The Diamond Deception

By Mike Gallagher

When FBI Agent Pete Dobbins is assigned to investigate three murders, in three different cities, connected by ballistics evidence, he discovers a conspiracy of criminal activity that requires him to go undercover in an organization that is believed to be beyond reproach. Dobbins a former minor league baseball star discovers that all of the murders have occurred while the Arizona Sidewinders were in those cities. He determines that he must go undercover, as himself, attempting a baseball comeback. The stakes are raised when the main suspect exploits Dobbins vulnerability. His lovely and irreverent wife Trish, is in the late stages of a difficult pregnancy. Along the way, Dobbins discovers a defense lawyer with a shocking secret, fights for his life with a hired assassin, collaborates with a beautiful US Attorney, tries to help a wrongly convicted man win his freedom and improvises a variety of solutions to heart pounding situations that could blow up his investigation and destroy everything he holds precious.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781477296097

Mike Gallagher

Mike Gallagher began his career in talk radio at the age of seventeen in Dayton, Ohio, and has been in front of a microphone ever since. In 1998, after stints as a local host in regional markets like Albany and on America’s biggest station, New York City’s WABC, Gallagher launched his nationally syndicated show with twelve markets. Today, Gallagher’s show is ranked #6 in America by Talker’s Magazine. Gallagher is also a Fox News Contributor, appearing regularly on all of the popular Fox shows, and has guest hosted Sean Hannity’s show. Gallagher is also a Town Hall columnist, and in 2005 he wrote his New York Times bestseller Surrounded by Idiots: Fighting Liberal Lunacy in America.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I t was two o’clock in the morning on a humid August night in Chicago and a young woman’s life was in the balance. Inside room 1230 of the Hotel 71, Kevin Wicker and Shannon Menlo were lying in bed and embracing having just made love, on and off, for the past two hours. They had met in the hotel bar that evening.

Shannon rolled over onto her side facing the window. Kevin admired the gentle slopes of her body as light filtering from outside the room silhouetted her form. He gently stroked his hand back and forth from her thigh to her hip. Her soft skin was intoxicating, and Shannon let out barely audible sighs with each caress. This evening was a pleasant distraction for Kevin, once the star closer for the Arizona Sidewinders baseball team that were in Chicago to play a series against the Cubs. He was still on the team, but his skills seemed to have eroded, as had his desire for baseball.

Kevin’s six foot seven inches of height contrasted starkly with Shannon, who barley reached five feet tall. He had bad skin with significant pock marks on his face, the result of untreated teenage acne. A few of his teeth had been lost due to a hometown beating he took many years ago for some trouble he had caused. His blond wispy hair hung down to his lanky shoulders.

Shannon’s long black hair was unruly after rolling in the bed with Kevin. Her dark brown eyes were like a mystery waiting to unfold. She was only twenty years of age and still had a hint of baby-fat in her soft cheeks that complemented her full lips and radiant smile which she knew just how to use. Her body was that of a sultry model with perfectly shaped breasts a narrow waist and an even more perfect rear end.

Kevin snuggled against Shannon and nibbled on her ear and neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt such intense desires if ever. His cell phone rang destroying the quiet atmosphere with the first chords of Black Sabbath’s I Am Iron Man blaring. Kevin looked at the clock and realized he had become so infatuated with Shannon that he had missed his appointment. Shannon was lightly sleeping, but awoke when Kevin answered the phone.

Hello.

I know I fell asleep, I’m sorry.

It won’t happen again, Frank. I promise. Kevin realized he had made a big mistake. He didn’t want Shannon to notice how anxious and scared he really was.

Shannon was groggy as she sat up in bed.

I said I’m sorry. Do you want me to go do it now? There was a long pause as Kevin endured a verbal berating from the caller.

Who said I brought a girl into my room?

Yeah, okay. She’s here. Kevin admitted in a muffled voice.

Kevin knew how weird all of this must sound to Shannon. He also knew that she could hear every word he was saying.

Okay I’ll tell her to leave right now.

Tell Holtzman I’m on my way. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Kevin was going to ask Shannon to get dressed, but she was already way ahead of him, having already put on most of her clothes.

Sorry I have to rush you out, Shannon.

It sounded like he was upset that I was here, she said as she slipped on her shoes. Was someone spying on us?

He was angry at me for missing an appointment.

I didn’t know ball players had appointments at this hour, Shannon snapped back.

How are you getting home? Kevin asked.

I’ll take the train. It goes right by my apartment.

Kevin reached for his wallet on the night table, and pulled out two twenty-dollar bills. He walked over to Shannon as she looked around the messy room for her purse.

Here, take this money and have the hotel call you a cab.

I’m not taking money from you after we had sex, said Shannon angrily, as Kevin offered her the bills.

That’s not what I meant. The streets are dangerous this time of night. Please take a cab.

I’ll be fine. From what I heard, you’re the one in trouble.

Shannon found her purse under the bed, opened the door and walked out without saying anything else.

Kevin walked over to the sink and splashed some water on his face. He looked in the mirror but didn’t like what he saw; a washed-up ball player who should be in the prime of his career. He saw a man completely beholden to two men who controlled his life for their own selfish needs. Kevin noticed a napkin on the sink where he had written down Shannon’s phone number. Perhaps he could call her after the baseball season was over. No, he knew that would be impossible. He put on his clothes, grabbed the athletic bag out of the closet, and left for his appointment with Holtzman.

Shannon stepped off the elevator into the elegant lobby of the hotel, and walked to the main entrance. At this hour, there weren’t many people to be seen. A minor scuffle was taking place outside the lounge as three security people were trying to subdue a man who was inebriated. She exited the hotel and quickly walked toward the elevated train station that was two blocks away.

She sensed someone walking behind her as she hurried away from the hotel, but she soon passed a couple night-clubs that were closing down for the night, where dozens of twenty-something’s were leaving the clubs, and milling around on the sidewalk. Distracted by the crowd of people, Shannon lost track of who might have been following her.

Two guys in dark suits and open collars who had been drinking all night noticed the dark-haired girl with pouty lips walking alone. The taller of the two called out, Hey, sweetheart, don’t walk so fast. Do you need a ride?

Shannon ignored them and kept walking down Dearborn Street to the Washington Street Station. She was used to attracting men, but right now she was in no mood. She was tired, having been up since 6:00 in the morning, and she was disappointed in the way the evening had ended. She wasn’t even sure it was worth bragging about to Brittany, her roommate.

She reached the steps that led to the elevated train platform, and took the CTA card out of her purse as she approached the turnstiles. She placed it in front of the electronic reader and climbed the stairs up to the platform. She waited along with three other people including a Chicago Policeman, as the train arrived, but she didn’t notice the man who had arrived on the platform a minute after she had.

It was the same man who followed her out of the hotel. He stood behind a pole, out of view of the policeman. She had lived in the big city all her life and considered herself street smart, but she had no idea she was being pursued.

The train’s brakes squealed as it came to a stop. A few people got off when the doors opened. Shannon and the others stepped into the second car. The man stepped into the third car and took a position, next to the window, so he could peer into the car carrying the girl. He wanted to keep her within eyesight. He used his bulky frame as a shield from the other passengers, and removed his Glock nine millimeter gun from his jacket to screw on the silencer. He replaced it to his holster under his left arm. She might not have seen any incriminating evidence in Wicker’s room, but there was no way to know for certain. Besides, he had his orders.

There were four other people inside the train car that Shannon was riding in. A young couple busy groping each other and laughing loud, attracting the attention of an elderly man who pretended not to notice but couldn’t help himself from keeping an eye on them. The last passenger was a late-working business man wearing a worn and wrinkled suit, desperately trying to stay awake as the train sped through downtown Chicago before veering off to the northwest making stops at the Grand, Chicago and Division Stations.

Shannon stepped off the train at the Western Station, as two other people also exited the train. One was the elderly man who had been entertained by the young couple, and the other, was the man following her. Shannon walked down the stairs with the two men behind her. The man with the gun let the elderly man walk down the steps first. She was only aware of the old man behind her, and passed under the tracks after descending the stairs. The old man went in the opposite direction. The other man followed about forty yards behind Shannon, who walked south on Western. The noise from the train was deafening as it revved up and sped away.

Shannon struggled through the thick humidity that usually blanketed Chicago this time of year. He started to close the gap as she turned west on East Nineteenth Street. Shannon was looking forward to getting to her apartment where there was an air conditioner over her bed.

She had only one block to go when she heard footsteps behind her. The block was quiet at 2:30 in the morning, but someone was quickly approaching from behind. She had felt the fear of strange footsteps before, and it always turned out to be nothing. She peeked over her left shoulder and saw the heavy-set man picking up speed and staring straight at her. She looked around for someone, anyone; but the street was deserted, and the only lights were street-lights. There were no cars moving at all.

The man knew he had to act quickly. She was passing two-story homes, and any one of them could be hers. If she got into a house the opportunity would be lost. The thought kept crossing his mind that she was of no consequence, but anything was possible. He was now within twenty yards of her.

Shannon peeked over her shoulder again as she approached her apartment building on the corner of the street. She saw the burly man begin to run and he pulled a gun out of his jacket. She broke into a sprint but stumbled as the spike on her left high-heeled shoe snapped off. She reached into her purse and grabbed her keys before dropping the bag running up the steps on the toes of her shoes to compensate for the broken spike while finding the correct key. As she charged up the six steps, she shoved the key toward the lock, but in her panic, the key hit the side of the lock and she dropped it to the ground. She looked down the steps and tried to scream, but nothing came out. The fear was overwhelming. She saw the man as he pulled the trigger. The first bullet hit her in the base of the throat shattering her spine, and the second one went into the center of her chest.

Shannon motionless, fell down the steps, her blood forming a puddle around her body.

The man took a brief look at the dying girl, and ran down the block while unscrewing the silencer that kept the murder from waking up the whole neighborhood. He put the weapons back into his jacket and stopped running at the end of the block. Then he walked three more blocks before hailing a cab.

CHAPTER TWO

A gents Pete Dobbins and John Schuster of the FBI were eating lunch at a small Mexican restaurant in downtown Phoenix. Schuster was a thirty-one-year old agent with two years of experience with the Bureau. A former college wrestler with cauliflower ears and a depressed nose, his short black hair was balding fast from front to back. He generally had a confident smirk on his face, which he learned to use on the wrestling mat. Dobbins i Phone rang, with the news that a bank robbery was in progress at First Security Bank in northwest Phoenix. The agents left their lunches half-eaten and sprinted for Schuster’s car. A bank robber had hit two other banks on the west side over the last two months, and the agents had been assigned to the case.

The Federal Bureau of Investigations, rather than local police departments were in charge of investigating robberies at banks that were insured by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation. Only about seven percent of bank robberies were actually solved with an arrest and a conviction. And this suspect from the last two robberies worked alone and drove a motorcycle.

Schuster drove west on Van Buren until reaching Grand Avenue, which traveled northwest through the western side of Phoenix. Schuster placed the red emergency light on the roof of his GMC Denali so he could speed through traffic unimpeded. The agents listened to the Phoenix Police radio frequency. Grand Avenue crossed over Interstate 17 just south of the Thomas Road entrance where Schuster entered the freeway.

Dobbins could hear that the police were on the scene and the suspect had just left the bank, traveling east on Glendale Avenue on a motorcycle. Dobbins instructed Schuster to exit the freeway at Glendale Avenue, which was less than a mile away. Schuster drove over eighty miles per hour along the emergency lane, heading north on the crowded freeway as he approached the Glendale off-ramp.

John, lose the light. This guy might drive right past us. Dobbins told his partner, and it was perfect timing as a motorcycle ran a red light crossing the overpass of the freeway right in front of them.

There he is, Schuster said as he turned east behind the suspect. The desperate man looked over his shoulder and did not see any police vehicles following him. He slowed down feeling confident that he had once again successfully robbed a bank.

Dobbins communicated to the Phoenix Police over the radio that they were following the suspect who was on a motorcycle. He instructed the police not to move in too fast because it appeared the suspect was driving normally and the last thing they wanted was to start a high-speed pursuit. The suspect turned south on Fifteenth Avenue and drove at a relaxed speed for a few miles. A police helicopter following the events over the radio located the suspect. The pilot stayed a thousand feet in the air and behind the suspect. But, the one thing the pilot did not take into consideration was that he was directly between the sun and the motorcycle, and the suspect saw the shadow of the helicopter.

Schuster pulled in three cars behind the motorcycle at the light. Both agents opened their doors, drew their guns and started running toward the motorcycle. The suspect reacted impulsively, revved his engine and sped around the waiting traffic before the agents could reach him. The motorcycle’s engine produced an ear-splitting noise as he quickly accelerated into the intersection, but a large furniture delivery truck was barreling through the east-bound green light, and they were on a collision course. The suspect had no choice but to hit the brakes and lay the motorcycle down as the truck ran over the bike, just barely missing the rider who was well padded with a helmet, cowboy boots, leather over his jeans and a leather jacket. He sprang to his feet and grabbed the bag of stolen money off the back of the destroyed motorcycle. He saw two men in suits running towards him with guns drawn. He pulled out a hand gun from his jacket and fired two shots at the agents who dove for cover behind a car. The suspect ran across the street toward an apartment complex.

Dobbins motioned to Schuster to go to the back of the complex as he followed the armed man through some bushes and into the pool area, which sat in the middle of the two- story apartments. The suspect was slowing down as he realized that his right leg was in terrible pain from the accident. He grabbed a middle-aged woman who was coming out of the laundry room holding a basket of clean clothes. The basket fell to the ground and the woman screamed. Dobbins ran into sight of the suspect in time to see him holding a gun to her head from behind. The suspect yelled at Dobbins, but he could not be heard through his helmet, and over the hysterical woman’s screams. She was panicking, and Dobbins could see that the suspect could not control her. The man was yelling at the woman to calm down, but she did not understand English. She was in full panic mode as she scratched and kicked at him screaming uncontrollably. Dobbins took advantage of the distracted suspect. He calmly aimed his nine-millimeter automatic at the suspect’s right shoulder and pulled the trigger. The shot was perfect and the suspect dropped his gun and collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain. Dobbins moved in to place him under arrest as the woman ran off screaming even louder than before.

Peter Dobbins was a twenty-nine year old FBI agent with four years of experience on the job. He was just-under six feet tall, with blue eyes and sandy brown hair that was cut short to conform with the Bureau’s culture of a conservative, professional appearance. He had a rugged jaw contrasted by a boyish-smile and a naturally muscular build with broad shoulders and a thick neck. Dobbins dressed in dark suits and starched white shirts every day. On occasion, he wore loud ties. But since agents normally wore striped ties of no more than two colors, it was not difficult to wear a tie that was considered loud.

Dobbins had graduated from the FBI academy four years earlier. He was first assigned to the FBI office in Seattle for three years. In Seattle, he worked the harbor district, looking for illegal drugs being shipped in from the Far East. He built a reputation within the bureau for working well undercover, and getting the necessary evidence to win convictions. The Seattle FBI office arrested dozens of drug traffickers, including a leading organized crime figure who had eluded law enforcement attempts to convict him for twenty years.

Dobbins went undercover into Seattle’s dangerous underworld. He posed as an importer of heroin and other drugs that were being grown in Thailand and processed in the Philippines before being transported by cargo ships into Seattle’s harbor for distribution throughout the western United States. He was able to gain the confidence of the organized crime chief, and arranged videotaped meetings in which the contraband was purchased with suitcases of cash. His testimony, which was given in disguise was crucial to convicting the underworld boss and some of his colleagues.

Dobbins had been credited with bringing the methods of the smuggling operation to light. Several sailors on the otherwise legitimate cargo ship collaborated with the criminals in the Philippines to transport the drugs in disguised cargo containers that contained falsified documentation.

Last year Dobbins was transferred to the Phoenix FBI office in order to help with investigations into para-military anti-government groups that might be planning terrorist activities. The members of such groups claimed to be patriotic Americans who believed that the government had sold out hard working Americans. They were convinced that the government was hopelessly corrupted by special interests groups and high-paid lobbyists, and that illegal immigration, welfare programs and foreign giveaways were proof that the government was out of control. They weren’t satisfied with trying to find candidates for a new political party that represented their ideology. They listened to extreme right-wing talk radio to feel inspired to take action with violence. They believed any kooky conspiracy theory that fell in line with their beliefs. Most of these people had not prepared themselves for the modern technological world, so their employment prospects were slim. Rather than admitting to themselves that they failed to prepare for a career, they blamed the government, and minority groups. It was a convenient strategy to ignore the reality that their biggest problem was starring at themselves in the mirror.

Dobbins was busy writing his report of the bank robbers shooting and arrest he had made earlier in the day. In his office at the downtown Phoenix FBI headquarters, he and Schuster were required to turn in separate reports, even though they had collaborated on the investigation and arrest. The Bureau liked to compare their agent’s separate views on the same event.

The two agents had worked on the bank robberies for the last two months. Much of the work was routine checking of eyewitness descriptions of known armed robbers that lived in the area. The bank surveillance tapes were not much help, as the robber wore different hats and different clothes on each of the previous robberies. On the second robbery he wore a fake beard. But the robber made one important mistake he had cut words out of a magazine and glued them together to make demand notes to which he gave to the tellers. Upon examination of Dobbins and Schuster, the words of both letters proved to have been cut out of the same survivalist magazine, which they found in his apartment. All of this information, and every other detail of the investigation, including the pursuit and shooting, was put into each agent’s report.

Dobbins preferred working in Phoenix because of the weather. In Seattle it was day- after-day of dreary rain and lack of sunlight. Phoenix was hot all summer, but the heat didn’t bother him, and the rest of the year the weather ranged from warm to cool with very little rain. His phone beeped. He saw his bosses’ name illuminated above the telephone key-pad. Jake Greenberg told him to come down to his office because he had something important to discuss.

Dobbins grabbed his jacket and put it on as he walked down the hallway to Greenberg’s office. He had already given his boss a briefing over the phone regarding the bank robbery arrest, so he did not know what this meeting was about. He sat down in front of the desk. Jake had just received another phone call as he arrived, so Dobbins knew he was in for a wait. Greenberg spun his swivel chair around to face the window that gave him a nice view of Central Avenue looking north, but all Dobbins could see was the quickly-balding back of Jake’s head. Greenberg’s title was Special Agent, in charge of the Phoenix FBI Office. He was known to be long-winded with many of his telephone conversations easily exceeding an hour, with Greenberg going over every detail of whatever was being discussed. Dobbins sat there patiently, as he would not dare leave and require Jake to call him over again. Greenberg expected the people under his command to wait, and this call only took ten minutes.

I have an important assignment for you. I know you haven’t been close to any murder investigations, but I want you to look into this one.

Dobbins knew his boss well enough to know that he did not want any questions until he was done speaking. The fact is Greenberg felt he would say everything necessary, and that there should be no need for questions.

I received a report from our Chicago office this morning. There was a shooting three nights ago, in which a twenty year-old female was killed outside her apartment building at about 3:00 in the morning. No neighbors heard the shooting in a densely populated neighborhood, which means that the killer used a silencer indicating that he is a pro. The Chicago P.D. asked our guys to look into it. The ballistics test show the weapon was a nine millimeter Glock. Here is where it get’s interesting, Pete. The ballistics evidence was input into the bureau’s database, and it turns out there was a murder three years ago in San Francisco and a murder two years ago in St. Louis in which the ballistics evidence matches exactly with this murder in Chicago three nights ago. It was the same gun.

Dobbins nodded that he understood, but kept quiet. Greenberg removed his out-of-style glasses and exhaled on the lenses before cleaning them with a tissue as he continued:

The murder in San Francisco was never solved. The victim was a lifelong drug dealer, so there was no great loss to society. The murder in St. Louis was solved and the local D.A. won a conviction in the case. Do you remember the baseball player named Drew Crandel who played for the Arizona Sidewinders?

Sure I do. He was shot and killed in St. Louis while on a road trip with the Sidewinders. Some young kid was convicted of the murder. It was a robbery that went bad, from what I remember. Dobbins was pleased that he was able to recall the case. He knew Greenberg was impressed by instant recall of obscure events.

That’s right. I know you have a background in baseball, so I figured you would have been aware of it. Doesn’t it seem too coincidental that someone killed a drug dealer in San Francisco three years ago, and that same weapon was used by this kid in St. Louis the next year to kill a ball player in an apparent robbery? Then this same exact weapon, which was never found in St. Louis, surfaces two years later in Chicago being used in an execution-style murder of a young woman?

If the murders are connected, we have to find out why some person or organization would kill a drug dealer, a ball player and the girl, Dobbins responded. But why did Chicago refer the case to us? How is Phoenix involved?

I was just getting to that point. Originally the weapon was purchased six years ago in a Phoenix gun store by a man named Simon Heredia. I’ve e-mailed the file to you. You and I are going to visit Mr. Heredia tomorrow. He’s had his share of arrests in recent years, all related to small time drug use and driving under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Greenberg had another call waiting so he dismissed Dobbins.

Back in his office, Dobbins studied the file that had been assembled on the three murders. He was particularly interested in the murder of the baseball player, Drew Crandel. The young man who had been arrested and convicted of the murder was twenty-two year old Damion Wilkesbere. He had been sentenced to life in prison without a chance for parole.

At six-thirty, Dobbins knocked off for the day and drove home in his dark blue Ford Taurus that had been issued to him by the Bureau.

Pete pulled into his garage that is attached to his two-thousand-square foot ranch style home in the foothills of the Shadow Mountain neighborhood of north Phoenix. He stepped into his kitchen to find his wife, Trish preparing dinner.

How was your day honey? Trish asked.

Just fine. How are you feeling? Pete responded giving her a kiss and patting her belly.

Like a woman who is eight months pregnant, who had morning sickness and dizzy spells and bloating and cramping all day should feel, Trish answered, making fun of herself.

Was it bad today?

About the same. Did you rid society of all its criminals today, or was it a slow day?

Very funny, dear. I can always count on your sense of humor. We caught the bank robber today after he hit another bank. I’ll tell you about it during dinner. I want to get in a work out before we eat.

Oh, fine. Leave me in suspense. I can’t wait to hear all the details. Were having breaded tilapia tonight. Trish was very pregnant, but Pete still felt she was the most attractive woman he had ever seen. Her dark brown hair was cut short. Her brown eyes and crooked smile were warm and inviting.

Dobbins changed into his shorts and a tee shirt and went out into his back yard, where he had his own pitching mound set up. There was a raised circle of dirt with a pitching rubber cemented in the middle. Diagonally across his yard, exactly sixty feet, six inches away from the rubber, was a regulation size home plate lying on the ground. Behind the plate was some netting to stop the baseballs. Dobbins carried a bucket of baseballs from under the patio cover. He started off throwing easy, but eventually loosened up throwing ninety-plus miles-per-hour fast-balls, and sliders that looked like fast-balls, but dip down and away from right-handed hitters as it approached home plate. The hard pitches were complemented by a slow curve-ball that acted as a change-up.

Dobbins was reasonably satisfied with his life. He made pretty good money as an FBI agent, and by all opinions he heard from his superiors, he had a bright future with the Bureau. He loved his wife and enjoyed her sense of humor. They were expecting their first child in a month, even though they had been trying to have a baby since they were married five years ago. Trish had a miscarriage two years ago, and her doctor recommended that she have her tubes tied because of the damage done by the miscarriage. Pete was willing to consider this advice, but Trish would not hear of it. She loved children and was determined to have one of her own. Pete and Trish were very much in love, and were anxious and a little nervous because of the first pregnancy to welcome their baby into the world. But there was one uncompleted chapter in Dobbin’s life, and that was baseball.

He grew up near Cincinnati Ohio. His father took him to a handful of Reds’ games every season and spent countless hours playing baseball with his only son. Dobbins was a fair hitter, but he excelled at pitching. His father would catch his son’s pitches until his knees hurt. He was an outstanding pitcher on his high school baseball team, and received an athletic scholarship to attend the University of Miami in South Florida. Dobbins majored in Criminal Justice, and was an all-American pitcher guiding the Hurricanes to the College World Series National Championship during his senior season. He was also honored with the Golden Spikes award given annually to the best amateur baseball player in the country.

The Cleveland Indians made Dobbins their number-one pick in the 2003 amateur draft. He graduated with honors from Miami, and was pitching for the Indians class A team a week later. There was very little competition at this level for Dobbins, as he won fourteen games in half a season.

The Indians promoted their star pitching prospect to class AA the next season. Dobbins took the league by storm. He amassed a record of twenty-one wins against just seven defeats. He averaged nine strike-outs per game and had an earned run average which is the average number of runs a pitcher gives up per nine innings of just 1.81.

There was tremendous pressure on the Indians’ general manager, Harry Briscoe, to promote Dobbins for the beginning of the next season. The major league club had another bad season. Nearly every season was bad for the Indians. They last won the World Series in 1948. They had some good rosters in the 1990’s, twice making it to the World Series, but they lost both series. The city was known as the mistake on the lake to outsiders, but don’t tell that to the loyal fan base. Despite the dismal results the team typically achieved, the fans always supported the team. Cleveland area sports writers were not so kind, and demanded that Briscoe bring up this superstar pitcher and give Cleveland fans something to cheer about. Briscoe was a baseball man and had seen many potentially great players rushed to the major leagues only to fall flat on their faces because they weren’t ready. So Briscoe decided to promote Dobbins to class AAA for the next season and hold his critics at bay.

Cleveland’s AAA club played In Columbus, Ohio and Dobbins enjoyed another fabulous year through half the season. He even threw a no hitter in early June.

In late July, Dobbins was locked in an intense pitching duel with another talented pitcher from the Detroit Tigers farm team in Toledo. The game was tied at one run apiece in the seventh inning. It was an unusually chilly evening in northwest Ohio for July, with temperatures dropping to the low fifties. Dobbins felt his arm tightening up, and he wasn’t throwing as hard as he usually did. His fast-ball didn’t have the usual pop, and his slider was not biting the way it typically did, so right handed hitters were getting a much better look at it. He always strived to pitch the whole nine innings, but his right arm was the franchise for the Indians, so the mangers were usually quick to replace him with a relief pitcher at the first sign of trouble.

Big, Sluggo Kramer was coming up to bat for Toledo. Kramer had earned his nickname in high school, where he set a national high school home run record by knocking forty-seven home runs in three years of high school baseball. Sluggo was an intimidating sight for any pitcher. He stood six-foot five and weighed two hundred and seventy pounds. He had not shaven in a few days and the scruffy facial stubble on his chin was filthy, as chewing tobacco juice drooled out of his mouth because he shoved too much in. Dobbin’s catcher called for a curveball to start off Sluggo, because he was known as a first ball fast-ball hitter. He threw the curve, but it didn’t have its usual tight spin and Sluggo jumped all over it. Fortunately, he was too anxious and the ball sailed foul over the fence, just outside the foul pole down the left-field line.

The catcher next signaled Dobbins to throw a fast-ball and set the target low and outside. He acknowledged the sign and went into his windup. But the moment he released the ball he knew it was a bad pitch, as did his catcher and Sluggo was ready for it. The hitter’s eyes widened as he saw a batting practice fastball over the middle of the plate. Dobbins expected to watch Sluggo knock the ball over the left-field fence, but his bat was a little late. The ball rocketed off his bat straight back at the pitcher. In Dobbin’s perception the ball seemed to be coming in slow motion, but he froze, unable to move. The momentum of the pitch brought Dobbins several feet closer to the hitter. He failed to move out of the way as the ball slammed into his forehead with a thud heard throughout the stadium. Everyone winced as they heard the awful sound, except Dobbins who fell unconscious to the ground.

Trish was in the stands and was horrified by the sight of the line drive slamming into Pete’s head. She rushed onto the field and accompanied Pete in the ambulance to the hospital.

He spent a week in the Toledo hospital recovering from the concussion he had suffered. He had blurry vision and headaches for three weeks and he also had a noticeable scar in the middle of his forehead caused by the threads of the baseball. Eventually the scar faded from view, but Dobbins could always feel the slight indentation left by the threads in the middle of his forehead.

Dobbins was tired of sitting around his apartment. He tried watching game shows, and soap operas, but they just bored him to no end. Watching more than one 30-minute news program a day seemed like a waste of time too. He tried crossword puzzles and playing solitaire, but that was no better. He had to get back to baseball. He convinced himself that he was ready to pitch just over a month after the incident. The season was almost over at this point, and Briscoe thought Dobbins might as well wait to pitch again during spring training the next season, but Dobbins insisted that he was ready. He made a compelling case to Briscoe that he had to get right back on the mound and face hitters. Reluctantly, Briscoe agreed.

His first starting assignment was a disaster. He warmed up fine in the bullpen. He still had all his speed and accuracy, but as soon as a hitter stood in the batter’s box, he lost all his confidence and couldn’t throw strikes. All of his pitches fell short and landed in the dirt or were too high and out of the strike zone. Dobbins walked the first five hitters before being pulled out of the game. He simply could not find the right release point to