked out in the first round of the playoffs.

So, Great American Ball Park was empty at the time of the explosion. This was something the bomber had to know, Barnstable reflected. The bad news was there were more people around the ball park than on a typical, chilly fall day, and three people had been hit by collapsing debris. One had been trapped underneath a chunk of the falling smokestack and was in critical condition at a local hospital.

And these victims were not homeless drifters or innercity troublemakers whose lives would command only passing interest from the masses. These victims were gift-wrapped for the media and were sure to draw pretend-media outlets like “Entertainment Tonight” into the story.

For starters, two of the victims were married and attractive.

Bobby Costello was a one-time Catholic high school football hero from Cincinnati’s West Side. His drop-dead, gorgeous, blonde wife, Tracey, was a former cheerleader at the University 80

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of Cincinnati who had been in a “Maxim” magazine photoshoot and now worked with special-needs kids. The word was she might be permanently disfigured. The other victim was a grandfather of seven who volunteered regularly for Meals on Wheels and had walked to the back of the ballpark to sneak a smoke away from the eyes of a wife who would nag him about his habit.

Barnstable felt sorry for the victims, but knew their status would make his job harder. Injured white suburbanites always made for bigger news, especially when one was a hot, perky blonde who might lose her looks.

“It isn’t a three-ring media circus,” Barnstable remarked to his boss as he briefed him via phone. “It will be a four-ring circus in another six hours or so.”

At the time of the explosion, downtown Cincinnati had been filled with people for the annual Oktoberfest celebration – a tribute to the city’s German traditions. “Oktoberfest Zinzinnati” was billed as the biggest beer fest outside of Munich. The unlucky granddad had parked near the festival with his wife and other family members. Until he admitted to the investigators he was sneaking his tobacco fix, they wondered if he had been seeking less-legal forms of action. Or, maybe he just happened to be wandering around in a fog since the ballpark was several blocks from the closed streets that were filled with beer, bratwurst, myriads of food stands and the pumping sounds of multiple oom-pah bands.

Barnstable was walking around the debris of one of the fallen smokestacks when a short, stocky red-haired woman in jeans and a leather jacket approached, pulling her wallet from her hip pocket as she walked. “Hey,” the woman said, her hair bouncing as she talked. “You Barnstable?”

“Yeah,” Barnstable replied. “Who are you?”

“Giambia,” said the woman as she handed Barnstable her identification. “Gloria Giambia. I’m with the Cincinnati office of the Secret Service. Everybody calls me Gamby.”

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“Secret Service?” Barnstable replied. “What the hell are you doing here? Counterfeit 20s get shot out the smokestack on impact?”

“Funny,” Gamby replied, knowing that her local office was best known for investigating counterfeiting operations. Still, she was not sure if Barnstable was joking or serious. She decided to play the situation semi-seriously.

“The circus was in town today,” she said, using Secret Service lingo for any presidential or vice-presidential visit.

“The home office sent me down to see if this is something we should care about.”

Barnstable closed his eyes and sighed. He was not in the mood for a turf war between the Secret Service and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Barnstable said. “You want to control the investigation?”

“Calm down, Ace,” Gamby said. She looked at a large piece of one of the smokestacks sitting atop a white Ford pickup truck. “I don’t want this mess. I’m just following orders. For all I care, you can have it.”

Barnstable took the comment as sincere. “Thanks,” he said.

“I didn’t mean to sound … .”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gamby interrupted. “Just help me out here. I need to make my report, too. What do we have?”

The blast had blown a huge hole into the side of ballpark, exposing the perfect lawn of the outfield to every passer-by. It was a weird vacant, pastoral expanse of green next to twisted rebar, piles of collapsed seats and general destruction.

“It could’ve been a lot worse,” Barnstable said looking at the centerfield wall. “But it ain’t pretty, either.” Already his mind was working hard, trying to figure out motive, picking at details and looking for anything that might help identify the person responsible. “The bomber had to know that no one would be around the stadium on an off-season fall day.”

“Minimum casualties,” Gamby added.

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“Right,” Barnstable continued, deciding to try out his speculations on Gamby. “But he was sending whatever twisted message he wanted to send. The ballpark was empty. He had to know that. It suggests the bomber wanted to send a signal of some sort but didn’t want to kill anybody – at least not this time. The choice of weekend is interesting. If you want to send a signal to Cincinnati people, you do this at Oktoberfest, right?

But maybe he’s not from Cincinnati. Maybe the signal involves baseball. What else is happening right now? The World Series.

Would he be isolated or oblivious to local activity?”

“The latter seems unlikely,” Gamby said. “You don’t pick this target if you are totally isolated from reality. My guess: Someone from out of town planned this blast very carefully.”

“Yeah. The bomber isn’t from Cincinnati.”

“Okay,” Gamby replied. “I’m buying that, too. So why here?”

“I don’t know,” replied Barnstable. He had a specific idea, but did not want to share that part just yet with his colleague from the Secret Service. “Well, it certainly was his intent to send some type of message.”

“Okay,” Gamby said. “What message?”

“If I knew that,” Barnstable replied, “I’d be asking for warrants.”

Gamby knew that Barnstable was hiding his complete thoughts, but did not push it. She decided to ask the obvious question – the question she was sent to ask. “Do you think the timing of the president’s visit figures into it?”

“Too soon to tell,” Barnstable said, shaking his head, wanting to know a lot more before he went down that road.

As he looked around, the area just outside the taped-off crime scene was meeting and exceeding his expectations. It was quickly becoming everything a virtual, real-time, Twitterfueled, gossip-filled media gathering in the early 21st Century could be and more. A swarm of satellite trucks seemed to be reproducing before his eyes. He saw network television crews 83

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operating from remote trucks on the perimeter and kids with iPhones pushing videos, pictures and blog posts to Twitter, YouTube and Facebook. The scene was a zoo.

Barnstable had grown very cynical about the media and he recognized he no longer was even rational about it. Unless he personally knew and trusted a reporter, it was hard for him to even respond to the inevitable, predictable questions, let alone the stupid ones.

You had to deal with every type of journalist, and there still were some good ones. That always had been true, but now there was a growing number who lacked experience covering complicated stories and the ethics to sift out the crap before reporting it – assuming they even cared to sift. On top of that, the reporters and editors were “helped” by the ability of random citizens to quickly post and offer their own interpretations of anything and everything that caught their attention.

Not LOL. More like WTF, Barnstable thought as he scrolled through a list of Twitter postings about the blast.

From his point of view, the modern media scene was more a witch’s brew than a well-spiced stew. It was all too easy for terrorists and the insane-for-other-reasons to manipulate the message.

As wild rumors escalated, it forced even the more responsible members of the traditional media to keep up with the incredible flow by reporting gossip and speculation that would have been checked out first in years past – always with the caveat that “we don’t know if this is true” as though that would make any difference once the gossip took off on the Internet.

Major crime scenes now required one group of agents to monitor social media and jump on sites, sometimes anonymously, to debunk panic-fueled rumors. The Bureau was getting cleverer all the time about that. There were agents trained in effective ways to guide social media in directions that might help an investigation or at least slow down those who would hinder it.

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The latest rumor tied the blast to the conspiracy theory that the Navy Seals never really killed Osama bin Laden. This was bin Laden’s supporters’ start of a series of revenge bombings for the attack on his compound in Pakistan. Barnstable knew that blowing a hole in an empty ballpark in Cincinnati just because the President was in an airplane nearby was not AlQaeda’s style.

“Great visuals for television, and a great mystery for endless speculation,” Barnstable said to Gamby, pointing at the throng.

“So, will we see right-wing crazies or left-wing crazies fanning the flames here?”

Like most agents, Barnstable leaned conservative, but was all over the map in some of his political views. At this moment, however, he was particularly glad Murphy was president. Republican presidents kept the Fox News anchors from overheating on any story that could be tied to the chief executive. It was unlikely the talking heads on Fox would contort to blame the explosion on the policies of the current president versus the ha-rumphing that would occur over a “softon-security liberal” in the White House.

The conservative cable network could have either a manthe-barricades or a calming effect on the angry, white male population – which no doubt included a lot of baseball fans.

Partisan emotion rarely helped an investigation. It mainly added clutter the way feedback made it hard at a concert when you really needed to focus on the music.

“Of course, some conspiracies are true,” Gamby said.

Barnstable wondered if Gamby’s comment meant that she really would prefer to lead a top-level investigation, so he didn’t reply. Still, he knew they both were contemplating the coincidence of a baseball stadium landmark collapsing during the World Series at the same time as a presidential visit. But the links seemed murky; just another speculation among hundreds.

It would take a lot more work or a big break to burn off the early fog of any major investigation. There were many contenders for the distinction of being the No. 1 Theory.

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“If reporters ask,” Barnstable instructed, “we tell them we’re examining every scenario, including a gas explosion.”

Gamby shot a glare at the FBI agent. She did not appreciate the rookie-level admonition. “You’re in charge,” she said.

“Sorry,” Barnstable replied. “You’re a pro. I know that. But, everyone in the media has already concluded that something evil is going on here; the more responsible members of the media just haven’t reported it yet. These days, that’s a minority.”

“I understand,” Gamby replied. “It’s no big secret that terrorism and big-time professional sports are top of mind for all of us since 9-11. It makes too much sense for really bad guys to target a big venue like the Super Bowl, the World Series. And then there’s the Boston Marathon.”

“But this is different,” Barnstable replied. “Layers of security are deployed for those events – way beyond what the public could imagine, including in Chicago right now.”

Gamby was still probing and quizzed Barnstable as they walked. “Why go after the Cincinnati ballpark?” she asked again. “Where is the motive? If it’s baseball, why not just put the bomb at Wrigley Field if you want to make a statement about baseball or really create terroristic fear? It would have been difficult, but let’s admit it – hardly impossible. I don’t see the connection.”

“When you put thousands of frenzied fans in one spot, there is no security system perfect enough to stop everything,” Barnstable said. “Most stadium pat-downs are a joke.”

Agents posing as spectators brought in everything from Uzis to hand grenades and handheld rocket launchers into sporting events. In the latter case, they got the launcher all the way to the upper deck of a West Coast stadium under the blanket of an agent posing as a handicapped man in a wheelchair. It was a maneuver borrowed from a legendary Philadelphia Eagles fan who got a pony-sized beer keg into the stadium by pretending to be wheelchair-bound and using a blanket to cover his legs on a chilly day.

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“Still,” Gamby added, “treating this incident as political terrorism doesn’t make as much sense. The season is over for the Reds. The ballpark was locked. The only thing regularly open was the Reds Hall of Fame and Museum next door. Without a tip of some sort, the need for security at a baseball park in Cincinnati hardly would have seemed urgent to anyone.”

“Of course,” Barnstable replied. “You don’t deploy security at a ballpark where the season already has ended. It becomes a target so soft it squishes.”

Barnstable looked at his watch and realized they had to pick up the pace. “We’ve got a law enforcement briefing in the conference room of the Reds’ offices,” he said. “Should be quite a show. I assume your boss will be there via video.”

Once in the room, Barnstable watched a big monitor that featured Paul Reed, the FBI’s top terrorism behavior expert.

“First, a big caution. This is very preliminary,” Reed said.

“So far, we don’t have any evidence of Mideast terrorist groups, or any domestic terrorist groups for that matter. No one has taken responsibility. Let’s be careful not to jump to conclusions too early. Anyone have anything to add to all the speculation?”

“I don’t think it’s about Oktoberfest,” Gamby said. “We should be looking for clues that maybe the bomber, the terrorists or, whoever they are, don’t like something about baseball. If that’s the case, it’s almost gotta be domestic.”

“Indeed,” Reed said. “Most of these overseas terrorists would think the Cubs versus the Red Sox meant there was a bear attack on a sock factory.”

That brought a slight laugh from the group and Gamby was pleased that Reed seemed to agree.

“So, without any claims, where are we?” Reed continued.

“To Agent Giambia’s point, it’s fair to ask any and all questions based on what we know about domestic terrorism here. What’s bugging me is the question, ‘Does baseball have something to do with it?’ Or, did the bomber just like the target for other reasons? Or, do we have a low-rent, McVeigh-kind-of-thing?”

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he asked rhetorically, referring to Timothy McVeigh, the terrorist responsible for the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City – America’s worst case of domestic terrorism. Everyone knew McVeigh quite consciously selected that building.

“I think it would help us if you said more about what the experts are thinking,” Barnstable said.

“Well, there’s no consensus yet, but I’ll tell you what I think,” Reed said. “This isn’t Big League Baseball. It’s small ball.”

Reed pointed his finger right at the camera for emphasis. His hand dominated the large, flat-screen video monitor showing the hole in the side of the ballpark.

“Okay, you might be wondering what I mean by that,” he continued. “Here goes. Big League terrorists try to do big things.

It doesn’t mean shit to knock down a couple of smokestacks at a closed baseball park. Sometimes, for whatever reason, they give advance warning. That way, you spread terror, increase fear and send a warning with lower casualties. There was no advance warning here. If they wanted that, it would’ve been right in the middle of Oktoberfest. Something else is going on here. It’s small ball, done by a small man. But, he also just might be a shrewd, demented SOB. I wonder if he is sending us an invitation to solve his puzzle.

“That, Agent Barnstable, is what I am thinking,” Reed said, concluding the briefing. “My head can’t explain yet what my gut is telling me, but my gut is screaming that we need to find this guy very quickly.”

88

10 Steamwood, Illinois Early Afternoon after Game Six Tommy Czerski took a break from pondering the fate of the Cubs to toy with the notion of calling his ex-wife. He still wanted Ernie and Sarge back.

In the divorce settlement, Tommy had kept Santo, a grayand-white cat named for the legendary third baseman from Chicago’s close-but-not-quite teams of the 1960s. Carole took their two small dogs. Ernie was named after Hall-of-Famer, Ernie Banks; Sarge was named after Gary “Sarge” Mathews, one of the leaders of the Cubs’ revival as a competitive team in the 1980s.

Carole left him soon after the layoff. One night, after far surpassing her three-glass limit of Chardonnay, Carole blew up.

She called Tommy a “stuttering weirdo” and wistfully thanked God they never had children.

At first the empty house seemed weird. Tommy liked his privacy but knew that such isolation wasn’t healthy for him; that he would need to reach out and make some new friends.

For a while, Tommy and Carole stayed in touch, showing one another sort of a polite, cold courtesy, both of them numb from the tension of previous months. He frequently asked her to give the marriage another shot. Carole moved around for a while, relented at one point and came back to give the marriage 89

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a last try – or maybe she was just broke. He knew that she wouldn’t want to impose on friends or relatives unless she was really desperate.

But, after their second try, Carole apparently was desperate enough to start fresh. At the start of the current baseball season, she finally left Tommy for good to live with her family near Gary, Indiana.

“I’m glad you love the Cubs,” were her final words as she walked out, pulling her suitcase through the front door. “You need to be married to something.”

Tommy couldn’t argue with that. The Cubs had been the primary passion in his world for as long as he could remember.

Growing up, Tommy had dreamed of playing baseball with the other boys in the neighborhood. He loved the game and kept track of his favorite players with the intensity of the Cubs’ official scorer. But, as a boy, his baseball had been limited to imaginary games played in his head played while tossing a rubber ball against the side of a garage. It was not entirely his gawky physique and lack of basic motor skills that kept him in the stands watching while other boys played. He longed to wear the cotton uniform of his peers. It was the damned stuttering.

Whenever Tommy got nervous, he stuttered. In his imaginary games, when a ball flew off the wall of the garage and over his head, he would shout “Hey, Hey” just like Jack Brickhouse, the legendary Cubs broadcaster who always yelled “Hey, Hey” when a Cubs player hit a home run. Those legendary words lived on. The words “Hey, Hey” were inscribed in vertical letters on the yellow foul poles down the right and left field lines at Wrigley Field.

Unfortunately for Tommy, often when he got in the middle of a group of boys his own age, he was barely able to utter his own name. Whatever confidence the speech counselors in grade school instilled in him in the morning would be quickly ripped to shreds by mean-spirited bullies on the playground in the afternoon.

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So, as a kid, Tommy kept to himself – following his favorite players with baseball cards, scrapbooks, and spiral notebooks that he filled with schedules, team-by-team statistics and lineups for Strat-O-Matic Baseball, the board game that simulated the performance of Major League teams.

Tommy always “managed” the Cubs when he played against his few friends. He found that if he cheated – just a bit – the Cubs would win more. Since Strat-O-Matic even accounted for injuries, he would concoct games where the top pitcher or leading hitter for the other team couldn’t play.

Like many kids from his neighborhood, Tommy grew up a bit in the Army following high school. There he survived the taunts about his stuttering by making himself very valuable. He learned about deploying and defusing bombs during multiple tours in the Mideast. His introverted personality and ability to focus hard on a challenge if it interested him served him well.

He saw a lot of action in the first Gulf War. Before their deaths, his parents had even suggested that he visit the local VA hospital for what they thought were post-traumatic stress issues.

When Tommy returned from the Gulf he had new skills and enough ambition to go to college to get a degree in chemical engineering, where he met Carole. Tommy got a master’s degree in statistics to bolster his bachelor’s degree, plugging away at nights for several years, listening to Cubs games on the radio while he studied night after night. He loved statistics. There always was an answer. He loved the way you could manipulate numbers, and the elegance of formulas that were predictable – a lot more than people were.

Eventually, the hours he spent hunched in front of his computer screen, applying his math skills to everything from bombs to terrorism groups to the factors in World Series championships, started to affect his marriage. Baseball seasons in particular seemed to get consumed by never-ending arguments and fights.

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The marital battles intensified after Tommy lost his job at the defense contractor where he worked on research and development. The company called it a cutback, but deep down inside, Tommy had a suspicion the economy was just an excuse for his employer to push him aside. His supervisor wrote “sometimes unpredictable behavior and outbursts” in several of Tommy’s annual reviews. He even proposed a course in anger management.

Having discovered the British word for corporate cutbacks – “redundancies” – Tommy often paced around the basement in the months that followed, murmuring in a low tone of voice, repeatedly referring to himself as a “fuckin’ redundancy.”

Now, officially divorced and unemployed, Tommy decided there was no point in calling Carole. It wouldn’t go well. He returned his thoughts to the Cubs, remembering that Walters would be doing his show in Wrigleyville today.

He considered whether he would just listen, call in or go to Eger’s Pub. Tommy usually would try to restrain himself, phoning the Walters show only after the host’s anti-Cubs rants moved his high blood pressure into overdrive. On some Saturday afternoons, he got into his aging Chevy Blazer and drove to Wrigleyville to see Walters live at Eger’s Irish Sports Pub. Sometimes he just felt like he had to be there.

“Yes,” Tommy decided. “That’s definitely the plan for today.”

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11 Eger’s Pub, Wrigleyville Mid-Afternoon following Game Six Aimee Walters was taking a wet towel to the bar when Tommy Czerski walked into Eger’s Pub. It was overcast outside and the gloomy pall of the Chicago weather seemed to permeate the bar. The pale blue lights under the bar top cast an angelic glow on Aimee’s soft facial features.

Tommy pulled the brim of his Chicago Cubs hat low over his eyes in an attempt to hide his face. Not that it mattered.

No one in the bar was focused on another everyday face in the establishment. The tavern patrons were all tuned to live shots and a media swarm taking place outside Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati where the explosion had occurred within the past few hours – an odd juxtaposition to the news that baseball had just announced Game Seven of the World Series might be postponed due to inclement weather.

“Hey, Babe,” Aimee said with a smile as Tommy sat down at the bar. Like so many other men who walked through the doors of Eger’s, she called Tommy “Babe.”

Tommy nodded a response, pointed at the Guinness tap and put a ten dollar bill on the bar. He always paid with cash.

Aimee poured the beer and slid five singles back across the bar, otherwise not paying too much attention to her new customer.

Tommy felt like he wanted to speak, but his sensitivity about

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his stuttering kept him quiet for the moment – a battle he often fought. Tommy averted his pinhole grey eyes from Aimee’s dark ones.

As Tommy nursed his beer, he carefully took in his surroundings. In particular, he noticed a technician from WCO setting up broadcast equipment on a small stage near the front window for the live show with Bob Walters that was going to start in about a half an hour. Tommy grimaced as the tech looked out the window and waved at the bane of Tommy’s existence – Bob Walters – who was pulling his Lexus into a reserved spot in front of the bar.

Tommy got up from the bar and moved to a table in front of the stage. He wanted the best seat in the house to not only hear Walters’ usual rants but also absorb how Walters handled the news from Cincinnati.

In the car, Walters finished a mental review of the key talking points for the show that he and his producer had worked out earlier that day. They had agreed to only mention the mysterious explosion in Cincinnati in passing. While it couldn’t be ignored – after all, this was a sports-talk show – they’d made the cold calculation the subject would be a downer, and most of the audience would still be far more engaged in arguing about the Cubs and whether the delay in Game Seven would help or hurt their chances. You couldn’t be snide about an event that killed and maimed people whether it was an accident or terrorism—at least not immediately. Walters had learned over the years that “Serious Bob” never did as well in the ratings as “Sarcastic Bob.” Using a hand-to-ashtray thrust that seemed almost angry, he extinguished the last cigarette he’d smoke for the next few hours. It would probably be raining too hard during breaks for Walters to sneak out the side door and smoke a quick one with the rest of the employees of Eger’s.

“I don’t always smoke, but when I do, I want to be able to Fucking Enjoy It,” Walters said out loud to no one in particular, 94

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making a common reference to a popular beer commercial.

It was raining so hard now that Walters delayed a few minutes for it to let up before taking the short walk from the Lexus to the front entrance to Eger’s. Finally Walters entered the pub, letting the door slam behind him as he walked into the bar, shaking water off him like a shaggy dog.

“Yo, Bobby,” Geoff Eger shouted from behind one of the three bars, over the claps and hoots of early arrivers, at least the ones he could identify as humanoid. “This should be a big day.

Give ‘em hell.”

“You’ve got it, Geoff,” Walters said, waving to the crowd.

“We’re talkin’ about why the Cubbies are toast in Game Seven today. Y’all know the delay only helps the Red Sox, right?”

That brought assorted hoots, hollers and maybe a few veiled threats along with classy rejoinders such as, “You can suck my dick, Walters.” That came from a guy who looked like a typical, clean-cut Yuppie Cubs fan until you looked at his face. In particular, he had deep brown, hawk-like, penetrating eyes that never seemed to blink and gazed rifle shots through Walters.

At first, Walters thought the guy had eye-black under his eyes like athletes smeared on their faces to reduce sun glare.

Then he realized those actually were black bags indicating definite sleep deprivation. The weird juxtaposition between the fan’s haunted, exhausted gaze and his $85 Cubs polo shirt fueled Walters’ imagination. He envisioned a minivan ride through hell with this dude as he snorted meth for three straight days on a manic mission from Winnetka to Tijuana. Two, or maybe three, children screamed for junk food from their child seats. Maybe this frantic fan hadn’t been to bed since the playoffs started for all Walters knew.

It was all Walters could do to not say, “Does your wife know you’ve stopped taking your meds?” The guy only averted the killer stare after Walters played the eye-contact game until he won.

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Eger’s sometimes gave Walters a vague sense of unease, though he would never admit it publicly. The ill-fitting door is what did it for starters. It just didn’t have the sound of a thick, cushioned studio door shutting tightly. That comforting sound took him to the physical and mental space he thought of “His Room,” a place where everything was under his control; where every outside sound and access was tightly controlled.

From the studio, a board operator played Walters’ theme song, “The Man Cubs Fans Love to Hate.” Walters opened the show by mixing it up with some regular callers. He took special joy in driving the stat-freaks crazy with topics such as “Ernie Banks: The Most Overrated Shortstop in the Hall of Fame.”

There was Bud from Addison, Gina from the South Side, Perry from downstate Peru and Tyrus from Flossmoor. The webcasts had expanded the ranks of what were known in the trade as repeaters. After all, Chicago transplants were everywhere.

Miguel from Caracas had family in Chicago and followed the Cubs religiously. There was Tony from Toledo, Diana from Hazard, Kentucky, Jeremy and some other Chicago Jews in Tel Aviv and even some service guys in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Those were the only ones who ever got a pulled punch from Walters, who was smart enough to know it was a bad karma and very bad for one’s employment prospects to embarrass a soldier in a battle zone.

People loved to call in and argue with him. Fans loved to bait him, swearing this would be the year he’d eat crow, or eat something else he couldn’t say on the radio.

That was fine for station management. Controversy spelled ratings.

Walters’ blog – “B-Walt’s Sports Assault”—was another success story. He peppered it with statistics that documented Cubs futility and frustration provided by his wheelchair-bound buddy, Scott “Moose” Skowron, who was a fiendishly smart statistician with a passion for baseball. Moose’s best moment might have been when he developed a calculation he called “The ‘Roid Ratio” to measure the impact of muscle-enhancing 96

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steroids on home-run output on hitters such as Chicago’s Sammy Sosa. Sosa and many others mysteriously became prodigious sluggers during the steroids era.

Walters leaned over the rail of the bar at Eger’s and kissed Aimee on the cheek. “Hey, Angel,” Walters said. “How’s my baby girl?”

“Good, Daddy,” Aimee responded with a blush as a couple of regulars razzed her about getting a kiss from her father.

“You’re here early today.”

“Yeah,” Walters replied. Aimee grabbed a short cocktail glass. Walters held up his hand, reminding her of his drinking routine. “Not tonight, Angel.”

“Really?” Aimee was pleasantly surprised. There were more times than not lately when her father neglected the lessons he learned in Alcoholics Anonymous. Like most alcoholics, those lessons needed repeating before they took hold. Alcoholics and their families knew it was no cliché that alcoholism was a daily battle.

“Really,” Walters reassured his daughter. “Just give me my iced-tea-that-looks-like-scotch or a diet Coke with lime for the time being. The material is just too good today. No way I want to stumble.”

Walters was on Twitter. He was on Facebook. He was a podcast. He was B-Walt. He not only helped tell the story, he was part of the story.

At just the right moment, with the Chicago Cubs actually playing in a World Series, Bob Walters had a real shot at becoming a big-time brand. Maybe he’d go national.

It all sounded great. “The sky’s the limit for Bob Walters,” was the way a recent profile on a broadcasting industry website headlined it. However, Walters knew his outlook wasn’t as solid as it looked; the way veneer pretends to be solid wood.

Scribbled red epitaphs on his car windows were the least of the crosses Walters had borne, starting with the events that put Moose in that wheelchair. Decades of hard living and the selfdestruction of his personal life were catching up with him.

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****** It was a long way from how he started. He still reminisced at times about sitting at the end of the bar at Chicago’s famous Billy Goat Saloon. Back then, he was the youngest reporter in the sports department of the Chicago Daily News, fresh from the University of Illinois and the blue-collar, northwest suburb of Palatine.

His mom had worked in the Jewel supermarket. His dad had worked seemingly everywhere around town, but rarely failed to bring home a check. Walters himself was the first that anyone knew on either side of the family to get a college degree – quite an accomplishment for a kid who had spent time in “reform” school – the equivalent of juvenile detention in the 1960s.

A funny thing was that even as a kid in the northwest suburbs, where Cubs fans far outnumbered fans of the South-Side White Sox, Walters could not ever remember liking the Cubs. Before anyone knew what a “Yuppie” was, they just seemed like the wrong fit for his outlook on life.

He began his professional career as the envy of his journalism classmates at Illinois. Walters knew he was extremely lucky to be starting out at a big, metropolitan newspaper in Chicago.

Everything that wasn’t associated with the Chicago area in Illinois is called “downstate.” And many of his peers felt fortunate to find jobs working for newspapers or small radio stations in isolated Downstate Illinois towns such as Moline, Galesburg, Decatur and Quincy or places even smaller.

“I got to the Daily News so quickly for three reasons: luck, hustle and skill,” was his stock line whenever he was interviewed or spoke to students about how he got his start.

At his college paper, the Daily Illini, he had stumbled into a great story about a university cover-up on behalf of the school’s football coach. First, the coach, who was married with twins, got drunk and stoned with a 19-year-old cheerleader. Second, his night of straying resulted in the cheerleader’s pregnancy.

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Unfortunately for the coach, the cheerleader’s sister happened to be the girlfriend of Walters’ roommate in their Urbana apartment. It also was unfortunate for the coach that Walters was in the middle of a journalism class that was focusing on Watergate-era reporting. Walters’ professor emphasized the simple, time-tested rule of investigative journalism: Follow the money.

He decided to check how the coach was spending Athletic Department funds. After spending hours looking at invoices, connecting the dots the spending records supplied and knowing from his source what he might find, he linked school funds to payment for the girl’s abortion. The coach had tried to bury the cost by funneling it through helmets purchased by the team’s equipment manager. One player unwittingly gave Walters a quote that turned out to be a devastating clue: “We didn’t really need new helmets,” recalled Richard Pollick, a star linebacker on the Illini squad. “It just seemed weird.”

The coach and half his staff got fired, the university got sued and the story earned more awards and notoriety for Walters as a student journalist then he could have imagined. The story also landed him a job, fresh out of college, at the Daily News.

Once he landed in Chicago, Walters often sat at the end of the bar at the Billy Goat, which was owned by the Sianis family and tucked under the elevated pavement of Michigan Avenue in Chicago’s downtown Loop. Walters mostly kept his mouth shut. Instead of talking, he used the opportunity to soak up everything he could from the assembled Lords of Chicago Journalism, who often drank there until late in the night. Back then, the broadcasters took journalism seriously, too. TV stations even did on-air editorials and took stands on real issues.

It wasn’t just the newspaper guys who showed up but crusty, seasoned reporters and aspiring young hustlers for the local TV and radio stations.

The King Lord of the Billy Goat was the famous columnist Mike Royko. Among other things, Royko loved to write about 99

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Chicago politics, the smoky saloon and the ill-starred fates of the Chicago Cubs. Even though Royko treated Walters like crap, he was every aspiring local columnist’s hero. Royko knew how to hit the jugular, and he genuinely believed in the old saw that his job was to “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” When it came to Chicago politics and other high-and-mighty people, there never was any shortage of the comfortable to afflict.

On slow days on the political front, Royko enjoyed sticking it to the Cubs even though he could not help being a Cubs fan.

Walters’ particular favorite – and a recurring theme of his broadcasts—was that Royko invented the concept of the “exCubs factor.” This was the premise that if a team had too many former Cubs on their roster, they wouldn’t succeed. As crazy as it sounded, it often worked out that way. Two ex-Cubs spelled danger; three meant you definitely would be watching the World Series on television instead of playing in it. And Royko would start every season with a column of Cubs trivia and tales of obscure, mediocre players who had worn the pinstriped home uniforms of the Cubs. Walters quickly picked up how any article stirring some controversy about the cursed losers of Wrigleyville helped sell newspapers.

Already toying with the notion of a TV gig someday, Walters soaked up the verbal battles in the rivalry between Royko and Walter “Skippy” Jacobson, a feisty local news anchor. They went back years together when they worked out of the pressroom at the Cook County government building as reporters for competing newspapers in a city that was a targetrich environment for enterprising journalists.

“Walter’s size is the reason he’s obsessed by potholes,” Royko once wrote, referring to Jacobson’s slight build and stories about the city’s failures. “He’s not worried about ruining a tire; he fears that he will tumble into a pothole someday, won’t be able to climb out, and a city crew will come along and bury him under a pound of asphalt...”

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Bob Walters couldn’t imagine more fun than earning a seat at the bar, taking some crap and dishing it back.

His career took off at the Daily News. When the paper closed in 1978, a victim of declining interest for afternoon newspapers, he moved to the Tribune and settled in as a columnist. His stories criticizing the Cubs led to regular local television appearances that included debates with a good-looking, up-and-coming Congressman named Luke Murphy—a diehard Cubs fan.

He had known Murphy since they were kids in Palatine.

Today he cringed when old video clips surfaced on YouTube of a bushy, side-burned Walters bashing the Cubs, resplendent in a bright green leisure suit. He never saw Luke Murphy in a leisure suit, though he had some ugly ties. Luke always was smart about cultivating his image.

In the 1990s, as cable sports grew in influence, Bob Walters was positioned to take the ride. He became one of the loudest, most colorful and highest-rated pontificators at up-and-coming ESPN. He left newspapers for good in the late ’90s when he landed the WCO sports-talk show.

Then, when Murphy became president, the two men made it a point to help one another from time to time. They knew how to push each other’s buttons, and they both knew a lot about what worked on radio.

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12 Downtown Chicago Mid-Afternoon after Game Six Connie Barlage didn’t get home nearly often enough. She particularly missed her mother, who fortunately was still in good health, and her younger sister, Kim. As executive secretary to the President of the United States, she was under strict guidelines to stay off Facebook and other social media, too, so she only had limited access to the modern ways of staying in touch with family and friends.

“It’s such a treat to have almost an entire free day,” she said to her sister on the phone as Kim drove into downtown Chicago from her home in suburban Naperville. “We’ll do some early Christmas shopping.”

“The way this World Series is going, it might be almost Christmas before it’s over,” Kim responded. “I haven’t shopped on Michigan Avenue in a long time. It’ll be fun.”

Chicago’s stretch of high-end shops along Michigan Avenue’s “Magnificent Mile” rivaled the choices in New York.

Connie already was wondering if it would even be a good idea on a government worker’s budget, albeit a well-paid one, to walk into the Gucci store. Ann Taylor at Water Tower Place seemed like a better bet.

“Okay, Sis,” Connie said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby, though I need to hustle.” She couldn’t resist a mild reminder to her

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sister, though she tried to say it with a humorous tone. “And don’t be late. You know how you are sometimes.”

Kim wanted to ignore the rejoinder, just as she had since they were little girls. “I’m not that far away,” she said with just a hint of an edge. Then she shifted the subject.

“So,” Kim asked, with the hint of an all-knowing tone in her voice. “Do we need to stop at Victoria’s Secret? I imagine you need a Christmas present for Charley, right” “Hmm,” Connie said. “That subject is a state secret. I gotta go. Bye.” “I should be concentrating on this traffic anyway,” Kim said. “Bye. See ya in a few minutes. Love ya, Sis.” As the call ended, Connie started working on her makeup.

Eyeing herself in the mirror, she couldn’t help but feel that too many hours sitting at a desk or working at home instead of working out were beginning to take a toll on a once-smart figure. Her smile still could light up a room when she chose to let it. Her light brown hair was keeping its color and sheen for the most part and still hung nicely, mainly straight with only a hint of a curl. Actually, her hair was so easy to manage that she was the envy of many women. But, she felt, there were a lot of women who looked better than she did at 45. She loved her work, but she wasn’t getting any younger.

She had been with Luke Murphy since he was a young Congressman. Always fascinated with politics and the complicated characters who inhabited that world, she found Murphy to be a particularly fascinating, complex creature – a man who would beat up on himself if he felt he wasn’t doing what was right and good, but also didn’t always see that his own, sometimes-feverish ambitions and prejudices colored his definition of what was “right.”

And that’s where Charley Rayburn came in. Charley was Murphy’s reality check, one of the few people who could tell the President he was full of shit without getting a defensive rejoinder.

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Charley. Their affair was no big secret in the White House, and it really didn’t count as an affair at all since she was divorced, and Charley had never been married. Her marriage meltdown wasn’t Charley’s fault either. The marriage needed no outside help on that score. He came along at just the right time, when she was sinking low and lonely, wondering what the future had in store for a bright, middle-aged woman who wasn’t interested in random, short-term encounters or cougarlike thrills with younger lovers. Her standards were high, and the field seemed slimmer and slimmer. More often lately, she contemplated whether a life alone would be better than having to settle for less than a true soulmate.

Marriage was something they had discussed, though they both made a game out of pretending to the President that it wasn’t in the cards. Actually, it was, but just not now with their crazy jobs. Sometimes, they just used each other for welcome physical release from the relentless pressure of life in the White House. When they were done making fast, furious love, they’d sink into each other’s arms in exhaustion, thankful for a few minutes when they could live in the moment instead of the constant mire of anticipation and calculation needed to handle the next batch of problems. Charley’s office couch could tell more than just state secrets.

Charley, military to the core, was relatively simple where Murphy was complicated. Trained to suppress his ego for the greater good, duty and honor, he would, if anything, go too far in deflecting credit that belonged to him.

He was a wonderful, attentive lover who seemed to sense her moods with the precision of his military background and then make sure he satisfied her in just the way she wanted.

She enjoyed his company, and loved the challenge of making him laugh—really laugh. He’d fight it for as long as he could, but then his eyes would shed their usual veils, and his mouth would almost erupt into a large grin. She really did like him a lot. Loved him really. It just wasn’t certain there ever would be enough time or energy to take their relationship to the next 104

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level. Plus, one of them probably would have to leave the White House if they were married.

As if on cue, her phone rang and it was Charley.

“Hey, Colonel,” Connie said in a teasing voice. “I was just thinking about you. My sister thinks I’m getting all dressed up for your eyes only.”

“And are you?” Rayburn asked. “I wish I could give myself some leave time today if that’s the case. I just wanted to say hello. I’m probably going to spend the day being unsuccessful in convincing the President he shouldn’t come back to Chicago for Game Seven if the game gets postponed a day, which looks to be the case. You’re going shopping with Kim, right?”

“Correct,” Connie said. “But you can be sure that you’re on a Christmas list we’ll execute with military precision. Planning is everything, right? What’s up?”

“Well, like I said, I really just wanted to call and say hi, because I don’t know if I’ll get a chance later,” he said. “I assume you saw on the news about what happened in Cincinnati. We saw part of it from Air Force One. Actually, we’re still in the air, so I’m calling from the plane.”

“My God, Charley, that’s awful. What does this Cincinnati thing mean?”

“We had an acronym for that in my unit,” Rayburn said.

“WTFK. Who the Fuck Knows? That’s where we are at this point.”

“You know I can cut this short and get to work if you and the President need me,” Connie said.

“We do know that,” he said. “And we appreciate it. And my orders were explicit. I am supposed to spend more time with you and make sure you are happy.”

“Well, I think the Commander-in-Chief is a very wise man,” Connie said. “Be safe, Colonel.”

“You, too, Connie,” he said. “I really do miss you.”

“I miss you, too, Charley,” she said. “Over and out.”

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After she hung up, Connie went back to getting ready. On the television, CNN was showing agents and police going through some rubble in Cincinnati, but she was too absorbed to pay more than scant attention. She spent about 15 minutes mixing and matching outfits from the options in her suitcase.

It was damp and cold, so she put on a long white sweater with light, gray stripes over a solid purple top that showed just a hint of cleavage. She added a matching scarf, designer blue jeans and modest-but-pointy heels. After all, this wasn’t like going to some suburban mall, this was the Magnificent Mile. She took a second to look at herself in the mirror, but not too long – otherwise her eyes would go to some unwanted belly fat or start a hunting expedition for new sags and wrinkles.

That thought made her laugh. Charley wasn’t the only one with a distinctive laugh. Others often commented on her laugh, which was more of a bird-like trill. “That laugh is worth the wait for us spectators, Sis,” Kim would tell her. “Trust me.”

Connie’s nose would twitch a bit at first. Then her eyes would gleam and her smile would, as the cliché went, light up the room before the memorable trill came out of her mouth.

“You have to laugh, so you don’t cry,” she said out loud.

As she hunted for her umbrella, she heard a knock on the door. Maybe Kim had surprised her by arriving early and come up to her room. This time, she was the one taking a long time to get ready.

And then Connie’s life changed forever.

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13 The White House, Washington Late Afternoon after Game Six President Luke Murphy was known around the White House for the unusual, almost inordinate amount of preparation time he usually took for radio interviews. Most presidents looked at audio-only events with feelings of relief. There was no need for makeup, and they could shed the Washington uniform of dark suit, white shirt and conservative tie if they felt like going casual.

Assuming there were no photographers or other media members in the room, they could do what everyone else does when no one is recording or snapping. They could sneer, raise their eyebrows in mock derision and even flip a bird or two without having every nuance of their body language dissected by pundits, political rivals, spouses and everyone else with an interest in presidential behavior. The danger, of course, was complacency, and many a president had been burned by casual, offhand comments caused by lack of focus or preparation. In an era of social media in which everyone had a cell phone camera, those dangers magnified.

Murphy liked speaking to the masses through the speakers in their vehicles and elsewhere. Radio was not an afterthought in his media scheme. He called into popular national and local shows on a regular basis, especially the many that were friendly 107

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to Republicans. It was a variation of the famous “Fireside Chats” of President Franklin D. Roosevelt during the Great Depression and World War II. Murphy knew that radio left a little bit of mystery. It forced the viewer to concentrate a bit more on the actual point while the mind’s eye painted a picture to go with the words.

“You don’t blow these off. That’s the key thing I learned from studying Roosevelt and his chats. He thought of everything from the precise words to his tone of voice,” Murphy said to Rayburn shortly before going on the air. “Reagan revived FDR’s Saturday radio addresses, and he was really good at it.

Clinton also made very effective use of radio.”

Rayburn couldn’t help but remind Murphy that Reagan also sent the Soviet Union into panic when he made this joke during a 1984 sound check that leaked out: “My fellow Americans, I’m pleased to tell you today that I’ve signed legislation that will outlaw Russia forever. We begin bombing in five minutes.”

“Well, there you go,” Rayburn said. “That’s a great yarn. It also shows you have to be precise and have a specific goal to accomplish. Oh, and remember the other side controls when the microphone is on and off when you’re doing a talk show.”

Since this was a live chat with Bob Walters, there was no way to script remarks precisely, but Murphy always went through a careful mental review of what he would want a random listener to perceive and conclude from his remarks. In this case, it was an opportunity to show Walters’ audience a human side of the president but also demonstrate that he was no pushover; that he could hold his own against a guy like Walters. It didn’t escape Rayburn’s or Murphy’s notice either that many of the listeners would be in Illinois. The Land of Lincoln was likelier to vote for a president from the other party, but it wasn’t an impossible reach for a Republican native like Murphy.

Murphy also was processing the scattered information coming from Cincinnati. He would need to make some reference to that situation. It was tragic but could have been a lot worse.

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talk about whether the cause was accidental, purposeful or, worst-case scenario, a terrorist act.

In order to be ready for whatever a talk-show host would throw at him, usually Murphy would study the briefing books his staff prepared as though he were meeting with the United Nations Security Council. Sometimes he wondered if it was worth the trouble. “Shit, it’s more likely that voters could tell you the name of the high school football coach than the name of a country on the Council anyway,” Murphy remarked.

The one time Murphy would relax a bit on preparation was when he’d talk sports on the air with Walters, his lifelong friend.

So, knowing that his boss would be talking in a few minutes, Rayburn was not surprised when he walked into the Oval Office and found the President gazing out the window into the Rose Garden. Murphy looked at Rayburn as he approached the desk.

“If the Cubs win,” Rayburn asked, “are you going to invite Bob Walters to the ceremony? That would be a hoot.”

“Oh … yeah,” replied an obviously distracted Murphy. If only a Rose Garden ceremony for the Cubbies was all there was to ponder in that relationship. He was thinking about growing up with Bob Walters.

Walters was the wise guy. No surprise there. Bob struggled to get good grades mainly because he was always cracking jokes in class. Murphy, on the other hand, was the type of kid who would remind a teacher on Friday about weekend homework assignments, much to the dismay of his classmates. Murphy used to stop by Walters’ house every morning, and the two of them would walk to school together – at least until Bob got sent away.

When the phone on the President’s desk rang, Rayburn picked it up immediately. “Oval Office,” he said.

“Col. Rayburn?” asked the voice of the White House operator on the line.

“Speaking.”

“When I connect you, you’ll have Mr. Skowron from the Bob Walters Show on the line.”

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Murphy was amazed how, as a grown man who was head of the world’s most powerful nation, Skowron’s name still could make him cringe. Mixtures of anger, frustration and guilt inevitably bubbled up. First he would think of “Luuuuke,” the bullying taunt that Skowron used to shout at him in elementary school. When the line clicked in, Rayburn announced their presence.

“Good afternoon, Col. Rayburn. Hello Mr. President,” said a cheerful Scott “Moose” Skowron.

“Hey Moose,” replied Murphy. “How ya doing?”

“Better than I should be,” Skowron replied. “I’ll be feeling a lot better if we win the Series.”

“You’ve got that right,” Murphy said.

“You coming home for the game?”

The word “home” threw Murphy off a bit. He was not used to being spoken to in such a casual tone in the Oval Office.

Murphy looked at Rayburn and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m trying to, Moose. It might be possible if the game gets delayed a day. How’s the weather look in Chi-town?”

“They should make the right decision,” Skowron said. “It’s cold, wet and ugly. There’s no break in the radar I can see.”

“Too bad.”

“In any event, I’d love to see you again sometime when you’re in town,” Skowron interjected. “You know, just to say hello and shake your hand. The past is past.”

Murphy rolled his eyes at the thought of seeing Skowron again. “I’d love that, Moose.”

“Okay, I’m going to put you on hold for about 10 seconds and when you come back you’ll be on the line with Pepino.”

That was Skowron’s childhood nickname for Walters. “Bobby really owes you big-time for doing this,” Skowron said.

Murphy didn’t verbalize. He nodded an invisible “yes” and mentally gave Skowron two points for scoring with the subtle “Pepino” dig despite the “past is the past” comment. Then he wondered if Skowron really knew how much the President owed Bob Walters.

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14 Chicago Suburbs 1963 “Luuuuke.” “Luuuuke.” Indeed, that was how the taunt went. They took his name and stretched it with a Southern twang. Over and over and over. It still hurt. It still hurt years later—even though he was President; even though he was a real hero with real combat medals; even though the taunts he heard from his critics now were far worse, threatening, evil and downright sick at times.

Luke Murphy still had a room in his mind that was the secret place that most men had, even the most successful ones.

“Well,” he thought, “maybe Donald Trump is an exception.” It was the secret place under the veneer of confidence where you wondered if you were good enough; if you really deserved to be where you were. And even though no human being had ever had more firepower at his disposal than Luke Murphy could unleash with one or two words, he still had frequent dreams in which faceless boys taunted him, yelling, “Luuuuke.” You didn’t need to have a psychiatric license to figure that one out.

Murphy would sit straight up in bed, waiting for his head to clear before he could remember he was no longer the little boy.

Then he’d try to shut the door to the secret room in his mind, seeking sleep.

What started it all was a stupid television show. “Luke” was 111

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a hick name as far as the other kids were concerned. It was tough to be a youngster named “Luke” in the era of “The Real McCoys,” one of the most popular situation comedies of the day – and probably one of the silliest in an era of comedies framed around stereotypes of clueless mountain people.

“Luuuke,” Grampa Amos McCoy used to yell when he was calling the show’s star and his fictional grandson, Luke McCoy. The two respected actors who played those roles, Walter Brennan as Grampa and Richard Crenna as Luke, were way better than those roles suggested, but that was television and Hollywood in the late 1950s and early 1960s – more than 220 episodes worth in the case of “The Real McCoys.”

The McCoys were West Virginia mountaineers who had moved to California to become dirt farmers along with a Mexican ranch hand named Pepino. And, talk about mountain stereotypes, Luke had an 11-year-old brother whose name was “Little Luke.”

“From West Vir-gi-nee they came to stay in sunny Cal-i-forni-ay,” was one refrain of the hokey theme song.

Bob Walters, a know-it-all sixth-grader, thought “The Real McCoys” was pretty damn stupid. By 1963, the show already was moving into reruns and syndication. He couldn’t understand why his parents, aunts and uncles all thought it was hilarious as they sat behind TV trays in their suburban Chicago living rooms watching the show every week.

Walters had vaguely Hispanic features at that age, with olive-tinged skin, a wiry frame and dark hair slicked back with Brylcreem hair creme in the style of the day. He was disappointed that his parents wouldn’t let him grow his hair longer in the style of the Beatles. His hair was slicked back in large part to prevent an explosion of his many curls and cowlicks, giving him a perpetually unkempt look unless he greased his hair. His junior-high-school growth spurt hadn’t happened yet, so he also had the slight build that was associated with Hispanics. The few real Hispanic students he knew were mainly Puerto Ricans who 112

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kept to themselves. None of them were named Pepino as far as Bob knew.

Walters’ best friend was Luke Murphy, who lived a block away in the suburb of Palatine. Bob was the wise guy. Luke was the more serious one; more likely to be bothered by a bad grade, a perceived slight or anything that seemed unfair. He had a quiet sense of humor and the cute-guy looks that attracted girls who wanted a guy who was a little different. He wasn’t in with the in crowd, but he wasn’t a dork.

The taunting really took off when Luke got his first kiss, a little peck on the cheek at a party from Meg Williamson, who just happened to be the cutest girl in the school. It was a spinthe-bottle kind of embarrassed, grade-school kiss, more giggle than actual contact; guaranteed to lead to lots of passed notes and schoolroom chatter.

But that little kiss was a big annoyance to Scott Skowron, a burly, tall-for-his-age kid who already the football coaches at Palatine High School salivating about his impending arrival in two more years. The coaches had visions of tightly thrown spirals landing precisely into the outstretched arms of fleet receivers in the silver-and-red uniforms under the Friday night lights of the Pirates’ home field, pushing the team to a MidSuburban League title and, who knew, maybe even a shot in the state tournament.

A couple of Scott’s wise-guy uncles had nicknamed him “Moose” after Bill “Moose” Skowron, a burly, Polish baseball player from Chicago who hit prodigious home runs for the New York Yankees, the Chicago White Sox and several other teams during a 14-year career that included eight All-Star Game appearances. From the time he was tall enough to hold a bat on his own or throw a football, Scott Skowron had been a star.

Before her death, his is mother worried for a while that all the attention and coddling could spoil her son, especially when it started before his age even hit double digits. Then she found she really enjoyed being the young prodigy’s mom.

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Scott, who already had the tall, husky build of many powerful athletes, even looked a bit like Bill Skowron and shared a heritage as the grandson of Eastern European immigrants who had found their way to ethnic Polish neighborhoods on Chicago’s West Side in the early 1900s before dispersing into the now-sprawling suburbs. There was some thought in the family that Scott might even be a distant relative of Bill’s. Completing the picture, Bill Skowron had gone to Purdue University on a football scholarship before switching full-time to baseball. The truth was that football was Scott’s first love, too.

Luke stopped by Bob’s house on every school day as they walked to Mr. Guy’s sixth-grade class at Adlai Stevenson Elementary School. It was a short walk; about two blocks past lines of skinny trees planted by the developer in the mid 1950s that lined the suburban lawns and framed the tidy, one-story homes bought in large measure by the soldiers who returned from World War II, got married and started families. In Palatine, many of these first-generation homeowners believed they had found a piece of the American Dream, fueled by the benefits of the G.I. Bill, escaping the closed-in feeling and urban decline in the ethnic neighborhoods that had been the settling points for their parents and relatives in large cities such as Chicago in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

The taunts usually started when Bob and Luke arrived on the playground.

“Luuuke,” several other boys would chime in unison as soon as they saw Murphy.

“I see you brought Pepino with you,” taunted another.

It had started a year earlier. Something about it stuck for reasons that only kids would understand at that moment, and the kiss from Meg accelerated things. Kid humor. With a popular leader like Scott Skowron as the ringleader, it didn’t take long for “Luke and Pepino” to catch on.

Luke in particular wasn’t a very good athlete. The summer before, when he waved futilely at a pitch during an important moment of a Little League game, Skowron was on the opposing 114

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bench, getting all the teammates to join in the “Luuuke” taunt, followed by “Where’s Pepino,” in fake, Mexican accents.

Luke always felt terrible about striking out, but especially that time. In his mind, he had cost his team the game. Adults forget the shame of the child who fails in front of his peers.

The taunt was the last straw. He ran at Skowron as soon as the game was over, jumping on his back. Without really intending, a sharp nail on his right index finger scratched Skowron just enough to send a trickle of blood down one cheek. Skowron brushed him off his back, turned around and punched Murphy in the stomach.

“Geez, what is your problem, Murphy?” Skowron said, feigning innocence and making sure he turned his head so the adults could see the blood droplets on his cheek. “You can’t take a little ribbing.”

Murphy gasped for air, the fight knocked out of him, the embarrassment deeper than his heaving chest. Skowron quickly figured out the best move was to create the illusion of maturity, so he backed off when it would’ve been easy to land another blow.

The adults, of course, had no idea of the story-behind-thestory, so Luke Murphy came across as a borderline-wimpy kid who lost his temper over something as inconsequential in an adult’s world as a missed pitch in a child’s game. The League suspended him for two games, which also resulted in Murphy’s dad whacking him with a belt after the coach called with the news. That night, he cried himself to sleep but vowed not to let shame show a public face ever again.

After that, Bob and Luke tried to take it more in stride but sometimes it still hurt. Years later, “Pepino1963” was the word Walters would use most often for his computer passwords.

Mickey, his ex-wife, had asked him about it once.

“Let’s just say it’s my way of remembering some of the grade-school bullies who thought they were better than me,” Walters replied. “Now, I imagine they’re Cubs fans.”

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Walters didn’t know that Murphy often used “RichardCrenna” as a password but would have found this both interesting and amusing. As sarcastic and insensitive as Walters could be on the air, he would have hesitated before sharing these particular stories in public or making a joke about the President of the United States using the name of a once-popular but nowobscure actor from their childhood. It was too close to home.

Walters and Murphy had drifted apart as adults. The national media had long ceased its fascination with the oddity of their childhood friendship – the thoughtful, measured President of the United States and the go-for-the-jugular sports talk-show host.

But there would always be a bond, sealed tightly by the relentless taunting in those grade-school years, and made permanent by what happened later.

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15 Eger’s Pub, Wrigleyville Afternoon Following Game Six At roughly the halfway point of his show at Eger’s, Walters came back from a commercial break for Tony Singleton BuickCadillac – “The Home of Grand-Slam Deals” – to introduce his special guest.

“You all know how I feel about over-the-top Cubs fans,” Walters began. “I like to have fun with you guys, even though you make it too-too easy. You know who you are. No matter how good a day you are having, a Cubs loss changes blue skies to gray clouds.”

Now Walters was on a roll. “The sex-fantasy boy or girl of your choice could have just called you up and said, ‘Hey, I decided I’m interested, and YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. How soon can you get here?’ So, you’re practically drooling.

You’re on the way to his or her place for the night of your life, listening to the game on the radio on the way to the ultimate liaison. But, my goodness, the Cubbies lose, probably due to some weirdness or a complete choke in the clutch. Oh, the pain.

You can’t get it out of your mind. Sorry, sweetheart. It’s too much of a distraction for your own performance. You know what I’m talkin’ about.”

Walters briefly paused for effect. “But I make a slight exception for one and only one rabid Cubs fan, mainly because 117

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if I annoy him too much, he has access to nuclear weapons and can listen to all my phone calls. He is a native of the Chicago suburb of Palatine – a hive of buzzing Cubs fans like himself— and my own childhood chum despite an affliction that could cause voters to question his judgment.

“Yeah, my friends, he is the president of these United States.

We have President Luke Murphy on the line. So, Mr. President, speaking of insects, I suppose the Game Six gnat attack ruined your day as well.”

Murphy was ready; 99 percent sure Walters would start with the damn gnats.

“Bobby, it is hard for me to believe you ever get out of that place in one piece. And, the way you’re rambling on about fantasies, I can only conclude you must have some challenges in that department,” Murphy said over the phone line, serving up an opener that brought hoots and hollers from the assembled crowd.

“I confess. I am a true believer,” Murphy said. “And I think the tide has turned. The gnat attack was just God’s way of having a little fun with us before finally bringing us some vindication.”

“Unlikely, but leave it to a politician to suggest God is on his side. So, Luke – uh, Mr. President,” Walters said, “will you be joining us for the seventh game?”

“Well, that’s why I’m rooting for a postponement,” Murphy answered. “You are the first to know officially that I have some people checking out the logistics. I feel like I need to be there.

I assume you noticed the Cubs started getting better after I was elected. Don’t under-value the power of the presidency.”

Walters grabbed the bait from his childhood friend. “So, are you saying the main reason you will run for re-election is some misguided notion that your presidency brings luck to the Cubbies?”

Murphy laughed. “Yeah, that’s it Bobby,” he responded. “It certainly isn’t because Congress loves me.”

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me all the time what you were like growing up. I tell them that what you see is what you get. I saw you in Little League. You couldn’t hit a curve, and it was easier for you to catch a cold than a fly ball. You would have fit right in with the Cubs.”

“You sound like you’re writing attack ads for the Democrats,” Murphy said. “Luke Murphy – still swinging and missing.

Damn, I shouldn’t have said that. I’ll see that in a commercial.

Bob, you know that’s not exactly true.

“Like a lot of kids, I was kind of awkward,” he continued.

“Maybe that’s why I concentrated on academics. Call me a wonk, I guess. I had lousy eye-hand coordination for one thing.

Ask – well, take that back, don’t ask – people who have seen me play golf or even shoot pool. But, I worked at it as I got older and moved from ‘bad’ to ‘holds his own’ in lots of sports. I did okay in the military, too, as you might recall.”

“You did well indeed,” Walters said. “No one can argue with a war hero.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t just me, but I appreciate that,” Murphy said, and then surprised himself by getting more personal than he planned. “People might be surprised by how often you’ve had my back, Bobby.”

“So true, Mr. President, so true,” Walters said, in silent agreement with Murphy. There was no need to add detail to fill in the blanks. “Hey, I know you have other things to do, and we have to sell some more stuff. Thanks so much for calling in, and we’ll be back after this break.”

“My pleasure, Bobby,” Murphy said. “And I will join thousands of other listeners who will take pleasure in watching you eat a big plate full of crow after the Cubs win the Series.

And maybe these good fans can give you some advice on that fantasy thing.”

That brought more big cheers and hoots. After the commercial break, Walters felt some satisfaction the presidential interview had gone well, though he realized he forgot to explore the Cincinnati situation with the President. No matter. Now it was time to get on with the rest of the show.

119

16 Eger’s Pub, Wrigleyville Afternoon Following Game Six Realizing it was smarter to hang around in the back of the packed room, Tommy Czerski pulled his 1950s-era replica Cubs hat lower on his forehead and wondered if it was too big a risk to show his face to Walters and get into it with him in public. It was taking all his self-control to hang back. His leg was doing such a drumbeat the sweaty, heavy guy in the furry, knit Cubs hat next to him had to tell Tommy to stop shaking the table so much. Tommy could tell the guy and his buddy shared Cubbies passion, which gave him an idea.

“Hey, m-m-man,” Tommy said to him, “are you going to say anything to Walters?”

“I dunno. Why?” “Thing is, I freeze when I speak in public, but think about this shit Walters is putting out,” Tommy said, controlling the brief flare-up of his stutter. Then the words came out in a flood, clear as could be. “First of all, the jinx is more complicated than that. I just read a book about the history of the Billy Goat Tavern – found it for $2.98 in a used-book bin.” He pulled the book out of his back pack and handed it to the man, who looked at it briefly; then passed it to his buddy.

“Yeah,” the man responded. “I know about the curse.”

The guy’s friend jumped in. “Yeah, I heard when the fucking goat was happy, he brought the Cubs good luck. When he’s disappointed, no-can-do. They lose.”

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Tommy nodded his head. “T-t-that’s right. I’m not saying I even believe in any jinx, but look what happened in 1994.”

All loyal Cubs fans remembered when the team lost the first 12 games of the season. They didn’t win until Sam Sianis—the nephew of the Billy’s Goat original owner—and the legendary “Mr. Cub,” retired star Ernie Banks, brought a goat to Wrigley Field.

“Yeah,” Tommy’s new friend responded. “I remember that. That’s a good point. Hey, okay. Buy me an Old Style, and I’ll give Walters some crap. My name’s Ron, by the way. My parents actually named me after Ron Santo.”

“Hey,” Tommy said. He returned the hand shake, enjoying the reference to the great Cubs third baseman who became a beloved broadcaster and unrepentant team booster before his death. “I’ve got a c-c-cat named Santo, if you can believe that.

My name’s Tom.” He paused, not wanting to give away his real name. “Uh, Tom J-J-Jones, like the singer,” Tommy said, humming a few bars of “It’s Not Unusual” and giving the dude a half-smile. “G-G-Good to meet ya.”

Ron got in the microphone line. He waited about 30 minutes before Skowron rolled away from Walters in his wheelchair and handed a microphone to the man who introduced himself simply as “Ron from Roselle.” Worried about a verbal battle with Walters and nervous to be on the air for the first time, Ron reminded Walters the goat legend probably was crap anyway.

“But,” Ron added in his thick, Chicago accent. “I’m just sayin’ there are some other aspects ya need ta consider.” He then repeated the Ernie Banks story from 1994.

“But, Ronnie, Ronnie, come on,” Walters said on the air.

“Let’s start with Ernie’s credentials for starters. I mean, he was a great-hitting shortstop for lousy teams. I’ll give you that. He also was way overrated as a fielder, and you gotta remember the Cubs didn’t do squat during his career. Not all his fault, of course. He only came close once on a team that should have contended for several years.

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“And, to make matters worse, the one year they do get close, in 1969, they LOSE TO THE FREAKIN’ NEW YORK METS. The Mets! A team that had existed for only seven years! They were ahead of the Mets by NINE GAMES in August! They went on an eight-game losing streak in September when the chips were down!”

Now Walters was on a roll. “How do you spell C-O-LL-A-P-S-E? What are the signs?” he asked, then answered his own question. “The key ’69 moment happens when ONE OF THE MOST OBSCURE PLAYERS in Cubs history, Don Young, loses a ball he should’ve caught in the outfield. And then what happens? THE TEAM FREAKS OUT! Completely chokes! Where is Ernie in all this? Okay, I know I’m criticizing God here, but where is Ernie Banks? Leaders pull their teams together. It didn’t happen. And that was 1969. Who knew then what was to come? From goats in ’69 to gnats today. If you have a working brain, and if you care about baseball, you know logic doesn’t work with the Cubs. You know in your heart there will be a Cubs moment at the worst possible time this year, too.”

“And what if dere isn’t one of those moments?” Ron responded. “You’d hafta find a new line of work.”

“That’s exactly why I’m not worried about losing my job.

Ron, but, hey, you can go sit down now unless you have some juicy new statistic to intrigue us with,” Walters said, sarcasm purposely showing. “Whatcha got?”

Sarcasm apparently was lost on Ron when it came to the Cubs. “Bob, I just like the way this club is put together. They’ve got pitching, speed and defense. They’re not just depending on hittin’ the ball out of da park like a lot of past Cubs teams,” Ron said.

“Okay, Ronnie, we get that you’re a true believer,” Walters said abruptly, feeling his boredom meter spike and following his instincts that the listeners were drifting, too. “Keep the faith.

And thanks for standing up in spite of your misguided views.”

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Then Walters realized he had the right moment to play his “Tommy from Streamwood” highlight reel.

“Ronnie, you remind me of someone that all you regular listeners know. In honor of the No. 1 Crazed Cubs Fan in the Universe, the audio wizards at WCO have created a special highlight reel we call ‘The Best of Tommy from Streamwood.’

Enjoy. Enjoy. And when we come back, maybe I can convince President Murphy why he could save himself a lot of agony by staying at the White House instead of trying to come here for Game Seven,” Walters said, showing a smirk. “But I know him too well. Don’t be surprised if the President shows up.”

The “highlights” lasted for about two minutes – a long time in radio – and even the diehard Cubs fans in the crowd were roaring with laughter by the time it finished. That included Ron, who worked his way back to his seat.

“Hey, Tom,” Ron said to Tommy between chuckles. “You’ve got the same first name as that guy, and a little bit of, you know, that speech impediment. Hope you’re not from Streamwood, too.”

Tommy pretended to laugh along with the rest, but he couldn’t stop his leg from doing its own Metallica drumbeat.

Seeing Walters in person usually did that to him, but this was worse than usual.

Tommy was trying not to listen. To divert himself, he watched Aimee Walters. When she stepped out of the bar to take a smoke, Tommy got up from his chair to do the same.

Tommy walked out into an alley from the side door, a battered metal fireproof slab that had seen its share of drunken fists and broken knuckles. There wasn’t supposed to be any smoking on or off the premises but “everyone” knew about the alley, and the cops didn’t care as long as excessive amounts of weed or other controlled substances didn’t enter the picture.

A group of three guys huddled to Tommy’s right. The lateafternoon sun couldn’t reach into the alley, making the autumn chill feel more like a Chicago-winter chill, especially since 123

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the narrow alley created a wind-tunnel effect that turned light breezes into gusts.

Tommy looked to his left and noticed Aimee, leaning against the side of the building and grabbing a smoke on her break.

“Hey, Babe,” she said, flicking an ash onto the top of an empty keg that was leaning against the pub’s brick wall.

“Hey, you kn-kn-kn-know you shouldn’t sm-sm-smoke,” Tommy said, forcing a smile in the hopes that she’d find his stutter charming instead of pathetic. He admitted to himself that he had a bit of a crush on the shapely bartender and resolved to avoid “elevator eyes,” which female radar detected immediately as male eyes moved downward to target-lock onto the breasts.

But it was hard to resist a quick glance below Aimee’s chin level. Her light jacket was unzipped, revealing a red, skin-tight top with thin straps and a vertical, center row of buttons that were undone to reveal a small but inviting hint of cleavage.

“Eger’s Pub” was inscribed across the swoopy line formed by the top against her bra. A yellow gold necklace with a Cubs charm was tight around her neck, and her form-fitting jeans were belted low, revealing a whiff of midriff between her waist and her top. He noted a visible thong line under the tight jeans.

All this Tommy absorbed and fantasized in what he hoped was a micro-second. And he doubted that Aimee was giving him a similar going-over, since the wardrobe for his thin frame was a faded gray T-shirt with a 1920s-era Cubs logo, a darker gray hooded sweatshirt, baggy Eddie Bauer jeans and the black jacket from an Adidas track suit. He was about as much of a standout as the dusty brown brick wall behind him. His retroCubs cap, one that had the white lines fanning out like spokes from the top button of the navy blue cap – mid 1950s style – covered his balding head.

Aimee, of course, picked up on the gaze. She was used to it and did what she always did with horny customers – took it as flattery. After all, she was dressed to pour as much beer as she could for Geoff and make as much as she could in tips for 124

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herself. Still, she quickly made eye contact with him, giving him a quick, pointed glare that a former boyfriend called her “Evil Eye.” The point was to send a clear signal that elevator eyes belonged on the top floor if Tommy wanted to continue to have a conversation with her.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too,” she said.

“About what?” Tommy asked, having lost his train of thought.

“Smoking,” she said, then threw Tommy a wry grin and some raised eyebrows. “Isn’t that what we were talking about?”

“Oh, yeah. Sh-sh-sure,” agreed Tommy, knowing he was caught.

“How about my Dad’s show today,” Aimee added, pushing some conversation. “I usually can’t pay a lot of attention after I do my thing, but I couldn’t help myself today.”

Tommy’s stutter faded with the subject change. Grateful to be off the hook, he added, “Maybe that’s because the Cubs are so close to actually winning a World Series.”

“Nah,” Aimee said, taking a pull off her Newport menthol.

“It was that segment on that Tommy dude from Streamwood.

Funniest mash-up I’ve seen in ages. I mean, shit, we all want the Cubs to win, but this guy is practically foaming at the mouth.

Get a life, for cryin’ out loud.”

It seemed like every synapse in Tommy’s brain was firing in alternating combinations of anger and shame in 4/4 time. He seethed. He cried inside. With great effort, he did a visualization exercise he had read about on the Internet when he typed “anger management” once on Google. He pretended there was a strong but comforting hand calming every crashing wave in his brain.

The exercise didn’t take more than a second or two. He couldn’t tell how long it was before he felt like things were under control.

Aimee was just starting to form a quizzical glance when Tommy finally spoke in a tone that he desperately wanted to use to reflect as much disappointment as anger. But it didn’t come out that way. “Guh-guh-gosh, you’re just like your f-f-fucking 125

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old m-m-man,” he said with an inflection that made it sound snarly and sarcastic.

Tommy finally recovered and spoke again. He didn’t want Aimee thinking he was that nasty. “Hey, I didn’t really m-mmean the way that sounded,” he replied. “Everybody was laughing about it in the john, too. Like you said, that guy seems pretty nu-nu-nuts.”

He knew himself well enough to know he had said and heard enough at that point, even if meant the end of one-on-one time with the beautiful Aimee. He flicked his cigarette down the alley, swiveled and went back into the bar, nearly running into Bob Walters, who was headed for the main exit after ending the show and shooting the breeze with Geoff Eger for a few minutes.

“Hey, watch your step, my man,” Walters said.

“Sorry,” Tommy said, looking down at his shoes collecting his thoughts and trying hard to force his anger into a big anger box. He started to say something else –- and, oh, how he wanted to do more than just say something to that shitbag Walters—but his brain’s early-warning system sent up a cautionary flare. It might not be a good idea for Walters to hear his voice, especially if he started to stutter.

With nothing more to say, Tommy kept walking.

Walters walked outside and was just starting to get into the Lexus when Eger came running up to him.

“Bob, there’s a call for you,” Eger said. “The guy won’t say who it is, but says it is urgent, and it involves your show.”

Eger handed Walters the cordless phone. “Yeah, this is Bob Walters.”

“Mr. Walters, I’m FBI Agent William Beatrice. We need to talk to you as soon as possible.”

“Can you say what this is about?”

“Not right now. How soon can we meet? What time and where?”

“I can’t imagine why we would need to meet. Do I need a lawyer?” Walters said, half-jokingly, or so he hoped.

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“No. We want your help. Is that good enough for now?”

“Good enough for now, I guess,” Walters replied. “How about we meet at my radio station in an hour? Do you know where it is?”

“We can find it. I have another stop to make first. Let’s make it 90 minutes.”

“Dumb question on my part,” Walters said. “I’m guessing you can find it. After all, you’re the FBI.” Meanwhile, inside the bar, Aimee tried to shake off the creepy feelings she was fighting as she swabbed the counter.

It was the stutter and the moment that seemed to come from a really deep well of anger before he suppressed it.

She wondered at that instant if she had been standing in a dark Chicago alley with Tommy from Streamwood. Yes, she concluded, it certainly was possible.

127

17 Westin Michigan Avenue Chicago Late Afternoon after Game Six Kim Barlage sat, watching and waiting, next to a spiral staircase in the contemporary lobby of the Westin Michigan Avenue Hotel along Chicago’s “Magnificent Mile.” However, she wasn’t feeling very magnificent as she tapped her fingers and rings in a complicated drum pattern on the end table next to the plush chair. Her feelings kept flipping around in mental gyrations between confusion, impatience and annoyance.

Where the hell was Connie?

Kim had arrived about 20 minutes late for their sister shopping trip with her apology already rehearsed. She freely admitted that she was not the most punctual person on the planet. She knew it was rude, even if that wasn’t her intent. She kept trying to improve her organizational skills so she wasn’t trying to do so much at once or waiting ‘til the last minute to get ready. Her lack of punctuality had been a seemingly endless discussion when the two women were growing up, leading to an occasional argument between her and her older sister.

Connie was nothing if not punctual.

“No wonder she’s seeing a military guy,” Kim thought to herself when she first arrived and didn’t see Connie in the lobby.

“She probably got mad and went back to her room. Teaching me a lesson, just like when we were teen-agers.”

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Her sister wasn’t responding to phone calls or texts.

Kim went to the house phone and called the room. There was no answer. When she asked the front desk clerk if he had any information, he shrugged his shoulders and apologized in heavily accented English for having no additional knowledge.

“Ms. Barlage is not scheduled to check out for another day,” he told her. “As you know, guests are free to come and go. She left no message for you. I am sorry I cannot help more.”

So, Kim decided to wait a few more minutes in the lobby as she contemplated whether to just skip the whole thing and grab a cab back to her apartment.

The sisters loved each other but had their differences. The differences were winning at that moment, though usually they could laugh at the contrasts. “If I didn’t love you, I’d have to kill you,” Connie once joked after two margaritas had loosened her normally guarded manner.

Both women were smart; some said brilliant. Kim was the free spirit; Connie was the serious, focused one. Their father, a composer with a master’s degree in music theory, said Kim’s approach to life reminded him of free-form jazz improvisation in which the musicians couldn’t always predict what was coming but could safely bet the song would be both good and quite surprising. By contrast, Connie approached life like she was the first violin in a great orchestra, trying to ensure that every written note was well-rehearsed and perfectly played.

Their appearances lived up to their personalities. Connie was an attractive, middle-aged woman. She was pretty and pretty damn respectable. Kim kept her reddish-brown hair longer and more unkempt than most women her age, and she still had the figure for tight, short skirts and enticing hints of cleavage. Guys who tried their moves out on her – usually without success, but not always—often were surprised to learn she was 10 years older than they were.

As more minutes passed, Kim decided that maybe Connie had gone as planned to Water Tower Place, the upscale, highrise shopping center that was only a block away.

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“Okay, I’ll give it a shot,” she said to herself and also to invisible Kim. “I really don’t see you very often. You’ve made your point, Sis.” She walked as quickly down Michigan Avenue as she could with spiky heels, balancing an umbrella and her purse. The wide sidewalks were filled with shoppers and tourists in spite of the cold, rainy weather. Entering the multi-story mall, she looked at the directory and tried to figure out where Connie might be. In a mall like this, she knew without looking the majority of stores would be devoted to women’s clothing, women’s shoes or both.

She saw there was an Ann Taylor store. “That’s probably it,” she said. Even though you could find an Ann Taylor anywhere, she knew practical-minded Connie liked the clothes in Ann Taylor and definitely didn’t like paying the prices at tonier stores in the mall or at Nordstrom’s, which was nearby on Grand Avenue.

Kim looked in every direction as she neared the store entrance but didn’t spot Connie anywhere. Once inside Ann Taylor, she even made sure Connie wasn’t in any of the fitting rooms. Making other rounds around the various floors of the vertical mall also yielded no sightings.

“This is getting weird,” she said to herself after another failed attempt to reach Connie by text or voice. A background flicker of worry started to flare in her mind – related to the sensitivity of Connie’s job in the White House. But that seemed absurd and unlikely when there were other, more plausible explanations.

It had been nearly two hours now since she first entered the hotel lobby, and she saw no sign. Kim couldn’t just go home now that the worry had festered. She decided to give the hotel one more shot.

Re-entering the lobby, she walked back to the desk clerk.

He reported no signs of contact. He rang the room for her, but again there was no answer.

“Look,” Kim finally said. “This is not like my sister. I think there might be something wrong. Can we at least check her room?”

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“That is irregular, as we respect the privacy of our guests. I am sure you understand that adult men and women sometimes make their own plans,” said the clerk. His nametag said “Tamir,” and he was failing in his efforts to avoid sounding condescending.

“Tamir, I really have to insist at this point,” Kim said. “I need to tell you something. My sister rarely made a big deal out of it, but she works in the White House. She has a big-time security clearance. I am starting to really worry. She hasn’t met up with me or even returned any calls.”

The White House reference seemed to get his attention, though Tamir still had the look of a clerk who had heard every excuse imaginable that people used to gain entry to other people’s hotel rooms. Tamir shrugged his shoulders, and agreed to check with the manager on duty. He waved at the supervisor to come to the counter.

“Ms. Barlage, it really only has been a couple of hours,” the manager explained after hearing Kim’s story. “Guests, as I’m sure you know, can take off on their own for all sorts of reasons.”

“Look, I just heard the same thing from Tamir,” Kim finally snapped back, feeling exasperated. “You’re holding an iPad. Google the name ‘Connie Barlage’ and see what comes back.”

Sure enough, there were multiple references to Connie Barlage, the executive secretary to the President of the United States.

The manager, whose brass-colored nametag said “Robert Graves” next to the Westin “W” logo, pondered the point. He realized now they could hardly say “no” to this woman, but the last thing he wanted was a scandal on his watch over an important White House official, especially if it turned out something bad had happened in his hotel. Worse might be the more likely scenario: Experience taught him that it was likely she was in someone else’s bedroom or doing something in her own room that demanded privacy. Human nature didn’t change 131

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much, regardless of high positions. Guests who were interrupted usually got offended very quickly. If anything, he thought, the higher up they were, the more immune they thought they were and the more annoyed they got.

Finally, he conceded. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s go up to the 14th floor.”

Graves grabbed a security guard to accompany him and Kim. As they approached the room, she could see that nothing looked unusual in the hallway.

Graves nodded to the guard, who swiped the universal entry card through the locking mechanism. As they opened the door to the room, he noticed a light odor that seemed almost medicinal.

“Yuck,” Kim said. “What’s that smell?”

“Probably some new perfume,” Graves offered.

A suitcase was open on the luggage stand. A few clothes were scattered on the bed, suggesting Connie Barlage was trying on various outfits. Connie obviously was gone. The room looked exactly like a room in which a guest was getting ready to go out but didn’t have time to straighten up.

“There really isn’t much to see,” Graves said, looking directly at Kim while rolling the bottom of his tie around his fingers as he spoke. It was a nervous habit he was trying to break around guests. He could see Kim was looking more distraught.

“I can assure you we will stay on alert, and I will make sure we contact you as soon as Ms. Barlage returns,” Graves said, trying to be helpful.

Kim stood silently for a full five seconds, before she looked at him and said, “This just isn’t like her,” she said, her voice growing firm. “I’ve known her all my life. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but she’s a neat freak. She would at least tidy up the clothes on the bed – even if she was in a hurry. I think I would like to talk to the police.”

“We certainly can contact them for you, Ms. Barlage,” Graves said, “but I need to warn you. This type of concern isn’t unusual in a hotel. It is most likely they will jot down some 132

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information and tell you that an adult missing from a hotel for a few hours usually doesn’t command much attention if there is no other evidence. Of course, your sister’s position might be a factor.”

When they returned to the lobby, Graves did as he was asked and called 911. It took an hour before a Chicago police officer arrived, looking bored with the prospects of another missing person report from a pricey hotel.

But Graves was right. Knowledge of Connie’s occupation and status moved Officer Paul Battaglia’s attention meter from zero to at least lukewarm.

Battaglia assured Kim that he would notify federal authorities as well, and they would give this disappearance some extra attention.

“Maybe I should take a look at the room, too,” Battaglia said. “You never know. After that, perhaps we can check some of the lobby video cameras.”

He was just getting ready to board the elevator with Graves when his radio chirped. There was a robbery and police chase in progress only two blocks away. An officer was down. Shots were being fired. This had to take precedence.

Battaglia blurted out an apology, tossed a business card toward Kim, added a “we will stay in touch” and made a quick exit.

The robbery, ensuing chase and arrests occupied most of Battaglia’s shift, not to mention the required paperwork. It was hours later, early the next morning, before he had a chance to generate the Connie Barlage report and send word to the FBI. By then, Kim Barlage had gone home, canceling her date for later that night. Sleep wouldn’t come. She spent most of the night tossing and turning, debating whether to call her parents and vowing never to be late again.

133

18 Somewhere in Chicago Late Afternoon Following Game Six Connie Barlage struggled to determine the nature of the restraints holding her in place. She was groggy and disoriented.

Her thoughts were fuzzy and attempts at focusing were blocked by a splitting headache. The voices having some kind of debate in the distance were muffled and seemed to be coming from another room, but the pillow case over her head, or whatever it was, would not allow her to see her surroundings.

Heart racing, she tried to slow her breathing.

What were the last things she remembered? She remembered getting dressed to meet her sister for a shopping trip. She remembered she was hitting the “end call” button on her cell phone after a short-but-pleasant talk with Charley Rayburn.

The next thing she remembered was a knock on the door by an attractive, very well-dressed woman with flowing dark hair and the build of a leggy model. The woman was perhaps in her late 30s or early 40s but certainly was not her sister as Connie expected. She was wearing an expensive, pure-white pantsuit and a navy blue blouse with a deep “V” neckline. Connie noticed a nameplate on her lapel with the hotel logo, the name “Rebecca Dargan” and the title “Concierge.”

“Hello, Ms. Barlage,” the woman said. “My name is Becky Dargan. As the concierge, I like to make personal calls on our 134

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most-valued guests, and you certainly fit into that category.

We want to ensure we are meeting your needs and get any suggestions you have. Can I come in? I will be only a couple of minutes.”

Connie opened the door and the woman rushed in, followed by two men who grabbed her. One of them held a rag over her mouth, making her breathe some fumes.

And that was the last thing she remembered.

In the fog of her emerging consciousness, she could still hear some discussion. She couldn’t catch much of it; only a few fragments. “ … just glad we had this room ready as we planned … finally got an opportunity to grab her … could have been any time … things working out even better … to put in motion .. fuck, yeah, we’re rolling now …”

Then a chill went through her as she heard a couple of sentences clearly: “You know, she’s not bad looking for a middle-aged chick. She’s collateral damage. That’s too bad.”

A million thoughts began to run laps and then repeat laps through her head. There was no stopping the mental race. What in hell had just happened? Where am I? Who are those people? My God, who are these people? What are they going to do to me?

How long have I been out? Charley, are you or the President in danger?

135

19 Palatine, Illinois Nov. 22, 1963 In the 1960s, even elementary school children walked home from school and back for the lunch hour unless the weather forecast was so ugly the school told children the day before to bring their lunches to school. Teachers welcomed the mid-day break, and none of them envisioned a world of latchkey homes coupled with fears of children’s safety and the school district’s potential liability. Decades later, those children became parents, and the concept of letting kids walk home and back during the school day would seem insane.

There was no such fear at the start of the day on November 22, 1963. It was cold, but not cold enough to keep the students in class over the noon hour, so Luke Murphy and Bob Walters walked three blocks home to Bob’s mother’s house for the lunch hour. That was the routine on the days when Luke’s mom had to be at her part-time job at a nearby supermarket.

Meal times still were times for conversation in most homes in 1963, and no radio or television blared in the Walters house during meal times. As she always did, Lydia Walters asked the boys how their day was going and, as always, she received the typical replies that were guaranteed to cause no controversy.

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mugs. Then she served their sandwiches – chopped ham with a hint of French’s mustard for Luke and egg salad for Bob. She carefully placed some Jay’s potato chips in a small, neat pile.

She always cut the sandwiches diagonally.

“I really like that, Mrs. Walters,” Luke remarked. “For some reason, I think it makes the sandwiches taste better.”

There wasn’t much time to walk home, eat and return to school in only an hour, so Lydia handed each boy two chocolate chip cookies they could eat on the way back. They pulled on gloves, stocking hats and scarves for the brisk walk. The November breeze seemed more biting, and the sky had taken on a gray tinge with a faint odor of looming snow flurries.

When they got into Mr. Guy’s classroom, the first thing they noticed was Mr. Guy himself. He looked different. For most of the students, he was the first male teacher they had ever had.

While the boys weren’t old enough to articulate or understand their feelings, Mr. Guy was used to the neediness of many boys, like Luke Murphy, who found in the balding, stocky teacher a father figure who was stronger and more positive than what they had at home. Charlie Guy was strong and gruff, but everyone knew the gruffness was part of his act, and he really cared about the kids. Why else would a Korean War veteran become an elementary school teacher in the early 1960s?

He usually wore a perfectly knotted tie, thin in the fashion of the time. Every tie was striped, and the students liked to guess what colors the stripes would be each day. There seemed to be about two weeks’ worth of ties in his closet in different colors that appeared in predictable rotation. He would pull the tie up to the top of his starched shirt, almost always white and short-sleeved, and he sat ramrod straight behind the wooden desk, testimony to his military background.

On this early afternoon, the color was out of his face. When the students returned from lunch, “Guy’s Tie” was just a little looser than usual, and the top button of his shirt was undone. He was leaning forward on the desk with his elbows, and his hands 137

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cradled his bald, downturned head. Even years later, every student could resurrect a vivid memory of that moment. No one could ever remember seeing Mr. Guy like that. The students settled uncertainly into their seats at their desks and looked at him expectantly, with much less than the normal undercurrents of chatter. Something was up. It felt scary.

What was up was that at the same moment that Bob Walters and Luke Murphy were finishing their sandwiches, 12:30 p.m. CST, Lee Harvey Oswald fired shots at President John F. Kennedy in a Dallas motorcade. One shot ripped through Kennedy’s skull, and the handsome young president was pronounced dead only 30 minutes later in a Dallas hospital.

“I have some very terrible news,” Mr. Guy said as the students looked expectantly, putting pauses after each word, so that it came out at as: “I.... have ….. some ….very …. terrible … news.”

And then something extraordinary happened. The students could see tears welling in the corners of Mr. Guy’s eyes. “The President of the United States was shot less than an hour ago, while you kids were at lunch,” he said, the hesitation and emotion in his voice obvious. “They are saying on the radio that he probably is dead. Killed. I….I’m so very sorry you have to be hearing this.”

Killed.

A week or two earlier they had completed a history lesson about Abraham Lincoln, and they learned how the Civil War president who saved the nation was shot by a deranged Southern sympathizer. And there was vague knowledge that some other presidents had been killed. No, that wasn’t the word.

Assassinated.

But that was old news. History. It wasn’t supposed to happen in the modern world. JFK was dead. Luke thought about how his parents argued about Kennedy. His Catholic mother was for him; his Protestant father was against him, thought him too liberal or weak to really stand up to the Communists. Mike 138

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Murphy figured his wife had a crush on the handsome, young president, which wasn’t too far from the truth, and he had to admit the wife, Jackie Kennedy, was a lot easier on the eyes than Pat Nixon, wife of the defeated Republican candidate in 1960.

So the class sat in stunned silence for what seemed like a long time, lost in their thoughts. Actually it only was about a minute. Mr. Guy knew he had to say something.

“I think you should take a moment, make it a prayer if you want, and think about the Kennedy family and your country,” Mr. Guy said, starting to choke up again. “We are a strong country, and President Kennedy would want us to be strong.”

Luke looked around the classroom. Even an asshole like Skowron had a shocked look on his face. Meg Williamson, one row to Skowron’s right, was dabbing at her face with a Kleenex and twisting ponytail strands around her right index finger as she bit her lip. A quick thought invaded his brain about how cute she looked at that moment. Geez, what’s wrong with you, Luke? he thought to himself, quickly knifing the idea from his consciousness as wildly inappropriate at that moment.

Years later, neither Luke nor Bob could remember much of the rest of that day as more than a blur, but they remembered the following week with the nation in mourning. They remembered, as did most Americans older than pre-school, watching the funeral train and the horse-drawn hearse pulling the casket down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington D.C. They remembered John F. Kennedy Jr. saluting his father as the procession went, although years later it was said that JFK Jr. actually was just trying to keep the sun out of his eyes.

Oswald’s shots underscored the permanence and sometimes rapid, unexpected onset of death – a scary thought to any youngster – and Luke had a harder time than usual getting to sleep for several weeks. As he tossed and turned one of those nights, Luke eventually had an insight rare for someone so young. He decided that courage came in different forms. It took 139

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courage to be a guy in a suit serving as President of the United States; more courage than people realized until that moment.

He wondered if he had that kind of courage, and he thought that he would like to find out. It would not be a bad way to be remembered and respected – weird thoughts for an 11-year-old perhaps, but he always had been a planner.

Luke could see the assassination also had a deep impact on Meg. They had studied JFK’s famous inauguration speech from 1960 with his most-famous line, “My fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” His youthful looks and vibrancy inspired millions of American children. Only decades later would revelations of sexual risk-taking with starlets and mob girlfriends tarnish his image.

To help the children process the tragedy about two weeks later, Mr. Guy assigned a class exercise on “How You Will Remember John F. Kennedy.”

“My dad hated Kennedy, of course,” Meg said to Luke and Bob in almost an offhand way when the three of them talked about it. “But I think he was a great man. I said in my assignment that I think I want to join the Peace Corps when I’m old enough.”

Bob Walters, always the irreverent one, had a different perspective.

“At least it was a nice break to get a few days off of school,” he said to Luke in a bad imitation of the drawl of the new president, Lyndon Baines Johnson of Texas. Bob saw himself as the self-styled master of ironic humor.

“Man, I hope Mr. Guy is getting over it,” he said.

“C’mon, Bob,” Luke said. “I know you care just a little bit.”

“Doubtful,” he replied, still acting tough and ironic.

“Doubtful.”

“I think it’s something I’ll think about for a long time,” Meg said.

“Well, Meg, that’s cuz you’re a girl,” Bob said.

140

20 Chicago Late Afternoon Following Game Six FBI Agent William Beatrice had watched the Skype briefing on his iPad. When it was over, he had a specific assignment: introducing himself to Cubs Manager Mike Surrey and talking to Bob Walters.

He showed his FBI identification to the doorman and then hit the lobby buzzer for Surrey’s well-appointed, high-rise condo on Chicago’s North Side, a few blocks from the Lake Michigan waterfront and Navy Pier.

Surrey had been thoroughly enjoying a few precious hours to relax. And he needed it. Surrey’s follow-up plan was to enjoy a rare, power-nap opportunity, especially in the midst of a World Series, let alone the weirdness of what had just happened in Cincinnati.

But first he had another plan. In fact, when the buzzer to the condo rang, he was about one minute away from bringing his wife to a carefully orchestrated climax. He loved tensionrelieving, afternoon sex. It wasn’t a tough sell on this day. He had snuck up behind Lisa on the couch as she was reading, than began gently massaging the tight muscles of her neck. The other hand slowly worked its way to another spot below her waist. They both must have been in an unusually daring mood.

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for a long time, was between the bedroom sheets and over in a flash. But, on this day, Lisa let him slowly undress her on the couch. He got on his knees and began to work on her with his tongue in all the special places.

When the buzzer rang, she was straddled around him, rhythmically moving up and down, holding her hands behind her head and facing the back of a dining-room chair.

So much for sex and a power nap.

Lisa changed her sigh of pleasure to a moan of disappointment when she heard the buzzer. Beatrice identified himself as an agent. Surrey looked puzzled, but said, “Of course. Come on up, I will buzz you up in just a couple of minutes as soon as I wrap something up, if that’s okay.”

Lisa shook her thick, brown hair out and quickly dressed, hitching up her jeans and pulling down her top as Surrey hastily threw on his Levi’s and a Cubs workout shirt. He straightened his hair with his hand before he answered the door and walked slowly to give Lisa a chance to collect herself. He eyeballed Beatrice through the peephole with the wary look of someone who was used to being in the spotlight and wondering what someone wanted from him. Beatrice flashed his FBI ID to confirm he was who he said he was. Surrey opened the door.

If they had baseball cards for FBI agents, this guy would be on the all-star team, Surrey thought to himself. Beatrice was in great physical shape. That was obvious. And intelligence radiated from the agent’s eyes. He was a guy who would have a hard time going undercover and posing as anyone stupid. The gray suit was crisply tailored, set off by a white shirt and a blueand-gold striped tie that contrasted with his ebony-black skin.

A gold watch that was on his right wrist caught Surrey’s eye.

“Are you a southpaw?” Surrey asked.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“A left-hander. We call them southpaws in baseball. I noticed your watch on your right wrist. Most right-handed people wear them on their left wrists.”

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“Sorry, sir. It just works better for me on the right side. It’s not like I’d have to kill you if I told you. It just is where I like it. But I’m definitely right-hand dominant. I had to train hard to learn to do some things – let’s leave it there – that agents have to do with both hands.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I’m kind of obsessive about noticing lefties since I have so few reliable ones on my current pitching staff. And here we are, in the World Series.”

“That’s still a very good thing, sir.”

“Yeah. Indeed it is. Okay, what can I do for you? And call me Mike.”

Lisa then walked into the living room, and Surrey was impressed by how fast she collected herself and, as always, how great she looked even when she wasn’t trying. Surrey introduced his wife to the agent but still didn’t know what to make of the visit. He had had security visits from the Secret Service in the past, but this guy was FBI. Was President Murphy coming to the next game, too? That was likely. And the news was filled with the explosion at the Cincinnati ballpark. Was this somehow connected?

“Well, sir, it’s about tonight’s game, or rather tomorrow night’s with a postponement, which buys some time if it happens but makes our job harder in some respects. Excuse us and apologies to Mrs. Surrey, but I wonder if you could leave us alone.”

“No worries,” Surrey said. “Let’s go in my study and have some coffee.”

The two men walked into the condo’s small but wellappointed study. It was tastefully decorated with light-colored wooden furniture and accent colors of rust and blue. Roomlength windows were the most obvious feature of the exterior wall. A door from the study opened up to a narrow deck that hugged both sides of the corner room, providing spectacular views of Lake Michigan to the east and Chicago’s sprawling neighborhoods to the north.

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Surrey watched Beatrice study the room and stare at the deck. “You can almost see Wrigley Field if you look north on any kind of a clear day,” Surrey said out loud. “Well, at least you can maybe see a glimpse of the light towers. So far, no one has built anything to block my views.”

Beatrice flipped his gaze to the room, which, somewhat to his surprise, was not overflowing with baseball memorabilia – just a few pictures and plaques. It was very classy and didn’t fit Beatrice’s stereotypes about what a baseball manager’s study would look like.

The most prominent photos showed Surrey and his family, which included a teen-age daughter and two grown children.

One was a high-school math teacher, and the other worked as a software engineer for Google. Surrey’s college degree in history from the University of Pennsylvania was framed on the wall.

Surrey had started college with every intention of joining the Peace Corps and either teaching high school history or getting an advanced degree. But his ability to hit baseballs with unusual skill and stop them when he was behind the plate as a catcher resulted in offers he couldn’t refuse, especially given the debt that his Ivy League education was causing his working-class parents.

That Ivy League, liberal arts degree made him unusual in the jock fraternity of Major League Baseball. It also was another reason he was a frequent target of Walters’ sarcasm and, sometimes, comments his wife in particular viewed as venom.

“If Surrey really knew history, he’d understand why the Cubs don’t have a chance,” was a frequent Walters taunt.

Surrey spoke first. “I figured you were here to tell me the President is coming to another game, but you’re not from the Secret Service.”

“That’s a good guess, but I don’t know if he’s coming to the next game, and it’s not why I’m here.”

“Come again.”

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“Well, we have reason to believe there are serious threats.

Not just threats against this President. We’re used to that. But these are threats to the teams or maybe even the fans.”

“So, should we be worried? What do you want me to do?

What can you tell me? Does it have something to do with what happened in Cincy?”

Beatrice dodged that question for the moment. “Just be alert to anything unusual. We will have an agent seated at the end of the bench in each dugout,” Beatrice said and then shifted gears.

“Boot up your computer and go to the Bob Walters blog. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”

“Actually, I never read anything by Bob Walters,” Surrey replied, telling a white lie he often told himself to keep him sane. Beatrice noticed that Surrey quickly navigated to the radio station’s Web site. He was more familiar with it than he cared to admit. Doing the mental version of holding his nose, Surrey clicked on the blog link, which was a picture of Walters wearing a Cubs hat sideways and ripping a photo of Surrey in half.

“Now scroll through the comments from a couple of weeks ago when he started a new conversation thread on reasons the Cubs will lose,” Beatrice said.

Surrey quickly read through the usual mindless ramblings of anonymous fans until he got to the post for Anon 3:31. “If the Cubs don’t win Game One, they better pick it up or something bad is going to happen,” wrote “Anon,” one of many anonymous posters. “I’m not kidding.”

The manager looked straight at Beatrice, raising his eyebrows in a good “whatever” imitation of his teen-age daughter.

“That’s it?” he said. “I mean, I get letters every day that are worse than that. He didn’t even drop an F-bomb. Walters himself should be called a terrorist for some of the names he calls me.”

“Look,” Beatrice said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the President shows up for Game Seven. But, like I said, a delay buys time. The tone of this – it was the implied threat that got 145

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our attention. Similar posts showed up on 23 other sports blogs related to the World Series by our last count. That’s pretty obsessive. And then it stopped as though the guy got control of himself and realized those were footprints. We can’t rule out a connection to this Cincinnati thing, especially right after you lost. And there’s more.”

“And there’s more?”

“It’s about Trey Van Ohmann and the death of his father.”

“Come again?”

They both repeated themselves.

“Trey Van Ohmann. The death of his father.”

“Come again?”

“As you know, his father was killed in a freak accident in Idaho,” Beatrice said. “What you don’t know is the computer in his new truck went haywire on a road he had driven many times, as near as we can tell. That’s why the truck swerved off the road and into a river.

“It was almost as though someone was tracking it and waited for the perfect moment and maybe sent a signal through his OnStar unit to disable the driver’s control,” the agent continued. “Of course, we can’t be sure. Not yet, anyway. That information about the on-board computer is classified, by the way. Most people have no idea how much computers really control in a modern vehicle. I’m telling you this in confidence so you appreciate that you need to be paying attention to a helluva lot more than what happens on the field.”

Then the agent quickly moved to a new conversation thread in the best FBI-agent style that was more likely to get an honest answer instead of a calculated response from someone. This was often helpful even when the person wasn’t a suspect. People’s off-the-cuff reactions were filled with insights. And, after all, sometimes people whom you couldn’t imagine as suspects turned out to be the perpetrators.

“Say,” Beatrice asked with the curious, quizzical tone an everyday fan would adopt. “Having Van Ohmann out of the picture is a real advantage for your team, isn’t it?”

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Surrey was speechless for a moment. He couldn’t deny having the thought: Van Ohmann was the best pitcher in baseball, a surefire Hall-of-Famer if he could finish his career without serious injury, and he was a guy with a Boy Scout reputation to boot. Now he could be out of the picture.

“Uh, yeah,” Surrey finally said. “It’s an equalizer really, probably gives us an edge for Game Seven.” The manager paused again, collecting his thoughts.

“I’m stunned,” Surrey finally continued. “It’s too much reality. I don’t know what to say other than that isn’t the way you want to win, Cubs or anyone else. You know, we had a moment of silence and a prayer in the locker room to show support for Trey, even though he’s on the other team. Everyone respects that guy. He’s a pro’s pro.

“I guess we’re lucky people aren’t having more moments of silence for the Cincinnati victims. That could’ve been a lot worse,” he added.

This conversation thread formed strands that rapidly built a web to other thoughts that Surrey kept to himself. When you managed a team at this level, you never stopped being the manager. Not if you wanted to succeed. The tragedy meant a new chess game had opened between him and Boston’s popular manager, Frank Washington, who surely figured he had his pitching rotation aligned perfectly to have Van Ohmann pitching in Game Seven.

Surrey had a strong group of starting pitchers but nobody operating in Van Ohmann’s stratosphere. The guy was practically unhittable 90 percent of the time. Writers compared his presence and command to baseball legends such as Bob Gibson, Sandy Koufax and Greg Maddux. He was thoughtful and measured off the field, but his personality changed when the game started.

His on-field demeanor reminded veterans of pitchers such as Gibson and Jim Bunning, the Hall-of-Fame pitcher who went on to become a United States senator from Kentucky.

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Bunning would make sure you knew that he owned the plate.

Batters who acted too confident and crowded the plate as they stepped in against him often found themselves uncomfortably close to inside pitches. Bunning really didn’t mind if he plunked an occasional batter, just to remind them who was in charge.

Gibson was the same. Older Cubs fans remembered how Gibson once broke Ernie Banks’ hand with what baseball people called a “purpose pitch.”

Yes, he thought, once the game started, no one wanted to win more than Trey Van Ohmann.

That was why Surrey couldn’t count on seeing a different pitcher. If someone really did kill Van Ohmann’s father, the killer might have miscalculated if he assumed that Van Ohmann would stay home to mourn. Was that what this agent was thinking?

“You have to understand,” Surrey explained to Beatrice.

“The typical professional jock reaction to a dead loved one is: He or she would have wanted me to be here. This one is for Dad. Or Mom. Or Billy. Whoever.”

Surrey figured that off-the-field, introverted Van Ohmann would mourn in competition with his ultra-competitive, on-thefield persona. Surrey placed the odds at 60-40 or maybe 70-30 that Van Ohmann’s competitive streak would win that internal debate, fueled no doubt by the intense pressure from millions of fans who made up Red Sox Nation.

Still, Van Ohmann might not be his normal self, which was an advantage for the Cubs.

Then Surrey kicked himself mentally for being so quick to go to cold-hearted, tactical strategizing at such a tragic moment.

But he knew this would dominate his thinking for the rest of the day. In the chess game that existed between successful managers, he also knew Washington was going through the same process.

It affected everything if Van Ohmann did or didn’t pitch.

“So, here’s where we are,” Beatrice said, breaking the silence. “Maybe it’s a coincidence, or maybe it’s terrorism tied 148

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to the World Series. International? Domestic? A diversion? We don’t know yet.

“But YOU need to watch for anything unusual,” Beatrice added, making sure Surrey heard the word “you” getting strong emphasis. “In the meantime, and certainly when the public is watching, you need to just do what you would normally do.”

“There’s nothing normal about this,” Surrey said, “but of course, I’ll do everything I can.”

“You may have to do a lot more than you can imagine,” Beatrice said. “We are considering some scenarios to find this guy or this group as quickly and safely as possible. We may need to do things to protect thousands of people at the game if Cincinnati was some kind of message. You need to be ready for anything.”

“Even the Cubs winning the Series?” Surrey said, trying to lighten the moment with a small joke.

“Especially the Cubs winning the Series,” Beatrice replied without a hint of a smile. “Please keep this conversation to yourself unless and until I say otherwise.”

149

21 Palatine, Illinois Wednesday, Nov. 27, 1963 On the first day back from school after the Kennedy funeral, the taunting started again with a new twist.

About one block from the shortcut they always took to the school playground, Bob and Luke ran into Meg Williamson hurrying from her house, running across a vacant lot where the neighborhood kids had played freeze tag and Chicago-style, 16-inch softball for years until they outgrew the small lot. Too many balls were landing in the street. The final orders to move to a nearby field came after a ball smashed into the driver’s window of old Mrs. Lang’s car and shocked her so much the car veered off the road and hit a street sign.

On this day, discrete patches of graying snow peppered the vacant lot, and there were small patches of ice that hadn’t responded yet to the temperature barely above freezing and the intermittent appearance of the sun. It was a typical, late November Chicago morning.

As Meg reached the same spot as the two boys, she stopped, taking her hand out of a bright pink mitten so that she could more easily reach into the pocket of her gray, tweed coat to find a tissue. She was crying. Hard.

“Hey, Meg, what’s wrong?” Luke asked.

“I, I really can’t say anything. It’ll be okay,” she said.

“It’s us, Meg,” Luke said.

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“Yeah, Meg,” Bob added. “I promise not to even try to make a joke about it.”

“Well, my parents were just in a horrible fight.”

“That’s tough. I know how that goes,” Luke said.

“My mom got hurt.”

“Hurt? What do you mean?” Bob asked.

“My dad works all night. Something happened at work and on his way home. I think he said one of his buddies got fired, and they hired a no-good nig .. Uh, I don’t even want to say that word.

“So,” Meg continued, “I was getting ready for school, and he came home in a really bad mood, practically howling about Negroes and Negro-lovers like President Kennedy .. well, you know, he used that other word, niggers tearing this country down. He said one of ‘them’ was how he put it. ‘They’ were taking their jobs, and one of ‘them’ had just hit his car.”

Now the words came like a flood. “My mom, I could see she was very angry at him, like enough was enough,” Meg continued. “She looked at him and told him he was drunk.

She said it was probably his fault, and he’s lucky he didn’t kill somebody or somebody else on his way home while he was driving half-crocked. And he should stop blaming others for his problems. That really got him going. They were screaming at each other by that time. I could hear everything.”

Meg was shivering, maybe not so much from the cold.

“But how did she get hurt?” Bob asked again.

The question seemed to calm her a little bit and help her focus.

“Well, she turned around and put her back to him. I could tell she was really angry. The truth is that stuff like this has been happening more and more. He started following her and … .”

Meg stopped talking and started crying again. Then it all came out in a burst.

“I don’t think he meant it, but he put his hand on her shoulder as she was turning. She yelled ‘Don’t you touch me’ and then slipped and fell. She knocked her head on the cabinet and you 151

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could tell she was going to have a big bruise. I was watching all this and then I ran over to her.

“My dad looked at me and began raising his hand like he was going to hit me. He has never, ever hit me. Never, ever.

“Never, ever.”

Neither boy knew what to say. So, they simply waited for Meg to go on when she was ready.

“I screamed,” Meg said, “and then my mom sort of woke up out of a daze and yelled at him to stop. ‘Don’t you dare hit her,’ she said. ‘I swear to God if you hit her I am calling the police.’ But then it was like he just stopped. He turned around and looked kind of disgusted. He plopped in his big recliner chair.

“My mom just said she was so sorry that I had to see all that.

My dad needs help is what she said. ‘Go to school,’ she told me.

She helped me get ready, and by the time I left he was snoring in his chair like he always does when he comes home like that.”

Neither boy had to ask what “that” meant.

Luke put a comforting arm around Meg’s shoulders, very lightly and a little awkwardly like any pre-teen not quite sure how to express himself around the first girl he had really liked.

And just then, Scott “Moose” Skowron came around the corner from the other direction.

“Wellll, now we have Kate McCoy with Luke and Pepino,” he taunted in a mock Southern accent, adding plenty of drawl and syrup. He was referring to the character who was Luke McCoy’s new bride in the television series. The premise was that Luke had married an attractive, young bride after the death of his first wife left him a widower.

“Kay-uh-t,” he said. “Are you sleeping with Mistuh Luuke?

Does Pepino like to watch? Too bad he speak-a bad English.”

“Drop it Moose,” Luke said. “Meg is having a hard time today.”

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11- or 12-year-old boy. “Oh, Mistuh Luke, that sounds berry interesting.”

“Back off,” Bob added “We mean it.”

“Like you’re going to make me, Pepino?” Skowron said, stretching out the taunt as Pep-een-noo.

“Maybe I will,” Bob said.

Skowron laughed.

“All of you just stop. You’re making things worse,” Meg said.

“Meg, c’mon with me and ditch the McCoys here,” Skowron said, tugging on the sleeve of Meg’s coat.

“Moose,” Luke shouted. “Get. Your. Hands. Off. Her. Now. You dick.”

The backtalk surprised the taller Skowron, who was used to getting his way. He let go of Meg, whirled and glared, raising a fist and starting a swing to get Luke’s attention. Skowron stood back for a moment, grinning, waiting for the fireworks to erupt and end with an easy victory.

Luke ducked easily as Skowron’s warning swing only connected with air. Luke and Bob responded by pushing him, both boys simultaneously shoving Moose with the same idea at the same time.

But Moose didn’t fall. Not yet. As Bob backed off, assessing the situation, Moose stared straight at Luke, looking as though he was ready to pounce. Luke Murphy wasn’t a great athlete, but his adrenaline was pumping hard. At that moment, he was moving fast and still seething at the treatment of Meg. He picked up a chunk of hard, ice-crusted snow and hurled it at Skowron.

It bounced off his cheek but obviously stung.

“Murphy, you fucker,” screamed Skowron. He took one fast step forward in obvious rage when his left foot hit a patch of ice. Moose Skowron tumbled down – in slow motion to the eyes of the two boys and the girl.

They watched in horror as Skowron’s head hit the sidewalk with a sickening thud. Meg screamed when she saw blood trickling out of Skowron’s left ear. He wasn’t moving.

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“Shit,” Bob said. “Shit.” He leaned down. “Moose. Scott.

Come on,” Bob said, slapping the side of Skowron’s face as the two companions gathered round. “Scott, wake up.”

Meg’s screams brought a neighbor out; then more from around the neighborhood. One of the neighbors put a pillow under Skowron’s head as they waited for the ambulance. The boy’s color seemed to be getting paler, and there was no sign of movement.

The three friends huddled together, shivering in the late November cold, numb from the turn of events.

It was Luke Murphy, with his instinct to always try to figure out the best way out of every situation, who first recognized that what they said happened here could have a big impact on the rest of their lives, certainly on his. He flashed back to the misunderstood Little League incident he had with Skowron.

People would remember that. He quickly rationalized that it wasn’t just about him. Meg’s parents’ dirty laundry would be aired in public if they told the whole story.

This isn’t fair, Luke thought. Moose started it. It was an accident. I’ve already been in trouble before over a fight with him. No one is going to understand.

“Here’s what we should say,” Luke said to Bob and Meg. “Moose started making fun of Meg. We were laughing it off when he came at us and slipped and fell. You can even see a few little patches of ice if you look around. It isn’t our fault, and it shouldn’t be our fault. There is no reason to say we pushed him or that anyone threw an ice ball at him. It will only confuse things.

“Are you guys with me?”

Meg and Bob nodded. Meg was still crying. Scott Skowron still wasn’t moving when the ambulance came, which was quickly followed by two Palatine police cars.

Just as they were turning away, the three heard one of the ambulance attendants exclaim, “Hey, we’ve got a pulse.”

154

22 Chicago Late Afternoon after Game Six It was only a few hours before the scheduled, 8:00 p.m. start time of Game Seven. A beautiful fall evening would be a disaster under the circumstances, Beatrice thought. Time was what they needed the most, and there just wasn’t enough of it if the game went forward as scheduled.

It was a nightmare scenario. They would have had to concoct a believable reason to postpone the game, and the excuse would have to be pretty impressive to delay the seventh game of a World Series without arousing suspicion. Postponing for madeup reasons meant that more people had to be brought into the loop.

More people meant more opportunity for leaks, whether purposeful or not.

It took training to keep big secrets. The temptation was hard to resist, even if it was just to say something to a spouse or close friend. You were “in the know.” Sometimes you wanted validation or even suggestions from someone who wasn’t so close to the situation. The temptation magnified if you or anyone you told happened to be surrounded by a media swarm or were friends with a reporter.

Nowadays, it didn’t even take a reporter. You told a friend.

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friend forgot to tell the last friend that this was all hush-hush.

Next thing you knew there was a Facebook post or something on Twitter, and a few dozen of your other friends commented and shared.

The irony of social media is that it made officials less social; even more tight-lipped and disciplined. Social media was like a giant lens that turned small fires into roaring blazes.

Still, in a limited window of time, a small group had gathered with the specific task of planning how they would get the damn game postponed if they needed to concoct something. They had considered lots of options. “Wet grounds” wouldn’t cut it for the seventh game of a World Series. Plus, everyone knew the longer you delayed a game in Chicago in October, the higher the odds that weather conditions would get worse, not better.

And the public reaction would be very troubling to anything remotely related to gas leaks, threats and security concerns in general. It had to be plausible; something that would raise neither alarms nor people’s bullshit meters.

The best idea they had hatched – after “pray for rain” – was to say they had discovered a structural defect in the upper-deck bracing. That wasn’t hard to believe in a place as ancient as Wrigley Field, which was built for a defunct team in a defunct league, the Chicago Whales of the Federal League, in 1914.

Only Fenway Park in Boston was older, by two years.

The story would be the baseball commissioner would announce, with a look of deep regret, that while the odds of anything bad happening were slim, there was a small crack found in a routine inspection after Game Six the night before.

They’d say that, fortunately, workers could install some metal bracing in about eight hours, starting overnight, and that would take care of the problem. Major League Baseball would be making fan safety the top priority.

That scenario still had lots of fuck-up potential, though.

The media would want pictures of the crack, so they’d have to come up with more b.s. to keep them away from the area, 156

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citing security reasons and workplace safety. The tech whizzes could create a photo for media distribution that showed a slight, almost microscopic sign of metal fatigue. No doubt they’d have to find a metallurgist to work with the whizzes who could keep a secret to make sure the picture would pass muster in case some blogger decided to question the story.

However, the biggest problem always involved humans in these situations. The need-to-know group inevitably would get even bigger. And the scheme required getting honest-to-God iron workers to fix something that wasn’t broken.

Any FBI agent could lock and load a weapon in his sleep, but most of them would look pretty funny with welding torches.

The idea put an image in Beatrice’s head of a bunch of men in gray suits, bland ties and Bluetooth earphones hanging from girders in Wrigley Field and setting their black leather shoes on fire by accident. All it would take was one iron worker to go on Facebook and mention that he couldn’t figure out why they were doing this to send the blogosphere into full roar.

Beatrice hated the whole scheme. Fortunately, their prayers were being answered.

It was pouring rain now, and it was an ugly, late fall, Chicago rain, that made people shiver simply by its existence. The rain was changing back and forth to sleet as the wind gusted through Chicago’s canyons of tall buildings and narrow streets. The weather positively sucked, and Beatrice was grateful that he had to set his windshield wipers to full speed on his Bureauissued Ford Explorer after nearly hydroplaning out of control on the Kennedy Expressway.

He heard the first announcement on the Explorer’s radio. The commissioner of Major League Baseball had just postponed the game until Monday night for a reason no one could question. The Weather Gods had given them 24 hours without the distraction of the bogus, cracked-beam scenario.

The only downside, and it was a big one, was the extra time gave President Murphy an opportunity to attend.

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“We really do not need the President at the game on top of everything else,” Beatrice had said to his boss.

“No shit,” the boss said. “And just what are you going to do about it?” ******* Murphy wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, even though the Secret Service and his closest advisors were having coronaries after what happened in Cincinnati.

“Being a diehard Cubs fan is part of my DNA,” Murphy was saying to Rayburn at that moment, despite a thorough briefing on the assumptions and hypotheses of the investigators.

“Everyone knows I want to be there. I even said it on Walters’ show. Everyone heard me say I’d have to sneak a look at the game on my iPhone on Sunday night because I can’t get out of a state dinner with the Saudi prince. Everyone heard me say I’m rooting for bad weather, so I could come Monday night.

“If I stay home now, I’ll look like a coward, and it’ll only raise suspicions there’s a connection, which, by the way, we don’t know for sure.

“So, I’m going,” Murphy concluded, giving Rayburn his “I’m-the-damn-President” glare for good measure.

Even though he knew it was fruitless, Rayburn kept resisting the idea. He knew that “looking like a coward” was one perception that Luke Murphy could not ever accept.

“It’s crazy,” Rayburn said. “The security problems are off the charts. We need you as President, not wounded or worse.”

“The public cannot think the President is a coward,” Murphy repeated. “We’ll double-down on agents, and I promise not to wade into the crowd or do any of the other spontaneous things you always hassle me about. And I even promise not to puke on national television if the Red Sox win.”

Finally, Murphy had heard enough. He imitated his favorite fictional leader, Capt. Jean-Luc Picard of “Star Trek: The Next 158

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Generation.” He sat back in his chair, held his shoulders erect and pointed his right arm ramrod straight with the right index finger firm and pointed forward.

“Make it so,” Murphy said in a presentable imitation of Picard ordering his crew to move the Starship Enterprise into the cosmos for whatever known or unknown challenges awaited. “Engage.”

“I just hope we can beam you back in one piece,” Rayburn responded dryly.

159

23 Chicago & Washington Evening after Game Six The postponement also allowed enough time to set up a small group meeting of nine people in person in Chicago and on screen from Washington, D.C. The gathering included the managers of the Cubs and Red Sox, the team owners, the two general managers, the commissioner of baseball and the agents in charge from the FBI and Homeland Security.

The baseball people had been secretly whisked to the most obscure hotel meeting room the Feds could find in downtown Chicago on a pretense of having to go to some last-minute discussions on logistics for the rescheduled Game Seven.

They arrived in cabs secretly driven by FBI agents to avoid the suspicions that a herd of black Chevrolet Suburbans would create.

The room, like the hotel, was plenty obscure. The setting looked ready to host a Rotary Club meeting in 1985. The wallpaper was fraying and was a blend of disco-era gold and white in a floral pattern that only a bunch of Eastern European mobsters might find attractive. The drop ceiling tiles were stylized to look nicer than they really were, but watermarks spoiled the effect in a long row of tiles along an outer wall.

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officials made sure the guests understood just how difficult and important the security concerns were, magnified not only by the questions the Cincinnati explosion raised but, now, by a Presidential visit. Everyone needed to be hyper-alert for anything at all unusual. Every security protocol the baseball people were supposed to execute at major events needed to happen perfectly.

At that moment, another agent entered the room and told the Feds they were needed to take a private call from Washington, leaving the baseball people in the room as the Feds that were on screen remotely also peeled away.

“This is a good refresher,” Surrey said. “But we know this stuff. We’re not stupid. Seems like it could’ve been done in a conference call.”

The commissioner of baseball, Craig Keech, wasn’t so sure. “Something is really bugging these guys; otherwise they wouldn’t bother with this meeting and all the secrecy,” he said, taking a sip out of a water-spotted glass of Diet Coke. “I think we’re going to hear more. This is making me nervous on about every level I can imagine.”

The agents came back into the room with weird expressions, mirrored by the looks on the faces of their colleagues onscreen from Homeland Security and the FBI in Washington. They looked as though they were trying to figure out how to say something.

Then they put a bombshell on the table; an idea that brought the two opposing managers into 100 percent agreement even before the agents were done explaining.

“I’m sorry, that’s just fucking nuts,” Surrey said, while his counterpart from the Red Sox, Frank Washington, nodded in agreement.

“You cannot fix the seventh game of the World Series,” Washington said.

“You need to be ready if we give you the word the Cubs have to win,” said Tim Barnstable in his firmest, FBI-guy voice.

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He had arrived from Cincinnati by government jet only an hour earlier to lead the meeting, breathless but focused. “We don’t know if we’ll ever have to give that word, but there may be no choice if the only alternative is an act of terrorism that will make Oklahoma City look like a traffic accident.”

“You cannot do this,” Washington repeated. “It can’t be done.” Surrey nodded.

“That’s not constructive. ‘Can’t’ isn’t a word we are interested in hearing at this point. What if you HAD to do it,” Barnstable said. “Tell me how you would do it.”

Surrey kept a sour look on his face, thinking to himself these guys were, indeed, serious and expecting a serious answer. If he stood back from the emotion he felt as a baseball manager and looked at this as a citizen, he had to admit the scenario had to at least be considered. And decades of experience as a player and manager suggested an answer that didn’t take long to perceive.

“Actually,” Surrey conceded, “it probably wouldn’t be that hard. Mainly, you’d have to bring a good pitcher into the loop.

What you need is a guy to play the part of Ed Cicotte. That was the key for the Black Sox.” “Who the hell is Cicotte? What do you mean?” Barnstable asked impatiently. He only was a casual baseball fan – his favorite team was the Detroit Tigers when he paid attention at all. He mainly followed pro football and college basketball, especially anything involving the University of Michigan. He only dimly remembered much about the Black Sox scandal from movies and occasional references in sports stories to a scandal involving gamblers and corrupt players.

Indeed, most of what he thought he knew about the Black Sox was shaped by fictional accounts. In particular, he recalled Hollywood-inspired, mythical versions of ballplayers from that team. That especially applied to “Shoeless Joe” Jackson, who was expelled from baseball for his role in the scandal. “Shoeless Joe” was best known now for a scene in which his ghost walked into an Iowa cornfield-turned-ball field in the syrupy Kevin Costner film, “Field of Dreams.”

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The real Black Sox story was a far cry from the Costner movie. Instead, it was a timeless tale that focused on two of the most basic human emotions: anger and greed.

Surrey quickly recounted how the “Black Sox Scandal” of 1919 involved members of Chicago’s American League team, the White Sox – nicknamed the “Black Sox” after news of the scandal broke. Eight key players, disgruntled over the cheapskate ways of their owner, purposely played poorly in the World Series with the Cincinnati Reds and got paid by gamblers who hoped to make a killing by betting on an underdog they knew would win.

Surrey pointed out the critical member of the conspiracy, though far less well-known today than “Shoeless Joe,” was one of Chicago’s best pitchers, Eddie “Knuckles” Cicotte.

“Nothing matters more than pitching,” Surrey said.

“Cicotte’s a fascinating character. I actually did a paper on him for a college history class. He had a great season that year.

Won 29 games. What really pissed him off, at least according to some, is that he had a $10,000 bonus coming if he won 30 games that season, but Charles Comiskey, the White Sox owner, ordered him benched so he wouldn’t have a chance to win and collect. Eddie resisted the pressure to throw the Series until that happened.

“He was the first to come forward when things went south,” Surrey continued. “He signed a confession and waived immunity. Later, he recanted the confessions, and a jury found him not guilty, but the commissioner of baseball banned him from the game for life. Everyone always focused on ‘Shoeless Joe,’ but I’ve always thought you could make a better movie about Eddie Cicotte.”

Washington wasn’t the student of baseball history that Surrey was, but he accepted the premise of how to guarantee the outcome of a game.

“Pitching is the key,” Washington agreed, lightly tapping his fist on the table for emphasis and deciding he needed to educate 163

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the non-baseball people in the room. “They say pitching is 70 percent of baseball. Probably more like 99 percent some days.

If you want to fix a game so no one notices, what you need is a good pitcher with excellent control.

“A guy like that can serve up pitches all day that good hitters can hit but will look tougher than batting practice pitches,” Washington continued. “That way, you avoid suspicion that something is up. You can’t just lob it in there. It should look to the world like his control was off just a smidgen or so. That’s all it takes for a real Major League hitter. You get the ball on the white part of the plate instead of the black edge, maybe with just a little less movement, and a good hitter will crush the damn thing.

“And trust me. Both of these teams have some pitchers who can do that and plenty of good Major League hitters who know how to react to a pitch that’s just a little off the mark,” Washington added.

“But you have to do more to really guarantee it would work,” Surrey added, thinking more deeply now about how to pull this off. “You know, Cicotte won one game in that Series, even though he was part of the fix. You’d have to tell at least a few of your pitchers, because you’d probably need to replace your starting pitcher at some point. This isn’t 1919. No one would accept a pitcher going the distance today unless he was pitching an incredible game with a low pitch-count. The game still could be close.

“And you would want to involve the other guys up the middle – the catcher, the shortstop, the second baseman and the center fielder.” Surrey added. “They would be in the best positions to make an error on the field that could help the other team.”

“What about it, Mr. Washington?” Barnstable asked, looking at the Red Sox manager. “Do you agree? What exactly do you think would need to be done here?”

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a few key pitchers to make it a little easier for the Cubs to score runs,” Washington said. “And Mike, you could tip two or three of your best hitters they might get some unusually good pitches to hit at times. That’s the difference here. Both teams are in on it.

“Worst case, if it came down to the ninth inning in a close game, I might have to tell a few of my hitters to strike out or something,” Washington said. “But no one in the stands or the press box would ever be able to tell anything other than maybe a few players weren’t responding well to the pressure of Game Seven.”

Barnstable had a distant look on his face. He was listening while still processing Surrey’s background story about the Black Sox. “Mr. Surrey, let me repeat a few things you said – I want to make sure I understand something,” Barnstable said. “You are saying the 1919 World Series was fixed. You are saying it involved teams from Chicago and Cincinnati. And you are saying Chicago lost.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“And now we are here, decades later. We have another World Series involving Chicago, and we have a tragic event involving the baseball team in Cincinnati. Do I have that right?”

Barnstable continued, his tone making it clear the question was rhetorical.

“Unless someone has better ideas or something changes between now and game time, the fix option must remain on the table,” he said emphatically.

At that point, Barnstable looked around the room and made eye contact with every one of the baseball people.

“We expect you guys to make it happen if we give you the heads-up,” he said. “But make it happen by telling as few people as possible. There will be agent in the room with you when you discuss this with your key players. That’s as wide as the knowledge goes as far as you’re concerned. Period.”

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Surrey and Keech, the baseball commissioner, both started to say something, and Barnstable waved them off. “I think I know what you’re going to ask,” he said, “and my answer is that we’ll figure out what to do about a real seventh game and how we tell the public later. Commissioner, if you want to start thinking about it now, fine, but I don’t have time for that discussion at this moment.

“I wasn’t sure until this moment that we were being sent a message in Cincinnati,” Barnstable concluded. “I can’t prove it in court, but I’m pretty damn sure now.”

166

24 Somewhere in Chicago Late in the day after Game Six Everything the two men wore was black: gloves, pants, stocking caps pulled over their faces, long-sleeved T-shirts and leather, high-top boots. They were wearing contact lenses that changed their eye color, just as their leader, Phil Kimbrough, had ordered. They had no intention of speaking. They wore padding underneath their clothing to hide their actual body types. The boots even had two inches of elevation to mask their actual height.

They walked into the room so that Connie Barlage could get a good look at them. They silently taunted her to remember what she was seeing as they started to stir the fear they wanted to put on display. There was no way to identify them as long as they stuck with the plan.

Seeing these black-clad apparitions caused the expected reaction. She clenched the edge of her cot with her hands, turning them a ghostly white from the pressure as she realized there was absolutely nothing she could do to prevent whatever was going to happen next.

“What is this about?” was all she could say without choking on the words.

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front, and she saw he was holding a plastic bag with the brand name of the Dominicks supermarket chain on it. He handed her the bag, directing her to take it. He then pantomimed an order to open it. She did so.

In the bag was a folded note, a very low-cut, pullover top with thin straps, rips and blood stains on it, and a pair of tiny blue-jean shorts that also had a few tears and additional stains.

She opened the note and read her instructions: YOU WILL TAKE OFF ALL YOUR CLOTHES AND PUT THESE ON. WE APOLOGIZE BUT THESE MEN MUST WATCH WHILE YOU DO SO. AFTER YOU ARE DONE, THEY ARE GOING TO BIND YOU TO THE CHAIR IN THE ROOM, BLINDFOLD AND GAG YOU. THIS ONLY WILL OCCUR FOR A VERY SHORT TIME AS LONG AS YOU COOPERATE. YOU MAY FEEL SOME SENSATIONS. AFTER A SHORT TIME, YOU WILL BE UNBOUND. YOU WILL BE ALLOWED TO PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON. THE MEN WILL LEAVE. YOU MUST COOPERATE. She stared at the note with a blank expression. The man to her right pointed a finger at her and made a “let’s go” gesture.

She was a decent-looking woman for her age, and he couldn’t say the next few minutes were going to bother him.

Connie was still balking. The man on the right shook his head in a strong “no” gesture and feigned a move toward her with his hand held up.

“No, wait,” she said, realizing she had no choice.

In front of them, she stripped down. She left her bra and panties on and started to pull the tank top over her head when the man on the left put his hand on her shoulder quickly, picked up the note and pointed to the line that said “you will take off all your clothes,” and emphatically underlined the word “all” with his index finger.

“Why the hell would you make me do that,” Connie said in tone that mixed fear, desperation and anger.

The man on the left then quickly moved toward her and put his hand on the snap of her bra.

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“No,” she yelled. “I’ll do it. Just please get your hands off me.”

She stripped as she was ordered, then put the clothes on.

She noticed the rips and tears were in places designed to give hints of nothing underneath. She wondered about the purpose of the bloodstains. They want to make it look like I have been beaten, she concluded to herself. It’s some kind of blackmail.

As soon as she finished, they motioned to the chair. She sat down. She now had mental names for the two men: Right Man and Left Man. Right Man held the note in front of her eyes. He pointed to the last line: YOU MUST COOPERATE. Now Connie was almost paralyzed by fear. Had she been kidnapped to suffer not only gang rape but bondage? Her eyes opened wide as Right Man took the note away. She was just starting to yell “No” as Left Man used duct tape to cover her mouth. He then tied a blindfold around her eyes while Right Man trussed her to the chair so that her wrists were tied together and her arms were locked behind the chair. Then he pulled her legs apart so that he could tie each ankle to a chair leg.

Connie then felt something around her left eye as though that reminded her of the touch of applying makeup, and there were similar sensations in several spots on her body, including the top of one of her breasts where the tank top was ripped and the bare thigh exposed by a rip in the side of the shorts.

Whatever they were applying or doing, it was being done carefully and seemed to last a long time. It also seemed like hands lingered longer than necessary around her breasts and crotch before mercifully the touching stopped.

Connie slumped her head forward, trying to control the shaking of her body in fear and disbelief. Then she felt a hand grab her hair and force her head into a chin-up, erect position.

The other man began taking pictures that showed a woman and her masqueraded captor. She obviously had been beaten pretty severely and was at the man’s mercy.

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Then, as promised, they freed Connie, made motions for her to change clothes, took back the items they had handed her to wear, left the room and padlocked the door.

When Kimbrough had instructed them on what to do, he had explained it this way: “A clearly suggested threat of sexual terror, abuse and even torture of a loved female is the most direct and urgent way to get an attached male to do what you want him to do. This little charade should go a long way to accomplish that.”

As soon as they left the room, they e-mailed the photos to Kimbrough, who knew precisely what he planned to do with them.

170

25 Palatine, Illinois June 1970 High school graduation was a proud moment for the Murphy and Walters families. Though the friendship between Luke and Bob had tempered a bit as they pursued different interests during their high school years, their paths kept crossing.

There remained residues of deep friendship, and there was no escape from their shared secret that had thrown a serious wrench into Bob’s life.

In June of 1970, the Vietnam War was raging still. Neither boy was in danger of being drafted and sent to Southeast Asia, at least not right away, because they were headed to college at a time when college students were given deferments. “Make sure you keep your grades up,” Luke’s mother kept reminding him.

Still, Luke in particular had been profoundly affected by the war protests that dominated downtown Chicago during the Democratic National Convention of 1968. Some of his classmates had gone downtown to join the protests, thinking it would be fun, lying to their parents about going to a movie.

They had been bloodied or brought to their knees by tear gas in the clashes with police.

Then, just a few weeks before their graduation from Palatine High School in the spring of 1970, Kent State happened.

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State University in Ohio. America seemed like a place tearing itself apart just as Luke was moving into adult life.

Luke’s dad had been in Italy during the war. Mike Murphy was offshore most of the time on a U.S. Navy destroyer and saw only limited combat, mostly from a distance as he loaded ammo.

That didn’t mean he was unaffected. He had many friends and family members killed or wounded in the war. He believed that young men did their duty and followed orders.

Bob’s dad was an Army draftee who ended up in Burma, the Philippines and finally the Sea of Japan on a troop ship in the harbor when the Japanese surrendered. Alec Walters never said much about his combat time except to make jokes that anything he didn’t like reminded him of Spam, the processed meat with a shelf life of maybe forever.

Just before Bob left for the University of Illinois and a few months before Alec’s liver and kidney problems accelerated into a fast decline, Alec pulled a shoebox down from a closet shelf and handed it to Bob. “You should have these and know about these,” he said quietly, almost sadly, in sharp contrast to his normal, gregarious personality.

The box was filled with dog-eared, black-and-white photos from the war; gruesome shots in some cases. In one, a Japanese soldier’s severed head had been planted on a front-right outcropping on a U.S. Army tank. In another, body parts were scattered across a beach near Manila in the Philippines. A third photo showed an Army sergeant, grinning broadly, holding a string that contained what looked like a row of gold teeth.

“Yeah,” Alec said, responding to Bob’s unspoken question.

“They’re teeth. He pulled them out of Jap bodies.”

Alec saw Bob’s teen-age eyes grow wider as he looked at more of the pictures. Usually he joked around a bit, but the father knew he needed to say something serious to the son.

“You have to understand what they did to some of my buddies,” he said, letting Bob reflect on that. “It’s why you’ll never see me in one of them Toyotas they’re starting to sell over here.”

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Bob was just beginning to grow his hair longer. There had been only a few vague conversations, more like offhand remarks, with his father about the raging war in Vietnam, where he was likely headed if he didn’t go to college and keep his grades up.

They hadn’t talked much about it, but the truth was, they didn’t talk about much of anything. They weren’t enemies. They loved each other without being close friends. It became obvious to Bob later in life that Alec Walters was, at best, a functional alcoholic. In some respects, that was worse, because his father never found the rock bottom that might point to recovery. Bob would learn those lessons the hard way.

Alec held his real feelings inside for all but his closest male friends after a few pops. It was, Bob thought, the dirty secret of so many members of “The Greatest Generation.” They contributed so much and showed so much bravery, but they were taught to absorb all the shit that life delivered like human sponges that couldn’t be wrung out. Bob learned about scar tissue from his father, who hid honest emotion beyond a veneer of humor if he said anything at all.

Years later, thinking about that rare moment of closeness with his father, Bob realized how hard that had been for Alec Walters, who couldn’t quickly put his thoughts into words so cleverly and concisely in the way his language-gifted son could. But he wanted his son to understand how three years in the Army changed him forever.

Alec was proud of his service and deservedly so, with ribbons and a Purple Heart to prove it. So, Bob was surprised when Alec looked at Bob and said, “This Vietnam thing is different, Bob. It’s a fucking mess created by damn politicians.

“What are we fighting for?” he asked before answering his own question. “A bunch of ungrateful Asians? Who cares who runs a shithole like Vietnam? Now, I’m not going to run around carrying any damn signs. You and your friends, they don’t know what war is about. I know. It better be damn worth it. So, you do 173

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what you have to do to stay in college. Maybe it’ll be over by the time you get out.”

Bob suddenly felt a bit guilty for the C grades he could easily have turned into B’s or even A’s. But the feeling passed pretty quickly when he heard the honk of a buddy’s car in the driveway.

“I gotta run Dad,” Bob said. “Thanks. Really.”

His father picked up his own car keys off the table, looked at his son, and nodded.

“Yeah, it’s time for your mother and me to head over to your graduation. I guess you want to ride over with your friends.

Well, that’s fine. I’m proud of you. Your family is proud of you,” Alec Walters said. “Especially after what happened in the sixth grade.”

“Maybe someday I can tell you the whole story about that,” Bob said as he turned to leave. He left it at that, knowing it was safe to raise the secrecy veil just a bit in front of his dad, something he would never do with his mother. Alec understood the need to keep things to himself. He figured Bob was old enough to make his own decisions about when and how to tell his secrets.

“What’s done is done,” Alec said. “I’m here when you’re ready.”

Unfortunately, Alec would not live long enough to keep that pledge. ****** The school officials moved the graduation ceremony into the cramped high school gym since a downpour had forced the event inside from the football field.

The names were called in alphabetical order, and when the letter “S” came up, Luke Murphy was back in his seat already while the row that included Bob Walters and Meg Williamson had just stood up to get in line to receive their diplomas.

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There they went, resplendent in the red, white and silver that formed the school colors. The Class of ’70 “S” group: Tony Salerno (nickname: B.C. for “Butter Cookie”); Ralph Secrist; Tom Shaugnessey; Lisa Scofield. They flowed across the stage in a robotic blur. There would be a smile and a handshake from the school board representative. Another smile, another handshake from the principal. Another smile, a final handshake from the assistant principal, who also handed out diplomas.

Finally, each graduate walked down the steps on the other end of the stage, filed down the side along the gym floor and returned to an assigned seat.

Then the routine changed. A tall, stocky middle-aged man with a bushy mane of gray hair began pushing a younger man in a wheelchair. They entered the stage from a ramp. The older man wheeled the young man around the line of educators and elected officials seated in a back row as loud applause and cheers began to build. The principal, Martin McDonald, held up his hands for silence. Outside, the rain drummed hard on the metal roof as McDonald tapped the microphone with an index finger to make sure he had power.

“We need to take a second now to award a diploma to a special young man,” he began. “This goes to a young man who has done all he was capable of doing and more, within the limitations of the terrible accident that happened six years ago.

It is my honor to present this diploma to Scott R. Skowron.”

The entire gymnasium erupted into a standing ovation.

Both Skowrons, the 18-year-old and the father pushing the wheelchair, had tears in their eyes. The teen was wearing a Palatine Pirates football jersey under his gown and a logo initial “P,” in the same traditional Olde English style as the “P” used by the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball team, was on top of his cap.

As he accepted the diploma with his right hand, he cradled a football in his left hand that had been signed by every member of the 1969 Mid-Suburban League champions that he once dreamed of quarterbacking. He had a lopsided grin and gave the crowd a wave, mouthing the words “thank you.”

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The accident had left him paralyzed from the waist down with a slightly limited ability to speak, somewhat like a stroke victim, although the doctors hoped that advances in physical therapy would one day help him.

Oddly and unexpectedly, the drastic change in Skowron’s life had caused a personality transplant over time. Some attributed it to the change in his brain chemistry. Others noted how Scott’s minister spent hours and hours with him, providing a counterpoint to the burning anger and frustration that Scott’s father often radiated like an isotope of uranium. The Rev. Peter Dusing talked to him about the inscrutable nature of God, saying there was a plan and an opportunity to do something positive with whatever weird, wild and seemingly unfair curveballs that life threw at people.

Even at the impressionable age of 11, it took a long time for Scott Skowron to bury anger, jealousy and resentment – there was no way to completely excise it—to get to a point where he could objectively explore the assets he had and the possibilities of his life.

“God never gives you more than you can handle,” the Rev. Dusing often told Skowron. “Greater challenges sometimes come to those with greater potential.”

Whatever the reasons, the sports-obsessed bully who was used to being the star on the field and center of attention off it had turned into a nicer person, concerned about others. Still, the competitive fires burned. He channeled his passion into academics, and was headed to the University of Illinois on a full math scholarship, with funding for an aide to help him get around.

His hobby was seeing how close he could get to predicting the actual performance of players. He spent hours and hours crunching baseball and football statistics in front of sheets of graph paper, grabbing sharpened pencils from a mug with the Chicago Bears logo that he kept on his wooden desk.

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Later, in college, Scott started taking courses in data processing and computer programming. Like Bob Walters, he planned to attend the University of Illinois, one of the top schools in the country to learn such skills in the early years of the computer age. There he found a calling to combine his hunger to excel and his love of sports statistics. In this field, he could be the best. He’d grab whatever time he could reserve on the campus computer center mainframes, showing up with huge stacks of punch cards to run, anxiously awaiting the results to prove or debunk his latest sports hypotheses.

“Go figure,” Bob Walters said to Meg Williamson in the high school gym, observing the Skowron accolades. Meg was sitting right next to him in a row of graduating seniors whose names ended with “W;” an alphabetical-order happenstance they had experienced since childhood. “He was an asshole, but who knew anything in sixth grade? I mean, really. I replay that day in my head all the time.”

“I feel like a thousand eyes are staring at us, too,” Meg said softly. “They blame us for what happened to him.”

“Especially me,” Bob added.

Luke Murphy, sitting in his seat, saw Bob and Meg talking and had little doubt about the topic. He still wondered if he should have told the truth that might have put him in a juvenile home instead of his best friend.

177

26 Palatine and St. Charles, Illinois Late 1963 and 1964 Scott “Moose” Skowron couldn’t communicate at all for several months after the accident. By the time he finally was able to write down some thoughts and say “yes” or “no” to questions, he was dealing with the understandable depression of having to accept a permanently damaged physical state at the age of 11.

The concussion also made his memory foggy. When the police asked him about it a few months later as he started speaking again, he thought incorrectly that Bob had been the only person to push him, and that was what stuck in the minds of the police. Plus, there was the obvious ice-ball injury to Moose’s cheek. With that in mind and the natural suspicion of all good cops, the investigators never bought the “he just slipped and fell” story that Meg, Luke and Bob tried to sell.

Working the Skowron case hard gave two bored detectives something interesting to do, and it also kept the victim’s family at bay with the mayor and the village board. Someone needed to take the blame and pay a price for the paralyzing injury to Scott Skowron.

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really wasn’t that much happening that didn’t quickly become stale and routine.

It became very apparent to a young reporter there were three ways to best ensure serious action on a case: know someone in power, have good connections for some other reason or – bad news for you – be someone who had pissed off the cops so they simply had burrs in their saddles about you. Police were human.

In the latter case, the motivations to make your life harder could be noble or small-minded.

Palatine in the mid-1960s was typical. There wasn’t a lot happening in the early winter of 1963. This case seemed different. It involved one of the village’s budding, young sports stars, and there was the added pressure of Ted Skowron, a wellconnected and angry father, demanding action.

Bob, Luke and Meg had figured the worst thing that would happen to anyone was a slap on the wrist. They tried to reason it out as carefully as three elementary kids could. After all, Moose was the bully, and he really did slip. But Luke’s history with Moose was public knowledge. That was bad. So, they agreed they would act scared and worried, but if they had to start talking in detail, moving beyond the “he just slipped and fell” account, Bob would play the lead character in all their scenarios.

Bob and Moose didn’t really have much public history beyond Bob’s friendship with Luke. That seemed to make sense. Plus, it would help Meg keep her family problems private.

“We’re kids,” Luke said as they discussed the incident a few weeks after it happened. “They can’t expect us to remember everything. Just act really concerned and sad – and, hey, we REALLY ARE. Much as Moose pissed me off, what happened to him is terrible, right? I think if we kind of generally tell things the same way, what can they do?”

They didn’t account for the detectives’ decision to take a passionate interest in what happened. And they couldn’t know their eventual story would match Moose’s fuzzy recollections, which provided the kind of back-up proof that police and prosecutors love.

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When questioned, Bob had embellished and “recalled” that he “sort-of started to push” toward Skowron after it looked as though Scott was going to slug his friend, Luke.

After several more rounds of police probing, Bob finally admitted pushing Moose and took the blame for throwing the ice ball.

But, Bob always maintained, Luke Murphy didn’t push back.

Later, when the implications became clear, Meg tried to tell the real story, but by then the police figured she was just trying to confuse the matter so no one would get accused.

“These kids have watched too many police shows,” the Palatine police chief said to Alec Walters. “I’m sorry, but we are going to have to take him into custody, and I’m pretty sure this will mean juvenile detention.

“First of all, these kids haven’t told the whole truth and now one of them is trying to change her story,” he continued. “And, Jesus, the Skowron boy’s life has been changed forever. Your son will come home from this, but Scott always will be in that chair.”

When he got back to the station, the chief took a deep breath and made no secret of his relief to his two detectives. “Good work,” he said to them. “We figured this one out, and now I’ve got the mayor and Ted Skowron off my goddam back.”

The Walters family didn’t have money for fancy lawyers.

The one they had was helpless against the experienced Cook County juvenile prosecutor, who also had received a call from the mayor asking him to work this one a little harder than usual on behalf of his friends, the Skowrons.

The police never did get the real story about what happened on the day of the accident, but it didn’t matter. The story they presented to the courts made sense. ******

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Bob Walters completed sixth grade at the Illinois juvenile detention center in St. Charles, Illinois.

It was very hush-hush and confidential in Cook County Juvenile Court, but his classmates couldn’t help but notice that Bob wasn’t around for the rest of the school year. The next fall, just after the start of the seventh grade school year at Everett Dirksen Junior High School, the authorities decided the system had done a good-enough job of straightening Bob out, and they sent him home.

“It sucked. I survived. I did my freakin’ school work, did everything else I was told and got out as soon as I could. Don’t ask me about it,” was all Bob would ever say years later if the subject came up, which was rarely since it was a juvenile delinquency proceeding and not, legally, a criminal case or a public record.

But it was no secret in Palatine. As soon as he heard about the incident, Ted Skowron immediately remembered the Little League game in which Luke Murphy seemed to hit his son without provocation. He was surprised when his son said Walters was the only one who pushed him.

A few months later, when it was too late to do anything, Scott told his father that his memory was getting better.

“Dad, maybe Luke pushed me,” he said, slowly enunciating to the best of his ability. It still hurt to talk too much. “Or, both might’ve pushed me, too. I think Luke threw the ice ball.”

“I knew it all along. This kid Murphy isn’t what he seems to be,” Ted Skowron said, and repeated for years to anyone who would listen. “He needs to get his anger under control.”

The lies by then had taken on lives of their own. Truth and fact mingled like indistinguishable strands of rope. Different people used whatever parts of the composition fit their purposes and biases.

Meg always said she was too upset to remember much of anything. With the sensitivity and shame of any 12-year-old girl, she was grateful she had protected her family secrets by never having to explain her father’s drunken fight with her mother.

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Bob and Luke suspected that Meg’s nightmare life continued after “the Moose incident” as they came to call it. If anything, they had strong suspicions it was getting worse. It involved more than just reading Meg’s body language, since she rarely would make anything but the vaguest references to life inside her house.

Once, when they were in ninth grade, and Meg was starting to bloom as an attractive and potentially popular teen-age girl, they were walking by her house when they thought they saw two shadows.

The shadow figures looked as though they could be Meg and her father inside the house, behind the robin’s-egg blue curtains in front of the window of the first-floor dining room. Meg’s dad seemed to be using his hands to force her shoulders downward, pushing Meg’s face toward his groin. The boys were too far away to hear much of anything, but they could swear they heard a loud shout from a male voice simply saying, “C’mon. Now.” They were old enough to wonder if what they thought was happening might actually be happening.

The next day, they broached the subject in an oblique way, having no idea how to handle such a touchy subject head-on.

But they felt like they had to say something.

“Say, Meg, how are things at home these days?” Luke asked. “How’re your mom and dad?”

But, try as they might, Meg wouldn’t talk about it. “Not so bad,” she said. Then she sighed, deciding her friends deserved at least a small window into her world. “You know. It’s never been the best,” she said. “Hey, everyone’s got problems. That’s what my mom always says.”

Just as Bob and Luke finally gave up trying to find the real truth about what happened inside Meg’s house, Ted Skowron also had to concede defeat in his quest to learn the facts about what happened to his son.

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family didn’t appear to have much money or any significant insurance. He might have to sue all three families and go after their insurance coverage. It would be very hard to win in a three-against-one, he-said, she-said case. Anything his son had ever done to anyone else in terms of bullying could come out, too, and that could lower any jury award if the case ever got that far. The attorneys warned him to expect years of painful, expensive litigating.

Ted Skowron was terribly angry and frustrated, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that a lot of his son’s personality traits came from him, particularly what he called competitive spunk and others might call arrogant bullying. He had raised Scott and two other children with only scattered help from his family after his wife died unexpectedly during Scott’s fifth-grade year. A major part of a large ego was wrapped up in Scott, particularly the young man’s athletic potential.

When Ted took a little time for himself, he stopped for a quick beer at the Palatine Tap, where a circle of longtime buddies provided support.

That was another reason he didn’t go to court. Angry as he was, he couldn’t get comfortable with the idea of suing the parents, particularly Alec Walters and Joe Williamson. They weren’t as well-connected or educated as he was, but they were fellow veterans and drinking buddies at the neighborhood tavern.

In his world, real men didn’t sue their friends.

Instead, he concentrated on two things: dedicating himself to finding a way for his son to succeed and watching very closely as Luke Murphy, Meg Williamson and Bob Walters grew up.

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27 Chicago Late Afternoon after Game Six “[T]here are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns – there are things we do not know we don’t know.”

—Former United States Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, in his memoirs following his tenure during the U.S. invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan While baseball officials and government officials huddled elsewhere, another quiet meeting was taking place in the basement of a bungalow home not unlike thousands of others in the city’s ethnic neighborhoods. Two people, Phil Kimbrough and Brandon Preston, were doing most of the talking among the gathering of eight.

They sat huddled around a round coffee table made, hippiestyle, from a phone cable wheel. A few bong hits of organic, chemical-free marijuana grown in one of their basements had everyone chattering and laughing. Revenue from pot-dealing helped support the cause. They were proud they sold nothing truly addictive. It was all very “green.”

The announcement of the postponement of Game Seven and media reports of Murphy’s attendance at the game prompted the need for a plan recap.

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“There were a lot of long shots, but things are working perfectly,” said Kimbrough. “First we figured out the Barlage angle as a pressure point. But, shit, meeting Czerski was a Godsend. Everyone is focused on a nutty dude with a CubsMust-Win fetish. Any threat to Murphy is an afterthought. We can increase the pressure geometrically now.”

The plan was an evolving thing, like the Earth itself. It was all about probabilities. There were no guarantees. If it didn’t work, they were covered. They just wouldn’t take the last, critical steps. They would wait for another day, another time, another place. It was kind of fun even. They liked puzzles and strategy games. This problem involved puzzle pieces that, with just a bit of luck, would orient events to their liking.

They focused on the tactical challenges by using the tonguetwisting formula once described by Donald Rumsfeld, defense secretary for President George W. Bush.

“You gotta love the irony of borrowing anything from a bag of shit like Rumsfeld,” Preston said. “The ultimate symbol of American arrogance. A bloodless viper who sent thousands of Americans and Iraqis to early deaths.

“It kinda scares me,” he continued, “but I think I understand when he’s saying about strategic planning.”

Rumsfeld famously described his approach to the Iraq war this way in his self-serving biography: There were known knowns – the things you knew that you knew.

There were known unknowns – the things that you knew you didn’t know.

There were unknown unknowns – the things that you didn’t know that you didn’t know.

A plan like this was all about leveraging the known knowns so there was a higher probability the things you wanted to happen could come true, leaving an out to fight another day in case one of those unknown unknowns pops up.

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The most important “known known” was that Murphy would want with all his heart to attend a World Series with the Cubs.

Much of the rest was a crazy game of manipulating known unknowns and minimizing unknown unknowns.

It had gone way beyond using the Barlage woman for blackmail once Czerksi got involved. The plan was far more sweeping, serious and sweeter now. It was just crazy enough to work.

To increase the odds of Murphy’s appearance when they were ready to act, they needed the World Series to get to a climax point, and that was working out. Czerski’s obsessive goal was to maneuver the authorities into a position where the Cubs needed to win the Series no matter what. They went along and even did what they could to stoke his anger and passion.

Czerski was a special guy; and not just because his needs and theirs coincided. Czerski was handy, deft and smart, especially when it came to manufacturing the various electronic devices they needed. It also was helpful that he was easy to manipulate in his current mental state.

“I don’t even remember whether it was us or Tommy who had the Cincinnati idea, but we fueled it and maybe the bigger boom to come. These guys aren’t stupid,” Kimbrough said.

“I think they’ll get the Cincinnati clue,” said another member of the group. “We lucked out with this Chicago weather.”

They couldn’t predict the weather or the details of Murphy’s commitments when they saw the Series schedule. The President’s Sunday night commitment with the Saudi leaders could not change. There was no way he could come to a Game Seven on Sunday night, no matter how much he wanted to attend. Once they grasped the potential the Cincy explosion could unleash, and all the ‘known unknowns’ involved with that, that made Czerski even more important.

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Kimbrough said. “It took a threat so bizarre but weirdly logical they’d have to come up with some kind of reason to postpone.

But it would have to be just murky enough they couldn’t justify going public and starting a panic.

“We put them in a position where they had to buy time no matter what.”

“I like that concept – weirdly logical” said Preston with a laugh. “The fucking irony is that we got hard, cold rain anyway.

“And now, while everyone is after Tommy from Streamwood, one way or another we will eliminate our planet’s biggest environmental rapist this side of China while he roots for his favorite team.”

The reference to “one way or another” brought a chuckle.

“Yeah,” said one member of the group. “Murphy will either be out of the picture or totally out. Three strikes. Period.”

“Just make sure you stay focused on no slip-ups with that Barlage woman,” Kimbrough said. “And we’ve got to keep Czerski doing what we need him to do. Worst-case scenario, if they ever link him to us, we can just say we were horsing around when he talked about Cincinnati. I mean, we will say how could we know he was that nuts?”

“Hey, we never believed he was screwed-up enough to actually do it,” Preston added. “We all want the Cubbies to win, right?”

That brought a big laugh before another round of bong hits. ****** Tommy liked puzzles as much as his new buddies did.

Indeed, he had first met them at a Sunday afternoon meeting of the Hanover Park Strategy Game Club. Now he was operating in the real world, trying to scatter intriguing clues like breadcrumbs so the powers-that-be would have to develop a plan to fix the seventh game.

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“It’ll g-g-guarantee a Cubs championship,” Tommy had told his friends, showing a wry grin. “Plus, I just want to see if this can be pulled off.”

He had been particularly intrigued by Trey Van Ohmann as a candidate for manipulation. The Red Sox had defeated the Cubs with ease behind Van Ohmann in Game One. That stung, especially because the Boston ace had started his career in the Cubs’ organization. The Cubs released him after one season in the minor leagues, getting zero in return. Then Van Ohmann learned to control his slider, and he developed a splitfinger fastball that was unhittable at times. Bob Walters loved riffing off his nickname for the introverted pitcher, dubbing Van Ohmann “The Man The Cubs Forgot.” It probably was the only Bob Walters comment that caused Tommy to nod in agreement.

The Cincinnati target had made weirdly perfect sense.

Tommy loved the Black Sox-Chicago angle. They knew Murphy was scheduled for a Cincinnati speech during the World Series period. The off-season security around any ballpark would be a joke. You just had to make sure you avoided surveillance cameras or, at a minimum, couldn’t be identified.

Setting up a remotely timed explosion to take advantage of a nearby gas line wouldn’t be hard. The challenge in Tommy’s mind was the kind he liked: how to focus the force to make a statement about property damage with minimal or, he hoped, zero loss of life. Provide a puzzle and send a message. Don’t wreak so much havoc the authorities would bring the entire country to a dead stop.

Still, statistical projections got really dicey as the groups got smaller – he had internalized that lesson from his favorite science-fiction novels, Isaac Asimov’s “Foundation” series, perhaps the only successful books with a mathematician as the main character. Those books chronicled the impact of Hari Seldon, who developed ways to predict and direct human behavior with high probability of success. However, as Asimov deftly showed, it was much easier to predict and manipulate the 188

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actions of large groups versus individual humans. Manipulating individuals like Trey Van Ohmann, Luke Murphy and Bob Walters was critical in this case.

The Van Ohmann situation was a good example. It took careful planning to neutralize the impact of the star Boston pitcher.

One major thing had gone wrong. He hadn’t meant for Van Ohmann’s father to die. Really. He didn’t believe in causing death if it could be avoided. His careful plans were supposed to cause fear but leave a chance for people to live. Still, he sensed, some “collateral damage” didn’t make as much difference to his new acquaintances.

Don Van Ohmann’s crash was just supposed to be something to shake up and distract the star pitcher, whose close relationship with his father was legendary. Tommy pushed himself to stick his guilt in a box in the back of his mind. “Well, it’s done,” Tommy rationalized, knowing that, if anything, Don’s death helped his plans.

Unknown unknowns, he thought, parroting some of the conversations in the strategy game club.

The extra off day increased the probabilities the great Van Ohmann would show up to pitch. However, if Van Ohmann pitched at all, he’d be distracted. He’d be a lot easier to hit than usual.

Or, as Tommy hoped, Van Ohmann would be very, very easy to hit, because the authorities would make sure the players understood the stakes if the Cubs lost.

“We’ve covered our bases,” he said out loud. “Pun intended.”

189

28 Chicago Evening after Game Six After the show at Eger’s and puzzled by the mysterious need for a meeting with the FBI in a few minutes, Walters headed back to the station.

Walters punched a button to lift the elevator to the fourthfloor studio. When the door opened, he passed by Gina, the receptionist.

“Stiletto, there’s an FBI guy coming to see me,” he added.

“I don’t think they’ve banned free speech yet in this country, so I’m not sure what he wants to talk about. Flash him that milliondollar smile, and give me a heads-up as soon as he lands.”

A short while later, Walters and Beatrice sat in a small, windowless conference room at WCO. Both leaned back in the black mesh chairs that surrounded a rectangular, wooden conference table. A flat-screen TV on one wall was showing ESPN with the sound turned down, and stereo speakers played the live broadcast from WCO. At that moment, “Chicagoland’s super-sized Chevy dealer” was loudly insisting that he would beat any offer, anywhere, any time by at least 200 bucks and change your oil for the rest of your life. Framed posters of Chicago championship teams decorated one wall – the basketball Bulls, the hockey Blackhawks, the football Bears, the baseball White Sox. Then there was a simple poster that 190

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said: “Chicago Cubs. World Champs 1908. Who’s Counting??”

Beatrice wasn’t sure how much he would tell Walters, although there was no way he was going to share anything about a possible sham Game Seven with a guy who had the most popular sports call-in show in the city. As a Chicago-based agent, Beatrice was quite familiar with Walters and his act.

That’s how he thought of it. An act. Outrage for the sake of ratings, using nuggets of truth – often taken out of any context – to provoke all the pissed-off people to get more pissed off and tell all their pissed-off friends how pissed off they were. A little bit of Walters went a long way with him.

Now Beatrice was meeting the man for the first time, trying to repress the urge to simply tell him what an irresponsible asshole he thought Walters was.

Beatrice’s first glimpse conveyed the image of a slightly overweight, middle-aged guy who seemed successful but didn’t look particularly happy. The agent’s thoughts went into the “Walters file” of his mental filing cabinet: “Makes a stylish attempt at pushing his hair straight back to cover growing bald spot. He’s vain. Acts like he can take it as well as dish it out, but probably seethes inside when he’s the butt of jokes. Very smart.

Likes to be in control. Must wonder sometimes if he is putting that brain to its best use.”

After a silence that was long enough to cause Walters to act restless and raise his eyebrows, Beatrice opened the conversation.

“Mr. Walters, thanks for your time. I listen to your show myself sometimes,” said Beatrice, skipping the part about how fast he usually tuned to another station. “I have to confess, though, that I’m a Cubs fan. I’d like to see them win tomorrow night.”

“Well,” Walters said with a hint of a smile, “if you look at their history, you have to admit that’s kinda unlikely.”

“Touche.”

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Walters then affirmed Beatrice’s notion as someone who liked to be in control. It was fine with Beatrice if Walters wanted to think that was the case.

“I’m not sure why you’re here, and I’ll help if I can. But I am absolutely swamped right now,” Walters continued in a steady stream. “If you listen, you know that I have to get ready for another live show at Eger’s tomorrow before the game, and I’m exhausted. I think I’m on 10 different call-in shows around the country tonight. There’s even an ESPN gig at 10 p.m. Not braggin’ but just sayin’. People think we wing it on the air.

Making it look easy is what makes it so hard. You can’t be lazy to succeed at this level.”

“So, what, does it take to really succeed at this level, besides having a quick wit and a sense of the jugular?” Beatrice asked, arching his eyebrows and showing an inquisitive expression.

“Take a minute. Tell me about that. It might help me understand what I can tell you, and how you can help us.”

Knowing he was being manipulated but unable to resist the invitation to talk about himself, Walters obliged. ****** More than anything, Walters wanted the agent to understand that success at this level wasn’t just about being an outspoken jerk. He described how he built his career by out-hustling his competitors and doing more exhaustive background work about sports in Chicago than anyone else. Preparation was his foundation.

“The thing about sports-talk radio,” he had recently told a broadcasting class at Columbia College in Chicago, “is that you are always preparing, because there is always some fan out there who thinks he knows more than you, is more on top of things than you, because that person is an expert on one thing, and you’re supposed to be an expert on everything.

“I’ll be on the radio and make some offhand comment about an Olympic wrestler and some guy will call from Nowhere, 192

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Wisconsin, and tell me that I’m wrong – Mr. Matman wrestled at 198, not 188. During the Mark McGwire-Sammy Sosa chase for the Major League home-run record, I speculated that Sammy Sosa was corking his bat, which makes it livelier. Well, some guy calls with a passion for the history of baseball bats.

He drones on about the physics of wood and cork in a bat to try to convince me it wasn’t possible the Cubs’ star outfielder was cheating.

“Well, needless to say, we know that Sosa corked his bat along with other sins. This guy’s Cubs-Love was coloring his judgment. He didn’t like that when I pointed this out.”

That brought a laugh from the class. One of the students asked how he prepared for each show.

“I start every day by going to ESPN.com, of course, and several other sports Web sites,” he said. “I look at the local newspapers in print and online. I check out discussion boards for everything from local high-school sports to NASCAR. If some kid kicked a 60-yard field goal at Barrington High School last night, I better be ready for the caller who claims that’s a national high-school record.

“Ask me anything about sports, and I can probably tell you something you didn’t know. But I probably shouldn’t even be allowed to vote, because I just don’t have time to keep up with anything else,” he said.

Then, he paused for effect.

“Still,” Walters had told the class, flashing his trademark big toothy smile. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining.

It’s what I do, and it has been a good gig indeed.” ****** Walters recounted the Columbia College session for Beatrice as part of his answer. The point was to reinforce that he was very busy, and he somehow felt the need to justify his existence to the FBI agent. Beatrice continued to stare at him with the 193

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judgmental gaze of a baseball scout evaluating the attitude of a prospect with uncertain talent.

Beatrice had heard it before from the powerful and famous, who somehow thought their time and their issues were more important than anyone else’s.

“I assume you heard about what happened in Cincinnati,” Beatrice responded, drawing Walters out some more. “How do you work that into your show? That’s a pretty serious subject.”

“Well, I am reading everything I can find about it first of all.

I didn’t do anything with it today. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how to handle it,” Walters said. “You can’t make jokes about something like that – no ‘dead Red’ rhymes or anything like that. Shows that are downers also are shows that are station-changers. If I say anything, I will use my ‘Serious Bob’ voice: We all send thoughts and prayers to the victims and their families, yada, yada. The show still has to be about the Cubs and Game Seven.

“Actually, you’re helping me out by making me chew on this a little more. I just thought of a good segue,” Walters added.

“Maybe I say, ‘It’s a real tragedy for baseball fans everywhere, and I know Cub fans are hoping a tragedy doesn’t unfold at Wrigley Field tonight.’ Do you think that’s too glib?”

Beatrice didn’t respond to that. Walters paused, pondering the pros and cons of the comment on air. “Ah, never mind,” he said. “That’s still too tacky. I gotta keep working on that.”

Then Walters shifted gears. The curiosity of a former reporter who still needed tips and sources was taking over. “So, on or off the record, it has to be bullshit there was a natural cause to this, right?”

“Off the record only, you’re right,” Beatrice said, deciding he would give Walters a nugget of information. “We think someone knew enough about engineering vulnerabilities and other factors to make it look like a possible gas explosion. I don’t have much doubt that we will find more evidence of that.”

“And I am wondering if you are visiting me because of something to do with Cincinnati,” Walters said.

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“Here’s the thing,” Beatrice said, taking on a very serious tone. “I need to share some information with you. And we want your honest help. But I have to have your promise that nothing I tell you leaves this room unless I say it’s okay to use it – not with your masseuse if you have one, your ex-wives, your station manager, your daughter or especially your listeners.”

The agent’s request made Walters hesitate but also made him think, “Game on.”

He hadn’t been in a position in quite a while in which he had to make unpredictable deals with public officials on something really serious, especially law enforcement people.

Walters sat back in the mesh chair so far that it almost tipped.

He pulled a cigarette out of his pack, stared at it, twirled it in his hand a few times and then put it back in the pack without lighting it, deciding to adhere to the no-smoking rule in the building when he was eye-to-eye with an FBI agent.

“That’s a hard promise for me,” Walters finally said. “I’m still a reporter at heart. I make my living telling people stuff, and telling them what I think about that stuff versus not telling them stuff and not telling them what I think about that stuff.

I guarantee you that tomorrow there will be people wanting to talk about Cincinnati. No one is buying what you guys are selling.”

“It’s pretty simple, really,” said Beatrice, cutting to the chase. “I don’t have a lot of time to bargain with you. You can be an asshole on a journalistic high-horse, or you might be able to help us keep a smart-but-crazy terrorist from doing more damage, maybe killing people.

“For all we know, you are the one who provoked him,” he added to punctuate the point. “That’s one reason I’m here.”

“My journalistic high-horse collapsed when I went into radio,” Walters said, his curiosity now spiced by a dash of surprise.

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reading the blog posts and coming up with new comments to fan the fans’ fires, as they sometimes put it. Part of his job involved encouraging the kooks to act kookier.

“All I ask is that you let me negotiate,” Walters said. “If you say something or tell me something that I really, really want to use on the air, let me try to convince you. If you say ‘no,’ then so be it. And I want your promise that at some point – you say when – you will give me permission to talk about my visit from the FBI if I want to talk about it.”

“Agreed as a possible-maybe. That’s all I can do,” Beatrice said. “We need to talk about your listeners, and we need to do this fast. First, if I were to ask you which of your regular callers seems the most likely to do something violent, who comes to mind? Second, I want to know if you have taken a look at some of the posts on your blog lately.

“And there is something else,” Beatrice added, pausing for some dramatic effect.

“What’s that?” Walters asked.

“We just think it’s an interesting coincidence that you grew up with President Murphy,” Beatrice said. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but you never know.”

196

29 Chicago Area Summer and Fall, Before the World Series Tommy Czerski had cemented his relationship over the summer with his new friends, Phil Kimbrough and Brandon Preston. After several Sunday encounters at the Hanover Park Strategy Game Club meetings, they asked him if he wanted to grab a bite to eat.

The invitation for an early dinner turned into regular sessions at Hippo’s, a nearby Vienna hot dog joint that was like hundreds of other restaurants around Chicagoland that specialized in “Chicago-style” hot dogs.

At Hippo’s, any normal conversation would have to move up the volume ladder about every 90 seconds since the restaurant was in the landing path of a busy runway at O’Hare International Airport. On the other hand, the roar of the airplane noise also masked close conversations, which made it a popular hangout for anyone interested in discreet strategic planning to go along with a hot dog, Polish sausage or Italian beef.

All three men were unemployed. The state of Illinois required them to seek training, apply for jobs and get job-seeking support if they wanted to continue to cash unemployment checks. So, the three of them had also started going to meetings of the “West Suburban Jobless Support Network.”

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“What a fucking joke that is,” Phil had said at one midsummer lunch. They had been through one-too-many sessions of reviewing, editing and offering critiques of one another’s resumes. In the current economy, the chances of finding a job in which they wouldn’t be woefully under-employed seemed about equal to the chances of, well, the Cubs winning a World Series.

At that point in the baseball season, no Chicagoan had any reason to believe this season would be any different than every season since 1908. The exciting, late-season surge that pushed the Cubs into the playoffs and the World Series for the first time since 1945 was a week away from starting.

Phil and Brandon both had lost their jobs at a local power plant in a cutback. Brandon had been a security guard; Phil worked as a third-shift control room assistant.

They slowly brought Tommy more deeply into their circle once they saw he liked to argue about politics and sports as much as they did. He generally agreed with their points of view.

Tommy felt comfortable around those guys to the point that it even kept his stuttering pretty much under control. And they never made fun of his speech impediment.

As smart as Tommy was about things, he was surprisingly gullible about people. Kimbrough detected his hunger for friendship and saw how they could exploit it. And, he had some skills the team could use. ****** A few weeks later, with the whole region going crazy for the Cubs, the trio met again.

“That fuckin’ President Murphy,” Preston said at a lunch just before the baseball playoffs started. He nearly spit out the next two words. “Environmental rapist.”

“Phil, didn’t you work at a power plant?” Tommy asked.

“Seems like Murphy would keep your plant running more if he had his way.”

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“Just because I worked in a coal plant, doesn’t mean I agreed with everything I saw,” Kimbrough said, then lowered his voice. “I was there to gather evidence. And I got a lot of it, starting with emissions reports that were bogus. Major bullshit.”

“Actually,” Preston continued, “if you saw half the shit we saw, you’d want the Feds to walk in tomorrow—even if it meant we’d be using candles instead of light bulbs.”

“Well,” Tommy joked. “At least Murphy’s a Kuh-KuhCubs fan.”

Kimbrough slathered some extra mustard on his hot dog, setting it down carefully in the red-plastic basket next to the fries. He was careful in the Chicago way not to let any ketchup from the fries touch the steaming dog.

“That is his only – and I stress ONLY – redeeming quality,” Kimbrough said, stuffing one-third of the hot dog into his mouth.

“He’s going to be in Cincy in a few weeks to raise money and accept some award from a group called ‘The Pact for American Jobs’ that gets about half its cash from the utilities and their crony industries.”

Tommy wasn’t sure where he was going with the last remark.

Preston then looked hard at Tommy, catching him off guard by shifting the subject so quickly, which was Preston’s intent.

“Tom, Phil and I have been talking about you,” he said. “It’s pretty obvious the Cubs could actually go to the Series now. Go figure.”

“It’s awesome,” Tommy said. “I have b-b-been thinking about that. A lot.”

“Well,” Kimbrough said, “we think there are ways you can ensure they win. Can we trust you with an idea or two? We could use your help, and maybe we can help the Cubbies, too.”

Tommy readily agreed and went home with work to do. ****** He spent the weekend pondering his “just in case” target.

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difficult. He knew it would have to be in Chicago and big enough and, yes, interesting enough to get the authorities’ attention if they needed an additional reminder that, yes, the Cubs needed to win.

Some things were too obvious and would lack dramatic flair after the initial shock of attack wore off. He ran through options in his mind, rejecting most quite quickly. For example, there were major malls in the suburbs, or even one of the big stores or restaurants on the “Magnificent Mile” where the rich folks and foreign tourists shopped along Michigan Avenue.

But shopping areas didn’t challenge him. Despite heightened security, anyone could set off a bomb in one of those places if so inclined. More importantly, collateral damage would be huge.

Too many victims. Blowing up a school bus would just make people so mad they’d miss the point, and the timing wouldn’t be right since whatever he did probably would need to happen during the weekend. If needed, the potential target had to be bigger than whatever he did in Cincinnati.

“Like Goldilocks,” he said out loud. “Not too big, not too small. Just right.”

He typed every possibility that made even remote sense into a spreadsheet, then created two columns next to each idea. One column was labeled “pros,” the other labeled “cons.”

The first idea he seriously considered was to blow up an empty El train, maybe near the Wrigley Field stop. That had a certain panache that appealed to him. Chicago’s famous elevated trains were signature items and closely associated with the Cubs. Thousands of fans used the El to get to Wrigley Field.

But even the El had become a cliché.

He wondered about blowing up the lion in front of the Art Institute or the huge, polished metal “egg sculpture” in the lakefront Millennium Park. Fun ideas, he thought, pondering the possibilities. But at the end of the day, what did you do? You blew up a fucking sculpture. It’s more like a fraternity prank.

You might as well leave a bag of crap under the lion.

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He swiveled around in his chair and looked at his laptop.

“Okay, that’s why God gave us Google,” he said, tapping “Chicago attractions” into the search bar, hunting for some new ideas.

In about a second, he had a long list of fresh possibilities.

Both zoos – Lincoln and Brookfield – the museums, the Art Institute, the conservatory, even the classical but odd Baha’i Temple in Wilmette. There were other sports venues such as Soldier Field, where the football Bears played, or the United Center, home to the basketball Bulls and hockey Blackhawks.

He spent quite a bit of time pondering the Water Tower, the 1869 structure that was one of the few survivors of the Great Chicago Fire. On and on. The choices seemed endless.

Then he saw it and he knew. He had the perfect target.

It was a throwback to Chicago’s history. It was a landmark.

It had flair and drama as a target. A blast there would scare the crap out of people. It would make his point if and when the point needed to be reinforced.

He sent several, full-color photos of the huge, 150-foot tall Ferris wheel at Navy Pier to his printer at the highest resolution, knowing he would need to spend hours examining every brace and connecting point in minute detail. He would have to refer to architectural resources and apply his extraordinary engineering skills to calculations of stresses and fracture points. It would not be easy, especially since no one could simply walk up and plant a big bomb in one obvious spot.

The scale of this wheel at 15 stories high dwarfed anything seen at a typical, parking-lot carnival and even most amusement parks. The wheel had 40 gondolas, each seating up to six passengers. At night, thousands of twinkling lights lit the foreground with Lake Michigan – a lake so big it behaved like an ocean – in the background. It was built as a salute to the giant Ferris wheel at Chicago’s famous 1893 Columbian Exposition.

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pulling down the available public records, a long night of focused probing and hacking landed detailed pdfs of the various schematics. Then he hacked into the security system and video cameras around the site. He spent hours and hours observing what the security people saw and finding holes in what the cameras were recording.

With his training, Tommy knew how to approach these kinds of problems, but he felt somewhat limited by his background in electrical engineering. He wasn’t a mechanical engineering expert. He needed to be sure, so he spent days in the library at the University of Illinois Chicago campus going through mechanical engineering textbooks, double-checking his calculations.

Once, stumped in an effort to calculate the placement and force of a charge on the metal super-structure, he asked a graduate student for help, explaining that he was an Illinois alumnus in the library trying to figure out a work-related problem – all very hush-hush, because it involved the military and the war on terror. Intrigued, the grad student helped him with the difficult math, never realizing the explosive force might be directed at the Navy Pier Ferris Wheel.

Finally, Tommy thought he saw a way to bring the whole thing down like a child’s Erector set. He would try to keep collateral damage to a minimum; maybe even do it at a time when the wheel was closed. Still, he couldn’t help but envision families in the cages on the huge wheel. He imagined the sound of children screaming. He heard the huge, shocking thunderclap of the big wheel collapsing onto itself. He saw twisted metal flying everywhere with large chunks splashing into Lake Michigan under the glow of a full moon.

I’m getting ahead of myself, he thought when he realized it would be a lot harder than he first hoped.

He decided to ride the wheel in disguise multiple times.

Fortunately, the wheel was open 363 days per year – closed on Christmas and Thanksgiving. He enlisted his new friends to do 202

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the same, carefully instructing them on what he wanted them to see and do. Eventually, they secretly planted charges at the places he identified. The idea was to upset balance and create enough vibration to cause a horrific collapse if everything was timed just right.

“We’re all set,” Tommy confidently reported to Kimbrough at Hippo’s when the job was done and ready to go. “I really hope we don’t have to do it with people on it. I think it’ll be a huge collapse.”

Kimbrough looked back at Tommy with a cold, unemotional stare. “Keep working on it, Tom,” he said. “Keep refining. Keep making sure. We will position this to happen but do not, repeat, do not, blow anything until I tell you to do it. I don’t care how pissed off you get at the Cubs. You have to wait until you get the word.”

As soon as Kimbrough left Tommy that day, he walked around the corner and slipped behind the restaurant where he could make a phone call in private. He punched in a number that he never stored in his phone but had been ordered to memorize whenever it changed, which was often. And, as ordered, he always wiped the number from his phone’s “recent call” list as soon as the call ended. No call was allowed to be longer than 30 seconds.

“Our new associate is going to be a big help; maybe exactly what we need to maneuver our targets,” he said to the person on the other end. “Obviously, we will use him properly before parting ways. I will send you a secure summary, but I think you will like progress to date and agree to go forward with our plans.”

“Very well,” the voice said, offering no hints of an emotional state. “We will deposit additional funds to handle upcoming needs.”

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though he led the Chicago group, he had no idea how many other teams there were. He had never met the owner of the voice in person, at least as far as he knew. He also knew it was better that way.

“Thank you, Phil,” the voice added.

Those were the final three words the caller voiced before abruptly ending the conversation, if it could be called that.

That’s the way their calls always ended.

“You’re welcome,” Kimbrough said, but he knew he only was speaking to air.

204

30 Chicago Early 2004 “Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”

—Mark Twain When Bob Walters started his shock-sports-jock routine on WCO Radio, the owners knew quickly the show was going to be a hit. His wit, his ability to handle callers, his I-hate-theCubs routine and his sense of timing made him a natural.

One problem was that Walters didn’t have a classic voice for radio, so the station had paid for some coaching. The vocal coach heard a surprisingly shrill, nasal voice with a Chicago accent and the rasp of a guy who had spent a lot of time in smoky bars arguing loudly about sports. The coach helped Walters sand down the roughest edges, toning down the thickness and the West-Side Chicago accent just a bit.

The vocal coach also was smart enough to realize the voice of a guy who sounded like a crusty, crabby sportswriter with a hangover and a cigarette habit in a great sports town and great news town like Chicago only needed tweaking, not radical adjustment. Walters didn’t need to sound like another fake, blow-dried anchorman, but listeners also needed to think he was smart and articulate without being a snob.

“You’ve got a college degree,” the coach told him. “You aren’t a fucking dock worker. You can sound street-smart and 205

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book-smart at the same time. That’s the trick for you. That’s what will work.”

One morning, a few months after he had started his show, Jennifer Tatro, a staff assistant to the on-air talent, rapped on his door with a quick, sharp knock as he went through his preparation routine before going on the air. That morning’s copies of the sports sections of The Chicago Sun-Times and Chicago Tribune were spread out on his desk with yellow marker circling or covering the quotes and anecdotes that struck Walters’ fancy as potential on-air material.

“Hey, Bob, there’s a guy on the phone who wants to talk to you; says he knows you from high school,” she said in her own version of the distinctive Chicago accent in a voice thickened by too many Salem menthols for 20-some years.

“Jen, you know you sound unusually husky and sexy today,” Walters said. “We need to get you on the air. The phones will light up. And the Cubs fans will hate you, because they’ll know in an instant you’re from the Sowt’ Side, White Sox Country.”

“You are a funny, funny man, even if I won’t let you touch me on a bet,” she said. “The guy is on hold. Do you want to take the call or not?”

“What’s his name?”

“Skowron, he said. Scott Skowron. He had to spell it for me.

He doesn’t talk very well.”

“Shit,” was all Walters could say at first blush.

Moose Skowron was about the last guy Walters imagined would want to talk to him. He didn’t even realize that Skowron apparently could talk well enough to make an understandable phone call. Immediately, a mental movie of Moose on the graduation-night stage more than three decades ago began an unwanted rerun in Walters’ mind.

He saw the crippled athlete with that weird, brain-damaged grin, waving with one hand and clutching that football with the other. He remembered talking to Meg Williamson and feeling extremely self-conscious as everyone gave Skowron a standing ovation. And he remembered the months he spent in juvenile 206

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corrections at St. Charles. Of course, he remembered that almost every day, even if just for a moment.

Walters was well aware that Skowron had turned into some kind of professional math whiz with sports statistics. Moose even had his own Internet site. Skowron was a student of what the baseball statistics freaks called “sabermetrics,” a way of using statistics and other objective standards to analyze baseball players and predict future success. Lately, he had been applying the same, dense mathematical approach to football.

Skowron had just started doing a trendy new thing called “blogging” that looked like it would be a big deal, and he was frequently quoted by sports journalists. But their paths hadn’t crossed.

And really, Walters didn’t much want the crossing to happen.

He had picked things up again with Alcoholics Anonymous, realizing the new job meant he had to get a few things under control, though he thought of himself as a functional drunk.

He had survived a lot of pot smoking in the 1970s and cokesnorting in the 1980s. Now his drug of choice came in a bottle, preferably good Kentucky bourbon on the rocks. A lot of what he heard in AA seemed like bullshit; some of it made sense. But he had no choice but to agree the potential existed for drinking to consume his life.

One of his favorite musicians was a Texan, Robert Earl Keen, best known for a Texas country-swing anthem called “The Party Never Ends.”

Great song but not true, Walters thought. The party can definitely end. He had seen it happen to others. He had a dead child as personal testimony.

Skowron popping back into his life underlined a major part of the AA credo. They had just talked about it at the last meeting. You needed to “make amends” to everyone you had hurt unless those amends would hurt that person.

“Amends” involved a helluva long list for Walters. He wasn’t ready for that. At meetings he was simply “Bob from Chicago,” although it was obvious some recognized him while 207

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protecting his anonymity. As Walters checked off the people who needed to be on his amends list, he had often considered the dilemma that Scott “Moose” Skowron presented. He still rationalized that it really wasn’t anyone’s fault but Moose’s for setting events in motion. Moose had brought it on himself with his bullying and bullshit.

But, then again, there was a push, a lie and a three-person conspiracy. Probably some amends in there somewhere, Walters thought to himself.

All this sifted through Walters’ mind in a few seconds as he contemplated what to say to Jen. Should I take the call? Really, any other answer than “yes” was just too weird and difficult to explain since he tried to take as many calls as he could in those early days of the show, trying to build an audience. Why wouldn’t I take one from a high school friend?

“Yeah, okay,” he finally said. “Put him through.”

Walters pushed the lit button on his phone and propped the receiver between his neck and ear, old newspaper-reporter style.

“Hello, this is Bob Walters.”

The voice on the other end indeed was somewhat hard to understand, but it was audible.

“Bob, did they tell you who this is?”

“Jenny – she’s my assistant – did,” Walters said. “Um, is this Moo – Scott Skowron?”

“Yes, it is,” Skowron said, speaking in words that were slightly slow and extended, making “yes” sound like “yesss.”

“Wow, Scott, it has been a long time,” Walter said, not quite knowing what to say and deciding he had little interest in a long conversation. “What can I do for you?”

“I called to tell you one thing and suggest another,” he said slowly.

“Okay, what is it?”

Skowron explained, using carefully measured words, often with longer-than-normal gaps in between. It obviously took a lot of willpower for him to speak as clearly as possible. Walters stayed quiet as Skowron slowly explained.

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“I think I can help you. I can give you all kinds of great statistics about the Cubs especially,” he said. “It’s ammunition for your show, Bob. Good stuff. I can feed you a couple of items every week. Worth it for you. Example: The Cubs were the first team to ever forfeit a game, on August 21, 1876, when they left the field to protest an umpire’s call. Here is another: They’ve had more than 75 different third basemen since Ron Santo retired.”

“I’m intrigued,” Walters replied, and he genuinely was.

This could be material that would add some fresh dimension, especially if it was exclusive to him. The Santo example was gold, a classic example of front-office ineptitude since the great third baseman left the Cubs in 1973 – although Walters had choice words for the revered Santo, too.

In his newspaper columns, Walters had called Santo “overrated” and the “all-time great at driving in runs that didn’t matter.” In later years, as Santo neared the end of his life, ravaged by diabetes and other health problems, Walters was smart enough to tone down the anti-Ron rhetoric. Santo even came on the show once and did a mock beating of Walters with his artificial leg. They joked around about the leg, including tales of how Bill Veeck, the late and colorful owner of the Chicago White Sox, had a hole in his wooden leg so he could use it as an ashtray. The station made a donation to the Diabetes Foundation. Cubs fans contributed $20,000 in pledges just to see Santo slap Walters with the fake leg.

“Why would you do this?” Walters asked Skowron.

“Many reasons, Bob. I need some extra money. Two, I love baseball statistics and trivia, and I am good at it. Three, I am sick of the Cubs failing so often, and we can jolt management.

And then there is Reason Four.”

“Reason Four?”

“Yes,” Skowron replied. “I forgive you.”

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31 Chicago One Week Later in 2004 Scott Skowron had overcome a lot of obstacles along the way. He could speak well enough to get by. He could drive with special controls and maneuver his wheelchair onto the ramp of his special van. He had decent vision and full control of his hands. As a result, the computer age had been a Godsend, unleashing his prodigious skills at math, especially statistics.

Thanks to the wonders of artificial insemination, he could even procreate, and he had twin boys who were nearly finished with high school.

Eating – swallowing, actually – probably was the biggest daily struggle. Chicagoans loved big bites of Italian beef sandwiches, gyros, Vienna hot dogs and thick slices of doughy, deep-dish pizza with fresh ingredients from places such as Gino’s and Lou Malnati’s. In late summer, if you knew where to go, you’d find central Illinois sweet corn picked the same morning, ready to be cooked, drenched in butter and eaten right off the cob.

Instead, Scott Skowron was carefully cutting his hot dog into small bites with surgical precision.

He stared across the table at Bob Walters inside Portillo’s restaurant in suburban Addison, just a few miles from the townhouse where he lived with his wife, a registered nurse he 210

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had met during his last operation, and their sons. A small, ovalshaped hill of mustard was next to the hot dog, as were individual piles of sport peppers, onions, cucumber and tomatoes that normally would be on the hot dog but the restaurant manager diced for one of his favorite customers. Skowron liked to cut the hot dog himself, though. It was his routine.

Walters had agreed to meet Skowron for two reasons. First, he genuinely wanted to discuss how their relationship might work. The second reason was to satisfy his curiosity and maybe lessen his residual guilt. The station’s legal department had given Walters a standard independent contractor agreement in which Skowron would be paid $500 a month to deliver at least one dozen anecdotes about Chicago sports teams or athletes to Bob Walters during every 30-day period. The anecdotes had to be exclusive. WCO could terminate the arrangement at any time.

They made small talk for about 15 minutes, avoiding for the moment the looming weight of their shared past. Instead, Walters focused on sizing up Skowron’s potential value to him. He peppered Skowron with questions about the Cubs and sabermetrics. His instincts were on target. The guy could be his secret weapon. He could even see a new feature: “Sad Stats,” in which Walters would dazzle listeners with statistical proofs of Cubs futility. Skowron also would be a mother lode of material for sports trivia contests. And he could help Walters when the focus shifted to other sports.

The negotiating didn’t take long. Skowron made one change. He hand-wrote and initialed a new paragraph that flipped “WCO” and “Skowron” around so he had the same right to terminate the arrangement at any time.

“Otherwise, it’s one-sided bullshit,” he said. Walters, who had seen many a one-sided contract written by a media company over the years, couldn’t disagree and said he figured that would be fine. Skowron acknowledged everything else and signed on the spot.

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Now there was no avoiding the larger topic.

“I’m still curious as to why you would call me after all these years,” Walters said.

“Bob, I learned a long time ago that whether I was mad, sad or glad, there were no feelings that were going to change the reality of what happened,” Skowron said in his slow, almost forced way of speaking. “And the fact is, I was a big dick at that age.

“You know and I know that I walked up to you, Luke and Meg like a big-ass bully,” he added. “Maybe you don’t know that before she went away to college, Meg Williamson told me about what had happened in her house that morning. We actually got pretty close for a while that summer. She contacted me out of the blue one day. Just like a woman to feel guiltier about something than a guy, eh?”

“I have always felt weird about it,” Walters said, realizing that was an inadequate response by a million miles. He also found it deeply sad to think about Meg. The shadows he and Luke saw in her dining-room window would never go away. He doubted Moose knew about that.

“I feel bad I didn’t stay in better touch with her,” Walters said after pausing for a few seconds. “Hell, I can’t even remember where she went to college or what she wanted to study. Isn’t that sad that we lose touch so much?”

“We were all self-absorbed dickheads, Bob,” Skowron said.

“Hell, we were teenage boys. I think that is required.

“Anyway,” he added, “I think she went somewhere in Wisconsin or Michigan to study geology. She was always really good in science. I lost track of her, too. I don’t think she ever came back much after she left for school.”

“Yeah,” Walters said. “Maybe that was it.”

Walters felt very ready to move the subject along. Their shared past unwrapped layers of feelings that were easier to keep covered, though he knew the more he stopped dealing with it, the more he found unhealthy ways to cope. He really 212

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shouldn’t have lost touch with Meg either. Or, he could have at least sought her out.

He vaguely recalled even seeing one or two interviews with her as the national reporters did their obligatory jobs once Luke Murphy appeared to be a serious presidential candidate. This included attempts at in-depth profiles as they sought anyone who had ever made eye contact with Luke.

He wondered how Meg had turned out. His own battles with alcoholism made him think about the damage an abusive childhood like hers must have done. In AA meetings, as he heard others tell their stories, he often was amazed at how alcoholism and abuse marched together through generations of families, more powerful than any efforts to break the cycle without extraordinary effort to tap into the power of all the steps. Even that wasn’t always enough.

“Maybe I’ll Google her sometime,” he said. “Of course, she’s probably married so maybe Meg Williamson’s name won’t even come back, or there will be 15 others.”

Walters suddenly wanted to close off this whole line of discussion. “Anyway, Moose, I’m still processing that you reached out. Seeing you and apparently working with you is the all-time Irony Alert,” Walters said. “It isn’t in the same league with what happened to you, but I paid a pretty heavy price for that day, too.”

“I’m sure that’s true. I’m sure it sucked to be in a juvenile home. I’m sure you felt weird. But you sure didn’t do as much as you could have to stop Luke,” Skowron said, and then he held up his hand as Walters started to say something. “Don’t.

Don’t say anything Bob. I get it. I would’ve done the same thing for a buddy and for Meg. “Of course Luke shouldn’t have done what he did. But I started it,” Skowron continued. “It’s a wash. It’s totally understandable, and I paid the price. I could’ve pushed back, and it might’ve happened to Murphy instead of me, and maybe now he wouldn’t be in a position to be president.”

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“Scott,” Walters interrupted in a rare burst of honest emotion. “I’m so sorry. I want you to know I still think about it.

But I know it doesn’t change a thing.”

“You know, I’ve had reporters contact me for stories about what Luke was like as a kid,” Skowron said.

“Me, too,” Walters said. “It’s still hard to imagine where he is headed now.”

“Well, I never say anything,” Skowron said. “I just say we were in the same class but our paths didn’t cross much after we were little kids. If they ask me what happened to me, I just say I fell, and Luke tried to help. I smile my crooked smile. What else can I do? I can’t tell the story without telling the whole story, and what the hell does that accomplish? It certainly doesn’t give me legs or the chance to be an NFL stud.”

“What about your Dad,” Walters asked, treading on more delicate ground. “He was damn bitter.”

“Well, he’s not around now either. I guess I would say he donated beyond what he could afford to every candidate who ever ran against Murphy,” Skowron said. “Luke is damn lucky the reporters never talked to Dad. Dad liked your show, by the way. You couldn’t bash the Cubs enough as far as he was concerned. He was always a White Sox fan.”

“Well, that’s a bit of redemption right there,” Walters said, lightening the moment with joke. “Let’s give this a try, Moose.

It looks like we can help each other. Hey, maybe I’ll make you a star.”

“I don’t give a shit about that,” Skowron said. “Help me get ahead, and show me the money. That’s your amends.”

214

32 Chicago Early Morning before Game Seven “In the war against social evils, there are no rules of fair play.”

—Social activist Saul Alinsky, “Reveille for Radicals” When the alarm went off at 7:15 a.m., Aimee Walters wasn’t happy. Geoff Eger had begged her to come to work extra-early to help him get ready for what might be his biggest day of the year, maybe ever, for his business. Like most people who worked in bars and clubs, Aimee’s body clock had shifted to accommodate a profession that usually meant bedtime at 3 a.m. or later.

But a promise was a promise, and Geoff was more than a boss. He was a friend. So, she started some coffee, tried to shake out some cobwebs and now found herself staring unhappily at the choices in her closet inside her one-bedroom walkup apartment in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood.

She was more careful than she used to be about what to wear since Walters started putting her on the air. Sure, it was radio, not television, but the crowd members were always taking pictures, and she was plastered all over Facebook these days. The “trampstamp slut look” that created big tips for hot bartenders required a little more thought under the circumstances.

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Her dad had called once after seeing a picture of her on Facebook. He wasn’t a very subtle guy, even less so when he slipped from his program and downed a few bourbons.

“Geez, Aimee,” he said. “You look like a hooker. A really cute one. But a hooker just the same. You might start by covering up that tattoo at the bottom of your back. Do you really want to be a public wet dream for a bunch of guys who need to get actual lives?”

Actually, Aimee liked the fact there was a contrast between her looks and reality. Sometimes she imagined herself as an aspiring actress playing the role of the hot, sexy bartender who could talk sports at the level of the most sports-obsessed guy and might even go along with the “friends-with-benefits” pitch. For a lot of single guys – and even some married ones—that defined the dream chick. In her private life, however, she liked having one steady boyfriend. She made them wait before anything too exciting happened in the bedroom, and she even was kind of shy in that department.

She might take a puff off a joint at a safe party. She never kept that stuff herself. Drinking heavily didn’t appeal to her, and she never drank on the job. Two martinis or three glasses of wine would quickly put her at her limit.

“I’m not much fun after that,” she’d say. “I just fall asleep.”

And there was one, no-break rule learned the hard way a few times early in her stint at Eger’s: Aimee never dated customers despite frequent efforts on their part. She had kept that in mind as she thought about her father’s suggestion to tone it down a little bit. She filed it under, “Message received” and at least gave it some thought. She went to some makeover classes and talked to friends who were more sophisticated about makeup and fashion.

Still, Geoff wasn’t shy about reminding her in a half-joking, half-serious way that “men were men.” The math wasn’t complicated. It was good for business to look hot. It was bad for business to look like a nun. The idea was too dial it down but not out, getting the customers to wonder if that slightly impish216

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looking girl-next-door might be something really special in every way. Her makeup got a little less thick; the earrings a little smaller; a couple more blouse buttons were buttoned.

And, she had to admit, she felt better about herself that way, too.

Today wasn’t going to be any old day. It was the seventh game of the World Series with the Cubs, so she knew she needed to go with a blue-and-red Cubs getup that also promoted Eger’s Pub. That also helped to pump Geoff’s merchandise sales, which had tripled since she started chatting with Walters on the air.

Plus, a strong pro-Cubs getup would give her dad an immediate opening to comment on her wardrobe and then explain all the reasons why the Cubs couldn’t win. She had gotten clever at being the straight woman, giving her father the set-ups to do his thing. She knew enough about baseball to go toe-to-toe with him sometimes, and the crowd loved that, too.

Eger’s had some white baseball jerseys trimmed in Cub colors and black pinstripes with “Eger’s Pub” in lettering across the back where a player’s name would be on a player’s jersey.

On the front, there was a letter “E” that was stylized to look like the “C” on a Cubs uniform. And, just like the Cubs logo, the “E” was surrounded by a thick blue circle. Inside the circle, smaller letters completed the spellings of “Eger’s,” in a nice facsimile of the way the word “Cubs” appeared on the Chicago home uniforms.

She applied light makeup and put the jersey on, unbuttoned and loose, over a tight blue, Cubs-logo top with thin, transparent, spaghetti straps. The top was cut low enough to offer a substantial but not over-the-top hint of her well-formed breasts. Her favorite blue jeans, form-fitting and faded just right, ripped in one knee but not the other, went on next. She picked some fairly restrained platform shoes to add about two inches of height. A pink Cubs visor cap with their logo finished the outfit.

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She was re-tying her auburn hair into a ponytail when she heard the doorbell ring.

It was a delivery man. She looked down at her watch, which said 7:35 a.m. That was a little early, but maybe the guy was facing a long day. The man was wearing the familiar brownand-yellow colors.

Hey, maybe my Kindle is here, she thought, opening the door.

The man raised what looked like a small shampoo container with a pump top when he saw her and sprayed a fine mist in her direction.

“What the hell?” she asked as the man slipped inside her apartment, pushed her back and shut the door. He brought out a cloth and forced it over her mouth and nose. She began to protest, but the groggy feeling wouldn’t go away and was getting stronger. That was the last thing she remembered until she woke up on a dirty cot an hour later in a dimly lit room with a splitting headache.

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33 Somewhere in Chicago Morning before Game Seven Aimee’s first two reactions when she woke up were completely predictable. Confusion came first. Her eyes had crusted shut, and she tried to shake the cobwebs out of her pounding head. Everything her senses could detect seemed out of place, particularly the damp, musty smells and clammy air.

There was a sustained, barely perceptible whirring in the background. She opened her eyes, hoping against hope that she’d see her small, comfortable apartment. Instead, she saw a scene completely unfamiliar. The rush of adrenaline brought her completely awake. That brought on the second reaction – a nanosecond explosion of emotion as her brain processed every available stimulus at warp speed – the confusion, weird smells, unfamiliar surroundings and her headache. The force of primal fear struck her so hard it stopped her in the midst of sitting up. The fear seemed to come out of a place so deep that she didn’t know it existed. Her heart felt like it wanted to explode out of her chest. A cold sweat started to pour. She brought her hands up to her head and rubbed her eyes, hoping again that she would blink, and it would turn out to be a weird-ass nightmare receding into some primal fog.

The nightmare didn’t go away.

She looked around her surroundings, trying desperately to breathe deeply and get some control. She did a quick inventory 219

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of her body. Other than the headache, nothing seemed terribly wrong with her. She wasn’t restrained. Nervously, she glanced downward and saw no evidence that anyone had abused or molested her while she was passed out. Her clothing was wrinkled but still the way she remembered donning it.

It still was hard to concentrate between her head pounding and the feeling of total fear. The cinder-block walls were dull and gray in the small room. It couldn’t have been much bigger than the walk-in closet at her dad’s house. It was completely quiet. The only way in or out was through a battered metal door that she had no doubt was locked. There was some type of narrow, sliding gate a few inches wide at the bottom, like a prison cell, that was wide enough for a small tray of food.

A bare light bulb was screwed into what looked like a typical basement ceiling fixture, covered by a metal cage that made it impossible to reach the bulb.

She was sitting up on a small cot that included a dingy pillow and a thin blanket. In the opposite corner from her cot was a portable toilet. That sent a fresh shiver up her spine as she contemplated a seeming eternity in this oppressive room. Next to it was an old TV tray with a washbowl, washcloth and towel next to it.

In the third corner she saw a tiny, wooden desk and a wooden chair with peeling green paint. Oddly, there was a laptop computer with the screen raised sitting on top of the desk, and she could see on the screen the computer was powered on with some text showing. A network cable led from the side of the computer into a wall outlet.

Moving was tough, but she tossed her legs over the side, ran a hand through her dark, disheveled hair and walked over to the computer, staring at the screen.

The text on the screen said: “Open the Bottom Drawer. Take What You Need. Press Enter When You R Ready To Talk.”

Still somewhat dazed, she pulled open the bottom desk drawer, and found six bottles of water, two apple juice boxes, two Snickers bars and three Slim Jims.

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Out of curiosity, she opened the only other drawer, which was a smaller one right above the bottom drawer, and found a package of retractable Bic pencils and a book of Sudoko and crossword puzzles.

She didn’t trust any of it yet, including the food and water, so she shut both drawers and pressed “Enter.”

Nothing happened for about two minutes. Maybe someone wasn’t at the other end or the connection was lost.

Then the screen changed into the kind of generic screen that was very recognizable to anyone who had ever participated in a discussion board or online forum.

“Aimee, here are a few things you need to know,” was the first sentence that appeared.

“We don’t want to hurt you. We want you to be released safely. We hope that is what happens. We don’t think you will be here for more than a day or two. You have to sit tight and cause no problems.

“You can communicate through this computer.

“As you probably suspect, this computer will only communicate with us. It is hard-wired for that and has zero capability to access the Internet in any way.

“There are four programs on this computer: The one you’re using, hearts, solitaire and euchre.”

Aimee stared at the scrolling type in bewilderment. Who the hell were these people? She started to cry and shake in fear again. They had said they could “communicate,” so that meant she could say things back to them.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she typed.

“It is not for you to know that now,” was the reply.

“When will I get out?”

“It is unknown. It probably won’t be today.”

Then, the person on the other end made a sick comment, making her feel even more scared, because it made her feel irrelevant to her captors.

“Besides, we want to watch Game Seven of the World Series. We assume you’re still rooting for the Cubs.”

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Aimee took one last stab at getting some info, though it felt futile on many levels. She just couldn’t help it.

“Who are you?” she typed. There was no response. ****** At the other end of the communication loop, Phil Kimbrough didn’t respond as Aimee typed, “Who are you?” He logged off and closed the connection between Aimee and her only link with the outside world.

He couldn’t help but stare at her from multiple angles through the tiny cameras hidden around the room.

“Wow, she’s hot,” Kimbrough said out loud, knowing no one would hear him. It was obvious to him that Tommy Czerski had a crush on her. Now he understood why. He noticed how Aimee’s fear-stoked perspiration had plastered the blue top against her appealing figure, and the humidity had caused her hair to frizz in a wild but sexy way.

As Aimee walked around the room, the outline of her thong panties was clearly visible through her tight jeans as she explored the room. Fantasy sexual ideas began intruding on Kimbrough’s clarity. He even wondered for a moment if maybe Aimee was one of those women who liked playing games with a dominant man. But this was no game. “Pull it together, dude,” he said to himself. This type of emotional thinking was not consistent with the disciplined, focused, radical activist he wanted to be.

There were plenty of unknowns regarding Aimee’s situation.

He hoped they thought through all the scenarios, and included the possibility of her survival. But, he couldn’t know if she would leave the room dead or alive.

One thing he did know—she would not be interested in being his willing sexual partner. Unless, of course, she thought he was her rescuer.

Kimbrough filed the thought away as a wrinkle to the plan that he would have to evaluate when he had some time, and 222

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again kicked himself for allowing the diversion to intrude. He wondered if he would need to share that with the group’s leader or if he could just do it. It would be hard to explain that to the level, unemotional female voice on the phone. He and the other guys in the group speculated a lot about what their leader really was like.

“I mean, really, how likely is it that a chick would be heading this shit up,” Kimbrough said at one of their strategy sessions.

“But it’s a mighty good cover to have a woman do all your communicating for you.”

Kimbrough didn’t see himself as a Tim McVeigh or, for that matter, an Osama bin Laden. Their causes were bullshit as far as he was concerned, but there always were things to learn about tactics. You had to give them props for planning and commitment.

When he first joined the group, he was given volumes of reading material and Web links on eco-terrorism and how to apply it based on the teaching of radical role models. Kimbrough already was well-versed on some of them, and he even taught the others a few things.

One of his early favorites was Saul Alinsky, the famous Chicago activist and community organizer. His copy of Alinsky’s 1971 book, “Rules for Radicals,” was thumbed and dog-eared to the point of falling apart. Alinsky focused on problems of the poor, and Kimbrough had spent years trying to organize groups around an environmental agenda that built bridges from urban pollution to the coal mines of Kentucky and West Virginia.

The more he learned and saw, the more radicalized he became.

He found much to like about Alinsky’s views on organizing and the need for change. Kimbrough often cited these words from Alinsky’s 1946 book, “Reveille for Radicals:” “A People’s Organization is dedicated to an eternal war. It is a war against poverty, misery, delinquency, disease, injustice, hopelessness, despair, and unhappiness. They are basically the 223

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same issues for which nations have gone to war in almost every generation...War is not an intellectual debate, and in the war against social evils there are no rules of fair play...”

While in college, he had gone to the coal country as a summer intern for an environmental group that was trying to stop mountaintop mining, a particularly damaging form of mining that despoiled pristine wilderness and added to pollution.

The biggest shock was that most of the natives saw him as an out-of-town, liberal do-gooder. To many, he was the enemy of their livelihoods, a bias that Kimbrough attributed to ignorance and lack of education. He recognized, too, that decent-paying mining jobs were the best options in places that otherwise offered clerk work at a Dollar Store or Wal-Mart – unless, of course, you happened to be related to a county official.

Such was life in Eastern Kentucky as it had been for generations. It was a depressing summer, but the experience neither altered his view that people needed to wise up nor reduced his passion to figure out ways to get their attention.

Kimbrough had soured a bit on Alinsky in recent months, finding it harder to forgive what he believed were signs of weakness. That, Kimbrough thought, was a path to defeat.

Alinsky once said it was important, even for an activist, to have an “ever-gnawing inner doubt as to whether you’re right.”

Kimbrough lacked the capacity to doubt whether he was right.

The more he read, the more convinced he was of the need for change in humanity’s environmental behavior, even if it meant certain individuals might lose jobs or lack the skills to get decent new ones. Some might even die in the process, which was unfortunate, but a lot of them would face slow death from breathing coal dust in the mines anyway.

No price was too high, he reasoned, because many more would suffer otherwise. Humanity was doomed for sure if current patterns continued.

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obscure 1960s radical named John Sinclair, a Michigan man who had founded the White Panther Party during those days of turmoil and rage. Kimbrough’s dad, who had ended up living a normal, middle-class existence as a computer programmer, had a brief infatuation with Sinclair and radical politics during his hippie, college days in the early 1970s, much like many young college students as the Vietnam era came to a close.

One day, on a visit to their home outside Chicago, Kimbrough and his father were having a “back-in-the-day” conversation when his dad, Russ, mentioned Sinclair for the first time.

“I first heard about Sinclar and the White Panthers in a political philosophy class, where we were studying New Left thought,” Russ Kimbrough told his son. “We spent half the damn semester studying obscure French anarchists. That seems kind of weird today, but you have to remember how powerful the New Left radicals appeared to be at that time, following the ’68 Democratic convention in Chicago. The White Panthers were a piece of that story.”

Russ then smiled and pointed to a small scar on his right temple, underneath an unruly shock of graying hair. “See that,” he said. “Got hit with a stray rock during a fight with the cops during the ’68 convention. I think we were juniors in high school. We left the suburbs to go down there one night to see the action. Got tear-gassed, too. I never told your grandfather what happened. He thought I got hit by a rock that flew up from a car tire.”

“The White Panthers? That’s a really weird name. It sounds racist,” Phil Kimbrough commented to his father.

“Most people really didn’t understand them,” Russ Kimbrough said, then chuckled. “The opposite was the truth.

The White Panthers took great pains to distance themselves from racism. They were responding to a gauntlet laid down by Huey Newton, the leader of the Black Panthers. They were there to do what they could to support the Black Power movement.

They were about fighting for a clean planet and freeing political prisoners.”

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Russ Kimbrough then paused and laughed out loud, surprising himself with his passionate recollection. “Of course, I eventually grew up and realized a lot of this was crap,” he said.

“But, you can’t forget those days if you lived through them.”

Phil Kimbrough didn’t say much in response at that moment, but he remembered how much he had loved his grandfather, who had been a coal miner who moved to Chicago from West Virginia to find a better life for his family before black lung disease killed him. Later, Kimbrough made it a point to learn more about John Sinclair.

It turned out that Sinclair was quite a character in other ways, including a role he played as one-time manager of the legendary and influential Michigan rock band the MC5. Many punk artists listed the MC5 as among their greatest influences. Their mostlegendary lyric -– “Kick Out the Jams Mother Fuckers” – pretty much described how Sinclair looked at the world.

After his college internship, Kimbrough latched onto the “clean planet” idea and wouldn’t let go. Slowly, he found other like-minded people and ways to connect with those who had the means to really make a difference.

When he wavered in his commitment or a willingness to pay any price, he found inspiration in the stories of Sinclair and Lawrence Plamendon, another White Panthers founder. The two men faced indictments in the bombing of a CIA office in Ann Arbor, home of the University of Michigan.

Ironically, the system they challenged saved them from jail in the end. Sinclair and Palmendon even made legal history as they fought the allegations. The Feds couldn’t nail Sinclair or Palmendon on the CIA bombing, but Michigan authorities imprisoned Sinclair on a 10-year sentence for supposedly giving two marijuana joints to an undercover officer. Protests were loud and vocal and included huge concerts with headliners such as Stevie Wonder, Bob Seger and John Lennon.

Three days after one mass rally, the Michigan Supreme Court ruled the state’s pot laws were unconstitutional and ordered Sinclair’s release. Then, in 1972, the CIA case unraveled for the 226

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government because of illegal wiretapping without a warrant – looking at modern-day events, Kimbrough certainly could relate to that. That case went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court.

The message to Kimbrough: Individual action still could make a difference. Sometimes you could even bend the system.

“You were asleep in the late 1960s if you didn’t do enough to at least have a small FBI file,” Kimbrough’s dad had joked to him.

Russ Kimbrough was not a prominent campus radical by any stretch. But, after reading about how obsessed the FBI became with campus radicals, he was curious. So, in 1992, he submitted a Freedom of Information Act request for any information the Bureau had in its files about him. The file took two years for processing and arrived one day in a manila envelope. The short document – only about eight pages—was heavily redacted with thick, black ink covering the names of informants or their related, identifying information. The parts that he could follow around the redactions made it obvious the FBI took some notice of him, mainly because of the company he was keeping on campus. Eventually, the Bureau apparently decided Russ Kimbrough presented no danger to national security.

He felt a vague disappointment that he didn’t seem more threatening, a comment that always brought a laugh when he told the story to others. Still, someone he likely knew and trusted back then was telling the FBI about him and his other friends.

“That’s a very odd, chilling thing to learn,” Russ said to his son.

Phil was proud anyway. The Feds had a file on his old man.

That was cool.

Kimbrough found that the Sinclair of later years disappointed him. He didn’t like to see cracks in radical fervor. He had no plans to mellow out like his dad or Sinclair, who nowadays ran a website that stressed poetry and the sale of marijuana seeds.

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Indeed, the Wikipedia entry on Sinclair started by saying, “John Sinclair – Poet.” ****** Kimbrough jerked his mind back to the present, summarizing the current situation.

Of the most immediate importance, Aimee Walters and Connie Barlage were secure and exactly where Kimbrough wanted them; positioned to serve as insurance policies and leverage to make sure things happened the right way.

Kimbrough tossed Aimee’s cell phone in his jacket pocket, pushed another fantasy image out of his head and left on an errand. He had a lot to do before going to the game.

Alinsky’s “Rule 5” from his 1971 book seemed particularly pertinent to their current plans: “Ridicule is man’s most potent weapon.”

228

34 The White House, Washington Morning before Game Seven It was 6 a.m. sharp when Col. Charley Rayburn began walking briskly down the corridor leading to his office, preparing to start his day. He knew the overnight morning briefing would be printed out and waiting on his desk, carefully placed in the center next to a steaming cup of jet-black coffee in a mug with the Presidential seal.

Yes, he could just as easily sit up in bed and read the thing on his iPad. He joked to his staff the day probably would come soon in which he’d just “know” what was there through a Google brain implant. Still, turning the crisp, white pages on the White House letterhead gave him a sense of both purpose and fresh opportunity in a new day. He also believed he retained information better by physical handling. He was as tech-savvy as anyone – you had to be to get ahead in the military these days – but the morning brief was his concession to tradition. It helped him get his mind focused on whatever curves the day would throw, and every day did just that.

Patrick Kandhari, one of his assistants, had the earlymorning watch that day. Rayburn was surprised to see him sprinting down the corridor toward him instead of simply waiting at his desk to share a friendly nod as Rayburn moved into his office. That was the morning routine.

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“Patrick, what’s up?” Rayburn asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Sir, I was just going to call you. Something very odd is happening in Chicago,” the aide said, and then paused.

“What? What?” said Rayburn, who was not known for patience at an intense moment. “You need to spit it out.”

“No one has seen Connie – uh, Ms. Barlage - since yesterday afternoon,” he said. “Her sister said she never showed up when they were supposed to meet for a shopping trip. They went into her hotel room, and she is gone.”

“Gone,” Rayburn said, then repeated. “Gone. Is that all they said? And why the hell didn’t I know this earlier?”

“Well, I’m not sure about the answer to your last question, sir. Maybe the family didn’t want you to worry in case there was some misunderstanding,” Kandhari said. “Part of it may be that it was a few hours before Ms. Barlage’s sister realized it might be more than just some sort of mix-up. Then the Chicago Police took a while to arrive, as they obviously thought it was just another routine disappearance from a hotel by an adult with different plans. I was told the initiating officer had to leave quickly for an emergency call, so it was several hours before he filed his report. That’s when everyone grasped the missing person was not just any missing person. I literally just found all this out a few minutes ago, sir. I’ve been trying to learn as much as I can as fast as I can to give you a coherent report.”

“Jesus Christ,” was Rayburn’s remark as he tried to suppress a bubbling fear. “God save this country from bureaucracy. Are the Big Boy agencies involved now?”

“I already have talked to the Secret Service, sir. They are involved, too,” the aide said. “So is the FBI because of Ms. Barlage’s high-security clearance. I’m told the authorities are going over the room with a fine-tooth comb to use the cliché, sir, and they are reviewing all the lobby video and so forth. But that appears to be all they know right now.”

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Rayburn suddenly felt a need to sit down. He had to collect himself. He was no good to the President if he was an emotional basket case. With that internal admonishment, he drew upon every reserve of his military training and steeled himself for a day that no longer seemed as positive. The last thing he wanted to think about was baseball.

“Shit,” he said out loud. “Why didn’t I make sure there was some security there for her.”

“It’s not your fault, sir,” Kandhari said quietly. “It’s not your fault. We don’t even know for sure that she was taken.”

“Yeah, right,” Rayburn said. “And what the hell do they want with her?”

231

35 Chicago Morning before Game Seven Walters’ first reaction to the FBI suddenly getting involved in his show was to have nothing to do with it; to pretend it didn’t happen and just go on with the program. He rationalized that his days as a real journalist were long behind him. He was far more entertainer than a reporter bound up in a code of ethics the public didn’t believe he followed anyway.

Part of the code still lived with him, though. It said that journalists weren’t investigative arms of the police. No one who had a story to tell about police screw-ups, brutality or corruption would ever talk to a reporter if reporters were in bed with the cops, especially in a city with a colorful history of public corruption like Chicago.

Any reporter on the police beat learned pretty quickly that police were human. Cops could be fascinating, fun and dedicated public servants with a morbid, gallows sense of humor not far apart from newsroom humor. It was how members of both professions dealt with violence and weirdness on a daily basis.

They also could lie, exaggerate and protect their self-interest at a rate at least as fast as the rest of the human population. They could be arbitrary, unfair and lazy, just like everybody else, including journalists. God love cops when you needed them, but they weren’t automatically dusted with nobility flakes.

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The Feds were asking him to reveal personal, possibly identifying information about his listeners and the ones commenting on his blog and the WCO website—a journalistic no-no, at least when it happened without a subpoena. Besides, he doubted the kind of guy who would blow up a baseball park without leaving an obvious calling card was using a name or computer address that could be readily tracked. And where would they even start? There were more kooks per capita calling into sports talk-radio shows than they could imagine.

Of course, most of them were harmless, passionate fans who worried more about a rich professional athlete’s batting average than their own lives.

He walked into the office of the station manager, Davis Bryant, to share his concerns.

“Why Bob, this is a whole new side of you we haven’t seen before,” responded Bryant, whose shaved head, 6-foot-5 height, linebacker build and survival instincts made him a figure you didn’t forget. “Maybe I need to change the billboards. We can start promoting ‘The Softer Side of Bob Walters, Radio’s Most Ethical Hatchet Man.’ That’ll be pure dynamite to achieve our audience-growth goals.”

“Yeah, that’s real funny, Big D,” Walters said. “You’re a riot. I just think we need to be careful, or people won’t trust they can call in or leave comments on the blog. That’ll be bad for ratings, too. There could even be liability if someone sues us for surrendering this stuff.”

“You know what, Bob, don’t worry about it,” Bryant said.

“We’re cooperating. We have good lawyers. And the chance of any problem is low. Who’s going to know? And, if it comes out, do you really think the goofballs who make anonymous, crazy comments on your blog want to out themselves to their families and employers by going to court?

“Besides,” he continued, “how the hell do you think it’ll look if it gets out to our major advertisers, let alone your old 233

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buddies at The Trib, that we aren’t cooperating with an FBI investigation – delaying it at a critical moment? What if more people get hurt while we get into some type of arcane, idealistic battle in court that no one but journalism professors and editorial writers understand? Does anyone even have editorial writers anymore? Forget it.”

“All right, all right,” Walters said. “I’m leaning that way, too. This was one that had to go up the ladder.”

“Wow,” Bryant said as he made a quick squat into his desk chair before standing up again. “Now I need to sit down. This really is a new Bob Walters. First, an attack of ethical purity consumes him. Now, he’s clearing stuff with management.

That’s a first. Don’t let the listeners know you’ve gone soft.”

“I’ll rip station management today, if that makes you feel better,” Walters responded. “They love hearing about what an asshole ‘Big D’ is and how I can shave by the glow of your big, bad bald head. You’re one of my favorite characters.”

“Now we’re talking, Bob. That’s the old sprit,” said Bryant, flashing a grin at the man who, after all, was his top-rated, onair talent. “Just leave my wife and kids out of it, and make sure it helps the ratings. Meanwhile, yeah, we’ll be helping the FBI, and I expect you to participate.”

Walters did a mock pirouette, flipping his index finger up in a slow movement and walked out of the room. His cell phone rang as he strode out of Bryant’s office in a mock goose-step.

He wasn’t surprised to see on the caller ID that it was Geoff Eger, who probably was calling with an idea or some other wrinkle for the upcoming broadcast.

But Eger’s reason for calling had nothing to do with that.

“Bob,” Eger said, “I’m just wondering if you have heard from Aimee. She was supposed to come in early to help get ready for a big day. There’s no sign of her, and I can’t reach her.”

“I haven’t heard from her, Geoff.”

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“Well, I don’t know how long we can wait. It’s not like her,” Eger said. “I mean, every now and then, she’s a little late, and one time she didn’t show up, but you probably aren’t on a needto-know basis for those stories.”

“No, I’m probably not in that loop,” Walters agreed.

“But,” Eger continued, “I know Aimee – maybe as well as anybody. She would not miss today unless something really weird was going on. It just isn’t like her.”

“Has she been seeing anybody lately?” Walter said. “She certainly hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Not that I know of,” Eger said.

“Well, it’s probably nothing,” Walters said. “She probably crashed at a friend’s apartment, and her phone is dead, because she forgot to charge it, or maybe she butt-called somebody, and it has been on all night. I think that is part of every female brain between the age of 15 and 30.”

“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. And you do that, too,” Eger said. “Absolutely.”

Walters touched “end call” on his phone, processing what he had just heard. He tried to call Aimee immediately, and the phone went straight to voicemail for him as well.

He tried to decide if he should make time to drive by her apartment before prepping for the mid-afternoon show. Yes, he concluded, it was another weird thing in a weird day with weird things happening all around. So, he should be the good dad and check. Geoff was right. This was not a day Aimee would just blow off, especially without telling anyone. But she did like to stay out late and party sometimes. Maybe she overdid it.

Bad Dad, he thought. I don’t think I have any contact information for her friends. Couldn’t even tell you who most of them are. It was all the more reason why he felt as though he had to check it out. It also gave him an excuse to clear his head with a drive, and he wasn’t that excited about hanging around as federal agents combed through all kinds of records and computer files at the station.

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****** Walters deftly drove with one hand through the city streets, flicking cigarette ashes out the driver’s side car window, which he had opened a crack to accomplish the purpose of ash disposal in the damp, gray October chill. He cursed the lack of ashtrays in most modern vehicles as he worked his way toward Aimee’s near-North Side apartment, massaging a throbbing knee whenever he stopped at a light. Traffic wasn’t too bad for a Monday morning. He could see scattered hints of sunlight behind a few breaks in an overcast sky that seemed to be clearing a bit from Sunday’s oppressive mix of hard, cold rain and swirling winds.

Mentally, in part to keep his mind from worrying about Aimee for what he figured would turn out to be no good reason, he started cataloging witty, discussion-prompting comments he could use on the Eger’s crowd and the radio listeners to work the pregame energy level into a frenzy.

He needed a target for the day’s broadcast. Sifting through the Cubs roster in his mind, he realized he hadn’t focused much on the Cubs manager, Mike Surrey, in a while.

Surrey was a definite possibility.

“Royko,” he said out loud, activating the Bluetooth connection in the Lexus. “Royko” was the name he had given the Bluetooth voice.

“Yes, Bob,” the voice responded. “How can I help?”

“Call Scott Skowron,” Walters said.

The connection went through, but Moose wasn’t around.

He left him a message to come up with Surrey’s “10 Dumbest Moves” from the past season. This would not be difficult. For one thing, Surrey made a lot of moves that were different from the decisions typical baseball managers would make, and his stubborn refusal to adapt to modern methods was legendary.

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arms of young pitchers through over-use. Since Surrey really didn’t care what the columnists and talk-show hosts said about him – as far as anyone could tell, that wasn’t an act – he became an even riper target.

On top of all that, the simple reality was that given the thousands of decisions a baseball manager had to make over the course of a season, it was inevitable some would backfire badly.

The ammunition supply always replenished itself. Surrey’s detractors, frequently fueled by Walter’s barbs, believed the Cubs’ success this season was more in spite of Surrey than because of him.

When Walters got to Aimee’s street, he slowed down to see if he could spot her car. She drove a nondescript 2002 Nissan Altima that soon would wear the winter color of Chicago – saltstain gray.

People who had to park on the streets in Chicago, even in relatively safe neighborhoods, knew that a car that called attention to itself was an asshole magnet. Unless you were rich enough not to care, a dull car was the way to go. Walters saw a few Altimas that looked like Aimee’s car but weren’t.

Parking was tight in the evenings, especially on Sunday nights when people were mainly home before the start of the work week. With that in mind, Walters circled the neighborhood several blocks out. If Aimee had come home Sunday night or early Monday morning, she would have had to hunt for a space.

After 10 minutes of driving around several blocks, he was finally satisfied that Aimee’s car wasn’t in the neighborhood.

This made him feel better in a weird way, because it made it more likely that she wasn’t passed out or something worse in her apartment. Instead, he again concluded, she probably ended up at someone’s house. After all, she was a friendly, attractive 28-year-old woman. Like he told Geoff, she probably overdid it with no way to charge her phone.

Walters might not have bothered to go up to her building, but by now people had left for work on Monday morning, 237

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and there was a space right in front, so he parallel parked. He limped a bit up the five steps to the main entrance and rang the buzzer for A. Walters. She lived in one of four flats in the old, handsome brick building.

There was no answer, which was what he expected. On an impulse, he called Aimee’s cellphone again.

After four rings, somewhat to his surprise, a man answered.

“Is Aimee there? This is her dad,” Walters said.

“Hey Mr. Walters. Can I call you Bob? I’m a big fan,” Phil Kimbrough responded at the other end. “I’m a friend of Aimee’s and I have to tell you, she probably won’t be doing your show today. She kind of overdid it last night. I was just getting ready to call her boss for her, like she asked.”

Walters wasn’t sure what to say except for the obvious: “Well, have her call me as soon as she can. This is an important day, as I’m sure she told you. We really need her at Eger’s by 3 o’clock. Geoff wanted her there extra-early even.”

Before the guy could hang up, Walters added, “Hey, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Phil,” the voice said. “Phil Fontaine.”

“How did you meet?” Walters asked. “Guess I’m just being a nosy dad.”

“Oh, no problem, Bob,” responded the voice. “Actually, I was hanging out at Eger’s one night and asked her out. We’ve been seeing each other off and on.”

“Well, make sure you tell her to check in,” Walters said.

“If she can drag herself into work today of all days, she really should.”

“Absolutely,” the voice said. “I’m just glad I was with her last night when she got sick. I know what you’re thinking. It wasn’t from too much drinking or anything. She has some kind of bug. She’s sleeping comfortably right now.”

“Take care, Phil,” Walters said, hesitating a bit. “And take care of my girl.”

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Worries were exactly what Walters felt at that moment. She certainly wasn’t a girl ready to settle down as far as he knew, but she did have one ironclad rule.

Aimee never dated customers.

Meanwhile, “Phil Fontaine” let out a grunt of satisfaction.

He had done his homework. Aimee and her father had made frequent on-air references that she didn’t date customers. He knew that Walters would know that. Seeds of doubt and worry had to be sprouting.

Man, he loved that Don Rumsfeld quote. You just don’t know what you don’t know. Now, he thought, Walters will be better prepared for the decisions he doesn’t know he’s going to be asked to make later today.

“The ball is rolling,” Phil Kimbrough said out loud. “Or, should I say, it’s coming in high and hard, right over the plate.”

239

36 Chicago Noon before Game Seven Beatrice didn’t expect to hear back from Walters so quickly.

If anything, he saw it as an intrusion unless it was really important, which he doubted. The agent had his hands full with all the pre-game planning and security measures that seemed to be landing in his lap – not the least of which was a very nervous contingent of Secret Service agents who hated the idea of President Murphy coming to the game. That was putting it mildly. But it didn’t stop them from treating the FBI agents like supplicants and errand boys.

He was on his fourth cup of coffee, strong and black from the McDonald’s across the street from Wrigley Field, and his stomach was grinding in complaint of too many fast-food meals.

It seemed like the phone rang the most during the few minutes when he most wanted a break from its fevered chirping.

“Agent Beatrice, this is Bob Walters,” the voice on the line announced.

“Yes, Bob, have you come up with anything?” Beatrice replied simply, hoping Walters would get straight to the point.

There was a long, pregnant pause. When Walters spoke, his voice was more like a cracked whisper in a wisp of wind.

“I think someone has kidnapped my daughter,” he said.

Those few words snapped Beatrice to full attention. Connie Barlage was missing, and now this. A new problem was not 240

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what they needed, and this might be a serious one indeed.

First, though, Beatrice slowed down the rush of thoughts. He needed to start with the normal skepticism of a law enforcement officer who knew that most missing adults either were missing on purpose, or they fixed whatever it was that made them missing as soon as they woke up.

“Bob, tell me what you know,” Beatrice said.

Walters recapped the situation, including his troubling conversation with the man, Phil Fontaine, on Aimee’s phone, and the fact that Aimee didn’t date customers. When Walters had concluded, Beatrice had to agree it was a possibility, particularly because it wasn’t inconsistent with the whole, bizarre puzzle they were trying to piece together.

“I’ve been a complete dick,” Walters said, offering a rare admission that surprised Beatrice while he mentally nodded in strong agreement. “I will help you any way I can. I’m on my way to the station now to look at our call logs and get on my computer with the blogs. Maybe I’ll recognize something that your guys would miss.”

Then Walters felt his throat grab in a 50-50 mix of anger and fear. His carefully constructed veneer—the on-air persona who was one part imp and one part sarcastic ass—had become his actual personality most of the time. Now, thinking about his daughter, it seemed like God was holding a saber saw over his brain that simply shredded his persona into that of a broken man.

“Goddammnit,” he said. “Why would someone kidnap Aimee?”

“I wish I knew Bob,” Beatrice said. “But it also tells me that if you are that directly connected, we are closer to figuring that out before it’s too late.”

“Should I call back on her phone?” Walter said. “Maybe that would give you a chance to find them.”

“Obviously we will try that. Don’t do it until we have an agent with you,” Beatrice cautioned. “But unless these guys 241

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are complete fools, that probably was the only call you’ll ever complete to that number. And, this isn’t ‘CSI,’ Bob. Immediate triangulation of a short cell-phone call isn’t that easy, but we might have an advantage if he really doesn’t think you suspect anything.”

Beatrice weighed whether to tell Walters about the missing Barlage woman, but decided to be cautious with that information. Walters was a radio talk-show host, so first of all, Beatrice didn’t know if he could trust him, and the last thing they needed was for the world to know that President Murphy’s personal assistant was missing. Secondly, he just didn’t know enough yet to overrule the nature of any FBI agent to give out information to outsiders only as necessary.

“You can’t rule out the chance that she broke her normal rule and is just hooked up with this guy right now,” Beatrice added.

“Screw that,” Walters said. “That’s not her. First of all, she wouldn’t do that to Geoff on this day of all days. And this guy was off. I can’t explain exactly why. But he was off.”

“I don’t disagree,” Beatrice said. “But there’s no upside in assuming anything when we know so little. Look, I know it’s hard, but you need to suck it up and be your normal self when that show starts at Eger’s. I will get a team on this. In the meantime, we still need to look at your listeners.” ****** As Walters predicted, there was no shortage of suspects. A computer forensics team was pouring over thousands e-mails and thousands of anonymous or made-up-name blog posts directed at Walters. It was what they called “haystack work” based on the finding-a-needle-in-the-haystack cliché. The normal word-search techniques didn’t offer many ideas for narrowing terms. Just about every e-mail had the word “Cubs” or “Walters,” in it.

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“It won’t do you any good to search on ‘fucking asshole’ or ‘rot in hell’ either,” Walters said to the agents at the station.

“You’d be surprised how often that comes up.”

Meanwhile, another team of agents was listening to voicemail tapes. Unfortunately, the station didn’t have any type of system for long-term storage of phone messages, and Walters or a staff member deleted the ones that landed on his extension as fast as they came in. That was a management rule as the costcutters tried to squeeze a few more years out of the aging, analog system. Otherwise, the phone system would simply implode.

Walters’ mind kept sprinting in multiple directions. Deep reflection made him uncomfortable, but he couldn’t help it at this moment. He wasn’t someone who often dug deeply into what he did and why he did it. That was partly why his ex-wives had found him way too distant for their liking.

Even on the male-buddy side, he had lots of acquaintances but few friends. He would count Geoff Eger and perhaps a few guys from his newspaper days. He hadn’t been around much when his children were growing up, so he missed the connections and long-term friendships that most parents made at seeming-infinite numbers of soccer games, Scout meetings and dance recitals.

In an alternate world, he would list Moose Skowron, but their childhood connection always would be a bomb that had been quarantined but not completely disarmed to the point where an explosion was unlikely but not impossible—despite Moose’s positive attitude. Both men knew they were using each other. Still, if they had been inclined to discuss it, both men might have admitted that a deeper relationship had developed than they ever would have predicted.

He knew lots of people who liked to hang out with him or play bad golf with him at fund-raiser tournaments, because he had earned a measure of fame, especially around Chicago.

But he grasped one thing for certain. It needed no deep reflection: He loved Aimee. Why didn’t he show it more? He 243

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pondered how he took her for granted; yet how much he enjoyed being around her. And he had the impression she enjoyed going back-and-forth with her dad about the Cubs. Yeah, she was kind of an underachiever, but so what? It didn’t matter that much to him. Like most parents, he saw her possibilities and potential better than she did herself. He saw a bright, lively, interesting girl who could hold her own, even in the testosterone-filled environment of a sports bar filled with drunken guys.

However, to do his job, sometimes he pushed Aimee a little harder to think about getting out of the bar and finding a real career, though it would disappoint Geoff. He had been toying with the idea of bringing her along as an on-air partner.

He couldn’t recall any father-daughter gigs in sports radio. He had even talked to his agent about it. Imagine the two of them on ESPN – the aging, crabby sports curmudgeon and the sexy, sharp daughter who could talk sports with the best of them and knock her dad down a peg better than anyone else. And if he wanted to really push all the buttons, he could wheel Moose Skowron on that show with new segments of sports facts. That could be a hit. That could be big money. That could even go national. Walters had crunched some numbers in his head.

Then he stopped, catching himself for once. He had quickly drifted into turning self-analysis into a fresh plan for something that would serve his selfish interests, even with his daughter missing.

“And, there I am,” he said to himself. “God, higher power, whatever you are. Meet Bob. I am The Master of thinking about everything in terms of what’s good for me.”

The higher power. It was Aimee who had convinced him to stop drinking and start going to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, though he had gotten pretty damn lax about attendance – and drinking—in recent months. Still, the program gave him enough discipline so that at least he never drank any more while he was working. The ubiquitous Jamaican rum and Coke that he claimed to love actually was poured at Eger’s as straight Diet 244

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Coke. When he went into a bar for a gin and tonic it either was just tonic or he’d slip into the bathroom and pour it out. That didn’t mean he never relapsed. It was hard. Lots of people tried to buy him drinks, and sometimes he couldn’t resist.

He acknowledged that AA hadn’t done as much for him as it did for others in terms of a personality change. However, to do that, he couldn’t get wasted. He needed a clear head. The program helped him keep it that way.

Sometimes he envied the change he had seen in many others – huge, impressive transformations as powerful as the one that Scott Skowron experienced without the need for a wheelchair. Then there were the drunks and drug addicts who put themselves in chairs because they were wasted and caused accidents. The saddest cases were guys like him; the ones who lived while causing the deaths of loved ones.

The funny thing was the more he didn’t drink, the more he enjoyed not being wasted. It fed his ego, to tell the truth, to be the clearest-headed guy in the room and, like every journalist and former journalist he knew, to be The Judgmental Observer—the one who never quite comes down from the stands and gets in the game but gets obsessed by watching it.

You could make a good career out of it, but it was a weird way to live a life, by observing it instead of living it.

The idea of trying to change more, to peel off a few more layers or the armor of his persona—he wasn’t sure he was ready to go there. But he was pretty sure the station wouldn’t pay him a handsome salary to tone it down.

No, this was not the moment to reconstruct, he thought.

“Shame” was not an emotion that usually passed through Walters’ emotional filters, but it did at that moment. He really had given up drinking for purely selfish reasons. He again found himself contemplating the “making amends” part, the idea of really cataloging his failings and apologizing to those he had hurt.

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Because he wasn’t going to meetings any longer, he hadn’t said the Serenity Prayer for months. It was a staple that anyone going to AA meetings soon memorized. Usually, he just went through the motions with the chant, but there were rare moments when he felt it on a deeper level in some recess of his brain. He had never felt it the way he felt it now.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

The courage to change the things I can.

And the wisdom to know the difference.

Aimee might have saved his life by getting him back to meetings. After his last divorce, the pain medication with the bad knee and just the general environment in which he operated, he was headed toward a big, fucking disaster. She certainly saved his career.

She was his daughter and, he realized, his best friend. Once this mess cleared up, he promised himself that he would start going to meetings again.

“Stop thinking about yourself,” he mumbled. “This is about Aimee.”

He had to focus, like Beatrice said, to do everything he could do to change Aimee’s situation. No other answer was acceptable. But right now, this made no sense. Why would someone kidnap her, unless they wanted him to do something?

What the hell did they want him to do?

He needed a smoke, so he told the agents he needed a break from the evidence-sifting. He went outside to the Lexus for cigarettes and ran into Luis. Literally. Luis was walking into the parking lot with his head turned aside, calling out to another homeless chum when he walked into Walters, who was staring straight down as he moved toward the luxury car.

The two men shared a stunned, what-the-heck look before realizing what had happened.

“Whoa. Sorry. You look like you got hit by a truck there, Bob,” Luis said, gesturing with fingers that poked through his frayed green gloves.

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“That’s about right, Luis,” Walters said. “My daughter is missing. Maybe you could get some of your ex-military buddies and do a rescue.”

“Hey, don’t rule that out. The skills of the homeless might surprise you. Missing? That’s some tough going if you mean what I think I mean,” Luis said.

“She’s it. She’s everything Luis. And I don’t know why or how, but I think I’m responsible.”

All of a sudden Walters’ cell phone vibrated and chirped a few notes of “Sweet Home Chicago,” the signal of an incoming text message.

He looked at the text.

SHE IS WITH US. DO NOT TELL POLICE. DO NOT TELL FEDS. DO WHAT WE TELL U TO DO. DO YOUR SHOW AND MAKE SURE YOU DO WHAT YOU DO REALLY WELL. TEXT YES IF U GET IT. Walters replied: YES. NOW WHAT? The reply: NO QUESTIONS. DO WHAT WE ASK AND AIMEE IS OKAY. OTHERWISE, BAD SCENE. Even in his panic, with his heart in his throat, Walters saw no upside in telling this guy he already had alerted the Feds.

Walters showed the text to Luis.

“Would you tell the cops?” he asked.

“No, man,” Luis said. “Rangers, special ops maybe. That’s about it. Not yet anyway.”

And Walters knew there was something else he had to do, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

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37 Colchester, Illinois Late Morning, Day of Game Seven Walters sensed that his ex-wife’s anger would never disappear. Not completely. It might have tempered a bit over the years, but it always smoldered in the background whenever they communicated. He understood. To completely forgive him was to excuse the behavior that caused their other daughter’s death.

So, he had long ago given up on having any kind of relationship with Michelle “Mickey” Walters that went beyond immediate, logistical issues or decisions they both had to make regarding Aimee. As long as he sent checks, there wasn’t much need to talk. And now that Aimee was a grown woman, they could go months without any conversation. Plus, although Mickey would never admit it to him, it seemed obvious to Walters that his ex was jealous their daughter had developed a relationship with him and got to see her father a lot more than she saw her mother these days.

But today Mickey’s phone rang in her smartly decorated, 100-year-old farmhouse in Colchester, Illinois. And it was Bob Walters.

“Yes, Bob,” she answered in the usual carefully modulated tone she took with him. “How are you? Is everything okay?”

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“That’s why I’m calling, Mickey. Something has happened that you need to know about,” he said. “Have you been following the news about the World Series and what happened in Cincinnati?”

“To some extent, mainly because I do like listening to your show on the Internet when Aimee is on,” she said, speaking in the clipped, distant tone she often used during calls with Walters. “That’s very positive for her, I think.”

“She is a wonderful young lady, Mickey,” Walters said, starting to choke up. “And you had a lot more to do with that than I did. And that is, that is, uh … this is very hard.”

Walters’ words caught in his throat, and there was a waver in his modulation that he knew Mickey wouldn’t miss.

Mickey’s heart already was pounding. Calls from Bob were rare, calls with genuine emotion were rarer, and those kind of rare calls usually meant bad news in any family. “What, Bob, what?”

“Somehow, someway, I don’t know why or how this is, and maybe I am mixed up in this Cincinnati thing, and now she is missing.”

“Missing? What the hell does that mean. You aren’t making sense.”

“I’m sugar-coating,” Walters then said, blurting it out.

“They, the FBI, think she has been kidnapped, and so do I. I got a call.”

Walters explained as much as he could about the events of the past 24 hours in hurried sentences. He desperately wanted her to understand that this was inadvertent, that never in a billion years would he do anything to put their daughter in danger.

The emotional collisions in Mickey’s mind were like a multi-car pileup. She tamped down an initial surge of anger that was focused on the obvious implication that something Bob had done had dragged Aimee into this, that Bob was going to be responsible for the death of both their children. The logical half of her brain sent equally strong signals that those thoughts 249

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were unproductive and wouldn’t help Aimee. She forced those feelings into a corner, and let the emotion of the fearful and panicked mother come forward.

She couldn’t fully forgive Bob Walters, and she resented that. She didn’t see how that ever could be possible, even as it kept her from having a meaningful relationship with another man. The baggage of Kristen’s death, and the undeniable reality that it was directly caused by her spouse, was a load that was too heavy to ever unpack completely. ****** She had warned, cajoled, pestered and begged him to get help for months before the accident. He either ignored her or lied to placate her. She could feel the alcohol-fueled disaster looming like the wind shift before a big storm.

In her most bitter, darkest moments in those days, Mickey also noted that Bob was lucky he killed his daughter instead of a woman from one of his late-night flings. This way, people felt at least a little sorrier for him instead of sharing in the anger that Mickey had to keep from consuming her.

“Bob, Mickey, we’re just so sorry about your loss.” She heard it again and again, and each time it was like a knife cut.

What she wanted to hear was this: “Mickey, we’re just so sorry about your loss. Now Bob, we are sorry for you, too, but have concluded that you are a complete, fucking jerk.”

The facts were the facts. Bob had been drinking before he picked Kristen up from school and, Mickey later learned, he even left her sitting in the car outside a tavern while he popped in on a pretense of firming up a golf date with a buddy but, really, to get a shot of Maker’s Mark. He knew. She knew. He knew that she knew. And it was unforgivable.

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Chicago, so she was the one who left. She quit her teaching job at Roosevelt University and took a lesser position at Western Illinois University, four hours away, taking Aimee with her.

She made sure she got full custody with only limited visitation rights for Bob. She had way too much ammunition for a wellknown personality like Bob to get into a messy divorce that would expose his self-absorbed bullshit, his philandering, his drinking and probably some other things. So, Bob settled. He was pissed, but he settled. She only relented on Bob’s and Bob’s lawyer’s efforts for shared custody several years later when she knew he was going to AA meetings and had actually sobered up.

Still, lurking underneath like the stereotype of the devil whispering in your ear, was the residual guilt in any marriage that ends in disaster to a child: Maybe, just maybe, she played a part. After all, a marriage is not a one-act play. Was there something she did that caused Bob to find relief in a bottle instead of coming to his wife?

She knew she liked to stay at home and watch movies, and Bob was a party animal, especially in those years. She would nag him to go home around midnight, thinking ahead to what she had to do the next day. Bob figured he’d sleep when he was dead and usually was up for an invitation to make one or two more stops before heading home. It got to the point where they started taking two cars to a lot of events or, if Bob actually was thinking clearly, he’d just take a cab or get a ride.

As time went on, she stayed home more and more when he want out, and the drift between their lives became a palpable, real disgruntlement that would have certainly morphed into an unbridgeable gulf on a slower schedule if events hadn’t accelerated their demise. Maybe if I had left him earlier, she thought sometimes, Kristen would still be alive.

Colchester, Illinois, had turned out to be a good place to regroup.

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River in western Illinois required several ingredients. She had grown up in Bushnell, a nearby rural farm town on the Illinois prairie, so there was a support network of family and friends nearby. That was the key ingredient. And she loved the vistas of the Midwestern prairie and the people who lived there; the ones she knew so well.

The prairies and farmlands of the Midwest, she acknowledged, weren’t places of majestic beauty like the Grand Tetons or the crashing waves of America’s seashores. They didn’t provide the stark beauty of the southwestern deserts where the challenge of survival always provided an underlying murmur. But the rural Midwest was a sweeping panorama. With her artist’s soul, she saw the open space as a symbol of infinite possibility illustrated by ever-changing blends of greens, blues and ambers.

“Horizontal beauty” was what she dubbed it in one of her essays, and it translated wonderfully to film, the ultimate horizontal medium. It was one reason why she showed Coen Brothers movies such as “Fargo” and “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” to her film students at WIU. She wanted them to appreciate the Midwest more than most of them did, and the Coens “got” the Midwest, especially the Upper Midwest as shown in “Fargo.” That made sense, since they were born in Minnesota.

This time of year was World Series time to her ex-husband, but it was simply the favorite time to her. The corn was high, and the stalks formed harvest-ready lines of organized troops – tall, skinny, green-and-brown soldiers wearing amber-tassel hats.

They seemed to line up forever if you drove down just about any country road. The scene could have been from a Hollywood production of artificial reality – something she likened for her students to the battle scenes in the “Lord of the Rings” in which the computer-generated soldiers seemed uncountable. The waving corn contrasted sharply to the blue skies with puffy clouds and the small clusters of trees with turning leaves. And each leaf that fell offered a hint of the white-covered beauty looming in the Midwestern winter.

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In October, you could pull over on any road between Colchester and the university in Macomb and see a pickup truck here, a thresher there, and a farmhouse nearby always surrounded by a few old, stately trees. If you stopped and listened, the noises of agriculture and prairie nature would compete at one moment and seem to balance the next. She often would drive to nearby Argyle Lake State Park to do everything from hiking to painting to grading papers. Or, she would drive another 30 miles to the west and cross the Mississippi River into Keokuk, Iowa, to sit on a river bluff, watching the barges near the lock and dam.

In her classes on film studies, she knew that few students came to out-of-the-way Macomb as their first choice, but it had a way of becoming very special to the ones who had enough depth of character to give it a chance.

Most of her students were from Chicago or the surrounding suburbs—about a four-hour or five-hour drive away—and the idea of really appreciating and reflecting upon the rural beauty and possibilities of a place as isolated as west-central Illinois was about as alien to them as going a day without sending text messages. If she had a mission, it was to get them to appreciate the special quality of the place they had picked to spend four years – well, four years for some of them anyway. It was more like two years for a good number of them who ended up dropping out or moving closer to home. It took five or six years for others, in part because funding cuts made it harder for students to get all the classes they needed to graduate on time.

She felt a bit of a calling to help them see the place as more than the school where they ended up because the University of Illinois didn’t accept them, because it was a good party school, because it was where a boyfriend or girlfriend was going or because it was cheaper than private schools if you lived in the state.

She was a popular teacher who had a reputation of meeting students way more than halfway if they made any effort at all, 253

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and “film studies” was the kind of class that, by its nature, made you more popular than her colleagues who taught subjects such as statistics. Inevitably, the students who made any effort were surprised years later to realize they had actually learned a lot about life in a class that most took because it seemed like an easy elective on the road to graduation. And most of them started looking at Midwestern landscapes with fresh eyes by the time the semester was over. For the rest of their lives, such drives weren’t as boring.

That, she thought, was a decent legacy for a teacher.

Mickey had never come even close to remarriage after the divorce from Bob. She took pride in still using just a minimal amount of makeup, and she wasn’t interested in being what she called “a woman trying too hard to be blonde” with bright, blonde hair fighting a never-ending, losing battle with roots of black or even gray. She liked her hair the way it was, brown and curly with minor highlights that covered her few strands of gray. She worked out fairly often; not as often as she should but more than most, and she had kept her slim figure with only minimal concession of defeat to the gods of gravity.

The tragedy had done other damage, too. Her desire for physical intimacy had once been at a level she had to work to tamp down. She had loved sex, and she had loved sex with Bob Walters, who had some definite skills in that department. They both enjoyed inventing scenarios to excite the other. At times, it became a fun competition to see if either of them could get the other to admit that, yes, this time was the best ever, so how would you top it next time?

That was then. After dealing with death and divorce, she realized there were very few men who could do more than restart a pilot light for her, let along turn up the burner. Her few sexual encounters had been only moderately satisfying at best, and the truth was she did a better job of entertaining herself when she felt the occasional urge. She remembered Bob’s tired joke about “the dark and dangerous place” that was the male 254

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mind. Now she joked, sort of, to her closest friends that his drunken-driving accident made her seriously contemplate the wisdom of either being a nun or switching to the gay team.

But it wasn’t her nature to hate an entire gender. She still hoped that eventually she would move on in her life and find someone who would keep her from being what she described as “an old lady watching old movies with old cats.”

She carried herself with quiet confidence. She had striking looks precisely because she didn’t try hard to be striking and didn’t have to.

Mickey usually managed to convert her own guilt into a dull ache nowadays. The process started by realizing she had to forgive herself. Any sins she had committed as a spouse did not come close to the burden Bob must always carry, because he sacrificed his humanity completely on the altar of selfindulgence.

Actually, Bob had been lucky, as usual, even in tragedy.

They could afford a top-notch lawyer for him after the accident.

He was barely over the legal limit as it was, and the lawyer managed to get the breath-test evidence tossed, because the police didn’t calibrate the machine quite right. The case dragged on for months before the prosecutor threw up his hands and offered a plea to reckless driving with community service.

Mickey hated it when Aimee decided to go to college in Chicago, to DePaul University. It was more of Bob’s weird luck.

Just when her daughter was getting to an age where mother and daughter could get beyond teenage drama and really enjoy each other, she ended up bonding with her father, who now got to see Aimee more than Mickey did.

Reluctantly, Mickey admitted to her therapist that it had been good for Aimee to get to know a slightly better version of her father, and because Aimee had been born with an amazingly big and forgiving heart, she could communicate with both her parents. She could communicate with just about anyone.

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When Mickey noticed how well Aimee navigated the shoals and reefs of her parents’ bitterness, guilt and anger, her feelings about Bob softened a little. But just a little. The jury was out on whether he would handle this family crisis better than the last one. ****** Mickey’s phone conversation with Bob was winding down.

“Bob, what should I do? What can we do?” she finally said after a long pause, holding back tears.

“I don’t know Mickey, but I knew I had to tell you.”

Then Mickey’s natural, professorial resolve and motherly instincts took over. And she had learned the hard way that being direct with Bob was the most efficient way to accomplish anything with him if it was subject to discussion or argument.

“I will be out this door in 15 minutes and in Chicago well before that game is over tonight,” she said. “I’ll call you or text you when I’m close. Let me know where we can meet. I’ll stay on your couch if I have to.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Walters said. “But I’m not sure there is much you can do except pray.”

“I already am,” she said. “But I sure as hell won’t be able to do anything from Colchester.”

Walters muttered an “Okay, stay in touch, I will keep you posted” as a farewell and pushed the “end” button, because he knew the conversation was over. So, on top of everything else, with so much going on, he was now going to have to deal with an ex-wife who detested him for the most part but was the mother of the person who meant the most to him.

Actually, there was still so much baggage in their relationship, he was surprised the conversation with Mickey had gone as well as it had. And, on a different day, he might even have taken time to reflect about that. All he had to do now was prepare a bunch of Cubs insults, work with the FBI to fight a possible terrorist threat and not be completely distracted by the fact that his daughter had been kidnapped.

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And, oh yes, if he wanted to save Aimee’s life, the kidnappers couldn’t know he had already done precisely what they told him not to do.

257

38 Northern Illinois Hours before the Start of Game Seven Shafts of sunlight were beginning to break out of the diminishing clouds as Mickey’s Toyota Prius carved an eastward path on Interstate 80 across central Illinois. She zipped past semi-trailers, heard the crunch of farmland bugs that had survived the fall chill only to expire against her windshield and tried to distract herself with satellite radio jazz turned up near full volume.

When she first left Colchester and Macomb, heading north on U.S. Highway 67 toward Galesburg and the interstate, she had tried the CD book she kept in the car from the library, but there was no way she could concentrate. Plus, it was a murder mystery – not exactly what she was in the mood to hear.

The weather had cleared after a late summer and fall of record-setting rain. With nightfall looming, she could see the first glint of headlights of giant combines furiously carving through rows of corn, driven by farmers excited to have a chance to get into their fields. They probably planned to work throughout the night.

She drove past the exits for small Illinois towns she had passed a million times, often with Aimee in the car. It seemed as though every milepost marked a memory. At the exit for the small town of LaSalle, she stopped for gas and coffee, indulging 258

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herself in a sweet roll that tasted like it had been packaged when she was Aimee’s age. Still, it was a handy place to stop, take care of necessary duties and catch one’s breath before turning to the northeast, aiming at Chicago. The unpredictable moments and likely delays at any time of day or night in America’s third largest metropolitan area weren’t far away now. Gridlock could materialize at a moment’s notice. ****** As Mickey drove northeast, Phil Kimbrough indulged himself with a longer-than-necessary stare at his laptop screen with its views of Aimee’s room.

He could tell it was hot in there as he watched Aimee try and fail at fitful sleep. They had turned the heat up, mainly because of their plans. Apparently the thermostat was doing its job. They needed her to sweat. They needed to elevate the drama that was coming. He almost felt sorry for her. He had slipped a clean T-shirt and a pair of cotton woman’s shorts with cat pictures on them under the door for her, and he was in luck. He happened to be watching when Aimee looked up, sighed and decided to get out of her sweaty clothes. He wouldn’t have to search through a video for the scene he hoped would unfold.

He felt himself getting hard as Aimee pulled off her top, now skin tight with sweat from heat and fear, revealing a minimal bra that just barely covered her well-formed breasts.

She held up the T-shirt, an old shirt that Phil had found in a second-hand store and been careful not to touch with ungloved hands. It appealed to his sense of humor. The front had a harsh, pixilated black-and-white photo of former President George W. Bush that had been altered to show his face melting. Under the photo was the caption: “The Plus Side of Global Warming.”

Then she slipped out of her pants. He got a good view of red thong panties when she slipped out of the pants and into the cotton shorts. Phil was disappointed that Aimee was one of those women who removed her bra only after donning a shirt.

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With a sigh, Phil then switched to a different camera view.

This one showed a room at the other end of the basement. In it, he could see Connie Barlage sitting on the edge of a cot, holding her head in her hands, still dressed for the shopping mall trip she never made.

A few hours earlier, one of the men, disguised again in black, had gone into the room to check on her and leave her a small meal of microwaved mac-and-cheese, water and an apple.

The fear in her eyes was deep and quite understandable. She probably still had a nasty headache. Pretty soon, it would be time to take the next step with her, too. They had no need to communicate with her. There was a chance they wouldn’t have to kill her, and Kimbrough took pride in his moral code: He did not believe in killing except when necessary as an act of war.

Unfortunately for the hostages, this was a war. Their survival was yet to be determined. Pretty soon it would be time for the first planned confrontation. By necessity, he predicted they would need to escalate.

Kimbrough looked through the pictures he had just snapped of Aimee with the hidden camera he controlled and looked for some angles that would show her as scantily clad and distressed as possible. With Photoshop software, he was able to move Aimee’s image into an earlier photo he had taken of the room when it was empty. He was able to darken the walls and make the basement room look even grungier. He then digitally dropped a couple of pictures of manacles and chains onto the wall in the background. One set would be at a height slightly above her shoulders; the other a few inches above floor level.

Now the picture was ready to send to Walters. ****** Walters stared at his phone in puzzlement. It was a simple message, with the sender ID blocked of course.

L.A. FITNESS CENTER IN OAKBROOK, LOCKER 137.

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COMBO 16-21-31. TAKE WHAT IS THERE AND LEAVE. WE WILL KNOW. ANY CONTACT WITH ANYONE ELSE ABOUT THIS MESSAGE WILL BE VERY VERY BAD FOR AIMEE. Walters clicked on the photo attached to the text message and saw Aimee in a grungy room. She only was wearing thong panties and a bra, and her face was covered in sweat. Her face showed a mix of exhaustion and fear. In the background, there were chains on the wall positioned in a way that someone could be spread-eagled by wrist and ankles for God-knows-what reason.

His mind raced through the implications of the scene for Aimee. For a moment Walters thought he was going to pass out.

Then he headed out the door, answering his phone as it rang again. It was Mickey.

“Mickey, oh my God, it’s not getting better,” said Walters.

“When you get to the rest area on the toll road, wait there until I call.” ****** Walters pulled into the lot of the fitness center, which was busy with dozens of afternoon exercisers. The crowd was a mix that ranged from young moms in skin-tight exercise clothes to paunchy retirees trying to hold back the hands of time.

He walked into the men’s locker room and found the correct locker, opened it and saw nothing in there but a Blackberry phone and a typed note. It said: “This is not traceable so don’t try. You know consequences if you do. Keep this with you at all times. Answer when we call. If you are asked about it, say it is your personal phone and your other phone is your work phone.

Now flush this note down the toilet.”

Bob Walters did as he was told. Then he rushed back downtown to do a special, two-hour broadcast from Eger’s with no desire to focus on the show.

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Meanwhile, Kimbrough called one of the two men on guard in the house where Connie and Aimee were being held.

“We already did Connie’s photo session,” Kimbrough said.

“Get ready to make a movie with Aimee.”

262

39 Chicago Late Monday morning before Game Seven The money was great, and the amenities weren’t bad either.

One thing Trey Van Ohmann particularly liked about the Major Leagues was the hotel room quality. It was light years better than what he experienced during the five long years he spent on lower level teams during lean years when no one thought he had the right stuff to be really successful.

Baseball players spent huge amounts of time in hotel rooms, so they became harsh critics and connoisseurs of everything from the softness of towels to mattress length. They knew which facilities had the best flat screens with high-definition cable channels and good connections for video games. They knew which hotels would send up a dozen Buffalo wings and your drink of choice – anything from warm milk to a six-pack or maybe even a bottle of excellent bourbon—off the menu at 3 a.m. after a long night game in which maybe you gave up the winning run, and now you couldn’t get to sleep. And they knew which front desks might help you out when a female visitor needed a discreet entrance or exit.

In Billings, Montana, where Van Ohmann started his career, it was a different story. You rode buses for hours and, if you were lucky, spent the night in a lower-class, chain motel in 263

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which there weren’t too many stains on the chairs. When you stayed in a more upscale chain, you usually were in the part of town that used to be trendy, and the hotel had gone through a half-hearted remodeling where the budget wasn’t big enough to hide the age.

But this was a room where a guy could relax, and maybe he could collect his thoughts.

Van Ohmann wasn’t an introvert to the point of being weird or inaccessible, but he valued his privacy even on an upbeat day. Under these circumstances, he had made a few requests through the Red Sox’ media relations people: He just simply was not going to do any pregame interviews and made it clear that he would accept the fine if it violated Major League rules.

And he declined to participate in any postgame interview as well. And he wanted their help leaving his family and friends alone.

He couldn’t imagine telling a room full of reporters and random bloggers about his father’s racing career, the big tomatoes he grew in his garden or where they would scattered his ashes – none of that. Like Dad, Trey Van Ohmann wanted his deeds to do the talking. And that was another reason he decided he needed to pitch this game.

He wrote a simple statement for the media, refusing to let the communications guy write it for him: “I hope everyone will understand and respect my desire for privacy for myself and my family at this time. I am proud to have the opportunity to pitch tonight, as my Dad would have wanted me to, but please understand that this is difficult. I promise to make myself available to the media and the public at a later time.”

The Red Sox media relations director, Brad Hickman, was moved almost to tears when he read Trey’s statements. “Even jerks like Bob Walters will see you’re showing some real class,” Hickman said, adding a line to lighten the somber tone. “Of course, Walters probably is rooting for you to win.”

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This luxury hotel on the north edge of Chicago’s downtown Loop was a long way from Billings. And, while Van Ohmann had no interest or need for finding out about discreet exits for female friends, he appreciated that it was exactly what he wanted at the moment: It was quiet. It was clean. And it had a mattress that gave his body just about perfect support, which was no easy feat for a lanky, successful Major League pitcher with all the aches and pains in the lower back, arms and shoulders that were occupational realities.

Van Ohmann would be the first to admit that he wasn’t cut out to put his body through the tortures faced by football players. Playing baseball, he had a decent chance to not be a hunched-over mess walking on two artificial knees and arthritic hips when he retired. He had no desire to end up like the older NFL players he had met. He was sure his shoulders and elbows would be damn sore and achy most of the time after he retired from baseball, but if he was lucky, that would be about it. And he probably wouldn’t be like the aging, former professional golfers with excruciating back problems that came from thousands of twisting tee shots in shapes the human body was not designed to form.

The fans really had no idea what it took to compete at a high professional level, and how hot the competitive fire had to burn to stay there. He had never gone near a steroid, but he could understand what drove some players to take the risk.

The temptation was real. One of his college teammates at Penn State University figured ‘roids would help him recover faster from a leg injury. But when Chase Mueller started playing again, it was about a lot more than quick recovery. Suddenly it seemed like he could spring off his feet just a little faster at shortstop. Indeed, Chase saved a no-hitter for Van Ohmann with a leaping catch in the ninth inning of a College World Series playoff game. And Chase Mueller’s batting average increased by 20 points; his home-run output almost doubled. Over the course of that junior-year season, Major League scouts started 265

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talking about two bonafide prospects on the Penn State team instead of one: Van Ohmann and Mueller.

The story didn’t have a tragic ending; no manic-suicidal rage or long-term health problems – at least not yet. Mueller never was one for that kind of drama, Van Ohmann thought.

Instead, Mueller’s story was another tale of an unfulfilled dream for someone who had a shot. Mueller got drafted and started moving up the ranks, but he had to quit using steroids or other performance enhancers, knowing that he would fail drug tests. Without drug-enhanced strength, Chase didn’t have quite what it took to go from the bus rides of Billings to the glitter of Boston or Baltimore. They had been good friends in college but sort of lost touch as the years passed. Last Van Ohmann heard, Mueller was working as a trainer at a fitness club in York, Pennsylvania, and getting divorced. He saw it on Facebook.

And here Trey Van Ohmann was, living one of the oldest clichés in the jock book – the story line in which the athlete faces a family tragedy but the loving son plays in the next game “because that’s what Dad would have wanted.” The most memorable example in recent years came from professional football: The legendary quarterback, Brett Favre, not only played quarterback but dominated on a Monday Night Football game the night after his father died, leading the Green Bay Packers to an impressive 41-7 victory over the Oakland Raiders in 2003.

Cliché or not, Van Ohmann knew he would be playing the Brett Favre role the fans, the media and the public at large would be expecting.

The idea of pitching didn’t bother him as much as the harsh spotlight. The public response and signs of support—“I’m sorry for your situation”—was wearing him out, especially the ones who still managed to slip in an autograph request. Even the most well-intentioned fans and reporters were still demanding a piece of him. He had tried to shut it down with his teamsponsored Twitter account, where he tweeted from time to time 266

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as “TreyVO.” He wrote: “Really treasure kind words from so many about my dad. Now ask 4 privacy. Thx.” Well, that didn’t work.

He felt terrible that his dad was gone, and he fretted about his family. Father and son had talked constantly at important moments. It was his father who told him it was time to leave Idaho and take the scholarship from far-away Penn State University, though travel would be a financial hardship. Still, the mountainous, remote setting of State College, Pennsylvania, looked a bit like the Idaho he knew. The business school in particular was first-rate, and Don Van Ohmann wanted his son to have a Plan B for success if baseball didn’t work out.

Trey knew without question what his dad would say about pitching Game Seven under these circumstances. Don Van Ohmann would have told him, probably with just enough of a grin to make his left dimple obvious, to suck it up and pitch.

He’d probably tell Trey for the hundredth time about the time he raced with two broken ribs. And then Don likely would apologize for his discourtesy to leave this Earth unexpectedly just a few days before his son was scheduled to pitch in the most important game of his life.

But Trey Van Ohmann didn’t feel like pitching. It didn’t seem to matter as much. The weird, shocking death put boyish games in stark perspective. It didn’t seem right or fair, even more unfair than when his mom died of cancer while he was in high school. There was no reason for the truck to go off the road. Dad was a good driver – an experienced race-car driver for God’s sake—and a safe one. What the hell was going on?

If anything, his father probably had been even more excited about Trey being in the World Series than Trey was. It was all very parent-like.

“Shoot me,” he said to Trey with a laugh last week. “I’m a parent. Can’t help the way I feel.”

And now he was gone. Don would be cremated, as he wished, with his ashes scattered – not in the family fields that Don Van Ohmann’s other sons still farmed outside Lewiston 267

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but in his own personal vegetable garden. Don took great pride in his successes as a hobby gardener. He grew the biggest, best tomatoes anyone had ever seen or tasted. His mom liked to pick them just before they turned. She’d slice them thick, coat them in light flower and fry them in big stacks that Don, Trey and his two other brothers would eat almost until they were sick.

And tonight millions of people would be watching like they’d never watched before. He certainly wouldn’t be the only story, but he’d been around the block. He knew he was a big story. The story line was irresistible: the grieving son trying to stop the Cubs from winning their first World Series in more than 100 years.

Van Ohmann knew he was supposed to have one, and only one, goal at this moment: getting his mind focused in anticipation of the next few hours.

A knock on the door interrupted his musing. He walked over to the peephole and saw it was his manager, Frank Washington.

Van Ohmann opened the door, giving his boss a half smile.

“Knowing you, I bet you are wound tighter than a drum, so you figured you would walk over here,” Van Ohmann said. “And you figured that I needed a distraction, so what better distraction than to go over the Cubs hitters.”

“Something like that,” Washington said. But he had a very odd expression on his face, half troubled and half confused.

First, doing the right thing before getting to the purpose of his visit, Washington asked Van Ohmann how he was doing.

“You know what I’m remembering about my dad just now?”

Van Ohmann asked. “It’s the funniest thing.

“No,” Washington said. “What is it, Trey?”

“Well, it seems like such a little thing, but I guess I was thinking about it, because it’s just so weird that he would die in a traffic accident. When he would take me and my friends to our soccer games, the car simply wouldn’t move until everyone buckled up. He was that careful.

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turn around and look at them. He’d say, ‘Well, that’s up to your folks, but this is the rule in our car, and you might remind your folks that I was a race-car driver. I know what I’m talking about.

I could not live with myself if something happened to you in my car because you didn’t use your seat belt.’ Isn’t that a funny memory to have?”

“I think it says a lot about your dad,” Washington said.

“Little things like that can tell you a lot about people.”

“You know, Frank, to this day I can’t get in a car without three things happening. First, I buckle my seat belt. Second, I make sure everyone else is buckled. Third, I think about him.

That certainly will always be the case now. Did you know that he was a successful race-car driver? Off the track, he liked to drive fast, sure, but he was careful. Especially if we were in the car. He was always alert. I can never remember him not being alert.”

“Trey, I am really sorry to change the subject, but you are not going to fucking believe what I am going to ask you to do on top of everything else,” the manager said. “And you are under direct orders not to talk to anyone else about this.”

“Direct orders?” Van Ohmann asked, shifting his focus to the game ahead. “What are you going to do, Skipper, shoot me or send me back to Billings?”

“Trey, I mean it. This comes from the FBI and the Secret Service.”

“Say what?”

“They think it might be important to make sure the Cubs win Game Seven no matter what. They think something really bad might happen if they lose, maybe to hundreds or thousands of people – like what happened in Cincy,” Washington said.

“Or, someone might go after the President.”

Washington than hesitated and gulped before realizing he needed to look Van Ohmann straight in the eyes. He locked his own deep brown eyes into Van Ohmann’s greenish-blue eyes that were one of many features that made the star pitcher 269

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interesting to more than a few women, though he rarely returned their approaches.

“They say it might even have something to do with your dad,” Washington finally said.

“That’s a lot of ‘might’ talking,” Van Ohmann said. “I mean, that’s batshit-crazy. You can’t be serious.”

“I know. It’s all crazy speculation if you ask me, but we have no damn choice. The plan is a contingency,” Washington continued. “We will play the game straight, but if I give you the word, you need to adjust; adjust just enough so that it’s easier for the Cubs to hit you. You know what I’m talking about. Your usual pinpoint control slips just a bit. Their best hitters will kill it if you get near the fat part of the plate. It cannot be obvious to the crowd.”

Van Ohmann’s mouth had dropped open and stayed open.

His eyebrows arched as he tried to process.

“So, you’re saying that we let them win, but it doesn’t look like we’re letting them win,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Shit, maybe we should just all go out and put 10 grand down on the Cubs now. This is Black Sox with the Red Sox instead of the White Sox. Who else knows about it?”

“It is like the Black Sox in a way,” Washington conceded.

“I’m only telling a few key players about it. Just like 1919. The gamblers didn’t need to get to the whole team. That’s all it takes – the guys up the middle. Pitcher, catcher, shortstop, maybe the center fielder.

“Except this time there’s a big fuckin’ difference,” he continued. “We start the game straight-up, but if I give you the word, this is for the good guys. This is to save lives.”

“Shit,” Van Ohmann said, wanting to add something but not knowing what else to say. “Shit.”

Washington nodded an unspoken “see you later” and left before Van Ohmann realized he was so stunned, he hadn’t asked the obvious follow-up questions about his father and what Don Van Ohmann’s death had to do with all of this.

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40 Washington and Chicago Hours before Game Seven As he rode with the President to board Air Force One at Andrews Air Force Base for the flight to Chicago for Game Seven, Charley Rayburn was worried on every level imaginable.

There were way too many unknowns to justify the indulgence of a stubborn president who wanted to see his team win a World Series.

“Shit, they’ll probably lose anyway,” he muttered to himself.

“What’s that, Colonel?” President Murphy said. “Did I happen to hear you say something negative about the Chicago Cubs? You know, there are a lot of military people who like the Cubs who would be excited to be my right-hand man. I understand there is a base in Sitka, Alaska, that is the perfect place to send unhappy colonels.”

Rayburn knew Murphy was trying to break the tension.

Today, he wasn’t biting.

“Sir, I just can’t play along,” he said. “I am worried sick about this whole situation. Connie and this Walters girl are both missing. Some nut case attacked a ballpark in Cincinnati, and you are insisting on going to this game. And we DO NOT KNOW what the fuck is going on. This is insane.”

“It is not,” Murphy said emphatically. “Everyone knows I planned to come. If I don’t come, it will only create more panic

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and uncertainty. We are all worried. Just be thankful we’ve kept a lid on the disappearances.

“It won’t last. Lids never last,” Rayburn said sourly.

“It has to this time, at least for a while,” Murphy said. “Connie’s family understands the need. Bob Walters understands.”

“I just wish we knew what they wanted, whoever these assholes are,” Rayburn said.

272

41 Chicago Shortly before the Start of Game Seven As Walters had requested, Mickey pulled her car into the rest area that actually was built like a bridge over the lanes of the Illinois Tollway. She was maybe an hour from Wrigley Field if traffic cooperated. The four-hour drive had exhausted her despite the improving weather. She walked up to the Starbucks counter and bought a latte with a double shot and a banana.

She needed a few minutes to decompress. Sick with worry, she waited for Walters’ call.

About 15 minutes later, just as she was slipping into a fitful excuse for a power nap, her cell phone rang.

“Mickey, this is Bob. I’ve got a seat for you at the game.

I can’t get you in the suite because President Murphy is here, and they are strict about no new names on the list,” he said.

“I actually owe the Cubs a favor now, especially considering, well, my approach to my show.”

“I guess they aren’t such idiots and incompetent jerks after all,” was Mickey’s retort.

This was not a good subject for either of them, reminiscent of many a passive-aggressive marital discussion.

“Let’s not go there, Mickey,” Walters said. “I’m already exhausted, too. The pre-game show at Eger’s was a disaster. I could barely think, or at least I don’t remember anything I said.

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Thank God Moose had all sorts of material to feed me. Well, forget that. I’m sorry. Don’t mean to make it about me. We’ve got bigger concerns. They will squeeze you into the team lot when you give them your name and some ID, and they have a ticket for you. Text me or call me when you’re there. I guess you might arrive by the fourth inning.”

“What about Aimee?” Mickey asked. “Is there any news.”

“Nothing new to report,” Walters said. “I just think it makes the most sense for us to be in the same place. God knows I owe you that much.”

Wide awake now, she got back in the car, re-set the GPS for Wrigley Field and turned the radio to the start of the game. ****** At the WCO headquarters and at a half-dozen FBI offices in Chicago and the Washington area, dozens of agents worked feverishly going through blog posts, e-mails and voicemail phone tapes from past Walters’ shows. The guy posting the threats was clever.

The agents had isolated out about a dozen of Walters’ regular callers and blog posters, and the likeliest suspect seemed like “Tommy from Streamwood,” especially in the opinion of the forensic psychologists who listened to the emotion in the voice tapes of Tommy’s calls and had concluded that “Tommy from Streamwood” was, indeed, posting under that name and probably a number of others.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of guys named Tommy in Streamwood and the surrounding suburbs who no doubt were Cubs fans. In reality, Tommy could be from anywhere, and the game was about to begin.

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42 Wrigley Field The Beginning of Game Seven Trey Van Ohmann looked unbeatable. Walters, sitting near the radio booth, was scribbling notes and ideas, trying to stay distracted, live-blogging the game and using some statisticalrelated Cubs material Skowron had fed him. He never had found it so hard to focus.

Walters again reminded himself how the pre-game show at Eger’s, without Aimee, had been a blur. He went through the motions as best he could. He used some of his scripted lines ripping Mike Surrey, called Skowron for some support and shared worried glances with Geoff. A few times, fans shouted, “Where’s Aimee??” followed by whistles and cat-calls. This gave Walters pause before he muttered that his daughter was “under the weather, but doesn’t miss you bozos a bit.”

Now, Walters’ job was to come up with pithy posts for the blog with the locker-room phone in his pocket seeming to weigh a ton. The slight bulge it created in the fabric looked like a massive tumor to him, and he wondered why no one else asked him about it.

“Van Ohmann didn’t walk out to the pitcher’s mound at the start of each inning so much as march, his jaw set as though he had walked down from Mount Rushmore instead of up from the dugout,” Walters typed on his laptop. Usually he would shy 275

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away from that type of clichéd imagery, but on this night he couldn’t help it. His brain refused to fully focus on the game.

Normally, the way Van Ohmann was pitching, Walters would push any residual worries aside to frame what he might say after the game in his blog and on his next show. There was no way the Cubs could beat this guy. For now, he just tried to stay in the moment, and do what both the FBI and the kidnappers told him to do. The irony of both the hunters and the hunted wanting him to do the same thing was not lost on him.

“When he looks at each Cubs hitter, Van Ohmann’s eyes have a look of controlled, intimidating rage,” Walters typed.

A pitcher must throw a minimum of nine pitches to strike out all three batters in an inning. In the bottom of the third inning, Van Ohmann needed only one extra – a total of 10 pitches. The additional pitch was a simple “wake-up Cubbie” pitch – tight and inside. Van Ohmann wanted to remind the Cubs batters, particularly Jesus Aguilar, who was notorious for digging in and taking ownership of the inside half of the plate, the pitcher was on his game. Aguilar should not get too comfortable in the batter’s box.

In fact, the only contact made in the whole inning was a tipped ball the catcher held for strike three. Meanwhile, the Red Sox had scratched out a run in the first inning on a walk, a stolen base, an error on the catcher’s throw to second and a ground ball to the right side of the infield that allowed the batter to score.

In the top of the second inning, Van Ohmann was able to show his prowess as a batter – a rare treat for an American League pitcher since that league used designated hitters for pitchers instead of the National League, where pitchers still took their turn in the batting order. Since the game was being played in the Cubs’ park, pitchers batted. Van Ohmann always liked to hit, and he punched a double in between two outfielders with a man on first. The runner made it all the way home, and the score was 2-0.

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No one had told Van Ohmann the fix would be put into place, at least not yet. If anything, that steeled his determination to play the game of his life in memory of his father. He had never felt more determined.

He was reminded again that fans didn’t understand the concentration required to play baseball at this level of skill. But that’s also what most professional athletes loved. To perform, you had to strip every other distraction out of your mind and completely live in the moment. But you had to do it in a state of intense focus that wasn’t a state of intense tightness or stress.

It was true in all sports; maybe most obviously in professional golf, where playing too tight messed up a golf swing even more than losing focus. If you got too tight, or started to think too much, that was as bad as not paying attention or getting lazy. It was the craziest yin-yang thing you could imagine.

But the adrenaline rush when an athlete found the groove was unbelievable, even better than anything that could happen in the bedroom. That’s why it was so hard for so many athletes to retire, even when their bodies were telling them it was time.

There was no legal way to ever replace that buzz.

Van Ohmann had discussed this with others in similar occupations that demanded high levels of focus in public settings, from professional golfers to famous musicians to Broadway actors. Everyone felt the same way. The difference was that athletes had to stop when others were just reaching their primes. A 60-year-old Bruce Springsteen could still perform, but there were no 60-year-old pitchers. A rock musician had once reminded Van Ohmann that it was hardest for rock drummers to play as long and hard as other band members, because it was the most physical occupation on the stage. No big surprise.

His dad was dead. The FBI was telling him he might have to play to lose. Fuck that. He was on the biggest possible stage for a baseball player. He was out to win this game with everything in his being.

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****** When the second inning ended with Van Ohmann completely dominant, Tommy Czerski couldn’t believe it. After everything that had happened, they still weren’t taking him seriously. It might be time for a definitive statement.

They had planted the charges weeks before, sneaking down to Navy Pier and gaining access to the infrastructure of the famous Ferris wheel. Now it would just take a push of a button to activate havoc. The Pier was more crowded than usual as well. A special charity fund-raiser had been scheduled long ago as a post-season event. Interest picked up mightily when the Cubs made the World Series. Then the Series got more interesting, which led to more ticket sales, when it went the full seven games. Like the game itself, bad weather had postponed the event to Monday night.

The whole pier was opened up to well-heeled donors of Baseball Children’s Charities. The spectators were watching Game Seven on massive flat-screen monitors spread inside and out in the area. Two college sororities had been engaged as special babysitters for the young professionals who had brought their children. The kids could play games and ride the wheel while the grownups ate, drank and watched the game. The blue-and-red colors of the Cubs were everywhere. Streamers.

Balloons. Napkins. Plates. Even the cake.

The backers figured they would raise maybe $250,000 or more that evening between tickets, silent auctions, giveaways and drink proceeds. Drinks were flowing freely, particularly because ticket prices included free cab rides to anywhere within 20 miles of Navy Pier. Former players from the Cubs and White Sox mingled in the crowd selling raffle tickets. A leggy sportscaster from Fox Chicago television and their sports cable channel was the master of ceremonies. Everyone who knew her realized that her physical attributes easily surpassed her sports knowledge, but, really, who cared? It was television.

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Tommy felt like he was going to burst. Kimbrough had just texted him: DO WHAT YOU GOTTA DO. Using a throwaway phone, Tommy called Bob Walters at Wrigley Field on the number Tommy had hacked at Kimbrough’s request.

Walters stopped typing to answer the unknown caller. The ringing phone caused him to wonder again about the phone he had picked up in the L.A. Fitness locker, which hadn’t done anything functional at all other than to stay powered since he first grabbed it.

“Walters, you piece of shit, don’t say anything and just l-llisten,” Tommy said, trying to control his stuttering in his rage at the Cubs falling behind already. “I kn-kn-ow you have ka-kacontact with the FBI. You tell them I had better see something different than what I’m seeing in this ball game very quickly, like in the next inning.”

“Whoa,” was all Walters could say before Czerski began screaming.

“Shut up. Don’t interrupt,” he shouted at Walters. “If I don’t see it, I will give you a location and ma-ma-maybe 10 or 15 minutes to clear it out before a lot of people get hurt. You know what I can do. So you get the idea and can start thinking about what might happen that’s even wuh-wuh-worse if the game ends this way.”

“Wait,” Walters said. “I know you’re Tommy. Don’t do this.

You know it’s not right.”

“Fuh-Fuh-Fuck you, Bob.” “Tommy, please. Can you at least help me find my daughter?”

“You know what, Bob? I don’t know. And I’m sorry about that. You’re a d-d-dick, but I like your daughter.”

Czerski’s voice lowered into a bit of a growl. There was no stutter. “You could even say I had a bit of a crush on her.”

“You know her?” Walters asked, surprised.

“I saw her all the time Bob. At Eger’s,” Czerski said, then chuckled. “She was nice to me. But what I do know is this: Whatever they told you to do, you need to do.”

Click. Czerski ended the call.

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Walters quickly walked into the nearby area of the stands where Mickey was sitting now. He looked at Mickey, his eyebrows raised. His fear, sadness and anger all mingled in the deepest emotional well he had ever fallen into. “Mickey, this is bad,” he said to her. “I gotta go. Will explain later. Gotta trust me. Pray, baby, pray.”

As best he could with the gimpy knee, Walters went running back to the suite areas and the press box as the fourth inning began. The Presidential box was next door and surrounded by a bevy of Secret Service agents, but he was cleared as a friend of the chief. Then he stopped and realized the fastest thing to do was to call Beatrice.

He looked down his list of received calls on his cell phone until he found a call from the time he had last talked to the agent. The number showed up as “blocked.”

Then he remembered he had Beatrice’s card in his wallet.

He stopped, removed the card and punched in Beatrice’s private, wireless number.

“Hello. This is Beatrice.”

“Agent, this is Bob Walters,” Walters said, trying to catch his breath, the words rushing out. “I just got a call from Tommy from Streamwood. I’m sure it was him. He is really pissed. If the Cubs don’t take the lead in the next inning, he is going to blow something up with 20 minutes’ warning. I don’t know where. I couldn’t get him to tell me.”

Beatrice quickly thanked Walters. Events were unfolding in the worst-case scenario. The agent initiated a quick conference call.

A few minutes later, the special phones the FBI had given to the managers of both teams vibrated with the text message they feared would be coming but hoped not to see.

TIME FOR FIX. REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY. FBI.

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43 Chicago Start of the Fourth Inning of the World Series At the same time the text went to the managers, Walters got a text message, too.

It simply said: WALTERS, CLICK ON LINK FOR AIMEE. GO SOMEWHERE PRIVATE WHERE YOU CAN HEAR. He walked into a corner of the narrow hallway behind the press box and did as he was told in what seemed like frozen time. He noticed his hand shaking as he activated the touch screen link with his index finger on the surface of the phone.

Seconds seemed like hours as he waited for the site to connect before a grainy, live scene came into view.

It was a gray room of some sort, maybe in a basement, with a big sheet hanging from the ceiling as a backdrop. There were some small, glass-block windows at the top of poured concrete walls. There were grimy-looking, plastic yellow curtains that had tears in them hanging in the windows. Off to the other side, he thought he saw the end of a cot and some type of wash basin on an old television tray.

Hanging from a wooden beam above the sheet was a dangling microphone. They obviously wanted him to hear something, even if it was through the tinny speaker of his phone.

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Suddenly two hands appeared from the bottom of the screen, and a sign started slowly rising from the bottom of the frame in a way that would have seemed like a comical interpretation of a bad PowerPoint presentation if the situation wasn’t so serious.

The sign had large lettering printed out in a standard computer font, sort of like the cue cards he’d read during his occasional television appearances. So, he thought of them as cue cards.

Cue Card 1 said this: Stop talking to FBI. Stop talking to cops. Shut your big mouth Then came Cue Card 2: Didn’t want to do this but u forced us to reinforce message. Watch. Then folo instructions.

The cue cards slid downward, slowly dropping out of the visible frame. Then, someone yanked the sheet down. Walters had a bad feeling about what he was going to see, but it was worse than anything he could’ve imagined From that moment, he really didn’t take much time to look at anything in the scene other than his daughter.

The most obvious, and horrifying, image was that Aimee was bound and nearly naked. It was obviously hot in the room, because he could see beads of sweat on her face and body. She had been forced to strip except for her tiny red thong panties that left little to the imagination. He noticed a small tattoo that appeared to be a red butterfly with a baseball cap between her navel and the panty line – a tattoo that his daughter had neglected to tell him about. Her mouth was gagged with what looked like her Chicago Cubs bandana, probably the one she often wore at Eger’s in all sorts of different ways. It was stuffed tightly in her mouth and knotted behind her head. Her arms were pulled up above her head with her wrists handcuffed together. Someone had wrapped rope around her bound wrists and passed the line through a hook that extended from a heavy wood ceiling beam. The rope was being loosely held by someone or tied to something else. There was enough slack so that she could stand on the linoleum floor.

Then, as Walters watched, someone jerked on the rope that wound around her wrists, forcing her arms and then her entire 282

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body to a full, extended length. Her only choices were to dangle in the air or stand on her tip-toes to keep the pressure off her upper body.

The fear in her eyes was so real and palpable that it made Walters sick to his stomach. She seemed to be watching someone with her penetrating eyes wide open, but Walters couldn’t see what Aimee was seeing. She was shaking her head, “no.” Then the person came into view, dressed all in black, including a mask, stocking cap and gloves. There were no identifying characteristics. All he’d ever be able to say was the guy—it seemed like it had to be a guy—was tall, husky and stronglooking, built like a football lineman.

Then he saw the man was holding a long, dark brown, braided leather bullwhip in his right hand. It was an ugly thing with small knots at the end of multiple strands.

For several long seconds there was no movement in the room but the silent shout of her fear was like a scream to Walters’ ears.

The man with the whip walked almost theatrically behind Aimee. What was he doing? He stroked her left side and then her back softly with the strands of the whip. He lightly lashed the back of her legs, slid the whip ends around the swell of her right breast and then patted her on her head. Aimee was sweating profusely, blinking her eyes from the sting, with fear no doubt combining with the heat of a stuffy room. Still, Walters saw Aimee relax a bit with the gentle stroking, praying no doubt that maybe it was just an effort to scare her father about what might happen, if she even knew her father was watching. The alternatives, some type of sexual assault or a brutal whipping, could hardly be contemplated.

His seeming gentleness was part of an unspeakable cruelty.

Suddenly, the hooded man stepped back several feet, reached back with his whip hand and lashed Aimee’s back with a hard, fast, full-strength swipe. Walters could hear Aimee gasp and scream through the gag a split second after he heard the whip’s crack and the slap of the barbs finding the bare skin of her back.

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Then the man did the same thing a second time. Aimee’s head slumped and tears poured from her eyes. Walters heard the crack and realized in a micro-second of awareness he was gripping the side of a table so hard with his hand that wasn’t holding the phone that he had damaged the table.

Then the third lash came. And a fourth. If anything, those two blows were even harder. Then there was a fifth. And a sixth.

The sixth lash caused Aimee’s body to twist and turn as she could no longer focus on standing, so her feet lifted off the hard floor and twisted around, causing her body to start a crazy revolution. As she turned, her father could see open wounds with dripping blood. He could see her trying to scream through the gag. He couldn’t imagine her pain. But he knew his. The fist of Walters’ free hand clenched so hard that it hurt. The anger Walters felt was beyond any he had ever felt, so far beyond the showman anger of a radio host that it couldn’t be described.

Then there was a seventh blow. Walters kept count, helpless with rage. Eight. Nine. Ten. The brutality stopped after 10 lashes.

A final cue card came into view, this one in all capital letters.

DO WHAT U ARE TOLD. IT CAN GET MUCH WORSE. Walters didn’t think it was possible to be angrier or to feel more helpless and worried until he read the next, chilling line and its ominous threat: ESPECIALLY SINCE SHE IS SO ATTRACTIVE. The final cue card said this: YOU NOW HAVE TWO ASSIGNMENTS. IN 5 MINUTES, 2 PHOTOS WILL BE SENT TO YOUR PHONE. YOU WILL SHOW THESE TO LUKE MURPHY & INSTRUCT HIM TO PRIVATELY CALL THE PHONE NUMBER THAT WILL BE PART OF THE PHOTO. THEN YOU WILL FIND A WAY TO SLIP THE PHONE YOU WERE GIVEN INTO MURPHY’S POCKET. THEN YOU WILL TEXT WORD ‘DONE’ TO A NUMBER WE SUPPLY. The card went down, freezing the scene in front of Walters’ eyes. Just before the screen went blank, he saw two gloved 284

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hands jerk on the rope, further elevating Aimee, who looked to be on the edge of passing out as she hung the air. In the last second before the screen went blank, he thought they were beginning to lower her, but he couldn’t be sure.

Apparently Bob Walters might be able to save his daughter or his childhood friend, the President of the United States. But not both.

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44 Wrigley Field Fourth Inning of Game Seven In the top of the fourth inning, the Red Sox put two runners on base with a walk and a single that barely got past the outstretched glove of the Cubs’ second baseman. Their best hitter, Aaron Dozier, came up with a chance to do some damage, but Dozier was one of a handful of key players in the know the fix was in place. He struck out swinging on a pitch that he normally would have watched.

“Man, the Cubs made Dozier look bad,” the television announcer said. “The pitch must have really moved to fool him like that.”

Tommy Czerski watched intently, smugly satisfied by what he saw.

In the bottom of the inning, Trey Van Ohmann did what he was supposed to do – lose enough control to give the Cubs a shot, but not give up so many runs the manager would look like an idiot unless he took him out of the game. Washington’s best pitching option was Mack Lewis, the hard-throwing “closer” who only appeared at the end of tight games. Bringing Lewis in so early in a game would be a red flag that something weird was up. That just never happened. But bringing in another pitcher who wasn’t in the know would run the risk of shutting the Cubs down.

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The first batter walked on a 3-2 count. Van Ohmann got the next batter to hit a lazy fly ball for an out. The third batter got a fastball that went a little further onto the fat part of home plate.

While the average fan would never notice the small error, the baseball probably looked like a beach ball for the Cubs’ best hitter, Luis Arrendondo, who was part of the small group who knew the plan.

For a man of Arrendondo’s talent, knowing the pitch and knowing that Van Ohmann would put it in a zone where he liked it best turned a game situation into batting practice.

The ball took off for left field as though Arrendondo had lit a fuse on a cannon. The ball had an arc like a two-iron shot from Tiger Woods in his prime. It seemed to gain speed as it left Wrigley Field completely and bounced hard on the pavement of Waveland Avenue in the middle of a spirited group of kids hoping to catch a home-run ball.

With a runner already on base, Arrendondo’s home run tied the game and stirred the standing-room crowd in Wrigley Field into an electric frenzy.

The inning ended with the game a 2-2 tie.

By the end of the sixth inning, though, the Cubs had nibbled for two more runs with Boston’s quiet, subversive help and led, 4-2.

By the time Van Ohmann finished his stint on the pitching mound, he had thrown 120 pitches and walked several more batters than usual. One walk had been particularly costly, forcing a run to score with the bases already loaded. Van Ohmann punched his fist into his glove and feigned disgust when that happened. “Give me the damn Academy Award now,” he muttered under his breath as his manager walked toward the mound.

The pitch count was well over the typical maximum of around 100 in a starting pitcher’s stint – and keeping him out there much longer would have looked odd. Besides, Washington 287

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reasoned, there was no need since now the Cubs had the lead, and he wasn’t going to make any overt moves to help the Red Sox get back in the game.

“Trey Van Ohmann hung in there and started out so strong, but it’s just not the Trey Van Ohmann we are used to seeing in these situations,” said the television announcer. “I can only guess the death of his father, the pressure, who knows. He showed a lot of courage, but he couldn’t continue to dominate or hold the lead this time.”

Even the Cubs fans packed into Wrigley Field gave Van Ohmann some respectful applause. Actually, Van Ohmann thought to himself, it probably was the best, most difficult pitching performance of my career, but only a handful of people might ever know. ****** One of the most interested members of the television audience was Scott Skowron, who had an intimate knowledge of every player on both teams. From his wheelchair, he watched the game on a 60-inch, high-definition television with his topof-the-line MacBook computer in front of him. He had other monitors in the room so that he could take advantage of the latest video enhancement – being able to watch major sporting events from multiple camera angles.

To prepare the best possible material for Walters, he had charted every pitch Van Ohmann had thrown for the entire season in preparation for this penultimate game. Each pitch that he noted in his elaborate database included information on the game situation – number of outs, men on base, characteristics of the batter and on and on into a few dozen information fields.

It was mind-numbing work for anyone but an absolute baseball statistics junkie.

And this didn’t seem right. In fact, several things didn’t seem right. Van Ohmann’s pitch selection was out of character 288

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for his tendencies and even what most good pitchers would do.

He had thrown fastballs in spots that a good pitcher would never throw a fastball to a power hitter who liked that type of pitch.

And he had never seen Van Ohmann have so much trouble with placing his pitches where he wanted them to go.

During a commercial break, Skowron went back on his DVR recording of the game to Arrendondo’s home run. The changes were subtle but Arrendondo seemed to dig into the batter’s box like he almost knew what was coming. Skowron knew that when Arrendondo couldn’t be sure or the situation demanded more subtlety, the Cubs’ hitter would choke up on the bat and crouch just a little more. Here, even though he was set up for just about any type of pitch in Van Ohmann’s impressive repertoire, there was no defensive maneuvering. He was ready to hit a ball hard.

Van Ohmann’s “out” pitch usually was a wicked slider that broke sharply down and over. If there was any weakness in Van Ohmann’s skills, it was that his fastball was just average in speed and movement, though pinpoint control made up for that.

Still, Skowron reasoned, the one pitch you wouldn’t expect Van Ohmann to throw to Arrendondo in that situation was a fastball, but that’s what he threw. And, adding to the mystery if you understood Van Ohmann’s special skills, this ball drifted off the black outline of the plate into the “power zone,” just a tad into the area where Arrendondo liked it best.

Especially if he knew it was coming.

Something was wrong.

Skowron picked up his phone and called Bob Walters. There was no answer. Maybe Walters didn’t hear it. So he sent a text message.

BOB. MAYBE I M CRAZY BUT THINK MAYBE WE HAVE SHADES OF BLACK SOX. STORY OF CENTURY? CALL ME. MOOSE.

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45 Wrigley Field Late in Game Seven The eighth inning was uneventful. Both teams sent three batters to the plate, and both teams’ pitchers sent the hitters back to the dugout. Boston’s last chance would be the top of the ninth inning, with the Red Sox needing two runs to tie and three to take the lead.

Millions of Cubs fans wondered if there would be another “Cubs moment” when the unpredictable jinx-like thing would happen, again dashing hopes of the team’s first world championship since 1908.

“How long was that? That was before the start of World War I for goodness sakes,” the television announcer noted. “It was only five years after the Wright Brothers succeeded in the first powered, heavier-than-air flight. It was so long ago the comparisons are infinite and endless.

“Can the Cubs finally overcome the burden of history?” the announcer continued in an overly melodramatic voice. “We shall see. We shall see.”

Surrey sent his top relief pitcher, Kirby Crawford, to pitch the ninth inning. Crawford’s “out pitch” was a split-finger fastball – a pitch that could be nearly unhittable when thrown well, because it seemed to fall off a table top as it neared home plate. The “splitter” as it was called was pioneered by Bruce

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Sutter so successfully that Sutter was one of the few relief pitchers selected for the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Sutter perfected the pitch as a Cub. His career was a classic Cubs story, another reason for a fan to feel very nervous whenever the team perched on the edge of glory.

After becoming the most dominating pitcher in his era in baseball, the Cubs traded Sutter to the hated rival St. Louis Cardinals in 1980. Sutter, as was often the case with traded Cubs, went on to even greater success, including two critical saves for the Cardinals team that won the Series in 1982.

Meanwhile, Leon Durham, the first baseman the Cubs received in the Sutter trade, became another immortal in Chicago lore as the fielder who committed a game-changing error – letting a ground ball go through his legs that brought home a run—in the 1984 playoffs against the San Diego Padres.

It was an awful end to a year that had propelled the Cubs into the post-season for the first time since 1945. That team in particular seemed to have the mixture of skill, passion, focus and the elusive sense of destiny needed to kill the curse. Fans smelled glory, but the Padres won the game and went on to the World Series against the Detroit Tigers. And there was another irony: The last time the Cubs had been in the World Series was in a losing effort to the Tigers in 1945—when Emilio Profita and other fans learned of the Billy Goat curse.

“Groundball to Durham...RIGHT THROUGH HIS LEGS!!!” was the memorable call of announcer Don Drysdale at the time. As the story went, someone spilled Gatorade on Durham’s glove before he went to his position at first base in the fateful inning. So, the goat begat Durham’s “Gatorade Glove Play,” which led to other curses that would inflict Chicago fans in years to come.

With that in mind, Cubs fans couldn’t help but wonder what was next as Crawford toed the mound. As the inning started, the television crew played a “lowlight reel” of Cubs curse moments.

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****** The inning started perfectly. Crawford struck out the first batter, who waved ineffectively at the darting baseball.

However, only Crawford knew that he had a tiny blister forming on his right index finger, in the spot where his finger made contact with the baseball. To compensate, Crawford moved his finger slightly up on the ball, knowing he’d have to leave the game if he opened the blister.

No Major League pitcher would want to leave the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series. These were moments you lived for; moments you had played in your mind since Little League. Crawford didn’t need to know about the fix. His job was the same: Get the Red Sox out and start the celebration.

But baseball is a game where the most subtle variations can alter results. The slight change in finger position flattened the “splitter,” making it just a slower-than-usual fastball and much easier to hit.

The count went to two strikes and no balls to the next batter.

Crawford was one pitch away from a strikeout. But Crawford’s third pitch didn’t drop quite as far as usual. The batter got a small piece of the pitch and hit a weak ground ball toward third base. It might as well have been a perfect bunt. The Red Sox had a runner on first base with one out.

The next Boston batter also got more of the ball than usual.

The crowd gasped at the crack of the bat as the ball drifted toward the deepest part of Wrigley Field for a possible two-run home run that would tie the score.

Center fielder Darrin Cain started running with the crack of the bat as well. Just as it seemed as though the ball was going to slip over the wire-fence “basket” on top of the outfield wall for a game-tying home run, a chilly puff of wind off nearby Lake Michigan stopped the trajectory.

Cain was a strapping outfielder, 6 feet, 5 inches tall. He leaped into the air as high as he could, stretched his glove above 292

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his head and caught the ball in the webbing as he crashed full speed into the vine-covered outfield wall. He fell into a clump on the ground, but the ball stayed in his glove.

The gasp and excitement was more than electric. It was cosmic among millions of Cubs fans everywhere.

“An incredible play. One for the ages,” the TV announcer gushed. “Maybe, just maybe, the curse is reversed.”

Walters didn’t even know what to say on his blog.

The crowd roared, came to its feet and cheered even louder when Cain rose, sore but basically unhurt, and whipped the ball back into the infield to prevent the runner from advancing. He gave the crowd a quick, professional tip of his hat and took his position. The game was not over. One more out stood in the way of the Cubs and a championship.

Like millions of others, Tommy Czerski was on the edge of his seat in anticipation as he sat in a nearby, nondescript bar with a clear view of Navy Pier through the window. His feet rapped a hard rhythm on the pub’s tiled floor. He carefully patted the wireless trigger mechanism he had linked to the explosives. He didn’t want to do it unless he had to, or he just couldn’t help it.

Crawford was surprised at how nervous he was. His control slipped on the next batter, walking him after five pitches, so there were two men on, bringing the potential lead run to the plate in the form of Jack Bruce Greene, a difficult hitter.

Sitting on his barstool, Czerski’s foot started tapping faster and faster.

Before Greene stepped into the plate, his manager, Frank Washington, called him aside.

“You know what you have to do here, Jack,” he said, reminding Greene, who was one of the key Red Sox players who knew the Cubs must win.

“Skipper, I don’t know if I can do it,” Greene said, barely able to hear over the screaming of the partisan crowd. “It’s for everything. How can I go up and make an out?”

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“Blood,” Washington said simply. “Blood on your damn hands, Jack. Some things are bigger than baseball. You have to do it. We’ll deal with the implications later.”

The index finger was bugging Crawford, but he was determined to continue and put on a good show for the fans.

His contract year was coming up, and $30 million a year wasn’t crazy money for an unhittable, World Series hero.

Fuck the blister, he thought to himself. It’s now or never.

Three pitches. That’s all. Crawford moved the index finger back to its normal spot. It was now or never. His finger would have the entire off-season to heal from the widening, open blister.

The first pitch came in like a smooth fastball, around 90 miles per hour. Just before it got to home plate, it dived lower by several inches, and Greene missed it by a mile. Truth was, Greene would have missed it no matter how hard he was trying to get a hit.

Crawford quick-pitched a second splitter at a slower speed for strike two. The bat never left Greene’s shoulder. Then Crawford wasted a third pitch to take some pressure off his grip, throwing it slightly outside for a ball. Greene was too good a hitter to bite on it.

Washington again called for a time out and motioned Greene over as the crowd kept roaring. Everyone was on their feet.

“Jack, what the fuck?” Washington said. “You could’ve swung at that. No one would be the wiser.”

Greene sighed, suppressing the competitive fire that he couldn’t quite quash.

“I didn’t want to look like a freakin’ idiot, waving at a ball that I’d never swing at,” he said, the resigned himself to the twists of fate. “Yeah, okay. I got it.”

Greene returned to the batter’s box, collecting his thoughts as he used the end of his bat to move some dirt around before he tapped the plate twice and got into his stance. He might make an out here, but damned if he was going to go down looking like an idiot. It didn’t seem possible, but the crowd roar advanced several additional decibels. The Cubs were one strike away 294

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from their first World Series title since 1908, one strike away from the death of the jinx or any other curse one might concoct.

Crawford went into his windup and gripped the ball for a hard splitter. As he released the ball, it scraped the blister and slipped just a bit. He knew immediately the pitch was going to be one of those that would flatten out and come across the plate like a batting practice fastball.

Greene, poised for the splitter to drop as usual, swung for the fastball, knowing that his swing would look impressive indeed but, in the end, would be just a hair too high to connect.

But the splitter didn’t split. Greene hit the ball hard. It started rising upward in a big arc, though. The crowd screamed in excitement, sensing the fast-rising fly ball was not going to go far enough to reach the seats and would be the final out; a catchable ball in the far corner of right field, which was an odd spot at Wrigley Field of unusual angles where the outfield wall took a turn before joining the brick wall that ran along the first base side of the field.

As the right fielder, Travis Bertell, positioned himself, he had to look into the lights. No problem. Like most Major League outfielders, he was used to adjusting to the glare and kept his eye on the ball. He was a professional.

Greene was a professional, too. Out of habit and to make it look good, he sprinted down to first base as the other runners took off at full speed.

And at that exact moment, a bulb blew out in one of the light towers over the grandstand with a blinding burst. Bertell blinked at the glare. A black spot popped into his field of vision where the ball was supposed to be. He began moving around in small circles, and his confident look disappeared. The first spectators who noticed began involuntarily holding their breath.

It was as though the entire ballpark and millions of Cubs fans watching on television collectively held their breath.

“Oh. My. Goodness. I. Think. Bertell. Lost. The. Ball.” the television announcer screamed, punctuating each word like a separate sentence.

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The ball landed behind him in the most remote spot of Wrigley Field as the runners kept moving. The spectators hanging over the right field wall could hear Bertell yelling “shit” as he picked up the ball, which bounced around in the angled corner like a billiard shot for several long seconds, giving the base runners additional time to advance.

Bertell threw a line-drive strike to the second baseman, who was standing in the outfield to get the throw. The second baseman turned as fast as he could and threw another perfect strike to the catcher as Greene slid into home. Greene was trying to make it look good. He knew baseball played at that level was indeed a game of inches as the cliché went, because no one would be playing in this league without high skills. He already had calculated he probably wouldn’t make it if he slowed down just enough as he rounded third base to be out instead of safe.

Indeed, Greene would have been tagged for the out, but the ball popped out of the catcher’s glove just as Greene tucked his left leg under his right leg into a perfect-appearing slide across the plate.

The screaming crowd went silent so fast that God Himself might have vaporized their vocal chords. The only sounds were the cheers of the Red Sox players pouring out of the visitors’ dugout and joyous shouts from a handful of Boston fans peppered through the stands like wedding crashers. Several arrests followed as friendly rivalry gave way to crushing disappointment and flying fists.

Cain’s magical catch helped by the puff of a lake breeze now would rank as the most tragic tease of all in the long history of Cubs curses. For Boston fans, who had overcome a jinx of their own years earlier, they had another great memory for the ages: Jack Bruce Greene’s light-enabled, inside-the-park home run scored three runs and gave the Red Sox a 5-4 lead in the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series.

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And then, to add shivers to injury for the stunned fans in the ballpark, it started to rain – another cold, hard late-fall rain like the one that had postponed Game Seven for a day.

The weather forecasters predicted a delay of at least 20 minutes and said it probably would be more.

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46 Wrigley Field Ninth Inning of Game Seven Even Bob Walters – the man Cubs fans loved to hate – couldn’t believe this stroke of bad luck for the Cubs. And he knew something shared by only a few in attendance: This was a moment with stakes much higher than another heartbreaking loss for the most-cursed team in sports history.

Good God, he thought, momentarily forgetting the larger problems on his mind. Even I thought they had it made. We were coming out of the woods. This is unbelievable.

Walters also couldn’t help a momentary thought about what it would mean for him. It’ll send my ratings into the stratosphere over the next few weeks, he thought. The station is going to cash in.

There was no doubt he was right. Fans would dissect this game for years, decades even, and sports-talk hosts like Walters would be more than happy to egg them on.

Then the gross, utter selfishness of that thought quickly came crashing back. Normally, he already would have some great lines, blogging away furiously with comments dripping with sarcasm. All he could do was go through the motions, doing perfunctory posts like, “I don’t believe it,” distracted by what had happened to Aimee and his assignment to get close to Murphy. The latter effort so far had been unsuccessful as the President’s security team wouldn’t let him in without 298

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approval, and Murphy’s handlers had other visitors who had more important claims on presidential attention.

“I’d really like to see him. You know we’re old friends from grade-school days,” he had told one of the agents an inning earlier.

“All we can do is pass it along, Mr. Walters,” said the Secret Service agent.

From his spot in the press box, Walters’ mind was racing in a million directions, as though he had multiple personalities screaming at him, clamoring for attention. The level of frustration nearly disabled him.

As a parent, Bob Walters was worried sick about Aimee, and he hadn’t been able to get close enough to Murphy to do what he could to save her.

As an ex-husband, he realized Mickey would never forgive him if something happened to their daughter, and he realized for the first time in a long while that his indifference to Mickey’s feelings was more than a defense mechanism on his part. It was scar tissue he needed to find a way to remove.

As a citizen, he felt helpless with what he knew was likely to unfold now the Red Sox had taken the lead. What in God’s name would Tommy do? Should he have said more to Beatrice?

He was scared that any additional communication could jeopardize Aimee. It was obvious Tommy was part of this, and there were others involved, too. The brutal whipping someone had administered to his daughter was proof.

Then he realized his phone had been beeping and vibrating, and he read the text from Skowron about something being wrong about the game. Collecting his thoughts, he sensed in a way he could not articulate precisely that Skowron had to be his immediate first priority. He touched the screen to return Skowron’s call.

“Bob, is that you?” Skowron said in his slow, measured voice, seeing it was Walters on the caller ID. “Did you get my text? There was nothing normal about Greene’s at-bat. And did 299

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you watch him slow down for no reason as he crossed third base? You saw that, right? That’s not all either. What the hell do you think is going on?”

“Moose,” Walters said. “You can’t say anything. You’ve got to trust me. I’m scared shitless to tell you the truth.”

“Bob, like I said, what the hell is going on? I’ve never heard you like this. I figured you’d be writing material for the next show already. Your blog is actually boring today. How can it be boring today? You can say a lot of things about your blog, but ‘boring’ is not a word anyone would use.”

“There is much more going on than you know. Some of it I can’t tell you.”

“Bob, it’s me. Now. Today. This isn’t the sidewalk in Palatine. Maybe I can help.”

Walters hesitated but felt time and opportunity slipping away. Options were narrowing. He told Skowron a rapid-fire, edited version of what had transpired.

“You know that asshole Tommy from Streamwood – probably our craziest Cubs fan? The FBI has figured some things out about him, whoever he really is.”

“Well, he’s certainly one of the craziest,” Skowron replied.

“What’s the FBI got to do with it?”

“He threatened to blow something up, kill people if the Cubs didn’t win the game. And they can’t find him. He probably did that Cincinnati explosion, too.”

“Holy shit. I was right about the game today, wasn’t I?” “I think you’re right, yeah. It makes sense now. But you can’t tell anyone,” Walters said. “Now, look at this. The Red Sox are ahead. The rain even gives him more time to make a point.”

“You might be surprised by what I can figure out,” Skowron said.

“Hang on. I have another call.”

There were two calls he halfway expected—from Tommy or Aimee’s kidnappers.

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It was Czerski. His remarks were very brief.

Less than one minute later, Walters knew he had no choice.

He called Agent Beatrice.

“Agent, this is Bob Walters,” Walters said, trying to catch his breath. “I just got a call from Tommy from Streamwood.

I’m sure it was him. He said you have 10 minutes or until the rain delay ends, whatever comes first, to clear the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. He’s pissed about the way the game is going with the Red Sox winning.”

“What?”

“Navy Pier. The huge Ferris wheel. I think he wants to blow it up or something.”

There was a sharp, end-of-call noise as Beatrice ended the call. Walters remembered he had Skowron on the other line.

“Moose, are you still there? I gotta go.”

“Bob, like they said in the ‘Jerry Maguire’ movie, help me help you.”

“Moose, first pray. He’s going to blow up the Ferris wheel.

The one at Navy Pier. I don’t know if that can be stopped.”

And then, talking to one of his few friends, maybe the best friend he had, Walters had a strange idea. “Moose, I just thought of something. Maybe there’s a way you actually can help me with part of this.”

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47 Chicago Rain Delay during Game Seven “The sky is crying, Can’t you see the tears rolling down the street” —Classic blues song, “The Sky Is Crying,”

by Elmore James With Tommy’s warning in his mind, Beatrice reacted as fast as he could, but it didn’t seem possible to do enough, fast enough. With time running out in what had turned into a cold, steady rain, the wheel operators responded as soon as they got the FBI orders, starting what now felt like a painfully slow process of continuously unloading passengers. Police began clearing the crowd, moving people as far away from the Ferris wheel as possible.

There were a lot of cars and too many people. The wheel was 150 feet tall – the height of a 15-story building. Its capacity was 240. As large as it was, though, it still was a scaled-down mock-up of the famous wheel at the 1893 World Columbian Exposition in Chicago. That wheel held a mind-boggling 2,160 people and was nearly 250 feet in diameter, more than 10 stories higher than the modern Navy Pier wheel. The individual compartments were the size of train cars. Still, the current wheel had 40 gondolas that held up to six people each, bringing 302

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capacity to 240 now-endangered passengers when the wheel was full. Each gondola was protected from the elements with Plexiglas windows with openings to allow entry and exit.

The wheel was busy for the special event and filled with the children of the socialites and other big spenders who packed the inside of Navy Pier. Those at the top of the wheel saw twinkling glow lights and huge television monitors on the pier below. To the east, the wheel passengers couldn’t see much of anything as a steady rain peppered the inky blackness of Lake Michigan.

The Chicago blues band that had been playing between innings had stopped in the middle of a song, creating an eerie audio void that would be followed a few minutes later by the screams and shouts of those trying to either evacuate the pier or get to their loved ones on the wheel. At that moment, the local band had been doing a very acceptable cover similar to Stevie Ray Vaughn’s version of an Elmore James blues classic, “The Sky Is Crying.”

As Beatrice’s driver urged their car as fast as possible along Lake Shore Drive toward Navy Pier, the agent worked his cell phone like a slot machine, madly trying to deploy more help as fast as he could.

Beatrice reasoned that Tommy from Streamwood had to know 10 minutes was almost impossible. The wheel moved continuously on an eight-minute cycle, which meant about five gondolas could empty per minute or eight minutes for a complete unloading if everything went right without people panicking. Beatrice knew they already had lost several minutes since Tommy’s warning.

At Navy Pier, after the band stopped playing in mid-chorus, the master of ceremonies, no longer feeling perfectly perky and upbeat, shouted for everyone to pay attention following a hurried whisper into her ear by the ranking Chicago police officer on the scene.

“There has been an emergency of unknown nature declared, and we must insist that people leave Navy Pier in an orderly manner but as fast as possible,” she said, looking uncertain and 303

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scared. “Please begin to leave immediately. Immediately. I do not have any other details.”

Unfortunately, because the wheel was filled with children and their sorority escorts, parents started sprinting toward the wheel instead of the exits, creating a logjam and magnifying the sense of panic. ****** At Wrigley Field, the president’s Secret Service detail picked up the radio chatter and immediately tightened their cordon around the chief executive. “Sir,” one agent whispered in Murphy’s ear, “we really recommend an early departure.

As soon as possible. There may be a terrorist attack nearby, at Navy Pier.”

Murphy, startled, looked at the agent, looked down on the field at the game as cold rain pummeled the tarpaulin covering the infield and looked back at the agent. Roy Parr was one of his regulars, a straight-up guy who was a consummate professional.

Murphy liked that Roy never was overly dramatic. He had learned that when Roy was nervous, he should be nervous. Roy looked nervous. Murphy took a sip from a cup with a Coke logo the same agent had discreetly poured an Old Style beer into, out of sight of the television cameras.

“Is there an immediate threat at our location? Do you think there is likely to be one?” he asked.

“We haven’t been comfortable with this from the beginning sir, but, no, we do not know of an immediate threat to you,” the agent said. “But I have to tell you that we have asked the vice president to be in a secure location this evening. This whole thing is risky.”

Murphy owed it to everyone, even the country, to pause and reconsider his need to be there. He knew that. This was testing his Cubs passion to the edge. He took another sip from the cup and ran his head through his ample head of jet-black 304

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hair that actually had gray highlights added to give him a more distinguished look. He always had looked younger than his age. The Service would not put the veep in that position unless they were really worried. Was this worth it? It looked as though the rain would be letting up sometime soon, and the weather forecasters were confident the game would be completed on this crazy night.

Col. Charley Rayburn, sitting nearby and sick with worry, nodded in assent with Parr. Murphy knew what Rayburn thought he should do.

“Roy. Charley. If I leave now, in the middle of the damn ninth inning of one of history’s wildest World Series games, that would be a huge distraction,” Murphy said. “It would require an equally huge explanation that would satisfy nobody.

The President will either look like a coward or someone with something to hide.”

Murphy couldn’t even imagine how his press secretary would explain that decision without inventing a story about the first lady having a stroke or something. Like all lies, the initial deception would give birth to more lies to continue the façade.

Eventually, the press corps’ bullshit meters would hit the red zone. They’d have to follow the political bloggers among his enemies who would question the explanation immediately.

Standards already had eroded to the point where rumors became news by the act of accurately reporting that rumors were “out there.” In a 24/7 world, reporters often had to write with scant opportunity to confirm much of what they were writing, so they slid around that ethical dilemma by accurately reporting they didn’t know if what they were saying was true.

He didn’t say it publicly, but his biggest worry about America’s future had little to do with nuclear threats, oil shortages or global warming. It seemed sometimes the country was splintering from within. His election as a moderate conservative hadn’t changed much of anything, even though most average Americans were disgusted with a country in which civil discourse, logical compromise and candid talk seemed 305

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impossible in modern politics. If that continued, no republic could survive.

Murphy sighed inwardly and decided he wanted to see the rest of the damn game.

“Everybody who knows me knows that it would take a direct threat to get me to leave the seventh game of a World Series in Wrigley Field,” Murphy finally said to Rayburn and Parr. “Leaving in the middle of the ninth inning would raise more questions than answers. If this was a few innings earlier, maybe I’d say ‘yes.’ Just stay alert – like I really need to tell you that, Roy – but let’s stay put for now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bob Walters of all people talking frantically on his cell phone outside the secure box. The president knew from the security briefing that Walters was playing a role while the FBI and local cops quietly tried to catch the kooks who had kidnapped Bob’s daughter and Connie Barlage.

Murphy decided he needed a distraction.

“Hey Roy,” Murphy said, “tell Bobby Walters – the guy right out there – to come in here for a second.”

As Walters walked into the presidential box, the television commentator, Marty Michaels, filling time during the rain delay, took note for his national television audience.

“Now here’s something you wouldn’t expect,” the play-byplay man said. “Bob Walters, who does a local radio show that’s all over the Internet, is now in the presidential box chatting up Luke Murphy. Walters is best known locally as the man Cubs fans love to hate.”

“Murphy might be telling him he’s headed for Guantanamo if he doesn’t start rooting for the Cubs,” joked the other announcer.

“But look at Walters,” Michaels said. “He’s pointing and gesturing. He looks white as a ghost. Man, I wonder what those two are talking about.”

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“It might be simply his way of telling President Murphy the Cubs were lucky to catch Van Ohmann on an off day, and they still look like they might lose.” ****** Across the street, one fan watched the same exchange through high-powered binoculars while the companion next to him stared at the TV feed on his mini iPad. They were sitting in the rooftop bleachers that were on top of apartment and condo buildings that lined Waveland Avenue across the street from Wrigley Field with clear sightlines to the ballpark. Those outside-the-stadium bleachers were unique features of the Wrigleyville neighborhood.

“It’s working,” he whispered to his companion. “Walters is getting closer to Murphy. We shouldn’t lose, no matter what happens. We either get what we want, we get rid of Murphy or both.” ****** At Navy Pier, social media magnified and amplified the panic, as Beatrice knew it would. He recalled Tim Barnstable’s briefings for agents on how to account for and adjust to the impact that digital applications could have on major events.

Beatrice always cited the raid that killed Osama bin Laden as a perfect example of the perils of a fully wired and wireless world.

“Right when the Navy Seals helicopter was first hovering near the bin Laden compound in that Pakistan neighborhood, who knew the next-door neighbor was a night-owl, Twitter freak,” he would recount. “The guy writes a Twitter post that it’s just really odd to see a helicopter in his neighborhood at 1 a.m. This guy almost blew the whole raid right there.”

Five minutes into the Navy Pier panic, Facebook, Twitter and other social media outlets already were pregnant with still 307

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photos and video of crowds trying to go in different directions and getting nowhere. Twitter posters wondered why the Ferris wheel was being evacuated as fast as possible.

It was viral—not just a two-way street but an expressway with no rules or warning signs. The panic of the crowd escalated as rumor melded with reality in the chill of the October night.

Then headline crawls started on the bottom of television screens on every Chicago station and the cable news stations. Mobile alerts hit smart phones from the traditional media. Worried relatives and friends jammed circuits trying to call loved ones they knew were at Navy Pier.

As Beatrice approached the crowd, he pushed one idiot to the side as the man took pictures with his cell phone camera. He heard the screams of anguished, scared-looking parents trying to move the crowd almost in hand-to-hand combat, against the grain, as they forced an approach to the Ferris wheel and their children.

“Mommy, where are you? I’m scared,” was a cry he heard more than once from the gondolas that still hadn’t been unloaded.

Time was running out.

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48 Wrigley Field Rain Delay during Game Seven Walters still felt torn in every direction that a human could be torn. First and foremost he was sick with worry about Aimee. He felt somehow responsible for what was happening at Navy Pier. And now he was supposed to slip this phone into the President’s coat pocket?

He looked at President Murphy and realized he had forgotten about the other instruction. He quickly pulled out his personal phone and saw two photos had been sent to him. He pulled them up and was shocked to see a woman, not Aimee, who had obviously been beaten and assaulted. She was tied to a chair.

Murphy looked at him with an odd expression on his face as Walters shielded the phone. This was a new wrinkle. Walters realized there was another victim, making the stakes even higher. Walters didn’t know if he could do what he had in mind.

He thought about Aimee being tortured. He decided he could do it, but he felt like his soul was tearing into pieces. He only believed in God sometimes and never believed in Satan. Now he wasn’t so sure, especially about the latter.

“Mr. President, Luke, I think you are in great danger,” Walters said, gesturing so onlookers would think he was having a friendly argument with Murphy. “The danger might be me. I am supposed to show you these pictures.”

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He then showed the photos to Murphy, who gasped.

“Son of a bitch, that’s my assistant, Connie. She’s missing,” Murphy said.

“My daughter, Aimee, she is missing, too, Luk – uh, Mr. President.”

“We know, Bob,” Murphy reminded him. “We know.”

Murphy then noted the only caption said “Call 555-5401212 Immediately. Use Walters Phone.”

“Give me your phone, Bob. I’m supposed to call someone,” Murphy said, grabbing the phone before Walters had a chance to respond and pressing the keypad numbers as fast as he could.

“This is Luke Murphy,” the President said when the phone was answered after four rings.

“Don’t say anything until I tell you to talk, Murphy,” said an oddly unemotional voice at the other end. “Point One is that we know that you caused Scott Skowron’s paralysis and sent your best friend to juvenile prison because of your gutless silence, and we are ready to tell the world. Point Two is that you know we have Connie Barlage. Unfortunately, as you can see, she resisted us. Point Three is that we figured you needed some pressure points. So, if you want Point One to stay secret, and if you want Point Two to have a happy ending, so that you don’t have another tragedy that you’ve caused, you need to do a few things.

“Now,” the voice continued, “say, ‘I understand so far’ so I know you are with us.”

“I understand so far,” Murphy repeated equally tonelessly as he tried to keep a lid on anger churning his insides like a hyperactive windmill.

“Good,” said the voice. “You will immediately and publicly call a halt to your approval of all new oil pipelines. You will immediately and publicly call for a permanent ban on coal as an energy source. You will immediately call for legislation to ban all consumer use of fossil fuels within 15 years.”

“And how the hell will I convince people of my change in heart,” Murphy said.

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“You are a clever politician. We are very confident you can figure that out.”

“And, if I refuse?” Murphy said.

“Point One and Point Two were made pretty clear, Mr. President. You have 10 minutes to decide by texting ‘agree’ or ‘disagree’ to another phone number we will send to this phone.”

The call ended. Murphy looked at Walters, shooing away the agents that were starting to gather near the pair.

“Bob, they are blackmailing me, and they know all about Moose. This is a lot bigger than one kooky Cubs fan,” Murphy said.

At that moment, doubt again crept into Walters’ mind. There was more at stake than Aimee or Mickey or his own messed-up life. Still, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t tell the President about what he was supposed to do with the phone from the locker.

Not yet. He had to keep his options open – like Luke Murphy always did. This would be the hardest thing he had ever done.

“I have instructions, too,” Walters said. “There may not be any time to explain, but you need to keep me with you in a way that anyone watching would accept. Look like you’re laughing but also yelling at me. Make a ‘get out’ sign with your hand. Then laugh and gesture me inside. Act like you’re not sure you’re kidding, and then we can watch the rest of the game together.”

“We go back a long ways, Bob,” Murphy said. “Even though I think you’re a sensation-seeking turd with that stupid radio show, we have seen a lot, haven’t we? I still think about Meg and Moose.”

“I do, too, Mr. President. Trust me on this.”

Then Murphy did as he was asked. If there was one thing successful politicians knew how to do, it was how to pretend; how to convey to a crowd they were feeling or thinking something they may or may not have been really thinking or feeling. Murphy was unusually good at political theater. He arched his eyebrows, but not too much. He put a quizzical grin 311

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on his face, but didn’t go too far. The grin flowed into a modest scowl. Murphy reared back on his feet, shifting his weight and arching his back. He coiled his right fist and used the universal symbol of the baseball umpire to point his thumb at the door as he mouthed the words, “Get out.”

Murphy laughed a fake laugh and smiled a fake smile. He put his arm around Walters, and together the two men walked into the box for the bottom of the ninth. The rain had stopped, and the grounds crew was pulling the tarp off the field. ****** Frank Washington put down his phone. The news was grim, and the order he received was direct. The Boston manager knew what he had to do. Before the start of the bottom of the ninth inning, he called his pitcher, catcher, shortstop, second baseman and center fielder together.

“I don’t care how you do it, but you need to let the Cubs win as fast as possible,” he told them. “If they make outs, walk the bases full if you have to do it. Lives are at stake, gentlemen.

“I don’t even care if you make it look good. Just make it look plausible.”

The plans went awry immediately when the first batter for the Cubs, over-anxious, struck out on a ball far outside the strike zone. It should have been Ball Four.

That was enough for Tommy. He had warned them; even waited longer than he said he would. They weren’t listening.

He tapped the button.

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49 Navy Pier & Wrigley Field Bottom of the Ninth Inning Panic and confusion slowed the unloading to a crawl, and three gondolas still held passengers when a sharp crack sounded.

The split second that followed seemed to extend to an epic length. It felt as if someone had ripped the physics rulebook and created a new, slow-motion reality. Beatrice’s training was supposed to prepare him for that type of moment. He had responded with distinction during other crisis moments, but he had experienced nothing like this. Actually, there was truth in that perception of a slowdown, he knew. Your body chemistry seemed to slow time down, no doubt an evolutionary advantage to give a human what seemed like extra moments to think and react to adrenaline-pumping events.

Beatrice had the out-of-body sensation that he could see himself running, running down Navy Pier, but too slowly to make a difference.

One of the huge, vertical support towers holding up the wheel’s structure was split in half, causing the wheel not to immediately break apart but instead behave like a super-sized version of an erector set. For a second, Beatrice thought the wheel was just going to roll off Navy Pier into Lake Michigan, careening like it might in an offbeat cartoon. But, of course, that was ridiculous. Instead, the wheel dropped straight down.

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As it dropped, most of the gondolas suffered heavy damage; a few were crushed as though an invisible Gulliver had stepped on them. Other careened and rolled upside down amid screams and roars.

The sound was almost worse than the unfolding visuals.

Maybe the worst part was when many of the screams stopped.

Heroic efforts had saved almost all of the passengers on the wheel. But those last three gondolas had held 10 people; six of them children. It would take time to extract them and determine their conditions. ****** As the rubble settled at Navy Pier, the few fans at Wrigley Field who were looking southeast over Lake Michigan instead of on the field might have noticed a puffy, white-colored cloud that was rising skyward.

The action on the field dominated everyone’s attention.

Every fan stood up. The chant “Let’s Go Cubbies” was so loud it was nearly impossible to hear the announcer. Stomping feet made the upper deck of the aging ballpark shake.

After the first batter struck out, the next hitter reached on an error on a softly hit ball to Brad Jackson, Boston’s second baseman. Jackson, usually an excellent fielder, seemed to have trouble grabbing the ball out of his glove, and the runner beat the throw by an instant. The crowd booed loudly when the official scorer decided it was an error on Jackson instead of a single. Washington noticed that Jackson did a good job of walking around the infield, pounding his fist into his glove and generally looking disgusted by the purposeful error.

Listening to the game, Tommy Czerski felt a brief moment of regret. Maybe he had been too hasty. Still, I calculated the time to empty the wheel. I gave them enough time, he thought.

Maybe I deserve credit for this turn of events.

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The crowd’s roar elevated by several more decibels as Luis Arrendondo came to the plate. Washington came out of the dugout to talk to his pitcher, Mack Lewis. With the nickname of “Lightning Lewis,” the tobacco-spitting, guitar-playing Alabaman was the hardest-throwing and the most effective relief pitcher in baseball as far as Boston fans were concerned.

The assignment on this night was to achieve the opposite result.

“I know it sucks, but you know what you have to do,” Washington said.

“Yeah,” was all Lewis said.

It didn’t take long. Why wait? Lewis thought to himself. He grooved the first pitch, a fastball that was about 5 mph slower than usual near the center of the plate.

Arrendondo crushed the ball into the left field seats.

The home run gave the Cubs a 6-5 win and a World Championship for the first time since 1908.

Arrendondo trotted around the bases with a look of sheer joy on his face as the dugout emptied with the majority of cheering teammates who didn’t know about the fix. A line of beefy security guards ringing the field did all they could to keep overjoyed and, in some cases, over-intoxicated fans from jumping the wall and joining the on-field frenzy.

Cannons fired red-and-blue Cubs streamers into the cold night sky above Wrigley Field. Horns started honking from Northwest Indiana to Southeast Wisconsin. Across the world, native Chicagoans who were gathered in “Chicago bars” to watch the game erupted in cheers, back slaps and free rounds of drinks. Crowds began pouring into the streets in a celebration like Chicago had never seen, even bigger and crazier than relatively recent world championships won by the football Bears, the basketball Bulls, the hockey Blackhawks and the rival baseball White Sox. Bulletins flashed across the Internet with the news that the Cubs, the jinxed Chicago Cubs, had actually won a World Series.

For millions of fans, the Cubs had reversed the curse.

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****** For Bob Walters, his radio show was the last thing on his mind as the game ended. At the moment Arrendondo crossed the plate, he was standing next to a cheering President of the United States. For Murphy, it was an observable moment of pure joy, but pure joy that should have been spontaneous and real instead of rehearsed and play-acted, much to his disgust and disappointment. What he actually felt was a combination of relief and passionate hope the Cubs’ improbable victory could bring all these tragedies to an end. The second-guessing was going to be endless, too, once the details leaked out as they inevitably would.

“Bob, Bob, Bob,” Murphy yelled, his mock smile large and photogenic as he stood in the front of the box where the fans – and the voters – could see him. He had rehearsed the lines in his mind. “Can you believe it? Hey, hey. Hey, hey. Cubs win!

Cubs win!”

You didn’t need to be much of a lip reader to understand what Murphy was saying. “Hey, hey” was his salute to the late Jack Brickhouse, a television announcer who suffered through the 1950s and 1960s, the years of ultimate Cubs futility before the ballpark started filling up, and the Cubs became trendy. And, “Cubs win” was the catch-phrase of Harry Caray, the legendary baseball announcer. Walters had changed that to “Cubs sin” in one famous skit.

Walters knew his part was to look sour but stand there with his childhood friend. He pasted a mock look of surprise onto his face. He shook Murphy’s hand with his right hand while patting Murphy on the side with his left. Murphy was wearing a custom-tailored, navy-blue sport coat, crisply pressed khaki slacks and a medium blue, open-necked Polo shirt. Walters noticed the Secret Service agent in the box was standing behind Walters with an obstructed view of the President for a moment.

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Murphy didn’t feel a thing when Walters slipped the Blackberry phone into the sport coat’s left pocket. Then Walters did something he hadn’t done from the heart for a very long time.

He said a silent prayer to his higher power, asking for help for Luke Murphy, his daughter, Connie Barlage and Moose Skowron.

Murphy also knew what he had to do.

“Give me your phone, Bob,” he said. “I need to send a text to the kidnappers. I can’t do what they want me to do.”

He texted back: SORRY BUT ANSWER IS NO. COUNTEROFFER: RELEASE HOSTAGES AND I WILL NOT HAVE ENTIRE GOVERNMENT HUNT YOU TO ENDS OF EARTH. YOU KNOW WE WILL FIND U EVENTUALLY.

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50 Wrigley Field Minutes after Game Seven Phil Kimbrough put down his binoculars and stared at Brandon Preston as they sat next to one another in the bleachers erected on top of an apartment roof on Waveland Avenue, across the street from the left field bleachers at Wrigley Field. He was disappointed but hardly surprised by Murphy’s response to their threats.

“Plan B,” he said to Preston. The leader had made it clear that Murphy got one, and only one, chance. There was no turning back. Murphy would agree, and he would live. Or, he would die and, in that split second, realize just how badly he had fucked up. Maybe the vice president would be more amenable to pressure. That seemed likely for a number of reasons.

“Too bad Plan A didn’t work out, but everything’s a go,” Kimbrough added. “Everything is approved.”

The tension and excitement he felt was almost delicious.

They had paid $1,000 each for the opportunity to freeze their rear ends in these seats, which were popular vantage points for fans who partied on the rooftops that stretched behind the left field and right field bleachers with clear views of Wrigley Field.

They had dressed for the part. Kimbrough was wearing a vintage Cubs baseball cap and, over his brown hoodie, an oversized Cubs’ home-game jersey, white with black pinstripes 318

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with the number 14 on it, recognizing the most popular Cub of all, Ernie Banks, the great shortstop from the 1950s and 1960s.

Preston wore a Cubs stocking cap and a sweatshirt in the royal blue of the Cubs that had a Cubs’ logo, the red “C” with a blue circle, and the proclamation: “This Time It’s For Real.”

“I think I saw him do it,” Kimbrough whispered to Preston, who had to turn his head to understand what Kimbrough was saying amid the uproar following Arrendondo’s blast. “He did it. Walters planted the phone.”

“Don’t forget to wait for confirmation,” Preston cautioned.

“We’ve come too far.”

As if it were scripted, Kimbrough’s phone buzzed. “Keep your eye on Walters and Murphy,” he said to Preston, handing him the binoculars as he looked at his phone.

The caller ID said it was from Walters. “DONE” was the first word. “WHERE IS AIMEE?” was the next sentence. “WE HAVE DEAL.” Kimbrough didn’t reply at first. On the subject of Aimee, he was a little torn. He didn’t think Aimee deserved to die. She had never seen either of their faces, but no doubt there were clues they had left despite their caution. They were about to spark an investigation to end all investigations. No stone would be unturned. What they did to her wasn’t ideal, but it had to be done to get Walters’ cooperation. Kimbrough knew he was supposed to feel ashamed that he had taken a weird pleasure in forcing Aimee to disrobe, binding her hands and then watching Stu Schilling, one of their group members, wield the bullwhip.

He never lacked confidence in his capacity to do whatever had to be done, but he was surprised that it didn’t bother him more even when he had to face the reality of “whatever had to be done” could mean.

Still, when this was over, he decided, he just might buck the authority of those above him for the first time if they ordered those deaths.

His preferred scenario would be to take Aimee Walters and maybe the Barlage woman hundreds of miles away, leave them 319

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in a hotel room somewhere in northern Wisconsin and call Walters. That would give them time to make sure there were no clues in the rooms where they kept them.

For one thing, murder raps stemming from collateral damage will defeat our larger purposes. That’s especially true if the victims are the President’s assistant and a hot-looking, young white woman. Hot. White. Young. Missing. Tortured.

Murdered. That’s six angles. Aimee would be a double media trifecta, Kimbrough thought to himself. The public would open wide to swallow every detail the media would spoon up.

Czerksi’s future was another matter entirely. He was a major loose end, and the authorities would figure him out in the long run. Poor Tommy had no idea how much would be falling on his shoulders when information about him and his plans “leaked” in a few weeks. Of course, he wouldn’t be around to process it.

Kimbrough and Preston should have all the time they needed to relocate with new identities.

“WE WILL KEEP BARGAIN IF ALL WORKS OUT,” Kimbrough texted back to Walters. “THAT INCLUDES YOU STAYING QUIET.” To punctuate his point, Kimbrough attached a fresh, 15-second video of Aimee that Walters hadn’t seen. In the video, Walters saw the end of the beating scene. As Aimee was being lowered from the ceiling hoist that held her by the arms, her head hung down and her legs were collapsing under her weight.

It was obvious she was gasping for breath as she balanced on her knees, on the edge of shock. Someone off camera removed her gag; then threw a bucket of what appeared to be water on her bare back to wash off the blood, but her back was scarred with loose ribbons of bleeding skin exposed. The very contact set off a chilling scream.

The masked person with the bullwhip finally untied her manacled hands, maneuvered her to sit on a stool and handed her a loose-fitting tunic. Dazed, she struggled to pull it over her head. The last scene showed her sitting in the single chair of her 320

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prison room. Her head was in her hands, and it was obvious she was sobbing and shaking.

Once again, Walters found himself clenching his jaw with an anger that consumed him like a spreading fire. Somehow he found the will to tamp down the anger and reply the only way he could.

“Okay,” Walters texted back. “WHEN?” “THIS CALL IS OVER,” Kimbrough texted back and ended the connection.

Some of the other fans on the rooftop were looking at Kimbrough and Preston, perhaps wondering why they weren’t celebrating more boisterously, sharing fist-pumps and backslaps.

Kimbrough played the part for a moment, adding a whoop and offering a high-five. Then the others looked away, figuring the men fiddling with their phones and tablet computers were just a couple of oddball, tech-head Cubs fans celebrating in their own way.

“It’s time,” Kimbrough said to Preston. “As soon as I call the phone that’s in Murphy’s coat, you activate the website.

Give me the binocs. Keep me posted on what your feed shows in case I can’t see.”

Kimbrough picked up the binoculars and looked in the president’s box. The celebration on the field was in full frenzy.

Murphy was leading some cheers himself, doubtlessly losing thousands of votes in Boston in the process.

And then Kimbrough noticed that Murphy had taken off his coat and placed it on the back of a chair so he could lead cheers.

The call would have to wait. ****** Tommy had built the cleverest device he had ever designed for them. The phone was benign in appearance and operation; just a few grams heavier than normal. Only the manufacturer would notice. Once activated, as long as the signal got through, 321

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the cheap but extra-powerful battery he had rigged would explode in a highly concentrated blast area and likely kill or seriously injure the person in possession of it. Actually, between the explosion and the razor-like pieces of glass and plastic flying around, the blood loss would be huge and probably fatal. If the victim didn’t die, he’d suffer a lot.

When they first met, Tommy hadn’t had a lot of interest in their ideas of eco-terrorism, but what Kimbrough and Preston said started making sense after a while. He certainly had seen how governments abused power and corporations took advantage of every loophole they could find, putting shortterm profits ahead of environmental concerns. He could relate.

Otherwise, he’d still have a decent job and maybe a functional marriage.

After Kimbrough challenged him to come up with a way to attack Murphy, Czerski got the idea after reading a few articles about cell phone batteries exploding. It was a growing problem cited by everyone from consumer advocates to United States senators. Typically, the phone manufacturers tried to dismiss it as a very rare, isolated problem.

The Consumer Product Safety Commission had documented dozens of incidents of phone batteries smoking, catching fire, expanding or exploding. In one case, a battery exploded in a Texas man’s ear. In another, the lithium-ion battery caught fire spontaneously in a man’s pocket, giving him second-degree burns and a thigh wound at a tech convention.

There had been fatalities, too. One involved an Indian man in 2009 who died after a Nokia phone exploded near his head.

He couldn’t recover from the ear, neck and shoulder injuries sustained. The first recorded fatality from a battery defect was in 2007 when a Chinese welder, Xiao Jinpeng, was working at the Yingpan Iron Ore Dressing Plant. Xiao reportedly had the phone in his shirt pocket when the battery exploded, perhaps due to the high temperatures in the plant. Broken bone fragments from the blast pierced his heart.

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And this was happening with batteries in which the product engineers – admittedly ones who usually worked on cheap, Chinese knock-offs – obviously didn’t want a fatal outcome.

If it could happen by accident, Tommy reasoned, imagine what was possible with a skilled engineer who had an explosion as his goal.

323

51 Chicago Minutes after Game Seven Moose Skowron sat in his living room, staring at the scribbled phone number Walters had given him to call, wondering if the crazy, long-shot idea would work. All he had was the phone number Tommy had used to call Walters. It probably was a throwaway phone, and Tommy was either so whacked out at this point or so overconfident that he didn’t worry about it being a number to call.

“Tommy hates me. He won’t listen to me. He won’t help me,” Walters had told Skowron. “But he respects you, and he has a crush on Aimee. Maybe you can get him to help us.”

Skowron tapped the number on his phone.

At the other end, Tommy Czerski stared at the ringing phone from his vantage point on Ohio Street. He had a clear view of the rising smoke from the Ferris wheel collapse. He had started the night by parking his rental car nearby, walking over to Navy Pier and observing the festivities from a window seat at Harry Caray’s Tavern on the Pier. After about 45 minutes had passed before the start of the game, he wandered around to check security and take a final look at the wheel, which was a few hundred feet down the pier as it jutted into Lake Michigan, next to the Pepsi Skyline Stage. Czerksi had to leave the area as the party started and the area closed to non-ticket holders.

He walked past the hundreds of assembled donors and their 324

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families, trying to fit into the mix so he could linger as long as possible.

That was earlier. Now, however, things seemed very weird.

He should have been happy, but he thought he might be having a minor seizure as anger, elation, fear and twinges of regret swirled in his head like an orchestra that couldn’t get in tune.

He tried to focus on his sense of satisfaction to act like a layer of still water in a bubbling pond.

Why the hell not? he thought. He had manipulated events to make sure the Cubs had won after all. News alerts were flashing on his phone as they went around the world, moments after he heard it for himself on the radio as he sat in his car.

They had gotten his message. Finally. They were the ones who made him do what he had to do. For a moment, he had a faint thought that maybe the Cubs could have won without his help. He dismissed it. The game itself showed that was unlikely.

He answered the phone.

“Yeah,” he said. “Who’s th-th-this?”

“Tom, you have to give me a minute. This is Skowron.

Moose Skowron. Maybe you heard me on Walters’ show.”

“So?” “So, you know that I work with Bob Walters, but I argue with him when the facts don’t support his assertions. You know that, right? You know that I call ‘em the way I see ‘em, right?

You and I, we’re two peas in a pod. I know you love statistics almost as much as the Cubs. Just like me. I have something important to text to you.”

Czerski was suspicious and confused. “Why are you ca-cacalling me? How’d you g-g-g-get this number.”

“Just watch the video I’m sending you and call me back on this number. Quickly.”

Skowron hung up and sent Czerski the video of Aimee’s beating that Walters had texted to him. This was the big gamble – Tommy probably didn’t know what they had done to Aimee.

Within a few minutes the phone rang.

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“What the fuck is this?” Czerski said, so focused now that his stutter stopped. “Is this real?”

“You bet it is. And you know who these guys are, don’t you?”

Then Skowron raised his voice, talking as fast as he could and almost screaming.

“Do you see what they did to Aimee? They’re going to kill her. Kill her,” he shouted, struggling to enunciate fast. “You have to help me stop that. Are you going to let them torture and probably kill Aimee? And did you know they kidnapped and assaulted the President’s special assistant? You know that’s what they’ll do to her, too. C’mon, Tom. You’re being used, man. You didn’t want this.”

Czerski tried to grasp what he had just seen and what it told him about Kimbrough and Preston – and maybe his own future.

Czerkski processed Moose’s words. He had swallowed hard when he realized they had kidnapped Aimee, but torturing her was something else. No one said anything about that or the probability they would kill her. No one said anything about that other woman.

Czerski realized at that moment he was pretty damn naïve for someone with blood on his hands. He had wanted to keep death to a minimum, hopefully just Murphy’s, and even that was what Kimbrough kept calling “Plan B;” something to carry out only if Murphy didn’t agree to their demands. There would be a few injuries in Cincinnati. Hell, he gave them warnings about the Ferris wheel. It was Kimbrough who convinced him to make sure there couldn’t possibly be enough time to evacuate everyone.

Aimee had been nice to him. He didn’t even stutter as much around her. She seemed to understand his passions. She loved the Cubs, unlike her piece-of-shit father. And she was the main actress in the movies in his head that fulfilled his sexual fantasies.

Something else became clearer the more he thought about what Skowron was telling him. Not only were the authorities 326

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after him now, these guys probably couldn’t be trusted. They’d kill him. He knew too much.

“Darwin Time,” he said out loud – his saying for the time when it was survival-of-the-fittest. By diverting all attention to an assassination attempt, he’d buy time for himself.

“What’s that, Tommy?” Skowron said. “What the hell is Darwin Time?”

“Screw that,” he replied. Then Czerski gave up the names.

“Phil Kimbrough. Brandon P-P-Preston,” he said. “T-t-tell the cops those are the leaders. I would b-b-bet they are somewhere around Wrigley Field.

“And if I m-m-m-make this right, you could t-tell the cops they manipulated me; you c-could tell them that Cincinnati was their idea. The Ferris wheel. Killing Murphy. It was their i-idea, too. Eco-terrorists. That’s what they are.”

“Killing Murphy? And what about Aimee?” Skowron asked.

“What about her?”

“I know,” Czerski said. “I know what to d-d-do.”

“What does that mean Tommy?”

But Skowron was talking to empty air. Tommy Czerski had ended the call.

327

52 Chicago’s near West Side Shortly after Game Seven Tommy wasn’t positive where Kimbrough and Preston might have held Aimee, but he had a pretty good idea, and it was close by. He had attended a few meetings in a nondescript house they had rented in the Lincoln Park neighborhood.

He would be a hero. For Aimee.

Before he went into the city to position himself near Navy Pier, he had rented a different car, a light blue Toyota Corolla that would blend into the traffic, just in case the cops were looking for his Blazer. Traffic was light, and it took only about 10 minutes to drive to the area as he listened to the continued Cubs celebration on the radio and watched people celebrating on the sidewalks, especially around local pubs. The party atmosphere showed no sign of dissipating anywhere around Wrigley Field, the North Side or Chicagoland in general anytime soon.

He parked the car on a side street, and then walked around the corner to the front door of the house. He usually didn’t carry a gun. It was too risky if he got stopped, but this time he took it out of the shoebox where he had tucked it under the spare tire in the rental car. He stuck the handgun in the back of his pants.

For good measure, he made sure he had his Swiss Army knife in his pocket where he could grab it.

He carefully looked around to make sure no one was watching. The quiet in the immediate area was eerie.

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Neighborhood people either were glued to their TV sets or celebrating a few blocks away in the commercial area at any one of numerous local taverns where crowds were pouring out into the city streets. He could hear blasts of firecrackers all around him. They were completely illegal in Chicago, but no one seemed to care at that moment.

No one noticed him in the area as he walked around the side of the house to see if he could peer into the basement, but the glass-block windows made it hard. Blurry images inside took on the quality of fun-house mirrors as he stared through the glass.

He leaned on his knees to try for a better look with the damp grass and thin film of frozen moisture from the earlier rain making a soggy crunch noise as he positioned himself, soaking the knees of his jeans.

He still couldn’t see, so he turned his head and planted his left ear against the glass block. At first, he didn’t hear anything.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur through the glass block as though someone might have moved, shifting the light in the basement. He put his ear to the window again. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a sob. For a moment, his imagination got the better of him. Maybe Aimee was getting attacked or even raped. Obviously these guys were capable of that.

Was Aimee in that room? He had no doubt Kimbrough and Preston were somewhere around Wrigley Field. Had they left her alone in there, confident that she couldn’t escape, or was someone guarding her?

He walked around to the front door. He quietly tried to turn the latch, but the door was locked and bolted. No surprise there.

Czerski’s mind was racing in a million directions again. This wasn’t creating danger from afar. It was one-on-one danger. He forced himself to try to get calmer; it seemed as though he was stuttering even in his internal commentary.

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He opened his phone and watched the video of Aimee again to remind him of why he was there. He fantasized how grateful she would be, and what that might entail. He thought about her tongue licking his lips, feeling the inside of his mouth and then working its way down his body until it got to the part that was getting very hard as he thought about it.

When Aimee and Tommy were done making love, his fantasy always involved them caressing one another and sharing laughter and joy. Sometimes he imagined them watching Cubs games together and bantering at Eger’s. He remembered how, in the real world, they joked in the alley about his smoking.

Yes, this was for Aimee. He shot the lock. With the old door weakened, he was able to push it past the deadbolt and enter the foyer in a military stance.

He heard and saw nothing.

He carefully walked down the hall and past the kitchen to the basement door. The old, wood floor was creaky, and each slight squeak made him cringe. Still, no one stirred. The basement door was unlocked. When he turned the knob and opened the door, the dry hinges creaked even louder than the floor boards.

Then Tommy heard some new sounds from the bottom of the stairs. First, he heard loud snoring and the rapid swirling of fan blades. Then he heard the tinny, television voice of an announcer who obviously was at Wrigley Field interviewing Chicago players. Tommy stood on top of the stairs, perfectly still, for about 30 seconds. Then, the snoring sounds coming from the basement stopped.

“Phil? What the fuck? I thought you were at the game,” a voice yelled up the stairs, carrying over the volume of the fan and the radio. “Everything okay?”

Czerski froze for a moment, then steeled himself. He didn’t know if he could impersonate Kimbrough’s deep voice, but he tried.

“Come up,” he said, lowering his voice into a Johnny Cashlike rumble, fighting desperately not to stutter. “I nuh … I nuh … I nuh-need you up here.”

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“Say what?”

“Get up here,” Czerski repeated, relieved there was no obvious stutter.

He heard the guard, an underling named Stu Schilling whose voice he recognized now. Schilling started to move. He was a beefy guy, a fitness freak who had been a high-school wrestler and honor student who went on to major in environmental science at the University of Illinois. At the U of I, Schilling experienced two major, life-changing events: He developed an affinity for radical environmentalism and got thrown off the wrestling team for cheating. His competitive streak made him an easy target for leaders who believed the ends always justified the means.

Schilling started moving up the stairs, each foot seeming to provoke a loud “crack” in the old, wooden steps.

When he got to the top, he saw Czerski, who was fingering the Army knife in his pocket.

“Tommy, what the heck are you doing here?” he said. “You shouldn’t be here right now. Phil and Brandon, they won’t like it.”

“Stu, you n-n-need to let Aimee go, and that other woman, too,” Czerski said, every word a struggle at that moment. “You know what they will do to her. That’s not ri-ri-right.”

“I can’t do that right now,” he said. “It’s all part of the plan.

We need to trust Phil. Is that why you’re here? You need to get your ass out of here right now.”

“Stu, do you know what they di-di-did to her?”

“Tommy,” Schilling said. “I was the guy with the whip. Bad deal but had to be done. The greater good you know.”

Tommy knew he had made a big mistake trying to talk to Schilling. He also knew the Army knife wasn’t going to accomplish much. He reached to the back of his jeans for his gun. Schilling caught the movement and yelled, “What the fuck are you doing?!” as he moved toward Czerski as fast he could.

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Schilling leaped, tackling Tommy just as he was starting to pull out the gun. The tackle came at the moment he fired, throwing off Tommy’s aim. The shot winged Schilling in his right arm, doing some minor damage and causing him to scream in pain.

“Dammit, Czerski,” he screamed. “You fuckin’ shot me, you whack job!”

He slammed Tommy’s head to the floor, grabbing for the hand that held the gun. Tommy, by far the weaker person normally, was fueled by adrenaline and did a quick rollover, preventing Schilling from immediately reaching the gun, giving him time to fire a second round. This shot went through Schilling’s hand. Schilling screamed and let go before leaping at Czerski again. The impact caused Tommy to lose his grip and drop the weapon, which went tumbling down the basement stairs.

Schilling, blood pouring out of his wounded hand, let go of Tommy to go for the gun. Freed for a moment but seeing stars, Tommy reached for the Army knife in his pocket, knowing he now was fighting for his life.

He jumped on Schilling’s back and both went tumbling down the stairs. As they fell, he sliced Schilling’s jugular vein with the knife.

At the bottom of the stairs, with blood spurting everywhere, he untangled himself from Schilling’s limp body and saw there were two basement rooms. The one to his right had a locked door about 10 feet away from the stairs. He saw the chair where Schilling had been sitting, having an evening snore-fest. To his left, he saw a room that looked like it had been erected more hastily. He smelled fresh paint and noticed no one had even bothered to sand down the taping job between the drywall sheets. Someone had slipped a thick padlock through a metal bar that stretched across the door to that room. The person in there was not leaving unless someone let them out.

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He hated disturbing a lifeless, oozing body, but he forced himself to go through Stu’s pockets, where he found a key to the padlock.

He unlocked it, opened the door, and saw Connie Barlage in a fetal position on a tiny, uncomfortable cot. She looked like the survivor of a terrible beating, further fueling the anger Tommy felt.

Connie looked up at him, saw Tommy’s bloody clothes and recoiled in fresh fear.

He screamed at her. “I am doing you a huge, fucking favor.

Sit here and shut up, or I’ll have to kill you. You’ll be out of here soon. Just shut up and sit.”

Connie feared it was a trap, but nothing that had happened made sense, and she saw the man had a gun. She sat. Then she heard the door shut again, and the padlock snap shut. What she didn’t know was that Czerski left the key in the lock. Somebody would be down there sooner or later to let her out if he decided he wouldn’t or couldn’t do it.

Tommy quickly shifted his attention to the other door.

Kimbrough probably expected Schilling to check in at least every 30 minutes in a situation like this. That would be his style.

Time seemed short if he was going to have a chance of escaping with a grateful Aimee.

“Aimee,” he yelled. “Aimee. Are you in there?”

“Who’s that?” was the reply he barely heard. It was Aimee.

“I’m g-g-going to g-g-get you out,” Tommy said. “Rescue you. St-st-stand back.”

Aimee mumbled something else but Czerski didn’t hear.

There was no key for the lock on the door, and it was some sort of weird combination thing. He set his gun on the floor momentarily to try a few ideas for combinations, but he didn’t get lucky.

“I mean it now,” he shouted into the room. “You gotta stand back.”

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He walked away from the door to pick up the gun, came back to the front of the door and shot the lock. He put his hand on the knob and turned the door. It seemed odd that it opened outward toward him instead of inward, the way a door usually opened when you entered a room, but he didn’t think much about it.

As he opened the door, he saw Aimee, weak-looking but alive, standing on the opposite end of the room. To his eyes, she was as beautiful as ever. Her body was plastered against the far wall next to a cot in the rear of the prison room.

“No,” he heard her say. “No, don’t.”

And, at that moment, the door passed through the nearly invisible trip-wired booby trap Kimbrough had set in case Aimee ever was able to open the door or someone tried to set her free. He had warned her not to even try. The small explosion was designed to act like a crude terrorist bomb, the kind used in Iraq and other places. The small nails that went flying through the air shredded Tommy’s face and punctured his body.

He collapsed to the ground and bled to death next to Schilling.

Watching in horror through an opening that once held a wall and a door, Aimee didn’t understand why he hadn’t heard her when she tried to tell him to be careful; the door probably was a trap. Then she realized that in her weakened, half-conscious state, she probably didn’t shout loud enough over the noise of the pig guard’s radio and fan.

As she rushed out of the room, Aimee heard some gurgling, and then it stopped. She gasped when she saw the mangled bodies of Czerski and Schilling. Then she noticed the other room. She turned the key and, for the first time, met Connie Barlage.

They were free.

334

53 Wrigley Field Shortly after Game Seven As Tommy Czerski made his way to the Lincoln Park safehouse, Moose Skowron frantically dialed Walters.

“Moose, I can barely hear you with all the celebration going on,” Walters said.

Skowron’s physical disabilities made speaking clearly even harder when he was stressed. He took several deep, cleansing breaths to try to calm down.

“Tommy gave me the names of the kidnappers,” Skowron said, articulating each word loudly and clearly. “Phil Kimbrough.

Brandon Preston. According to Tommy, they are some kind of eco-terrorists.”

“Eco-terrorists?” Walters said. “What the hell?”

“I did some quick research. Seems these guys have a huge beef with Murphy over his environmental policies, especially with this new way they drill for gas and oil back east. They keep going on about how Murphy had to be stopped. The President is in real danger, Bob.” “Aimee, Moose. Aimee. What did he say about Aimee?”

“Your idea worked, Bob,” Skowron answered. “He’s infatuated with her. But he said he’s going to take care of things himself. I don’t know what the hell that means. He hung up

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on me before I could get anything else out of him, and now he doesn’t answer.”

“Shit.”

“Bob, listen to me,” Skowron said, pushing his friend as hard as he could. “You have got to go to the FBI with this.

That’s all you can do. And these guys need to be caught.”

Walters paused for a moment. He was out of options to save his daughter. “Yeah, you’re right,” Walters conceded. ****** When Walters called, Beatrice was carefully examining the explosion site on Navy Pier, but there wasn’t much he could do except keep the crime scene sealed until the Bureau’s explosives experts arrived. The veteran agent knew what to do. Using his tablet computer, he logged into the FBI network and quickly found that Kimbrough and Preston were in the domestic terrorist suspect database. He would figure out how these two were connected to Tommy later while the whizzes in Washington no doubt would be examining every phone call these guys had made since cell phones were invented.

Within minutes the photos of Kimbrough and Preston were part of an email alert that went to every one of the thousands of police, FBI, and Secret Service agents in the Chicago area, not to mention the 350 contract security guards that Major League Baseball had hired. This was a necessity at a high-profile event such as the World Series even in what passed for normal circumstances in the 21st Century.

Meanwhile, as the raucous celebration continued, Kimbrough and Preston kept their focus on the press box and suite area to watch Murphy. The plan was simple now. As soon as Murphy got near the coat that still was draped across the chair in the front of his suite, they’d call the phone and blow him to high heaven using the wireless process Tommy had designed.

Two minutes after the blast, their manifesto would spread across the World Wide Web on a secure, untraceable site, and 336

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the truth would be known about Luke Murphy. All the major news organizations would get an email at the same time with a hot link to the site, and there would be immediate postings to thousands of Facebook addresses with that same link.

They would express deep regret at the circumstances of the day but say they had no choice. The rape of the environment had gone too far, and something had to be done to get everyone’s attention. An elaborate, multi-media presentation would make the case that Murphy was an environmental criminal. Drilling needed to stop, especially this horizontal drilling that was going to cause earthquakes and pollute the water supplies. Fossil fuels needed to be banned. Nuclear energy must be banned until there was a waste disposal solution. Yes, there would be short-term hardship, but no one’s children or grandchildren would have a habitable world if sacrifices weren’t made now.

“Phil!” Preston shouted as he looked through the binoculars.

“It’s happening now. I see Murphy standing by the door to the suite. Some Secret Service guy is taking the coat to him.”

“Let me see,” Kimbrough said, grabbing the binoculars.

“Now it’s really show time. Get the phone ready.”

A few celebrating fans dripping from beer showers looked up at them oddly, again wondering about the geeky guys who were watching the ballpark more than celebrating.

Kimbrough realized they were forgetting about the role play again. He looked down at them and pasted a large smile on his fan.

“Whooooooo-hooooo,” he said. “How ‘bout those damn Cubbies. Look at the players dancing on the field.”

Indeed, the players were dancing with different levels of skill to the sounds of Steve Goodman’s “Go, Cubs Go” song.

The team played it after every Cubs victory, and the song also served as a tribute to Goodman, an acoustic-rock troubadour and fanatical Cubs fan who had died of leukemia at the age of 36 in 1984. No Cubs team had made a playoff or World Series appearance in his lifetime.

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It was likely that only a few people took notice that several of the Cubs and their manager were missing from the on-field celebration. Those who did notice simply figured that Mike Surrey and the other missing players were in a hurry to get to the locker room.

“Okay,” Kimbrough hissed in a softer voice to Preston, looking back into the suite and seeing that Murphy had the coat back on. “Do it.”

As fireworks boomed into the air, Preston hit the send button, and he saw the flash of the explosion in the rear of the president’s box. With the binoculars, Kimbrough could see a lightning-fast response by a cadre of agents. They pushed those around Murphy to the ground and quickly surrounded the scene with guns drawn, looking in every direction. Visible expressions of shock marked several faces. People in the nearby boxes also were ducking for cover. He couldn’t see Murphy, who obviously was on the ground. The president most likely was bleeding to death if he wasn’t dead already.

Most of the stands near the presidential box had emptied as the remaining fans swarmed the field. The others already were celebrating wildly under the stands or had fanned out on the streets around Wrigley Field.

The fireworks and related celebrations were so loud that hardly anyone noticed. Most observers probably attributed the loud pop of the explosion to the festivities in general. An unknown unknown, but a lucky break for us, Preston thought.

338

54 Wrigley Field Shortly after Game Seven Just before the blast struck, Walters had left the immediate vicinity to see Mickey. He asked her to stay in her seat and wait for him at the end of the game, hoping there would be good news. He promised to find her right away if anything major happened. He hadn’t kept that promise, because there was no reason to say much if the news wasn’t really good.

Mickey looked at him with that hopeful look he knew so well – a look he remembered from times when he would return home drunk but appear sober at first blush, turning hope into disappointment. He couldn’t fool Mickey for long with a veneer of sobriety. He was reminded of how much he had disappointed this smart, beautiful woman whose wide, penetrating green eyes always spoke volumes.

Walters could see that Mickey had been crying as she stood at the end of the row of seats, trying to watch a game that unfolded during the longest hours of her life. Ever the journalist and observer, Walters was struck by the depth of Mickey’s fear as an overwhelming contrast to the in-the-moment celebrations occurring in the rest of the stands.

She dabbed at her eyes with a hot-dog napkin, having long since run out of tissues.

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“I have some news that I guess you could say is better,” he said to her, touching her lightly on the shoulder and being careful not to appear too intimate. “I think we made some headway. I think we know who kidnapped her. And the authorities are all working on it now, but they don’t know where these guys are or where they have her.

“We still gotta pray,” he added.

“Bob, I’ve got nothing left to say in my prayers,” she said.

“But I will take it as a sign.” Then her tone changed abruptly, and she looked squarely at Bob with as much firmness as she could muster.

“I need to know you didn’t cause this,” she said. “I need to know you have done EVERYTHING you can.”

“I swear Mickey, I have. I really have,” Walters said, and then choked up as he said, “If anything happens to her … I can’t think about it. I can’t live with it.”

The anger drained out of her for the moment. All that was left was exhaustion and worry.

“Maybe they will save our daughter. It’s what I tell my students when I want them to see the real point: Everything else is scaffolding,” she said, and then gave her ex-husband the slightest hint of a smile—not a smile of humor but a signal of determination to prevail. “Bob, bring me another sign to keep me from going crazy.”

For years afterward, they frequently would remark how the phone rang a split-second after Mickey asked for another sign.

Walters didn’t recognize the number, but saw it was a local call.

“Hello?” he said.

“Dad, it’s me. It’s Aimee.”

Aimee sound breathless and stressed. Walters mouthed the word “Aimee” at Mickey, and then showed Mickey a thumbsup. Mickey exhaled deeply and stared upward, fighting the urge to scream for joy in her loudest voice.

On the other end of the call, Aimee was crying, words pouring out as though she had to simply unleash the horror in 340

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her mind without saying too much to alarm her father at this moment.

“Daddy, it was awful,” she said. “There were two of us down there. I knew the guy who tried to save me. He was at Eger’s … he’s gone. Dead. I’m okay now.”

She paused, knowing it was a lie to say she was fine and not knowing her father also knew the same thing. The rush of adrenaline from her freedom was briefly masking the intense pain penetrating from every part of her beaten back.

“Well, I’m kind of hurt to be honest,” she said. “But I’ll be okay. I’m at someone’s house using their phone, and they’re calling an ambulance and the police. Don’t worry. Tell Mom not to worry.” ****** As Kimbrough and Preston walked out of the front door of the house that held the Waveland Avenue rooftop bleachers, they kept playing the part of excited Cubs fans. They boisterously slapped each other on the back and exchanged high-fives with everyone they saw as they followed a swarm of fans making their way to the El station behind Wrigley Field’s centerfield entrance to take the elevated CTA train back to their neighborhoods and outlying suburbs.

They had no reason to believe the bum on the corner of Waveland and Sheffield was actually Glenn Howell, a plainclothes Secret Service agent who had just made sure he committed their photos to memory – especially after he got a text telling him that the listening devices deployed around the ball park detected a signal near his post that may have ignited the explosion.

Howell spotted the pair and quietly brought his wrist up to his mouth, slobbered on the sleeve of his coat for effect, and quietly voiced an all-points alert and backup request. Then he touched the brim of the battered Cubs hat he was wearing. He held up his arms in the universally understood gesture to seek 341

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high-fives from the suspects.

Knowing there were hundreds of officers around who had his back, he was quietly confident as he walked over to Kimbrough and Preston. They were a bit offended by the bum in their midst, but accommodated him with each providing a hand slap back. Howell made eye contact with them, offered a crooked grin and then pointed to his cardboard sign that said: “Need $$. Won’t lie. Might use it for booze.”

Preston was in a good mood. He thought that was funny. He reached into his wallet and handed Howell a ten-spot.

“Hey man, thanks,” Howell said. “Mind if I walk along?”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Kimbrough said. “We gotta head home. Besides, you kinda smell.”

Howell knew his support was on the way but decided there was too much at stake to stall any longer.

“Well, here’s the thing,” Howell said. The sudden change in the timbre and clarity of his voice quickly commanded the attention and alertness of both men. “You really do need to walk with me, or things are going to get pretty ugly.”

Four marked and two unmarked cars came screeching to a halt in front of the trio. Kimbrough and Preston froze.

“You are soooo under arrest,” he continued. “And I can assure you that none of us – and I mean none of us – will hesitate for even a split second to kill you if you even think about resisting.”

As they were taken into custody at the corner of Waveland and Sheffield, everyone turned briefly to watch the Presidential entourage drive west on Addison Street, one block away, making a short drive to the presidential helicopter, which was waiting at the lakefront to take the entourage to Air Force One at O’Hare International Airport.

Down the street, Preston and Kimbrough looked up through the phalanx of law enforcement officers now surrounding them to see what the commotion was about. At first, seeing that it was the presidential entourage, Kimbrough felt a surge of satisfaction that his arrest was for a worthy cause and his 342

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sacrifice worth the price of his freedom; maybe even his life.

Then he saw an open window in one of the cars and realized who was inside.

In a move that no doubt gave his security detail a collective heart attack, President Luke Murphy opened the window of his black Chevrolet Suburban so he could wave to a crowd of Cubs fans. He was wearing a baseball cap that said: “Chicago Cubs, World Champions, Worth The Wait.” The fans chanted back with equal exuberance, alternating between “hey, hey” and “holy cow.”

“I don’t understand,” Kimbrough said through pursed lips, so stunned he had forgotten that Rule No. 1 after an arrest was to keep one’s mouth shut. “How the hell can Murphy be in there?”

Howell looked at Kimbrough with disgust as he slapped the handcuffs, hard, around Kimbrough’s wrists.

“Hey, that hurts. Fuck you,” Kimbrough said. “I want a lawyer.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll have one,” the agent said. “And I imagine your mommy and daddy will get you a good one.

“By the way, dickwad, you blew up a mannequin.”

343

55 Madison, Wisconsin The Day after Game Seven The person Phil Kimbrough only knew as a disinterestedsounding female voice was trying to decide her next moves.

She leaned back in the desk chair of her small, wellappointed study in her home on Madison’s East Side, looking at nothing and weighing everything, staring a hole through the wall directly across from her gaze. Meanwhile, a middle-aged man, distinguished and handsome for his age, sat next to her doing pretty much the same thing. If anything, the clench in his jaw was even more pronounced then hers. The man and woman were occasional lovers and permanent partners at the top of a secret organization, though they had agreed many years ago that he would defer to her when there were rare disagreements on strategy and tactics.

Only a few hours earlier, they felt excitement and a sense of triumph when they realized the effort to blackmail Luke Murphy might work.

Then she was deeply disappointed, and slightly surprised, when it became obvious that Murphy was willing to risk his career by refusing the blackmail option, even if it meant he’d be exposed as a gutless kid and gross opportunist.

When Murphy spurned their demands, she conveyed no hint that she was any more than a subordinate passing along 344

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orders and gave the command to Phil Kimbrough to assassinate Murphy. At the same time, they blasted an e-mail to major media outlets pointing to their environmentalist credo on the Internet along with an expose of Murphy’s real and imagined crimes. The first crime was headlined: “The Paralysis of Scott Skowron: From Youth to Today, Luke Murphy Lives A Lie.” “Plan B” was an outcome she could accept.

However, it was obvious now that Murphy was alive. That meant both plans had failed. Yes, there would be plenty of questions and a shadow would hang over Murphy. However, unless she drew way too much attention to herself, it would be fairly easy for Murphy, Walters, Skowron and others to deny all the allegations as radical rants.

She was so sure she had the President figured out. After all, she had studied him for years. She never thought he’d risk the damage to his carefully cultivated reputation. Knowing Murphy had a strong sense of self-preservation, she figured the odds were 60-40 in their favor.

She knew how Luke Murphy let his best friend go away to a juvenile home for a terrible injury he inflicted on someone else.

She watched as he grew up to become another self-interested, self-important politician with views very different from her own; views that threatened the entire planet.

“Frank, I probably won’t be able to dodge some interview requests. Not with this scenario,” Meg Williamson said to her partner. “The trick is to leave no reason to suspect us.”

“There was no clue Kimbrough and the others would have about who you or I really are,” Frank reacted.

At least she hoped so. They had been very, very careful.

Now, Meg Williamson saw the only immediate course was to proceed with extreme caution and live to fight another day.

She was good at that.

For a while during her grad school days, just after her father died, insomnia and panic attacks stalked her to the point where she briefly went to see a therapist. Her therapist said it wasn’t 345

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unusual for deeply embedded issues to bubble up after the death of a parent. He said he could tell without needing much detail that she had some deep-seated issues of anger and fear from childhood. She quickly stopped going to therapy. He didn’t know the half of it, and she wasn’t about to tell him.

All through junior high and then high school in Palatine, she kept her feelings bottled up. She had learned the hard way in her home there was no upside in reaching out for help from the abuse her father was inflicting on her while her helpless mother watched, too embarrassed about what was happening in their home to do anything about it.

One day she took a chance, or maybe she had broken emotionally, and she talked a little bit about what had happened in her house. That was the awful November day when she met her friends Luke Murphy and Bob Walters outside, a few days after the JFK assassination. The chain of events she started put Moose Skowron in a wheelchair for life and Bob Walters into juvenile detention. And it unmasked Luke Murphy as selfish and gutless for letting Bob accept all the consequences.

She went along with it, because that was what she had learned to do – get along and make few waves. Then the police pressured her. She finally tried to tell the truth, but no one believed her. Even her father was skeptical. That seemed to make things worse as he found novel ways the next few times he was drunk to satisfy his needs and punish his young daughter for lying.

She feared that Bob and Luke knew too much about what was happening inside the house, and Luke in particular made her uncomfortable from that day forward. By the time they were in the middle of their high school years, the former friends were little more than casual acquaintances, though she connected with Bob from time to time when they met by chance. She found that Bob’s cynical, sarcastic humor was a good fit for her outlook on life.

She had no nostalgia for Palatine in general or her home in particular. She couldn’t wait to go away to college.

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When she got to Madison to start her freshman year at the University of Wisconsin, she landed on campus as the radicalism of the late 1960s was passing its peak, but Madison still was a magnet for disaffected young people looking for alternatives to their parents’ definition of the American Dream. In Madison, she found a way to channel her anger and use her intelligence.

Meg Williamson became an environmental radical. But, she kept her feelings under wraps where few could see.

She almost always was good at that, too.

Her radical views only deepened through the years as she earned her Ph.D. in environmental science. The more she studied, the angrier she got about the rape of planet Earth.

Finally, she concluded the only choice was direct action in which the ends justified the means.

When she met Frank, an equally radical philosophy professor who was five years older who had been in the middle of the battles of the 1960s, she had just finished reading Saul Alinsky’s rejoinder to retain an “ever-gnawing inner doubt as to whether you’re right.” She was wavering a bit in her belief the ends justified the means to save Gaia, the spiritual name for the troubled Earth. Frank, with his command of logic and deep understanding of the world of thought, helped her find fresh self-justifications. He provided the philosophy and underpinnings. She provided the hardened focus and planning skills to do whatever it took to succeed.

In her work at the university, she was careful to do dull research on arcane topics of commercial interest that would be published in obscure journals but never be sexy or notable enough to get picked up by the popular media. Unlike a lot of Ph.D. professors, she genuinely enjoyed teaching, too, as a safe way to connect with people without too much emotional commitment. Patents and inherited money made her financially secure and put her in a position to fund her secret endeavor. All in all, it was a great way to mask her other life.

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Meanwhile, Meg and Frank carefully cultivated candidates for their group. The Madison campus attracted scores of impressionable, admiring college students who were easy targets to recruit. They identified a number of students, following them in their careers until the time was right to reach out, usually through intermediaries. They capitalized on chance encounters and sophisticated Internet searching techniques, always being careful to mask their identities so as to best continue the work.

Phil Kimbrough was an especially willing subject who quickly understood the need to know as little as possible as long as they were on the same wavelength politically and the money kept coming for their plans.

“Reporters and the FBI could be knocking on my door,” she said to Frank, running two fingers down one side of her face and through her shock of wild gray hair before twisting her ponytail around her fingers. “They will ask me about that sidewalk in Palatine. Every reporter with access to background stories about Murphy, a retired cop with a memory or any of my neighbors will know I knew Murphy back then. I’m surprised no one has called already,” she said.

“Nosy reporters are the least of our problems,” Frank said.

“We just have to stay the course. These claims about Murphy’s childhood will be part of a huge criminal investigation.”

“Maybe there’s a bright spot,” Meg responded. “For all we know, the authorities will confirm the truth and bring Murphy down that way. It’ll serve him right.”

“Now that’s a delicious thought,” Frank said, reaching and lightly gripping her wrist in a slight tug of support. “And they will have their hands full between that, the kidnappings, the Cincinnati incident and, of course, what happened at the Ferris wheel. They can’t touch us on any of that.”

“I do regret that Ferris wheel incident had to happen,” she said with a sigh. “I see today that two of those who got hurt have died. And they were children. These are the prices we pay to move the system. Nudges aren’t good enough any longer.”

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The reporters would get the same stock answers they always got if they called or appeared and asked her about Luke Murphy in the endless media quest for any nugget about a president’s life.

“Luke and I grew up together,” she recited for Frank with a smile. “We haven’t stayed in touch much over the years, but I wish him well.”

“I need to stretch,” Frank said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with some fresh coffee.”

Frank turned and left the room as she swiveled away from him to look out the window into her lush garden of perennials that had faded quickly in the fall chill that reminded everyone of the looming certainty of another Wisconsin winter.

She wondered for a moment if Frank’s commitment was wavering in any way and decided there was no evidence. Still, she would have to watch closely. Men still could fool her sometimes if she dropped her guard.

“Yes,” she said out loud, to no one but her two cats, Saul and Abbie. “And I may have to back up Bob, Moose and Luke when I’m asked about it. But I think it’s probably better to just say, ‘Oh my, it is all still such a blur. It was so awful, and I was so young.’”

Then she firmed her face back into seriousness. It was a huge contrast from her public pose. She was the slightly flaky, likable and brilliant-but-boring college professor who was rich and comfortable thanks to research, patents and parents.

“This is not over,” Meg Williamson said, tapping her fingers on a small, wooden table next to the window. “I don’t know when, where or how, but it cannot be over.”

349

56 University of Chicago Medical Center The Day after Game Seven “It is our choices, Harry, that show us what we truly are, far more than our abilities.” ―Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

by J.K. Rowling The day after the Series ended, Beatrice visited Aimee Walters at the hospital as part of the investigation. Beatrice found Bob Walters sitting next to his daughter on her hospital bed. Aimee was lying on her side as it was still too painful to put pressure on her scarred back.

Aimee’s resolve was firm. She tried to be stoic, refusing all but a mild painkiller that barely helped. “The doctors have done an amazing job of fixing me up so I can get out of here as soon as possible,” she reported.

Connie Barlage already had been released into the waiting arms of Col. Charley Rayburn. Her physical wounds were slight, but the mental scars of the trauma and fear would take time to heal. Rayburn, in his military way, had decided that it was time to take their relationship to the next level, consequences be damned, but he knew he couldn’t treat Connie like an enlisted man who had to follow his orders.

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So, it was a major relief to know Connie felt the same way.

When they hugged each other as she got up to leave the hospital, it was a hug they both hoped would never end. They didn’t have to speak to know the past two days had taught them what they had was special. Doubt no longer entered the equation. Now it was a matter of figuring out the details.

Meanwhile, Beatrice continued his gentle questioning in Aimee’s hospital room, but it was Aimee who wanted answers.

“I still don’t understand exactly what happened at the end of the game with the kidnappers,” she said.

Walters and Beatrice looked at each other.

“You should give your dad some credit,” Beatrice said.

“He’s the one who remembered the Cubs had a mannequin in their gift shop.”

“It was easy to grab the mannequin. The problem was the damn mannequin was in a Cubs uniform, and that obviously wasn’t the way Luke Murphy was dressed,” Walters said.

Murphy, who worked hard to stay fit, had the build of a typical Major League second baseman. Fortunately, so did the mannequin. Murphy was wearing a Polo shirt in “Cubs blue” but without a team logo.

“After all, there were voters who root for Boston, too,” Walters explained. “You think I annoy Cub fans? I bet Luke was getting hate mail from Red Sox Nation every day with his unabashed rooting for the Cubbies. He finally decided he had to tone it down just a bit.”

Beatrice took the story from that point.

“It was a big gamble, but it was the best chance to protect the president and fool the assassins at the same time,” he said.

“So, an agent grabbed a similar shirt in the gift shop that was the same color as Murphy’s, though it had a small Cubs logo.

They hoped the assassins wouldn’t notice from that distance.”

Beatrice then began gesturing to demonstrate the agents milling around Murphy.

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“The agents obscured the pants and the movement of placing the jacket by standing around the mannequin as Murphy’s navy blue sport coat was placed on it,” he said, hovering around Walters to demonstrate. “Okay. Then, finally, they positioned the mannequin just outside the door so the assassins couldn’t see the mannequin was wearing uniform pants instead of Murphy’s khakis.

“The bad guys thought they saw Murphy re-appearing with his sport coat back on, like he was starting to leave,” Beatrice continued. “They saw what we wanted them to see, and they saw what they were wanting and hoping to see, which is very normal in such situations. You have to be very highly trained to not fall prey to seeing what you want to see. It might have kept them from seeing some of the clues that something had changed.”

“Now they’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” Walters added.

“But they got what they wanted in a way,” Aimee said, staring at her iPad. “Their manifesto, this eco-bullshit, is all over the Internet. And then there is all this stuff about Dad, the President and Moose. You can’t shut something down completely once someone posts it. It’s always saved somewhere. Forever.”

“That’s for the politicians to sort out,” Beatrice said. “Or not. The environmentalist types have their good points, too, but all I know is that nothing in the world that’s worth anything happens without risk. My agents risk their lives for this country.

You almost lost your life, because somehow these guys slipped through the cracks.”

Walters nodded in agreement. He didn’t do political rants on his show very often, but this theme was one of his favorites: Too many people want freedom and a risk-free world at the same time.

“I can take whatever these assholes dish out. If we want to have energy, jobs or anything else then there are going to be accidents and risks sometime. Some of these radicals think no tree can ever be chopped down, no hole can ever be dug, because it is remotely possible that something bad might 352

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happen,” Walters said. “Accidents and risks happen. That kind of describes what happened on that sidewalk a long time ago, too.”

“A lot of people like me voted for Luke Murphy, because they thought he was a different breed of cat, a guy who actually could work with both sides, a guy who wanted to get something done for the greater good,” Beatrice said. “I’m hoping he hasn’t sold his soul.”

Walters had to admit that Beatrice had a point. The Luke Murphy he knew was basically a smart, well-intentioned person who always had been very calculating. Channeled with the right motivation, that’s what it took to accomplish things in politics.

It was a dangerous tightrope to walk with soul-selling as a real hazard. Luke was exceptionally good at making sure events managed to work out for him, too—even with Bob, Meg and Moose.

“I think he’s better than most,” Walter said. “Does he have greatness in him? Can’t say. But knowing Luke Murphy, he probably already has figured out ways to turn this mess into a positive.”

Then Walters looked at Beatrice and grinned. “Shit, call me as soon as you retire from the Bureau so we can get you on the air. You’d be a helluva political candidate. I’ll move from sports to political talk radio to tell people to vote for you right now,” Walters said. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe we could do a show together. Want my agent to give you a call?

Here I thought you were a tight-lipped FBI dude.”

Beatrice flashed a wide smile for the first time in days.

“Sorry for the lecture,” he said. “Must be sleep deprivation.

And you keep my opinions off the record, or I’ll bust your ass for something even if I have to make it up.”

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****** Mickey Walters insisted on staying with Aimee after the hospital released her. Bob Walters visited every day, too.

Two days after Aimee was sent home, he looked at Mickey and said simply, “You know, maybe you could get a teaching job at the Chicago campus of the University of Illinois, or DePaul or Roosevelt or even Northwestern; some school closer than WIU.” “Why, Bob,” she said, offering just a hint of a smile around the corners of her mouth. “For a guy who is such an obvious and flaming asshole on the radio, I am wondering what you are trying to say.”

“It would be good for Aimee,” he said. “And maybe for me.

Maybe even for you. You never know.”

“There’s a lot of water over that dam, Bob,” she said. “I just don’t know.

“But, I’ll think about it.”

Walters never was good at hiding his emotions, and he was sure that Mickey could see the disappointment lurking under the fragile facial mask he erected. But that wasn’t fair to her. She had a right to her feelings, too – especially about him. He was determined to regularly go to meetings again and was reminded the only thing he could control were his actions and reactions.

The behavior of others was on them.

“Well, that’s good enough for right now,” Walters said before taking a chance and kissing her lightly on the cheek. She didn’t pull away. That would have to be enough; it was more than he deserved now or forever.

“I’ve got to get to the studio and give the Lords of Baseball my advice on whether to replay the Seventh Game,” he said. “I should have some fun with that one. And you should be warned that I’m still an asshole – at least publicly. If I can learn to be less of an asshole privately, that’ll have to be our secret.”

354

Epilogue Chicago Just Before the ‘Real’ Seventh Game There had never been a sports event like the “real” seventh game of the World Series that was going to start in a few hours.

The Chicago sports world was dominated, as it had been every day since the start of the World Series, by baseball, despite the fact the pro football season was well underway and the beloved Chicago Bears seemed to have a good team this season.

But no baseball season ever had ended like this.

No one, even non-sports fans, could stop talking about the fixed game and the aftermath. The game had become a transcendent event that went far beyond the world of sports, commanding the most time on not only sports talk but also network news, cable news, the political blogosphere and the floor of Congress. Left-wing and right-wing couldn’t move fast enough to exploit the happenings in Chicago and the carnage at Navy Pier and Cincinnati for political points. The debates about President Murphy’s behavior, including his decision to stay at the game and what the FBI knew and when they knew it, were endless, as was new speculation about his past. Would the public forgive him if and when he ran for a second term?

For sports fans, especially those in Chicago and Boston, the debate was much simpler. What should be done about Game Seven? How should it be handled?

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Did it even make sense to play the game with the tragedies on Navy Pier and in Cincinnati so entangled?

Meanwhile, Beatrice felt like he lived in a law enforcement hell of endless briefings and brainstorming sessions that had too much speculation and not enough fact.

“Tommy really was from Streamwood. We’ve ID’d him as Tommy Czerski, and our profile fit him like a glove,” he told a group of FBI agents, Secret Service agents and local police detectives. “Deranged. Crazy Cubs fan. Smart. Out-of-work engineer with military background. Damn. Damn tragic. We blew this. Why the hell didn’t we find him sooner?”

Beatrice shook his head, saying nothing for a several seconds. No one else said a word either.

“We still don’t know how Czerski, Kimbrough and Preston all fit into this picture,” he continued. “Kimbrough and Preston are going to say anything they can to save their sorry asses, but we’ve been surprised by how little they can help. With Czerski dead and the Schilling dude dead in the kidnap house, they just shift blame to them.

“Probably that’s bullshit,” Beatrice said. “But, it’s plausible, and they’re smart. They have the dollars from somewhere to hire good lawyers. It must go higher, but so far we’ve got squat except that Kimbrough thinks he was taking orders from a woman.”

Beatrice paused again, needing a second to tamp down his frustration.

“What else don’t we know?” he continued, then answered his own question. “Whose idea was what? The profilers think Czerski was manipulated big-time. That makes sense based on what he did and what Skowron and Aimee Walters said when they talked to him that night. But Czerski was pretty damn smart for a crazy guy. Maybe these guys just took advantage of each other. We’re still open to theories.”

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that Czerski definitely was willing to do just about anything to make sure the Cubs won. Despite every ounce of investigative heat they could radiate on these guys, no one had a lead on “the disinterested female voice” that a few of them, primarily Kimbrough, talked to when they needed direction or funds.

Beatrice finally concluded the suspects were telling the truth, at least for the most part. The challenge was to go through everything they owned, rented, discarded, wrote or left behind in the digital world to look for clues that maybe even the suspects hadn’t recognized. Misguided passion was the glue that held the group members together, though how the leader or leaders managed to control this crowd so effectively remained a mystery, too.

“This investigation is going to be a bitch for months to come,” Beatrice said, mainly to himself.

The death of Van Ohmann’s father was another loose end that was bugging the agent. He was sure Czerski did it by somehow hacking through the vehicle’s OnStar satellite connection to control the electronics that affected the engine and brakes, but he couldn’t show whether Tommy was acting alone or with direction.

Czerski’s house was a tease—a shrine to his Cubs-fueled insanity and a tantalizing treasure-trove of potential evidence.

No question he was making explosives, and it certainly showed that Czerski’s worship of the Cubs was on the extreme end of fandom.

The agents settled into a practiced routine for the weeks of sifting and winnowing ahead, dedicated to eventually untangling the mess. ****** It took two full days before baseball officials agreed the seventh game had to be replayed with a suitable moment of silence for the Ferris wheel victims. That decision made sense, 357

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but the controversy that would engage sports fans for years was about how and when to replay it.

“Do you pick up the game from the spot where ‘the fix’ happened, with the Red Sox ahead 2-0, or do you play it over from the beginning?” Walters said on the air. “And Boston fans should be screaming foul if they replay it so quickly their very best pitcher, Trey Van Ohmann, won’t be ready to throw again.”

Walters was making the most of it. In fact, now that it was general knowledge he had done time in juvenile detention as a youngster, the notoriety would boost his ratings. A fat new contract from WCO looked like it would land any day, and there were nibbles about national syndication. Moose Skowron’s adult act of supporting and even partnering with Walters was being trumpeted as a modern example of forgiveness that seemed almost Biblical in proportion. Aimee’s newly found celebrity made the shows at Eger’s bigger than ever.

All these things spiked the ratings, too. But nothing could have a bigger impact than the looming reality of an unprecedented Game Seven replay of a World Series of the Cubs against the Red Sox. Winter loomed now like a jackal ready to pounce, and the longer the lords of baseball dithered, the likelier it was that any do-over game would be played in a late-fall Chicago symphony of sleet, freezing rain or even snow.

The leaders finally decided the whole situation was so weird the seventh game should be replayed from the beginning, particularly since “the fix” was in the works before the game started. It had to have been a distraction to the players and managers who knew.

Out of deference to Boston in particular, they waited an extra two days so both teams could, if they chose, use the same starting pitchers. Van Ohmann would get his chance. More cynical observers noted the delay pushed the game into the weekend when the television ratings would likely surpass Super Bowl levels. It would be baseball’s biggest moment in years.

“It’s always about M-O-N-E-Y,” Bob Walters ruminated.

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On the air, he wondered aloud whether it would be less painful to just declare Boston the winner to save the Cubs the pain of actually losing a game they had already won once.

“And only the Cubs could lose a World Series championship they had already won,” Walters repeated to his listeners from Eger’s at the end of his show a few hours before the game.

“They almost lost a game that was FIXED FOR THEM for goodness sakes. If that doesn’t prove The Curse is real, nothing will.

“Somewhere, dear friends, the Billy Goat is laughing.”

With that, he signed off and winked at Geoff, Aimee and Mickey sitting to the side in front of the old wooden bar.

It was time to leave for the game. A Cubs fan recognized him as he walked toward his car in the parking lot at Eger’s.

“Walters, you suck,” the fan yelled, flipping him a middle finger to punctuate his point.

He looked at the fan, gave him a big toothy grin, pointed to the heavens and shook his head from side to side.

“It’s freezing rain. It’s raining Cubs gloom,” he shouted back.

An odd thought intruded at that moment. Could the Cubs finally win a World Series after more than a century? Walters never would admit it to anyone else, but there were moments lately in which he found himself secretly hoping the Cubbies would win. It would be good for the city and all of Chicagoland.

It would be like a metropolitan catharsis, a moment that would briefly heal all the usual baggage and differences between the races, between city and suburb, between rich and poor. He envisioned the late songwriter and passionate Cubs fan Steve Goodman rising from the grave like a ghostly troubadour, a wispy, spirit-like figure writing new lyrics and singing, “The Cubs really won today.”

Walters laughed out loud at the image. He tried to push the touchy-feely thoughts of an actual Cubs triumph out of his mind as he noticed the thin film of freezing rain beginning to form on the Lexus windshield. It might be a good thing for Chicago, but 359

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it would be a helluva challenge for him to reinvent himself.

Still, just in case, he had already started to make plans for how he would manage his career in the event of that unlikely occurrence. Aimee and Moose would be a big part of that.

He headed toward the media entrance at Wrigley Field. For good measure, he flicked the remains of what he hoped would be his last cigarette on the cracked asphalt in the parking lot, though he only had a faint belief the attempt to quit would succeed.

“Screw you,” the fan yelled a few seconds later. “All you care about is your ratings. That might be the best freakin’ thing about the Cubs winning. We can kiss your ass goodbye. Maybe we’ll just push your ass onto the sidewalk like you and that shitbag Murphy did to your buddy.”

Walters looked back at the man, who was dressed in Cubs attire from head to toe. Still, Walters could tell the anger was veneer. The guy had the more-sad-than-mad look that separated Cubs fans from most other sports zealots.

There was something about the moment that caused Walters to stare for a lot longer than he normally would before responding to a heckler. The pause lasted so long, and Walters’ stare was so intense, the heckler started to walk away before Walters stopped him in his tracks by blowing him a kiss and flashing a grin full of bright, white teeth.

“Don’t count on me going anywhere,” Walters finally yelled back, pointing his index finger at his own chest. “Guess what?

I’ve been through a helluva lot worse – and you know that’s true. I plan to thrive no matter what happens tonight.”

Walters softened his tone and shifted the direction of his pointing index finger from his chest so it was aimed squarely at the nearby fan.

“Believe it or not, you’ll be okay, too.”

The unexpected remark seemed to befuddle the man for a moment.

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Then the passionate fan shook his head from side to side. At the same time, he placed his hands, palms out, at belt level and slowly elevated both middle fingers into a well-choreographed double bird. Finally, the fan spun around and walked away.

So did Walters.

THE END

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Acknowledgments This obviously is a work of fiction, but many of the settings and place names in the Chicago area, rural Illinois and Cincinnati are real – or in the ballpark, so to speak. Oddly, “Oktoberfest Zinzinnati” actually happens in September, but our purposes required moving it to October.

There is nothing fictional about the quest of the Chicago Cubs to win a World Series for the first time since 1908. At this writing, you have to squint to see a glimmer the curse will die any time soon. And yes, I am a Cubs fan. My dad, Paul Hetzel, was born on Chicago’s West Side in that fateful year of 1908.

He was a Cubs fan, and my two sons now share the suffering with me. My daughter may have the best philosophy, which involves profound indifference to organized sports.

We hope Red Sox Nation forgives us for focusing on the Cubs, but Red Sox supporters should appreciate the irony of Boston’s appearance in our fictional World Series. Besides, the BoSox have exorcised their curse and then some with recent World Series championships, including in 2013.

A particularly helpful resource to check statistics and provide or confirm anecdotes about the Cubs was “Essential Cubs,” by Doug Myers, 1999, Contemporary Books. Also worthy, helpful and quite fun: “For the Love of the Chicago Cubs,” by Lew Freedman, 2009, West Side Publishing.

Rick Kogan’s book, “A Chicago Tavern: A Goat, A Curse and the American Dream,” 2006, Lake Claremont Press, provided color and background on the Cubs’ legendary Billy Goat curse and the Billy Goat Tavern, which went on to greater 363

fame through the “chee’burger, chee’burger” skits on “Saturday Night Live.”

Like Bob Walters, a number of crabby, opinionated Chicago newspaper sports writers moved into broadcasting during our character’s era. They set the stage for a future that would bring ESPN and around-the-clock sports talk to a world that didn’t know it needed that. Chicago sports fans may remember “The Sportswriters” show, an opinion feast from middle-aged white guys chomping cigars and wearing ugly sport coats.

The invented scenes involving Mike Royko, the legendary and colorful Chicago newspaper columnist, are hopefully in the spirit of Windy City journalism. Royko’s following was so strong that newspaper sales dropped when he went on vacation.

We need more like him today. Check out “Mike Royko, A Life in Print,” by F. Richard Ciccone, 2001, PublicAffairs Books.

The challenges faced today by traditional news media run parallel with the near-extinction of passionate local newspaper columnists and rabble-rousing local TV news commentators such as Walter “Skippy” Jacobson. I loved watching Jacobson do his job during his WBBM anchor days, so I gave him a brief appearance in the book.

As unlikely as it may seem, my rural alma mater, Western Illinois University, really was a hotbed of student protest and assorted craziness in the late 1960s and early 1970s. My experiences as a student newspaper editor during those circus times provided the foundation for this book’s tour of obscure corners and dead ends of 1960s-era radicalism. I also have an FBI file exactly as described in the story – heavily redacted with a conclusion that I was basically harmless.

My friend Brian Davis and I met years ago as young reporters covering a murder trial in Kenosha, Wis. He went on to a successful career in sports radio in Chicago and now is the TV voice of the Oklahoma City Thunder in the National Basketball Association. He’s nothing like Bob Walters, by the way, but his background in sports broadcasting made Brian’s 364

willingness to review a late draft of this book extremely helpful.

He’s got a future as a great copy editor, too.

None of this would matter without the support of my publisher, Cathy Teets at Headline Books. Cathy has believed in the concept of this book since it was pitched (pun intended) to her by one of her most successful writers—my “with” author, Rick Robinson.

Rick and I hatched the idea for “Killing the Curse” on a drive from Frankfort, Ky., to Northern Kentucky near Cincinnati after a day of trying to convince Kentucky politicians to do stuff we wanted them to do and stop doing things we didn’t want them to do, which is the basic definition of lobbying.

Rick’s name on this title is not just window-dressing to help me grab the audience he has developed with his terrific series of political thrillers. (Please buy them.) For starters, he gave me the encouragement to actually do this. He wrote or revised key sections of this book and provided invaluable advice and critiques at several stages. I am honored to count Rick among my best friends.

Other readers of various drafts also deserve great thanks.

That includes my wife, Cheryl, Linda Robinson – there would no Chapter One without her – and also Heather Dugan, Jack Greiner and Josh Hahn. Cheryl deserves thanks for more than that, of course. She has supported my many excursions since those crazy college days. “Thanks for everything” doesn’t come close to covering my tab.

Without these folks, there would be no “Killing the Curse.”

However, the responsibility for whether your time with this book was well spent strictly belongs to me. Don’t blame Rick.

—Dennis Hetzel, November 2013

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About Dennis Hetzel “Killing the Curse” is Dennis Hetzel’s first published fiction. He began his career as a weekly newspaper sports editor in the Chicago suburbs and has been a reporter, editor, general manager and publisher at several newspapers, including the Cincinnati Enquirer and the York, Pa., Daily Record, where he was editor and publisher for 13 years.

Hetzel has won numerous awards for writing, newspaper industry leadership and community service, and also taught journalism at Penn State and Temple universities. Since late 2010, he has been executive director and chief lobbyist for the Ohio Newspaper Association in Columbus, Ohio.

A native of Chicago, he has a degree in political science and a minor in journalism from Western Illinois University, where he met his wife, Cheryl. They have three grown children, a dog, a cat and a home they love in Holden Beach, North Carolina.

Alongside his love of writing, Hetzel plays guitar in an acoustic trio, “Phil’s Five & Dime,” which includes fellow author Rick Robinson on mandolin.

As far as musical ability goes, he quotes one of his favorite musicians and a fellow Chicagoan, John Prine: “This song features the ‘G’ chord, which has served me well.”

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About Rick Robinson Rick Robinson, the 2013 Independent Author of the Year, has 30 years’ experience in politics and law, including a stint on Capitol Hill as Legislative Director/Chief Counsel to thenCongressman Jim Bunning, R-Ky. Robinson has authored four award-winning political thrillers and an Amazon.com top-ranked collection of political commentary. His third novel, “Manifest Destiny,” was named Best Fiction at the Paris and New York Book Festivals. In 2010, “Manifest Destiny” was honored as the Independent Book of the Year and “Writ of Mandamus” was the Grand Prize Winner at the London Book Festival. His contemporary fiction novel, “Alligator Alley,” won the grand prize at the Great Southeast Book Festival in 2013.

Robinson is a contributor for the Daily Caller, Kentucky Forward, One New England and Northern Kentucky Magazine.

He’s a graduate of Eastern Kentucky University and Salmon P. Chase College of Law at Northern Kentucky University. Rick and his wife, Linda, live in Fort Mitchell, Ky., and have three children.

He completely agrees with his friend Dennis Hetzel about the importance of the “G” chord in both guitar and mandolin.

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Books by Rick Robinson The Maximum Contribution Sniper Bid Manifest Destiny Writ of Mandamus Strange Bedfellow Alligator Alley The Advance Man

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“Hetzel draws skillfully on top-level reporting experience, a keen understanding of the often fragile (and sometimes twisted) human condition and his lifetime membership in the fellowship of long-suffering Cub fans.

The man, in other words, knows his stuff.

Killing the Curse truly touches ‘em all.”

—Jack Greiner, attorney, lecturer, and lifelong Reds fan

RICK ROBINSON

Authors Rick Robinson and Dennis Hetzel

WITH

“A true Cubs fan, Dennis Hetzel long ago blew by the first four stages of grief and now resides in the final stage – acceptance. Killing The Curse imagines the consequences of a deranged fan’s inability to achieve this peaceful state and does so in a gripping thriller that holds the reader’s attention like a perfect game.”

DENNIS HETZEL

—Brian Davis, sportscaster

KILLING THE CURSE

The Chicago Cubs haven’t won a World Series for more than 100 years or even played in one since 1945. Now they’re positioned to win the Series for the first time since 1908 – if only curses and bad luck don’t haunt them as usual. That’s what happens when a swarm of gnats helps the Boston Red Sox tie the Series at three games each.

No one wants the Cubs to win more than Luke Murphy, President of the United States and lifelong fan. Leading the disbelievers is Murphy’s boyhood friend, Bob Walters, a sports radio talk-show host with a beautiful daughter and a big ego who built ratings by being “the man Cub fans love to hate.”

The Cubs have someone else on their side—a brilliant, crazed fan who will do anything to make sure they win. Anything. It starts with an attack on the father of Boston’s best pitcher and grows into an escalating threat that could destroy Murphy’s career, expose childhood secrets, and kill hundreds of innocent people.

Everything comes to a head as Game Seven unfolds — a game the Cubs must win no matter what.