The Steroid Hit
The door to the locker room creaked slowly open. The crack revealed a thin sliver of light in the pitch-black room. When the man was sure that the room was empty, he opened the door all the way, splashing the room in light. He could see a row of lockers, all with the tags of big name players. This was the New and big screen TVs, giving it the feel of the Whitehouse.
Silently creeping through the locker room, the man suddenly stopped. He crouched in silence behind a couch, and waited several seconds. He could definitely hear his target in the other room. He could tell by the silence, filled sporadically by the singing voice of his target, that the man in the shower was alone and unaware of his presence. Slowly, he started stepping towards the door again, this time making sure to be extra ninja-like. When the man got to the door of the showers he stopped once more. Silently he pulled out a very large needle, filled to the brim with a deadly dose of steroids.
This was the first time he had been ordered to kill someone with steroids, and the criminal was nervous that it wouldn’t go as planned. When he had first heard the mission, he had literally laughed out loud. However, a deafening roar on the other end of the phone quickly silenced the chuckle. The voice told him how serious this was and that it better go as planned or it will be the needle in HIS ass as well. The man had learned never to make mistakes in his line of work because there always seemed to be a death threat if something were to go wrong.
Clutching the needle in one trembling hand, the henchman kicked open the door to the showers. In one quick motion, he was on top of the ballplayer and the long sharp needle was plunged into the left butt cheek of Derek Jeter. When the man had tackled him, Jeter had smashed his head on the floor and was knocked out cold. After realizing that Jeter was unconscious, he continued on with his assassination. Pulling the end of the syringe out and then back in again, his job was almost done. The only thing left to do was clean up the scene of the crime so it appeared as an accidental overdose. The man took the empty syringe and placed it in the hands of the victim.
Surveying his surroundings once more, the lowlife checked for anything he might have missed. Tomorrow morning when Derek Jeter will be found, it will appear as a tragedy, an overdose of performance enhancing drugs. If everything goes according to plan, the world will mourn his loss.
Connor Babbit was always the first to work. He was the youngest after all, and definitely had the most to prove. As with any young gun coming up through the minor league system, people had their doubts. They said that after such hot performances in the minor leagues that he would, of course, burn out once he got to the majors. But for all the doubters, one person had faith in him: the general manager of the New York Yankees Brian Cashman. In the baseball world, that’s all that matters. So now, after one short but memorable year in the minors, Connor found himself driving every morning up to the iconic Yankee Stadium. It has been and continues to be the home of the greats; He smiled with the thought that he could now, by some leap of faith, be considered one of the greats.
Pulling up to the player’s lot, Connor parked in his usual spot at the back of the lot, and jumped out of his car. Right now he was borrowing his moms Honda Civic, just until he had time to buy a new one. It didn’t look like much, that was for sure, but it got him where he needed to be. He couldn’t exactly tell his boss he missed batting practice because he was out shopping for a fancy new car. He knew he had to earn respect, and out on the field it didn’t matter what kind of car you drove, only if you could hit for power and play solid defense.
As he was always early, Connor was use to walking through an empty parking lot in the morning, and especially on an off day like today. So when he almost walked right into a shiny Porsche 911 parked right by the entrance to the clubhouse, something seemed a little off to him. There could be a million reasons why this car could be here though, and Connor pushed it to the back of his mind. Because he was new to the team, he didn’t recognize people’s cars. Regrouping, he walked briskly into the clubhouse and started to mentally prepare himself for the day’s workout and drills.
Connor loved to take showers before anyone else arrived in the morning, Quite frankly, he found it a little intimidating to shower with all the players who he looked up to as a kid, the ones he idolized. It was in this focused state of mind that he tripped over the lifeless body of Derek Jeter. When he tripped, he slipped on the wet floor and smacked his head, leaving a bruise that quickly started aching. He was so surprised by what had just happened, that he couldn’t even scream out when he looked into the dead eyes of his favorite ballplayer of all time. The man who also happened to play in front of Connor.
After getting feeling back in his legs, Connor managed to stand up and take a deep breath. He didn’t know how to deal with his emotions at the moment. After several moments, he decided to actually look at what was before his eyes, in all of its naked glory. It smelled horrid, and was even worse to look at. Jeter’s entire body was purple and blue and twisted in an awkward position. It was then that Connor spotted the needle resting in Jeter’s hand. That’s strange, I would never have thought that Jeter did steroids, he was the most honest guy I’ve ever met, Connor thought to himself. His idol, his hero lay before him dead from an overdose of steroids. This whole scene just didn’t seem right to him.
In an effort to understand more about this truly horrific incident, Connor decided to examine the needle. He picked it up with his left hand and looked closely. It was steroids all right. Connor had never used them or been close to them, but he was certain that the substance in the needle was steroids. Placing the needle back where he found it, Connor shook his head, and fought to hold back tears. This is such a shame, so much talent wasted away. As feelings of grief began to take over Connor, he noticed something most peculiar. There was a large wound on Jeter’s forehead, that looked as if it was from a moment of struggle. Wait a second! This was no accidental –
“What the hell is going on here?” a voice interrupted Connor’s revelation. Caught totally off guard, Connor was at a loss of words. “What the fuck? Is that Jeter? And he’s dead? Don’t you move an inch Connor Babbit,” the voice said as he called 911. “The police are on their way. I hope you rot in hell for this.” Not knowing what to do, Connor froze for a moment. Then, an instance later, he was off and running. Adrenaline taking over, Connor sprinted past the man, shoving him out of the way. Once out of the shower room, Connor ran for the exit, towards the parking lot. Tripping over a few couches on the way out, everything was a blur. Realizing the seriousness of the situation, he ran faster as he pushed the double doors open and ran into the parking lot.
Once in the parking lot, he saw four squad cars pulling in. Putting his head down, Connor pumped his arms, and told himself he was running the most important forty-yard dash of his life. The trick worked and in a blur he was out of the lot and past the cops. He didn’t stop running until he was five blocks away, and the sirens had disappeared into the busy noise of New York City. Finally stopping to catch his breath, Connor felt as if he was going to puke. How, in the course of a few hours, did he become a fugitive, blamed for the murder of his idol? This wasn’t right. All of New York City would want his head on a platter.
With horror, Connor assessed just how bad the situation was. He was spotted standing over the lifeless body of Derek Jeter, and his fingerprints were all over the needle. There would be a motive too, as he was the backup to Jeter, and a rising star. In an attempt to figure out this pickle, Connor walked nonchalantly into the nearest café. Ordering his favorite drink, a white chocolate mocha, he sat down and took another big deep breath. After a few minutes of staring off into space and fiddling with his steaming cup, the only solution came to him. Connor Babbit would have to solve the murder himself, all the while hiding from the entire population of the Big Apple.
It wouldn’t be easy, but it was worth a try. The other option was a lifetime in prison. He sure as hell wasn’t ready to be some fat tattooed guy’s bitch. It was then and there that Connor swore to himself that he would solve the murder of Derek Jeter.
His first step would be to find some place where he could stay for a few days. He couldn’t go back to his house, and he wouldn’t even be safe at a family members house. Leaving the café Connor hailed a taxi and headed over to Brooklyn, where he would find a lowlife motel to set up “Operation Save Connor’s Ass.” He told the cab driver to drive to Brooklyn, and to stop when he said so. They passed corner after corner of homeless drug addicts, and finally came to a stop in front of The Brooklyn Motel. The sign was only half working, the brick building was crumbling, and most of the windows were boarded up. Perfect, he thought to himself.
After getting a room under a fake name, Connor lied down on the bed and closed his eyes. He lay in bed for a few minutes until he drifted into a deep sleep. When the early morning sun began to shine into his window, he awoke with a start. Remembering his situation, he panicked. Connor got up and decided that he had to get an immediate start on this seemingly impossible mission. He would go back to Yankee Stadium, but he needed a disguise. Walking down the street, Connor spotted a store, and his heart skipped a beat. Maybe he could do this after all! Hustling, he entered The Master of Disguise, a costume store. Picking out a trench coat, a fake mustache and a top hat, Connor paid and hailed another cab. This would be an expensive mission, but again, he reminded himself his freedom was on the line.
On the ride over to Yankee Stadium Connor put on his disguise, and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked absolutely ridiculous, like Abe Lincoln in fact. When he got out of the cab a few blocks away from the stadium, Connor realized he didn’t really know exactly what he was suppose to do. Panicking, a wave of nausea hit him and he had to support himself on the nearest object. As it turned out, that object was a newspaper stand. To make matters worse, he saw himself on the cover of the New York Times. He purchased the newspaper and glanced over the article:
Derek Jeter Found Dead This Morning, Rising Star Babbit Main Suspect
Derek Jeter was found dead in the showers this morning, the cause of death believed to be an overdose of steroids. Found at the crime scene crouching over the dead body was backup shortstop Connor Babbit. When told to freeze, Babbit bolted and is currently on the run from authorities.
Jeter who has been an MVP countless times, and has led the Yankees to a number of World Series wins, was expected to testify in the next week against ex-teammate Roger Clemens in the steroids scandal that has been gripping Major League Baseball.
The death of Jeter will be mourned by the whole world, as he was one of the most admired shortstops of all time, and a definite future member of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Not much is known about the murder of Jeter, all though it appears as though Babbit wanted it to look like an accidental overdose. Babbit’s fingerprints were found on the needle that took Jeter’s life, and the New York City police department is offering a $10,000 reward for information leading to the whereabouts of Babbit. If you have any information please call 212-654-0009.
Connor read the article over and over again, each time losing more and more strength in his body. I’m so stupid, why the hell did I pick up the needle? Why did I run? The whole damn city is looking for me, and I’m completely innocent. Reading the article one last time, something concrete finally occurred to Connor. It was just one sentence, but it could be the answer to his prayers: “Jeter who has been an MVP countless times, and had led the Yankees to a number of World Series wins, was expected to testify in the next week against ex-teammate Roger Clemens in the steroids scandal that has been gripping Major League Baseball.”
It was strange to Connor that Jeter mysteriously dies a week before he was supposed to testify against Clemens. They had once been best friends while on the Yankees together, but it was widely known that their relationship had been strained since Mithell’s report came out pointing fingers at Clemens. As this was the only thing Connor had to go on, he would have to pursue it. Going through his phonebook on his Blackberry, Connor looked for a number to call that could help him. Finally, in a resignation to his desperateness, he decided Brain Cashman, the general manager of the Yankees, might have some helpful information.
Connor called him, and tapped his foot impatiently while the phone rang. After four rings, Cashman finally picked up, “Hello Brian Cashman speaking.”
Stammering, Connor searched for his voice and finally blurted out, “Uh, hi, yes, I’m a reporter for the Times, and I was wondering if you had time for a few questions?”
“Who is this? I recognize this voice. Who are you?”
Caught off guard, Connor didn’t say anything for several seconds. Finally he decided that he would just have to tell Cashman what really happened, and hope he believed him. “Fine, I’m not a reporter, it’s Connor. And before you go call authorities, I am telling you I’m innocent and I have to prove that, before I’m wrongfully sentenced.”
There was a long awkward pause and Cashman finally responded, “I never really thought you killed him, I mean I’ve known you for a long time, you wouldn’t do something like that.”
“I know! Thank you for believing me, I thought no one would. Now I need your help though to prove my innocence. Do you know anything about how Jeter was suppose to testify against Roger?”
“Well, yes actually, it was suppose to be next week. People were saying that what Jeter had to say would completely and forever tarnish Roger’s name, and possibly put him behind bars. They were saying this was Clemens’ last week of freedom. They said it jokingly, but it wasn’t really funny at all.”
“So in your opinion, is it completely crazy to think Clemens had Jeter killed to extend his ‘Freedom?’ Because so far, that’s all I got.” Connor’s heart was beating so loudly he could barely hear himself talk.
“Well, now that you mention it, it’s not crazy. They were friends, but not so much since the steroid scandal broke,” Cashman spoke in a now quite whisper, his voice trembling, “You could be onto something here Babbit.”
“If I am, then now what? How the hell can I prove this, I mean it’s a pretty serious accusation. And not to mention the whole world wants me dead.”
“Alright Connor, listen carefully. I don’t usually do things like this, but I think it’s the only thing we can, er um, excuse me, the only thing you can do at this point. You’re going to have to break into Clemens’ apartment and find something connecting him to the hit. He lives at 1234 E 34th St, and there’s an extra key hidden behind his gas meter around the back. Don’t ask questions, just go. And for god sakes Connor, be careful.”
There was a clicking noise as Cashman hung up. Connor realizing how ridiculous he looked standing on the corner dressed as Abe Lincoln quickly hailed another cab. Not wanting to be obvious about where he was going, he ordered the cabbie to E 30th street, and walked the four blocks to 1234 E 34th. The apartment was huge, and very daunting. Glancing around, Connor looked to see if anyone was watching him as he stood staring up into the dark windows of Clemens’ apartment. He prayed that Cashman was right about the key, and headed around back.
As Connor was opening the gate, he heard an approaching siren and froze. His heart stopped and he almost fainted. The siren got louder and louder, and the thought of a ten thousand dollar reward crossed his mind again. They’re here for me. It’s over. It’s all over. But soon the cop sped past him and the siren disappeared around the corner. Attempting to regain his composure, he did a breathing exercise one of his trainers taught him. Soon forced himself to put one foot in front of the other.
The backyard was bare, with a few potted plants spread out across it. Squinting, Connor searched for the supposed gas meter. When he was about to give up, he spotted the grey box and ran over to it. Closing his eyes in fear of a missing key, he reached behind the box and felt for it. His hand brushed over the key, and in sheer relief, Connor opened his eyes and grabbed it. He silently crept up the back stairs, and peered into the glass doors. All the lights were off, and there were no signs of life.
Holding his breath, he put the key in the lock and turned it. The door swung open, and Connor crept inside. Being as quiet as he could, he looked for an office. Walking through the kitchen and into the connecting hall, Connor spotted the office. The doors were large and wooden. One of the double doors was slightly ajar. Holding his breath yet again, Connor pushed it open. There was a large desk covered in pieces of paper. Racing over to the desk, he quickly scanned it looking for anything helpful.
Finally, his eyes came to rest on a check that looked like it had just been written. The check was dated yesterday. This, however, was no fan-coveted autograph. It was a $45,000 check made out to one Roberto Luciano. Just as Connor was reaching for the missing link of the puzzle, he heard a door open and footsteps in the hallway. Panicking, Connor snatched up the check and looked for a place to hide. Connor’s heart beat faster with every approaching footstep. He realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach that there was no place to hide. Frozen, Connor stared blankly at the wall and listened. After what seemed like a lifetime, the door slowly creaked open, and Connor found himself face to face with the very man responsible for this nightmare
Roger Clemens’ huge body took up the entire frame of the doorway, blocking any escape route for Connor. They stood in silence for a few seconds until Roger broke the silence, “Connor Babbit. What brings you to my apartment unannounced?” Connor once again, was having trouble getting words to come out of his mouth. With an incredulous look on his face, Connor stood silently.
Finally after a few moments of awkward silence, Connor said with a fearful tone, “I’m here to take you down. I’m saving my ass, literally.” As he said this, Roger realized what Connor was clutching tightly in his hand. Making a move to grab it, Roger jumped on Connor, and tackled him to the floor. The two baseball players rolled around on the ground. One was struggling to hold onto the check while the other tried to take it. They rolled back and forth across the office several times crashing into the desk, sending various pens and papers flying through the air. Connor was using all of his energy to protect the check, which was grasped tightly in his left hand. With his right hand he attempted to ward off Roger.
With all of his remaining strength, Connor shoved his hand into Roger’s face. The blow caught Roger off guard and sent him tumbling over backwards. Realizing this was his only opportunity, Connor got up as quickly as he could. With the check still in hand, he ran out of the office. He didn’t stop running until he was safely out of the house and down four blocks.
Hailing a taxi, Connor went straight to the New York Police Department office. As he entered the office, Connor shouted out as loud as he could, “Don’t arrest me! I know who it was and I have proof.” An officer came up to him, grabbed him by the arm and led him into an interrogation room. Once they sat down, a glass of water sitting between them, Connor Babbit began to tell the true story that would save his life.
A few hours later, Connor walked out of the office a free man, and $10,000 richer. They had given him the reward money promised for information leading to his arrest. Twenty minutes later, Connor was home and drifting off into what would turn out to be the best sleep of his life. The nightmare was over.