The Principal Cause of Death Read Online Free Page B

Constantine left.”

    â€œI wouldn’t bet on Georgette,” I said. “She’s the last one I’d pick as a knife-wielding maniac.”
    â€œSomebody around here is,” Frank said.
    I sighed. “Do you know when I’m going to be able to go? I’m supposed to pick Scott up at the game tonight.”
    â€œI’ll check.” He came back a few minutes later to say I could leave, and added, “We found that student teacher. She looks pretty bad. She was pretty uncommunicative, but I’m sure she’ll back up your story. You shouldn’t have to worry about the incident with the kid.”
    I accepted his reassurances and left.

2
    Because of the bloodstains, the police had confiscated my shirt, so I had to stop at home for a new one. I took an extra pain pill to deaden the throbbing in my arm. In my gleaming black four-wheel-drive truck, I opened the window and steadied my arm on the opening.
    A few minutes later I was on I-80, heading toward I-57 and the Dan Ryan Expressway. I’d called ahead to the ballpark to make sure my ticket was still saved. Fortunately, what with all the folderol of the last game of the season, they’d started late. I arrived in time for the eighth and ninth innings.
    The pecking order for tickets was the same as it is in many major-league teams. The wife of the starting pitcher got seat 1-A in the family section. Scott, not being attached to a woman, used to just give up his ticket. As the years of our relationship went on and he became less closeted, he’d simply give me the ticket. The only problem was that I could rarely get to the games because of my own busy schedule. I like to see him pitch at least four or five times a year. It’s fun watching him out on the mound in his tight pants, fantasizing about all the things I’d done or planned to do with his body in our bed. My semiregular presence in the family section caused barely a ripple among the relatives and friends. Scott’s teammates liked him and he was popular among the wives. Even when he started giving
away seats to people with AIDS who wanted to attend games, it wasn’t a hassle.
    I settled into my seat, saw him notice me as he entered the dugout after the bottom of the eighth. In fairly typical Chicago tradition, the team managed to blow the lead in the ninth, and Scott lost the game. This was the first time in five seasons he hadn’t won twenty games.
    I waited in my truck outside the ballpark. Scott was one of the last players to walk out of the clubhouse. Kids and adults swarmed around him for autographs even at this late hour. Patiently he signed every program and slip of paper. As one of the few stars in a championship-starved town, he was immensely popular. Finally, he made his way to the passenger side of the truck, opened the door, and plopped himself onto the seat. He wore khaki bermuda shorts that clung to his slender waist and hips, along with a plain white T-shirt over his muscular frame.
    â€œWhere were you until the eighth inning?” Scott asked. “I got a little worried.”
    I told him the story on the way to Ann Sather’s Restaurant on Belmont. When I finished, I glanced over at him, then back to the road. In a gesture I knew well, he used his left hand to knead the muscles of his right shoulder.
    â€œAre you okay?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s still not real to me yet. I’ve never been accused of murder before.” Over dinner we talked of possible explanations and suspects. We managed the meal without Scott being recognized, an accomplishment in itself. Sometimes we can dine out in total anonymity, and other times we’ve had to flee from overzealous fans. It seems to be the luck of the moment that determines his recognizability.
    I drove to his place. He owns a penthouse on Lake Shore Drive. Once there, we performed our postgame ritual. Every time he pitched in Chicago, we went back to his place and had a