Meadows & Knox — Episode 1: Private Eyes

Derrick Meadows

It was drizzling that night, and my shoulder ached. It had been aching for a month now, ever since one William Kirby crashed into me at second base. He had broken up the double play alright, but he took out my legs and I had fallen forward and hit the dirt hard. Dislocated my shoulder. Torn my labrum, the doctors said. All I knew is that it hurt worse than a called strike three.

What I didn't know is what I was doing here. Walking down the streets on a rainy Seattle night, headed toward an empty stadium. The GM had called. Told me to get to the home team's clubhouse pronto. Didn't say why, but who am I to argue with the guy who cuts my paycheck?

As I approached the gates, a man in a grey fedora and trenchcoat strode out of the shadows. He was chewing on a toothpick.

"How's it fairin', Derrick?" I recognized the voice. It was Tom.

"Here to see the boss man," I said, "You?"

"I'm just the lefty reliever," Tom shrugged, "Most like they're just callin' me in to get them out of a jam."

A security guard let us in, and we made our way to the clubhouse.

Mr. Abresch, the GM, was there, pacing around the room. He wore a cheap suit and glasses, and his hair was a mess. The trainer was there too. He was crouched on the balls of his feet like a catcher, and he was bent over to look at someone lying on the floor—only this someone was sprawled out and the right side of his face was covered in dried blood.

Thomas Knox

"My oh my," said Tom, "Some fool's played home run derby with this poor sap's brains."

"He was struck twice with a baseball bat," said the trainer. He pointed towards a 32-inch maple Louisville Slugger that lay nearby, blood clearly visible on the end of the bat. "He's been dead about four hours."

"That means he died about an hour after the game ended," said the GM, still pacing.

"Who is he?" I said.

"He was wearing this," said the trainer, and he handed me a blood-spattered lanyard with an ID badge: George Miller, assistant groundskeeper.

The GM stopped his pacing and looked me in the eye. "Derrick Meadows. You're on the DL for a few months, but you're still getting paid like an All-Star second baseman, right?"

"That's right," I said. I didn't like where this was headed. My shoulder ached.

"Well, I think it's high time you earned your keep," he said, "And the same goes for you, Mr. Knox." He nodded towards Tom, who kept quiet but curled the corner of this lip in a sly smile.

The GM started to pace again. "This man was killed in the home clubhouse just an hour after the game. If the media gets hold of this—my God, if the media hears of it!—well, I just can't risk that. Can't risk scaring away fans and throwing off my budget projections. And what if it's one of the players who did this! My God, the scandal!"

"I wouldn't worry about that," I said, "This isn't the work of a professional. The blood's on the end of the bat. A pro would have hit him with the sweet spot."

"Rookie mistake," said Tom.

"But you'll have to call the cops, Mr. Abresch," I said, "Unless you plan on hiding the body, and I'll need a full no-trade clause added my contract before I even consider that."

"No, no, no, Meadows," said Abresch, "But the team starts a road trip tomorrow, so we can hold off finding the body for a day or two. In the meantime, I want you and Knox to find the killer, and if you don't, by God, I'll trade you both to Jersey."

I glanced at Tom. He shrugged.

"Well, at least we know one thing," I said, "He was hit on the right side of the face: our boy hits left-handed."

"It's like I told you," said Tom, "They called me in 'cause they needed a southpaw to pitch."