The Perfect Trifecta

By K Toppell

Henry Atkinson had been estranged from his family for over twenty years. Then his wife, Carolyn, reached out to them. Henry's daughter did finally call, but it was to tell them that her husband had died sliding into second base.
As Henry investigated, the team's catcher, then the pitcher died. When local television stations took an interest, the newscaster was attacked. Then there were threats against Henry's grandchildren. Would the New York Lawyer find out who was responsible, or did he have a prayer against a diabolical killer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: K Toppell
• Release date: Nov 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999375518

K Toppell

Dr. Toppell was graduated from the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill in 1963 with a degree in History and Political Science and from Emory University School of Medicine in 1968. He then enjoyed 48 years of practice in Pulmonary and Critical Care Medicine in Houston, Tx. with some time out for lectures in American History. He now lives in Plano, Tx. where he reads, writes and enjoys life with his wife of fifty-one years.

Book preview

Chapter One

Without a doubt, he was skinny. Not wiry, not deceptively strong, he was skinny. He wore glasses, and he had acne into his mid to late twenties. He was not a nerd. He was far short of being a nerd. He was a bastard however, a real-life bastard in the oldest sense of the word.

His mother was a waitress at the Lon’s Truck Stop near where I-10 and Highway 6 crossed. She had worked there since arriving from Oklahoma, taking time out only for him and his sister, Alma. She said she didn’t know who their father was, but she worked hard to support the family.

He wasn’t very coordinated as a kid. He used to trip on his own shoelaces. Hell, he tripped on other people’s shoelaces. As he grew, he stayed skinny, and as his character developed, it was widely accepted that he deserved to be called a bastard for the most common of reasons. He was a very unpleasant person.

The church his mother attended tried to help him out. He was offered a job as a handyman, and he took it. There was a much older man, José Ponce, doing the job, but he was nearing retirement. He offered to show the younger man the ropes.

About a month later, Mr. Ponce hanged himself.

Chapter Two

Scoring, whether in bed or in baseball, is very popular. It’s not a universal concept, however. I know, I know, I don’t understand it either. For example, my wonderful wife has never enjoyed baseball.

When I was a kid, I played right field, the position reserved for the truly inept. I always brought the bat, so right field was reserved for me.

Major league baseball was only found on the radio, the Game of the Day on the Mutual Broadcasting System. With time, television came to every house and supplanted the radio for news and sports. Then Mutual went out of business. Along the way, I discovered girls.

For most of my life however, I was better at baseball. I got married as a young man; she soon shipped me to right field.

My name is Henry Atkinson. I’m an attorney. My new wife, Carolyn still doesn’t like baseball. We live in Trumansburg, New York, a village on Cayuga, the longest of the Finger Lakes.

Life has been good to us. Here, I’m considered eccentric, while the town folk are in awe of Carolyn. She’s married to me.

In spite of being a lawyer, they asked me to be the official scorekeeper for the local fast pitch baseball league. Turns out, I was the only one who knew how to properly record hits, walks, errors, et cetera.

If baseball statistics are the lifeblood of the game, memory is the heartbeat. I knew when the Dodgers and Giants played in New York. I remember when Boston, St. Louis, and Philadelphia each had two teams. That’s nostalgia. Of course, it also means I’m old, but Carolyn doesn’t like to be reminded of that.

In April, right after the season began, I was writing about the day’s game plus putting together the official scorecard for the local paper. That’s when I received a call from my daughter in Texas.

I hadn’t spoken to my daughters in over thirty years. They were little when my Ex-Wife left and took them with her. My cousins let me know when they graduated, got married and had children, but the girls never contacted me. Ex-Wife’s rules.

Sara, my oldest daughter, was hysterical. I had a tough time understanding her. I could have sworn that she said her husband had died at second base.

It took a while for me to get the picture. Over the weekend, Ray, my son-in-law, was playing for the church team. Apparently, he hit the ball straight through the gap in left-center field and was trying to beat out a double. He had to slide, but he didn’t get up. He was dead. He was safe, but he was dead.

God damn. There isn’t much that surprises me. This did. The first time my oldest daughter called me was to tell me that her husband died at second base.

I started to tell Carolyn, who instead amazed me once again. Turns out she had been in touch with both of the girls since shortly after we got married. She felt that if they wouldn’t or couldn’t speak to me, she would talk to them. I was blown away.

Needless to say, it was difficult. She met push back right from the start. Who the hell are you? Is that old man still alive? Why bother us? She listened to everything. The girls simply didn’t know Carolyn.

They opened up a little bit at a time, often without realizing it. They never asked about me. They slowly became comfortable talking to my wife. Then Ray died. Whatever was going through her mind in that moment of utter devastation, Sara turned to me.

I listened to all of this and wondered again how Carolyn had come into my life. Oh, I remembered the whole story. I knew all the facts. Like all men, however, I’m clueless. I’m a good attorney. No one in town can score a baseball game like I could. But I was undeniably clueless.

Trumansburg’s population is roughly eighteen hundred, enough to fill six wide body jets. The following morning, we headed to Newark to find one to take us to Houston, the fourth largest city in the country. It took over nine hours to get there. Sara lived in Katy, an old railroad town, now a suburb of Houston.

We took the outer loop, the Sam Houston Tollway, to I-10, the longest Interstate highway in the country, running from Jacksonville to San Diego. Our hotel reservation was right off the first Katy exit.

When we called, my other daughter, Marsha, answered. Wow. I couldn’t recall referring to them as my daughters. She was still reticent to talk to me, but asked us to come over in the morning. Sara was exhausted.

I was relieved more than I anticipated. I didn’t know if the Ex-Wife would be there, but apparently not until the next day. Carolyn and I found a restaurant nearby for a late supper and a drink. I needed that.

My son-in-law’s death intrigued me. My children terrified me.

Chapter Three

I read the Houston Chronicle and pulled up the television coverage of Ray’s death on my iPad. It was reported on for its oddity. A curiosity. It was not a sports story or an obit. It didn’t seem to be a crime. There was no mention of an autopsy.

Whether to perform an autopsy is the coroner’s prerogative, not the family’s, if the death is outside the hospital. Presumably an autopsy was in fact done.

The following morning while Carolyn was getting ready, I called the coroner’s office.

Medical Examiner’s Office.

I’m Henry Atkinson, the attorney for Sara Grant, the wife of Ray Grant. He died in peculiar circumstances.

And what is the nature of this call?

This is an unfriendly call unless you can tell me if the post has been performed yet on Ray Grant.

There is no reason to get angry sir.

Has there been a post mortem exam on Ray Grant?

And who are you sir?

I’m an irate lawyer. I’m an officer of the court. Do you understand? Are you stupid as an accident of birth or office policy?

Carolyn was sitting next to me now. She tried