Murder at Fenway
September 30, 2012 was the last day of the regular baseball season, and the Boston Red Sox were tied with their rivals from New York for first place in the American League East. They were to play a game against the Yankees that day to determine who would be the division champions and who would be the wild card in the divisional playoffs. It had been a season Boston fans would not soon forget. Fenway Park, the oldest ballpark in the major leagues, was celebrating its one hundredth anniversary. In honor of the park's centennial, the Red Sox organization held six months of promotions, contests and giveaways.
The excitement surrounding the anniversary was bittersweet. Fenway Park had seen a hundred years of baseball on Yawkey Way. To players such as Cy Young, Babe Ruth, Tris Speaker, Ted Williams, Carlton Fisk, Carl Yastrzemski, Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz, it was their home field. It had witnessed "Pudge" Fisk's homerun in the 1975 World Series and the breaking of the fabled Curse of the Bambino in 2004. Time, however, was a mighty leveler. Beginning with the 2013 season, the Red Sox would have a new home, and a wrecking ball would reduce the venerable ballpark to a pile of rubble.
However, on that September 30, a warm, sunny autumn afternoon with just a hint of chill in the New England air, the grand old lady would go out in style. The names on the field were as well known as those of the celebrities in the stands. Former players representing five decades of Red Sox history were gathered for an old timers day. Retired opponents were there as well. Never before had so many former All-Stars, MVPs and Hall of Famers gathered in left field in front of the Green Monster. Fans and spectators came from all across the country to watch the decisive game and enjoy the pre-game festivities: Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, John Cena, Ken Burns and Stephen King were but some of the celebrities who sat with politicians, corporate executives and die-hard Royal Rooters.
Ironically, the hubbub of Fenway's centennial and closing was overshadowed in the baseball world by the Red Sox's archrivals, the New York Yankees. Pennants and championships aside, there is little in baseball that matches the excitement of a player breaking a homerun record. Roger Maris, Hank Aaron, Mark McGwire and Barry Bonds had drawn widespread media attention, both good and bad, in pursuing their record-shattering numbers. Beginning in July 2013 the eyes of baseball fans looked to Jimmy Gerrity, the Yankees' rookie outfielder who hit homeruns with the regularity of James Patterson turning out thrillers.
On September 28, when the Yankees opened a three-game series with the Red Sox, Gerrity's stats included seventy-two home runs, just one shy of tying Barry Bonds's single season record of seventy-three. For two games, Red Sox pitchers Josh Beckett and Jon Lester held the slugger to three hits: two singles and a double. Gamblers were taking bets on whether or not Jimmy could hit his seventy-third. Some intrepid bettors even placed money that he would hit two that day and break the record.
Finally, after more than two hours of pre-game ceremonies, the Dropkick Murphys performed a rousing rendition of the national anthem and the game began.
Police detective Ken Deming, who had called in a favor to get a box seat ticket, got to his seat just as the first pitch of the game was thrown to the Red Sox catcher. He would have liked to have been there for the opening festivities, but he was on duty at the time. With the Yankees in town for a decisive series, the Boston Police Department had scheduled extra men to control the crowds.
The chief had refused Deming's request for the day off, exclaiming, "I don't want some damned Yankee fan getting murdered before, during or after the game."
"What's that got to do with me?" Ken asked, pressing for the time off. "I'm a detective, not a uniform cop. I'm not gonna be called in to break up a fight. Besides, I'd consider the murder of a Yankee fan justifiable homicide."
The chief chuckled but stuck to his decision, and Deming was forced to put in a full eight-hour shift before rushing to the ballpark just in time to see the start of the game.
When Jimmy Gerrity stepped up to the plate in the first inning with two men on and hit the ball into the right field seats, the police detective regretted his haste.
The New York fans in the audience—a decided minority—cheered and applauded when the Yankee hitter tied Bonds's record. Although the scoreboard lit up like a Christmas display, to the Red Sox fans, the home run record was inconsequential. Their main concern was that the Yankees had jumped out to a three-run lead.
Ken, a loyal Sox fan since the early Seventies, was accustomed to the roller coaster emotions experienced by many sports fans—as they used to say on the Wide World of Sports: "the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, the human drama of athletic competition." In Boston the thrill and agony were as much a part of the game as hot dogs and cold beer. Ken remembered only too well the long dry spell prior to 2004, when he believed he would never see a Boston World Series victory in his lifetime, a time when the Red Sox and their fans had eighty-six years of dashed hopes and broken dreams.
The September 30 game was one in which the lead changed hands several times. The Red Sox tied the Yankees in the bottom of the second and went ahead in the fourth, only to lose the lead in the sixth, regain it in the seventh and then lose it in the eighth. At the top of the ninth inning, the score was tied eight to eight; it was either team's game. The seats were still filled, no one had left early.
Papelbon came in to relieve. With two outs, he gave up one blooper of a hit and walked a man. A wide throw from the shortstop to Youkilis on first left bases loaded for Gerrity. The crowd of more than thirty-five thousand people was hushed as the Yankee outfielder faced Papelbon and possibly his last chance to break Bonds's homerun record.
Ken began his silent mantra: Strike him out. Strike him out. Strike him out.
He didn't give a damn about the record; it was the four Yankee runs that terrified him.
Papelbon stared down at the sign in the catcher's glove. The wind-up. The pitch.
When Gerrity flew backward and landed on Jason Varitek, the Sox catcher and team captain, the crowd assumed he had been hit by Papelbon's fastball. When the batter failed to get up and take his base, the umpire called time. Along with the manager, the Yankee trainer ran out to the plate from the dugout. Neither expected anything more serious than a bump on the head, but when the trainer turned the player over, the men standing around the fallen outfielder saw the quarter sized hole in his forehead.
The trainer signaled for a stretcher. After Jimmy was removed from the field, there was an impromptu meeting behind the plate, involving the managers and coaches of both teams as well as the umpires and the head of Fenway security. In an unprecedented move, the players were called in from the field.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice came over the public address system, "we regret to inform you that there will be a delay in the conclusion of the game. We ask that you remain in your seats until the resumption of play. Thank you."
Deming noticed security guards taking position at the exits. In the distance, he could hear the sound of sirens announcing the arrival of the Boston police. He finished his hot dog, got out of his seat and headed toward the Red Sox security center.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the guards asked when Ken asked to speak to his boss.
The policeman flashed his badge.
"Detective Ken Deming. Boston P.D."
In law enforcement circles, the name was as famous as A-Rod in the baseball world.
"I'll get him for you right away, Detective Deming."
"Do you know what's happened?" Brandon Knowles, the head of security, asked after being introduced to the detective.
"Well, Papelbon's pitch was way outside and yet Gerrity went down. My guess is someone shot him."
Knowles nodded his head.
"The poor bastard got it right between the eyes. He never knew what hit him."
"The men on the field handled it well," the detective noted. "They got the dead man out of there before the fans and press knew what happened. Can you imagine the panic that would have ensued had they known a shooter was in the stands?"
"What do you think we should do now?" Knowles asked, relying on the police officer's expertise. "There are more than thirty-five thousand people who want to see the end of the game."
"I'm afraid that's not my call. Besides, you have an even bigger problem than some disappointed fans. How are the police to find the killer in that crowd? It'll be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack."
* * *
In the visiting team's press box, Kelly Winters, a young intern with the Yankees AAA farm team, entered the broadcast booth.
"Have you heard anything on Jimmy's condition yet?" she asked.
"Not a word," one of New York's radio announcers replied.
Meanwhile, Michael Kay and Paul O'Neill, who knew no more than the fans did, tried to entertain the television viewers with a colorful recap of the game. When the YES Network producer walked into the broadcast booth, Kelly could tell from the look on his face that the news was not good. He gave a hand signal indicating that the announcers should go to a commercial break. Only when the microphones were turned off did he relay the terrible news.
"The game's been called. They'll resume play tomorrow."
"Will Jimmy be in the lineup?" Kelly asked.
The producer's voice caught in his throat.
"Jimmy Gerrity is dead," he finally managed to say.
"Hit in the head by a fastball?"
"No, he was murdered. Shot by a sniper."
For the first time that day, there was silence in the broadcast booth.
* * *
"There's no way we can keep all those people in Fenway Park," the police chief declared.
"I don't think it'll be necessary," Deming replied. "But we will need to search everyone who leaves."
Yankee and Red Sox fans alike grumbled and griped when they learned that the game had been called. They were even more disgruntled at the delay caused by the search.
"Whadda they think we're gonna do?" one New Yorker complained, unaware that his team's slugger had been murdered. "Steal the freakin' score board off the Green Monster?"
"What I can't understand," his wife said, "is why they postponed the game."
"They wanna give Jimmy Gerrity a chance to break the record," her husband theorized. "Once he's recovered from being hit with the pitch, they'll pick up the game where they left off."
At some point after midnight, the last of the fans left Fenway Park, and a uniformed officer brought word back to Deming: "Everyone was clean."
The detective gave the order for police officers to then search the stadium for the murder weapon. It was not until dawn the following day that the rifle was found in a men's room trash can. Deming, who had not slept at all that night, ordered it sent to ballistics once forensics checked it for fingerprints. He was disappointed but not surprised when no prints were found.
When the story broke on the news, the public was outraged. How could a killer strike in front of more than thirty-five thousand people and evade capture? While people were willing to excuse Fenway's security staff, they fiercely condemned the Boston Police Department. The mayor, who did not appreciate the bad publicity aimed at his city, put pressure on the police commissioner, who put pressure on the police chief, who, in turn, leaned on Ken Deming.
"What progress have you made on the case?" the chief demanded to know two days after the Yankee outfielder was killed.
"The weapon was clean. It was registered to a Luke Allerton of Boston, who died six years ago."
"I think it's safe to rule him out as a suspect then," the chief said sarcastically.
"That leaves only thirty-five thousand. Of course, I'm assuming it wasn't Paul Giamatti, Donny Wahlberg, Denis Leary or any of the other celebrities who pulled the trigger."
"You don't think some crazed Red Sox fan gunned down a Yankee in Fenway Park!"
"A crazed Red Sox fan: isn't that redundant?" Deming laughed.
"I doubt even Yankee fans would kill one of their own, although most of them would shoot their own mothers to get to the play-offs," countered the chief who, like his detective, resorted to black humor in stressful situations.
"What if it was neither a Yankee nor a Red Sox fan? Maybe someone didn't want Gerrity to break the home run record."
"Did anybody check Barry Bonds's alibi?"
"There was a lot of money on whether or not Gerrity would hit number seventy-three, not to mention who would win the championship."
"Don't remind me," the chief said with disgust. "I lost fifty bucks when the Yankees won the division yesterday. Anyway, is that the theory you're going on? Gerrity was killed by gamblers?"
"It seems more likely than a Red Sox fan being the killer. Let's face it; if you were to give any self-respecting Boston fan a loaded gun, he'd be more likely to shoot Derek Jeter."
* * *
Members of Boston's special task force questioned Fenway's employees, from the security guards to the ushers, to the hot dog and beer vendors. None of them had seen anything out of the ordinary. With no forensic evidence, the police chief swallowed his pride and appealed to the public for help.
"If anyone has any information concerning the shooting of James David Gerrity," he announced during a televised press conference, "please contact the Boston Police Department."
The Steinbrenner family did him one better by offering a $500,000 reward for information that would lead to the apprehension of the gunman.
Ken Deming, meanwhile, studied footage of the shooting from both the NESN and YES Network. One of New York's cameramen had been filming a close-up of Gerrity when the shot was fired. An engineer from YES ran the video in slow motion, zooming in further on the batter's face. It reminded Ken of watching a digitally remastered copy of the Zapruder film.
"I'm no physicist," the engineer claimed, "but it looks like the bullet came from left field."
"Yes, it does," Deming agreed. "But we'll need to have someone render an expert opinion. Could I get a copy of that clip?"
The police department sent the copy to not one but two experts, and both concurred with the YES engineer: the shooter had to have been sitting or standing somewhere in the vicinity of left field."
A seating chart of Fenway Park revealed there was only one possible place the shooter could have been: on the legendary Green Monster, the high wall in left field.
"It's possible he could have been at the far left end of the bleachers," one of the experts hypothesized. "But in all likelihood the bullet came from atop the Green Monster."
Deming checked with Brandon Knowles at Fenway Park and learned there are two hundred and sixty-nine stools on top of the wall.
"Is there any way we can determine who was in those seats?"
"I can ask StubHub to check the credit card records for tickets purchased for that day. But the shooter could've gotten a ticket from eBay, a third party ticket seller or even a scalper outside the ballpark."
* * *
"How's the Gerrity case coming?" Ken's wife asked when he made a rare appearance at dinner one evening.
"I've been running into brick walls higher than the Green Monster. I've questioned every bookie in Boston and have gotten nowhere."
"Maybe the answer isn't here. Maybe it's in New York."
"That's an idea. I have a few contacts in the NYPD. They could look into what bookies were taking large bets on Gerrity breaking the record."
His wife frowned.
"I find it hard to believe a young man with so much to live for, so much promise, would be killed by a bookie, especially since a gambler could have made up his losses during the upcoming playoffs and World Series."
"Greed is one of the most compelling reasons for murder," Ken contended.
"That's true," his wife agreed. "But what are the other reasons?"
"Revenge and jealousy."
"Ah, yes, jealousy," his wife mused. "The green-eyed monster."
His wife's euphemism called to mind Fenway's own Green Monster. Perhaps he ought not to limit his investigation to the gambling angle after all, an inner voice told him.
* * *
Ken Deming pulled into the parking lot of PNC Field in Moosic, Pennsylvania, the home of the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Yankees, the New York Yankees' AAA farm team. Prior to his starting the season with New York, Jimmy Gerrity had spent a year in Scranton. Although postseason play was over for Minor League Baseball, there were a number of people at the stadium who hopefully could give him insight into Gerrity's character.
"Are you Detective Deming?" a pretty, petite blonde asked when he walked through the front gate.
"Miss Winters? I'd like to thank you for seeing me."
"I'll be glad to help with your investigation in any way I can. Why don't we go into the office where we can talk?"
"Did you know Jimmy Gerrity well?" Ken asked.
"Yes," she admitted. "I work closely with all the players here in Scranton."
"He was a handsome young man, and according to our information, he was single. Do you know if he was in a steady relationship with anyone?"
The young intern blushed.
"Jimmy didn't want to be tied down. He preferred to date a number of women and not form any close attachments."
"Played the field, huh?"
"Yes, both in and out of baseball."
"Any Fatal Attraction psychos wanting revenge after he broke up with them?" Deming asked.
"No, not to my knowledge."
True to her word, Kelly decided to be completely honest with the detective.
"I dated him myself, for about three months. This was right before the season ended. Afterward, I went to Europe with some friends, and the following spring he was called to New York."
"So you both moved on? No hard feelings?"
"No, none at all. We remained good friends. In fact, I went up to Fenway to see him play, hoping he would break the record."
"Where did you sit?"
"In the loge behind home plate, but I went in and out of the press box and broadcast booth several times."
"You've been most helpful, Miss Winters."
He looked at his watch. It was after two o'clock and he hadn't eaten yet.
"Can you recommend a good place to grab a burger?"
"There's Bo Brothers restaurant right here at the park. I was just going over there to have some lunch, would you like to join me?"
As they ate, Kelly and Ken talked about Jimmy Gerrity's amazing season.
"He was sure to win the Rookie of the Year award even if he didn't break the record," Kelly said sadly.
"You like baseball, don't you?" the detective asked.
"Oh, yes. I'm a third generation Yankee fan. My grandfather saw Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig play. When I was growing up, my mother and I went to Yankee games at the stadium."
"Are you from New York?"
"No, Pennsylvania, but my mother was from New Jersey."
"Jimmy Gerrity was from Pennsylvania, too, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he lived in Williamsport whereas I was from the Poconos."
"Did you study journalism at Penn State?"
"No, I spent two years at a community college and then transferred to Lock Haven University. What about you, Detective? Are you a native Bostonian?"
"I was born and raised in Puritan Falls, a small town about a forty-minute drive north of Boston."
Their conversation then went back to the dead Yankee rookie, but although Kelly seemed a font of knowledge about the young ballplayer, Ken learned nothing that would help him solve the murder.
* * *
Deming had been driving west on Interstate 80 when he felt a growing pressure in his bladder and pulled over at the next rest stop to use the men's room. While he was at the rest stop, he got himself a cup of coffee out of a vending machine. It was a far cry from Starbuck's, but it would have to do. As he sipped the hot, bitter beverage, he examined an enlarged Pennsylvania roadmap on the wall. A red arrow indicated YOU ARE HERE.
"Now, I know where I am; let me see if I can find Williamsport."
His eyes moved to the left of the rest stop, reading the names of small towns he had never heard of. Suddenly his eyes spotted a familiar name: Lock Haven.
"Miss Winters neglected to tell me her college was that close to Williamsport."
When interviews with Gerrity's friends, neighbors and relatives in his hometown garnered no useful information, Ken headed to Lock Haven.
"It's only a hunch," he told his wife that evening when he phoned her from the Best Western motel. "Miss Winters doesn't seem like the sort of person who would be driven to murder a boyfriend who jilted her."
"Even pretty blondes get their hearts broken," his wife replied.
The following day Deming drove to the university where he spoke with Miss Winters's former student advisor.
"Kelly dated Jimmy Gerrity?" the advisor asked with surprise. "That poor girl! She must be devastated by his death."
"She told me the relationship had ended the year before, when they both left Scranton at the end of the Minor League baseball season," Deming explained and then got to the real reason for his visit. "I don't suppose you'd know if she and Gerrity knew each other when she was a student here."
"It's possible, but if she did, I wasn't aware of it. To be honest, like everyone else I assumed she and Danny would get married after graduation."
"Danny?"
"Danny Grant. He was a computer science major here at 'The Haven.' The two began dating right after Kelly transferred here. I'm surprised they broke up. Danny seemed to be so in love with her."
"Maybe Miss Winters was the one who ended the relationship."
"It's possible. She was determined to pursue a career as a broadcaster for the Yankees."
"I don't suppose you know what became of Grant after graduation?"
"We must have a current address on him," the advisor said and typed his name into her computer. "Here it is."
She gave the detective an address in Boston.
Deming left Lock Haven University and headed toward New York, where he would turn in his rental car and catch a flight to Logan. Acting on another hunch, he phoned Brandon Knowles.
"Would you check your list of employees to see if there's a Daniel M. Grant?"
A moment later, the security man from Fenway had the answer.
"He's a new employee; just started this season."
"What does he do?"
"He was one of the scorekeepers of the manual scoreboard out in the Green Monster."
"Was?"
"Yeah. He turned in his resignation. Said he wasn't coming back next season because he decided to go back to school."
* * *
Rather than return to Boston, Ken Deming turned round and headed back to Scranton. He was lucky to catch Miss Winters at PNC Field.
"I'm surprised to see you back here, Detective. Did you find anything useful?"
"I want to ask you about Danny Grant."
The look of surprise on the intern's attractive face was genuine.
"Danny? Why? What has he to do with Jimmy or with your case?"
"Did you know he had a job keeping score in the Green Monster?"
The young woman's surprise turned to shock.
"What? No."
"You and he dated while you were in college. When did you stop?"
"I broke up with him shortly after I arrived here in Scranton."
"Why?"
"Because by that time I'd met Jimmy. He was everything I'd ever wanted: he was handsome, personable; he was even going to be a Yankee."
The silence hung heavy for several minutes as Kelly considered the situation and came to the terrible conclusion that Danny might have killed Jimmy Gerrity.
"Do you know where he is?" Ken asked softly.
"He's here in Scranton. He phoned me last night."
* * *
As Danny Grant pulled into the parking lot of PNC Field, he saw Kelly standing beside her Honda and smiled.
"I must have left the headlights on," she said. "The battery is dead. Thanks a lot for coming to pick me up."
"No problem. I'm glad to help."
Four police cars suddenly drove into the parking lot and surrounded them.
"What's going on?" Danny asked.
"Daniel Grant?" one of the officers addressed him. "We'd like you to come along with us. Ken Deming is a detective from Boston, and he has some questions for you about the death of James Gerrity."
Danny turned to face Kelly. He was clearly crushed by her betrayal.
"You set me up."
"I did it for Jimmy," she said angrily.
"He didn't deserve you."
"Maybe you're right," Detective Deming said as one of the Pennsylvania officers put handcuffs on the boy from Williamsport. "But Jimmy Gerrity didn't deserve to die either."
* * *
After a lengthy, much-publicized trial, Danny Grant was convicted and sentenced to prison in Massachusetts. He served thirty-six years of his life sentence, and after receiving parole he returned to Williamsport where he lived several years in obscurity before dying of lung cancer. Kelly Winters briefly worked as a clubhouse reporter for the New York Yankees before marrying the team's centerfielder and settling down in New Jersey to raise a family. Ken Deming put in his years at the Boston P.D. and after retiring, moved back to Puritan Falls where he is now writing a book on his most famous case.
On the land where Fenway Park once stood there is now a shopping center. On the fortieth anniversary of Gerrity's death, the Yankees once again faced the Red Sox in Boston. On the morning of the game, Ken Deming drove down from Puritan Falls with his grandson and stopped for lunch at McDonald's before the start of play.
As the two stood in the restaurant's parking lot, Deming asked, "Did you know the spot you're standing on was once Fenway's right field?"
"It was?" his grandson asked. "Do you think it's haunted?"
"No. But I've heard people claim the old Yankee Stadium was haunted by the ghosts of former great players."
"I don't think you'll find any Yankees here," the little boy voiced his disapproval—like most New Englanders he was a die-hard Red Sox fan. "I think it must be the ghost of Shoeless Joe. He got tired of playing in a cornfield."
Deming smiled and patted his grandson on the head. As the two Red Sox fans walked back toward the car, they heard a loud crack.
"That sounded like a gunshot," the little boy exclaimed.
"No, it sounded more like the sound a baseball bat makes when it hits a ball."
Something moved in the parking lot ahead, an area that was once the site of the right field boxes.
"Look, Grandpa, it's a baseball!"
Deming shivered despite the warmth of the early autumn day.
"I'll bet one of the ghosts hit that ball."
"Shoeless Joe?" Deming teased.
"Maybe."
Ken didn't have the heart to tell his grandson that it was probably a Yankee ghost after all, that on the fortieth anniversary of his death, in some baseball heaven, not much different from Shoeless Joe's field of dreams, Jimmy Gerrity finally hit number seventy-four.
This story was written in June 2009. Many of the players named in this story have retired from baseball or now play for other teams. Also, there were never any plans to tear down Fenway Park at the end of the 2012 season. The Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Yankees have since beemn renamed the RailRiders (although they are still the NY Yankees AAA team).
I don't care what the voice told you, Salem. Babe Ruth is not going to play in the LEGO stadium you built.
