it.”
I read one of the entries: Ellard’s BB in Cin., acquired from Anon. who’d donated it. Written in the margin was Rawlings. There were similar entries for the guides and other materials now in my parlor. “Perriman gave me these things,” I explained. “He kept a record of everything in the collection, and I guess he wanted to keep track of where they went.”
“Gave them to you?”
“Yes. They weren’t worth anything. Mostly duplicates of things he already had, and he was going to throw them out otherwise. I can show you the stuff if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary. Mr. Tinsley has already confirmed that the missing items weren’t of any value.”
I was thinking to myself that this meant all the mementos in Perriman’s collection were accounted for—they were either still at the ballpark or at my house. So the killer didn’t find what he was looking for.
Forsch exhaled a stream of smoke. “You didn’t by any chance tell anybody about what was in the office, did you?”
“I probably did. There wasn’t any secret about it. Hell, Lloyd Tinsley was already starting to publicize what was going to be in the exhibit.”
“Yes, I know. Might have led somebody to think there was something valuable in there.”
I recalled the announcement that had appeared in the paper the day before Perriman was killed. “Long-lost treasures” was one of the phrases that had been used to describe the collection. “I suppose it might have.”
“Somebody who knew his way around the ballpark,” Forsch said.
“What do you mean?”
“No sign of a break-in. How’d the killer get in? And how’d he know where the things were kept?”
“Well ...”
“Unless it was somebody who’d been there before. Or somebody who’d been told where to go.”
That’s what Forsch was getting at: that I was in cahoots with somebody to steal the collection. “As far as getting into a ballpark,” I answered, “just about any ten-year-old kid can find a way to sneak in. And it happened the night after a game; anybody in the park that day could have hidden inside and waited until nighttime. As far as the robber knowing to go to the office, where else would things like that be stored but somewhere in the administrative area? And both times I went to Perriman’s office, the door was open—maybe he kept it unlocked when he was working there.”
“So you knew the door was kept open.” Implying that I could have relayed that piece of information to an accomplice, too.
“Yeah, I did. But you know, if I told somebody what was in the room to help them steal it, they’d have taken it.”
Forsch stubbed out his cigarette. From the look on his face, whatever half-baked theory he might have been entertaining about me being involved was also extinguished.
Judging by his questioning of me, his investigation wasn’t amounting to much, and I didn’t have a lot of confidence that it ever would. But in case it could turn out to be of some help, I said, “There’s something I noticed when I went to the office to talk to you yesterday.”
“And what’s that?”
“One of the uniforms was partly burned. Maybe whoever killed Perriman tried to set the place on fire to cover it up.”
Forsch grunted. “You been reading the papers too much.”
The front pages of the last few days had been filled with stories and photographs of a massacre in Mayfield, Kentucky—a family of eleven had been murdered and their house burned down to try to cover up the killings. “Yeah, I read the papers. But I also know what I saw. The day before he was killed, Perriman showed me a uniform jersey he’d just gotten. It was from Cal McVey, who wore it when he was with the ’69 Red Stockings. I know there weren’t any burn marks when Perriman showed it to me. But when I saw it yesterday, it was burned.”
Forsch reached for the Murads. “Maybe it was an accident. You should hear how the wife yells at me about holes in my clothes.” He
I read one of the entries: Ellard’s BB in Cin., acquired from Anon. who’d donated it. Written in the margin was Rawlings. There were similar entries for the guides and other materials now in my parlor. “Perriman gave me these things,” I explained. “He kept a record of everything in the collection, and I guess he wanted to keep track of where they went.”
“Gave them to you?”
“Yes. They weren’t worth anything. Mostly duplicates of things he already had, and he was going to throw them out otherwise. I can show you the stuff if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary. Mr. Tinsley has already confirmed that the missing items weren’t of any value.”
I was thinking to myself that this meant all the mementos in Perriman’s collection were accounted for—they were either still at the ballpark or at my house. So the killer didn’t find what he was looking for.
Forsch exhaled a stream of smoke. “You didn’t by any chance tell anybody about what was in the office, did you?”
“I probably did. There wasn’t any secret about it. Hell, Lloyd Tinsley was already starting to publicize what was going to be in the exhibit.”
“Yes, I know. Might have led somebody to think there was something valuable in there.”
I recalled the announcement that had appeared in the paper the day before Perriman was killed. “Long-lost treasures” was one of the phrases that had been used to describe the collection. “I suppose it might have.”
“Somebody who knew his way around the ballpark,” Forsch said.
“What do you mean?”
“No sign of a break-in. How’d the killer get in? And how’d he know where the things were kept?”
“Well ...”
“Unless it was somebody who’d been there before. Or somebody who’d been told where to go.”
That’s what Forsch was getting at: that I was in cahoots with somebody to steal the collection. “As far as getting into a ballpark,” I answered, “just about any ten-year-old kid can find a way to sneak in. And it happened the night after a game; anybody in the park that day could have hidden inside and waited until nighttime. As far as the robber knowing to go to the office, where else would things like that be stored but somewhere in the administrative area? And both times I went to Perriman’s office, the door was open—maybe he kept it unlocked when he was working there.”
“So you knew the door was kept open.” Implying that I could have relayed that piece of information to an accomplice, too.
“Yeah, I did. But you know, if I told somebody what was in the room to help them steal it, they’d have taken it.”
Forsch stubbed out his cigarette. From the look on his face, whatever half-baked theory he might have been entertaining about me being involved was also extinguished.
Judging by his questioning of me, his investigation wasn’t amounting to much, and I didn’t have a lot of confidence that it ever would. But in case it could turn out to be of some help, I said, “There’s something I noticed when I went to the office to talk to you yesterday.”
“And what’s that?”
“One of the uniforms was partly burned. Maybe whoever killed Perriman tried to set the place on fire to cover it up.”
Forsch grunted. “You been reading the papers too much.”
The front pages of the last few days had been filled with stories and photographs of a massacre in Mayfield, Kentucky—a family of eleven had been murdered and their house burned down to try to cover up the killings. “Yeah, I read the papers. But I also know what I saw. The day before he was killed, Perriman showed me a uniform jersey he’d just gotten. It was from Cal McVey, who wore it when he was with the ’69 Red Stockings. I know there weren’t any burn marks when Perriman showed it to me. But when I saw it yesterday, it was burned.”
Forsch reached for the Murads. “Maybe it was an accident. You should hear how the wife yells at me about holes in my clothes.” He
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