The sound of the television was the only sound in the living room, save for the occasional clink of ice in Jim’s glass. Jim, the father, was comfortably settled in his favorite chair, eyes fixed on the screen as the Orange County Orcas battled the Texas Outriders.
Lisa, his wife, popped her head into the living room with a grin. “We’ll be back in a bit. Don’t wait up.”
Jim waved them off with a smile. “Go have fun, you two.”
Lisa rolled her eyes good-naturedly and followed their daughter, Leigh, out the door. Jim and their son, Tim, were left to watch the final stretch of what was shaping up to be a memorable game.
The Orcas pitcher had been perfect so far, retiring all 26 batters he’d faced. Now, with two outs in the ninth, he was just one away from a perfect game.
Jim’s pulse quickened as he glanced over at Tim. They both knew this was a big deal—a no-hitter in the ninth. But with Gunner Rawls, the Outriders' volatile center fielder, coming up to bat with two outs, they could sense the drama wasn’t over yet.
The announcers began discussing the tension. We’re two outs into the ninth inning now, folks, and the Orcas pitcher is still perfect. One more out, and it’s a perfect game!
Jim nodded, already anticipating what was to come. Rawls was arrogant, brash, and unpredictable. If anyone was going to break up a no-hitter, it was him. And then, the moment arrived, and Rawls stepped into the batter’s box. The camera zoomed in on him as he adjusted his gloves, an impassive look on his face.
Jim’s eyes narrowed as Rawls took his stance. With two outs in the ninth, it was his last chance to make an impact on the game. The crowd was already on edge. Then, in a move that shocked everyone, Rawls laid down a bunt. It was weak, barely rolling past the pitcher, but it was enough to break up the no-hitter.
The announcers were stunned.
That’s a bunt with two outs in the ninth to break up a no-hitter with an 11-0 lead,
one of them said, practically in disbelief. Unbelievable.
The other chimed in, In baseball, there’s an unwritten rule—you just don’t do that. You don’t bunt when a no-hitter’s on the line. Especially with an 11-0 lead. It’s considered disrespectful to the pitcher, to the game. That’s a direct challenge to everything the sport stands for.
But Rawls wasn’t done. Standing at first base, he turned toward the Orcas’ dugout and shouted, Orcs!
The insult wasn’t lost on anyone. Orcs?
one of the announcers said incredulously. That’s a jab at the Orcas’ team name. ‘Orcs’—it’s not just an insult to their identity; it’s a way of calling them brutish, savage, without respect for the game. Rawls knew exactly what he was doing.
The Orcas dugout erupted in fury. Players jumped to their feet, shouting at Rawls, and within moments, the field was engulfed in a full-blown brawl. The camera caught glimpses of angry faces and players trying to restrain each other as the tension boiled over.
Jim could feel the energy shift in the room as he and Tim watched the chaos unfold. It wasn’t just about the game anymore—it was about pride, and Rawls had poked the bear.
When the dust finally settled, the game continued. The Orcas’ pitcher regained his composure, finishing out the game and securing the win with a final out. Despite the fight, the Orcas had come out on top, 11-0. The no-hitter had been broken up, but the real victory was in the scoreboard, not the statistics.
Jim leaned back in his chair, still processing what had just happened. This game would be talked about for a long time—not for the final score, but for the moment Rawls had crossed the line, turning a clean victory into something far more complicated.
The game had ended, the Orcas securing an 11-0 victory, but the real story was just beginning. Gunner Rawls had broken up the no-hitter with a bunt single in the ninth inning, a move that ignited a firestorm of controversy. As the final out was recorded, the stadium buzzed with disbelief and anger.
In the locker room, the Orcas were seething. Their manager, a seasoned veteran of the game, paced back and forth, trying to maintain some semblance of order. That was a cheap shot,
he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. We don't play like that.
The players nodded in agreement, their faces a mix of frustration and disbelief. Rawls had always been a thorn in their side, but this was different. This was a blatant disregard for the unwritten rules of the game.
Outside the locker room, reporters gathered, eager to get a statement from the team's manager.
The press conference was tense. The manager stood at the podium, his jaw clenched, as he addressed the media. We don't condone what Rawls did,
he said firmly. It's not how we play the game. It's not how baseball is meant to be played.
The reporters fired off questions, but the manager remained composed, refusing to let Rawls' actions overshadow the team's victory. We won the game,
he reiterated. That's what matters.
As the press conference concluded, Jim sat back in his chair, his mind racing. Rawls had crossed a line, and the fallout was far from over.
Then came the news.
A breaking news alert flashed across the screen: "Gunner Rawls found dead in the locker room. Authorities investigating."
Jim's heart sank. Rawls had been a polarizing figure, but no one deserved this. The game, the rivalry, it all seemed so trivial now.
Just then, the phone rang.
Jim, it's Mark. There's been a murder at the stadium—Gunner Rawls is dead. I need you at the scene.
Understood. I'm on my way,
Jim replied, already grabbing his jacket.
He turned to his son, Tim, who was still engrossed in the post-game analysis.
Tim, I have to head out. Something's come up at the stadium. Stay here, and don't open the door for anyone. I'll be back soon.
Tim looked up, concern flickering in his eyes. Is everything okay?
Just some post-game issues. Nothing for you to worry about,
Jim assured him before stepping out.
The drive to the stadium was swift, the streets relatively empty at this hour. Upon arrival, the area was cordoned off with police tape, and the flashing lights of patrol cars illuminated the night.
Approaching the perimeter, Jim was stopped by a uniformed officer.
I'm Jim Shore, Consultant with the Orange County Sheriff's Department,
he stated, presenting his credentials. Detective Mark Reynolds is expecting me.
The officer nodded, lifting the tape to allow Jim entry.
Inside, the atmosphere was tense. Officers moved purposefully, gathering evidence and documenting the scene. Jim spotted Mark near the locker room entrance. The locker room buzzed with activity—flashing cameras, murmured conversations, and the rustle of evidence bags. Jim Shore stood at the threshold, taking in the scene with a practiced eye.
Standing at six feet and weighing around 200 pounds, Jim's sandy blonde hair was neatly combed back, revealing piercing blue eyes that missed little. Clean-shaven and dressed in jeans, a button-up shirt, and a windbreaker, his demeanor exuded both authority and approachability.
Detective Mark Reynolds approached, his presence commanding attention. Slightly taller than Jim, Mark's dark brown hair was neatly styled, complementing his deep-set hazel eyes that seemed to analyze everything they observed. Clad in a charcoal gray suit, his tie slightly loosened, Mark embodied the seasoned detective—methodical, relentless, and deeply intuitive.
Jim, glad you’re here,
Mark said, gripping his hand in a firm shake. It’s a mess—Rawls was found dead in the locker room. We’re treating it as a homicide. Did you bring your high-tech magnifying glass? You know, the one that talks back—EDA?
Jim held up the EDA device. Yep. Charged, calibrated, and only slightly judgmental.
Mark smirked. Perfect. Just what we need—a detective and a sassbot.
Jim’s eyes shifted to the covered body in the center of the room. Let’s see what we have here.
Mark led him closer, lifting the edge of the sheet to reveal Gunner Rawls's lifeless face. The once-vibrant athlete now lay still, his expression frozen in surprise.
Time of death is estimated between 10:00 and 10:30 p.m.,
Mark said. Preliminary cause appears to be blunt force trauma to the back of the head.
Jim took a photo of the blood and the wound where Rawls had been hit, storing it in EDA’s memory for later comparison.
He nodded, scanning the room. Any witnesses?
Not yet. Custodial staff found him during their routine cleaning. We're reviewing security footage and interviewing team members.
Jim's eyes settled on a nearby locker, its door slightly ajar. Inside, a baseball bat rested at an odd angle, its handle smeared with what appeared to be blood.
Has this been processed?
he asked, pointing to the bat.
Just about to. Could be our murder weapon.
Jim took a photo of the blood on the bat.
EDA, compare this blood sample on the bat to the one from Rawls’ head.
EDA replied, Spectral signature, viscosity pattern, and clotting rate match within 98.7% confidence. Likely same source.
Jim raised an eyebrow. That’s what I needed.
Jim stepped back, his mind piecing together the fragments. The stadium, the timing, the victim—each element a thread in a complex tapestry.
We'll need to delve into Rawls' relationships—teammates, rivals, anyone with a motive,
Jim mused.
Mark nodded in agreement. Agreed. Let's start compiling a list.
As they moved to a quieter corner to strategize, the weight of the investigation settled over them. The game was over, but the real challenge had just begun.
The stadium, once filled with cheers and conflict, now echoed with the sterile sounds of a crime scene. The locker room had been sealed off, but the hallway just beyond remained a flurry of quiet tension. Officers spoke in low tones, clipboards in hand, their shadows stretching long under the fluorescent lights.
Jim stood outside the locker room, taking in the atmosphere. Mark approached.
"Let’s get to work," he said.
"Is the footage on its way?" Jim asked.
Mark gestured toward the hallway monitors. "Already being reviewed. There are gaps, though. Cameras inside the locker rooms? Still off-limits—union rules. Closest we’ve got is from the tunnel entrance."
Jim raised an eyebrow. "Convenient."
Mark gave a half-smile. "Yeah. And a PR nightmare waiting to happen."
They walked slowly down the hallway, glancing at locker doors, security panels, and scuff marks on the concrete floor. Jim paused near a bench.
"This area," he said, pointing to a cluster of vending machines across from the visitor locker room. "Wide view. Could’ve been a good vantage point. Anyone loitering here would’ve seen who came and went."
Mark took a note. "We’ll pull logs from nearby security card readers too. Though so far, nothing unusual’s popped."
They continued their sweep. At the end of the hallway, a janitor was giving a statement to a patrol officer, gesturing nervously toward the locker room.
Jim approached gently. "Mind if we ask a few follow-ups?"
The janitor—late 40s, weary-eyed—nodded. "Sure. I just handle maintenance here. Wasn’t expecting any of this."
"What time did you find the body?" Jim asked.
"A little after ten-fifteen. I’d just finished up the west corridor. I opened the door and saw him on the ground. I thought he’d passed out or something."
"Did you see anyone else nearby?"
The man hesitated. "There was someone leaving right before I got there. Maybe a player. Hoodie pulled up. Couldn’t see much."
Jim and Mark exchanged a look.
"Did they say anything?"
The janitor shook his head. "Just walked past fast. No eye contact. Looked tense—might’ve just been post-game stress."
Mark scribbled in his notepad. "Thanks. That helps."
As the janitor moved on, Jim stared back toward the locker room door.
"One shadow," he murmured. "Could be nothing. Could be everything."
Mark nodded. "Either way, we’re not in the dugout anymore."
The interview room inside the stadium’s administrative wing was quiet, save for the soft hum of the overhead light. Jim sat across from Cole Hastings, the Orcas’ team captain and veteran first baseman. He had a reputation as a stand-up guy—respected by teammates, fans, even rivals. But tonight, respect wasn’t enough to keep him off the list of potential suspects.
Mark leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Jim did the talking.
Cole fidgeted in his seat, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. "You seriously think someone from our team did this?"
"We’re not accusing anyone," Jim said calmly. "We’re just trying to understand what happened. You were one of the last to see Rawls alive."
Cole looked up, his eyes a mix of anger and disbelief. "Yeah, I saw him. We all did. After that stunt he pulled, the whole team was heated. But murder? Come on."
Jim leaned forward slightly. "Walk us through what happened after the game. Start from the final out."
Cole sighed. "After we got the last guy out, the dugout exploded—half celebration, half fury. Rawls was smirking the whole time like he’d just pulled off the greatest prank of the century. A couple of guys shouted at him—nothing new. I went back to the locker room, changed, grabbed a protein shake, and headed out. Didn’t even see Rawls again."
Mark spoke for the first time. "You left right after the game?"
"About fifteen, twenty minutes after. Security had started clearing out the fans. Look, I hated what he did, but I didn’t hate him. He was a showboat. That’s not a crime."
Mark scribbled a note. "Was anyone close to snapping?"
"Danny Vega maybe," Cole admitted. "He’s young, emotional. He’d been working closely with our pitcher all season, helping him build toward this no-hitter. Rawls humiliated him. Humiliated us. Danny stormed out before I did."
"Where’d he go?" Jim asked.
"No clue. But if you’re looking for someone who took this personally… it’s probably him."
Jim nodded, thanking Cole and standing up. "We’ll be in touch."
As they stepped out into the hallway, Mark glanced over. "Danny Vega’s not on our cleared list. Want me to bring him in?"
"Yeah," Jim said. "Let’s talk to the kid."
Mark paused. "You think he did it?"
Jim didn’t answer right away. "I think Rawls made a career out of poking people in the chest and laughing. But sometimes… the wrong person pokes back."
Mark and Jim stood just outside the visitors’ locker room when a deputy approached. "Detective, there’s someone here asking to speak with you. Jack Money. Says he’s Rawls’ agent."
Mark sighed. "Send him in."
Moments later, Jack Money strode in like he owned the building. Designer sunglasses still on. Suit too slick for a ballgame. He stopped just short of the locker room door, looking around like he was assessing property.
"Detective Reynolds?" he said. "I’m Jack Money—most folks in the business call me Jack ‘More’ Money." He smiled like it was supposed to land better.
Jim gave him a polite nod. "That nickname says a lot."
Money ignored the jab. "This is a tragedy. Rawls was a headcase, sure, but no one deserves this. I’m here to cooperate."
Mark pulled out his notepad. "When did you last speak with Rawls?"
"Earlier this evening. After the game. We argued. He fired me."
"Fired you?" Jim said, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah. Told me I was holding him back. That he didn’t care about brand value or endorsements. Said he was ‘free.’ Like he was trying to reinvent himself."
Jim glanced at Mark. "Was there bad blood before tonight?"
"Rawls was… difficult," Money said carefully. "But tonight was different. He embarrassed himself. That bunt? It was suicide for his image."
"Did you threaten him?" Mark asked.
Money gave a slow blink. "No. I told him I was out. And I left. If you check the parking lot cams, you’ll see my car pulling out. I made a call. Time-stamped. You’ll get it."
Mark didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: "We will. Thanks for your time."
As Money turned and strutted off, Jim shook his head. "That guy’s got snake oil in his veins."
Reynolds hesitated. "You think Money did it?"
"I think he had motive, timing, and a reason to disappear," Jim said. "And if Rawls really fired him minutes before he ended up dead, that’s not just a red flag—that’s a red carpet."
Jim stood just inside the Orcas’ locker room, letting the cool air and heavy silence settle around him. A strip of yellow tape still cordoned off the row of lockers where Rawls had been found.
Detective Mark Reynolds crouched next to the outline the forensics team had chalked hours earlier. "Blunt force. No defensive wounds."
"Bat?" Jim asked.
"Yeah. Forensics confirmed it. EDA was right. Based on the bruising pattern and the angle of impact. One clean shot to the back of the head."
Jim looked over at the empty bench where Rawls once sat. "So the murderer had time. No panic. No rush. Someone he trusted, maybe."
Mark stood up, brushing his hands on his slacks. "We’re checking everyone who entered and exited the locker room post-game. But you know how chaotic these games get—press, friends, even family sometimes."
"I think we need to talk to Money again," Jim said.
Mark nodded. "Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. We can interrogate him at the OCSD."
Back at the OCSD, Jim and Mark called in Jack “More” Money for further questioning.
Jack “More” Money wore mirrored sunglasses indoors and a silver blazer that practically reflected the interrogation room walls. His legs were crossed like he was lounging poolside.
Jim and Mark had let the silence stretch past comfortable. Eventually, Money cracked first.
“If this is about Gunner,” he said, “I already told you—I didn’t kill him.”
Mark said, “We just wanted to talk to you again—needed some More Money.”
“Why don’t you walk us through it one more time?” he added, flipping open his notepad.
Jack sighed. “We argued. Yeah. We’ve argued before. Rawls was… how do I say this nicely… a flaming ego wrapped in cleats. He embarrassed me out there.”
“By bunting?” Jim asked.
“By bunting,” Jack repeated, as if the word tasted bad. “That kid had a shot at history. Millions in future earnings. Endorsements. And he throws it away on a bunt just to make some weird statement? I built his brand for five years. And in five seconds, he made it look like a joke.”
Jim leaned forward. “So you lost money. Your reputation took a hit. Rawls fires you in front of everyone—then he ends up dead.”
Jack slowly removed his sunglasses. “You think I killed him with a bat? 'I wouldn’t even touch a bat. Might smudge the watch.'
He leaned back. “Look, I had motive, sure. But murder? That’s career suicide. And I like my career.”
Jim glanced at Mark, then back at Jack. “You ever swing a bat in your life, Mr. Money?”
“Only in T-ball,” Jack said with a grin. “Quit after one game. Got my shoes dirty.”
Jim and Mark arrived back at the stadium and made their way through a maze of corridors to the security office tucked behind the main concourse. Inside, a bank of monitors displayed live camera feeds and time-stamped recordings. A uniformed security guard sat at the desk, sipping lukewarm coffee.
Mark flashed his badge. “Detective Mark Reynolds, OCSD. This is Jim Shore, a OCSD consultant. We need access to your surveillance footage from after tonight’s game.”
The guard straightened in his chair. “I’m gonna need to log that. I’m Frank Dalton—Security Supervisor. You want access, I gotta know who—or what—you’re giving it to.”
Jim held up a sleek black device and offered a polite smile. “This is EDA. Stands for Enhanced Deduction Assistant. Think of it like a high-tech magnifying glass for detectives.”
Dalton raised an eyebrow. “So it’s not gonna mess with the system?”
“Nope,” Jim said. “Read-only access. No interference. Just scans for relevant data using AI filters. You’ll still have a copy of everything.”
Dalton glanced at Mark, who gave a firm nod. “Let him hook it up.”
Jim connected EDA to the console while Mark leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, watching the screens like they were suspects.
The hunt for truth was about to begin.
EDA’s interface displayed a timestamp overlay. Locker room hallway. 9:43 PM. Rawls entered, alone. No one came out until 10:17 PM, when a stadium staffer discovered the body.
Jim nodded. “That’s a thirty-four minute gap. Long enough for anything.”
“Plenty of time for a heated argument to turn violent,” Mark said. “Especially if the guy was already in there.”
“Or slipped in unnoticed,” Jim added.
EDA chimed with a calm prompt:
Note: Rawls entered locker room at 9:43 PM. No other entries or exits recorded until 10:17 PM.
Mark exhaled. “So unless he was talking to himself in there, someone else was present.”
Jim asked EDA to “Search: Jack Money. Wi-Fi connectivity logs. Geo-location scan.”
EDA quickly replied.
Result: Jack Money’s phone connected to stadium guest Wi-Fi at 9:35 PM. Disconnected at 9:48 PM.
“That’s not long after Rawls got inside,” Mark muttered. “Enough time for a confrontation.”
Jim nodded. “Especially if Rawls had just fired him. Money’s reputation wouldn’t survive being dumped by a player like Rawls.”
Mark frowned. “And the bat—how symbolic is that? An agent known for chasing money takes a swing with the very thing that made Rawls valuable.”
Jim smiled. “Motivation, opportunity, and now a digital trail. We’re getting close.”
“We just need something to tie him to the locker room itself,” Mark said.
Jim paused the footage again. “Let’s talk to the janitor. He may not realize what he saw.”
Mark nodded. “People notice more than they think. They just don’t always know it matters.”
EDA’s interface flashed green. Scan complete.
Jim disconnected the device and stood upright. “We’re all set. EDA is finished scanning. Didn’t touch a thing, like promised.”
Frank nodded, glancing at the monitors. “Didn’t even blink. That’s some slick gear.”
“Thanks for your cooperation, Supervisor Dalton,” Mark added. “You just helped us take a step closer to solving this.”
Frank gave a small grin. “Just doing my job. But I’ll be keeping an eye on the post-game circus from now on.”
Jim tapped the desk lightly. “Appreciate it, Frank. If we need anything else, we’ll let you know.”
“Good luck catching whoever did it,” Frank said, settling back into his chair.
Mark and Jim exchanged a look, then turned toward the exit. Time to follow where the data led.
Luis Mendoza had been working at the stadium for fourteen years. He didn’t care much for baseball, but he liked the quiet hours after the game—the hum of machines, the smell of bleach, the stillness that settled once the crowd cleared.
Jim and Mark met him in a utility hallway behind the locker rooms. Luis stood beside a cleaning cart, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked nervous, but curious.
“You said you remembered something?” Jim asked gently.
Luis nodded slowly. “Yeah. I didn’t think it was anything. But when I saw the news—what happened to that player—I figured maybe I should talk.”
Mark flipped open a small notebook. “Go on.”
“I was sweeping by the south corridor, maybe 9:50 or so. That’s when I saw him—Rawls’ agent. The guy with the slicked-back hair.”
“Jack Money,” Jim confirmed.
Luis nodded. “Yeah. He was heading toward the locker room. Fast. Like he was mad about something.”
Jim glanced at Mark.
“Did you see him leave?” Mark asked.
Luis shook his head. “No. I took a break after that. Went upstairs to the break room for some water. Came back down around ten, and everything seemed normal. No yelling, no alarms.”
Jim tilted his head. “What time do you usually finish that section?”
“I had just started the lower level when I saw him. I was running late. That’s why I remember the time.”
Jim asked, “Did you hear anything unusual after you came back down? Maybe something from the locker room?”
Luis hesitated. “Actually, yeah. A loud thump. Like something heavy falling. But I figured it was gear or someone throwing a tantrum. Happens more than you’d think after a loss.”
“How loud?” Mark asked.
Luis thought for a second. “Loud enough that I stopped and listened. But then… nothing. So I kept working.”
Jim smiled faintly. “Luis, you just helped us narrow the timeline even further.”
Mark closed his notebook. “And place Jack Money at the scene.”
Luis rubbed the back of his neck. “I just hope it helps. I liked that Rawls kid. He had attitude, yeah, but he talked to me once. Asked about my night. That doesn’t happen much.”
“It helps,” Jim said. “A lot.”
As they walked away, Jim whispered, “I think we just found the missing piece.”
The team reconvened in the Santa Ana substation conference room, a whiteboard now filled with a tangled timeline of scribbles, player photos, and red arrows.
Jim drew a circle around one name: Jack “More” Money.
“Let’s go over what we know,” he said, stepping back. “Rawls lays down the bunt, gets booed, and torpedoes the narrative of a perfect game. The agent is furious—brand value plummets. Rawls fires him. Then, two hours later, he ends up dead in the locker room.”
Detective Reynolds added, “And Jack Money is the last person seen heading toward that locker room before the body is discovered.”
“And he has motive,” Jim said. “That bunt didn’t just wreck a game—it wrecked a marketing pipeline. Endorsements. Future contracts. A payday for both of them.”
Mark nodded. “It’s not just business—it’s personal. Money wasn’t in it for Rawls. He was in it for the cut.”
“And Rawls cutting ties meant no more cut,” Jim said. “No more Rawls, no more relevance.”
EDA’s voice chimed in from the speaker. “Additional data confirms Rawls recently terminated Jack Money’s representation via email. Timestamp: 7:34 PM. Subject line: ‘Effective Immediately.’”
Jim looked over at Mark. “So he didn’t even wait until after the game.”
Mark whistled. “Cold.”
“We pulled Rawls’ cloud backups last night,” Jim muttered. “Guess EDA already found the needle.”
Jim pointed at the board. “Money loses his biggest client during the fifth inning. By the time the game ends, he’s steaming. He heads into the locker room before the press can get in, finds Rawls alone, and makes a choice.”
“Impulsive?” Mark asked.
“Possibly. But not unplanned. Money always thought two steps ahead—when it benefited him. Rawls cut him off before he could stage-manage the brand recovery. That was a fatal mistake.”
Mark circled the bat in a photo pinned to the wall.
“Only thing left,” he said, “is tying Money to the bat.”
Jim smirked. “I’ve got a feeling he left fingerprints. Guys like that always think they’re untouchable.”
The late afternoon sun painted long shadows across the quiet Santa Ana station as Jim and Mark settled into the small, secure interview room. Jack “More” Money sat across from them, the glint in his eyes no longer cocky, but cornered. The tension in the room was thick—like the final innings of a game with everything on the line.
Jim placed the hand-held EDA device gently on the table.
“Let’s walk through it again,” Jim said evenly. “From the top.”
Money leaned back in the chair, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against the table. “I already told you everything I know.”
Jim didn’t flinch. “You told us what happened after Rawls fired you. But not why you were still in the locker room that late.”
Mark folded his arms. “You knew where the security blind spots were. You were familiar with the timing of stadium staff shifts. This wasn’t a confrontation that got out of hand. It was planned.”
Money’s jaw tightened. “Planned? You think I planned to beat a guy to death with his own bat? You’re outta your mind.”
Jim leaned forward. “No. We think you snapped. Rawls humiliated you. Fired you in front of other players. And worse—he called you out. Said you were just another leech.”
Money’s nostrils flared.
“Then,” Jim continued, tapping the EDA device, “he went and broke up a perfect game with a bunt. You knew exactly what that would do to his reputation. That you’d lose money—millions—because no one wanted to sign a guy who did that.”
Mark added, “You told him his reputation was hurting his brand value. And when he didn’t listen, you snapped.”
Money stared at the floor, silent.
Jim activated a playback on EDA. The room filled with the faint sound of stadium hallway chatter, then Rawls’ unmistakable voice: “Jack’s just mad he backed the wrong horse. Maybe now he can go find someone who actually plays to win.”
The timestamp showed it was captured just an hour before Rawls was found dead.
Money’s mouth twisted into a bitter line. “He never respected me. I built his brand from nothing. Got him endorsement deals when he was batting .220. He treated me like trash.”
Jim nodded slowly. “And you were there. In the locker room. After the others had cleared out.”
Silence.
Then, finally, Money looked up, eyes raw. “He called me ‘More Money’ like it was a joke. Said I’d be lucky to get a Little League player next.”
Mark’s voice softened just slightly. “And that’s when you picked up the bat.”
Money didn’t deny it. “I didn’t plan to kill him. I just wanted him to shut up for once.”
EDA let out a soft chime as the confession was logged and encrypted.
Mark stood slowly, voice dry. “Did you smudge your watch?”
Money didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
As they stepped out, the hallway was quiet—eerily so. The case had broken like a bat over the knee. Not because of mystery or intrigue. But because of pride. Ego. And a man who couldn’t handle losing control over his own narrative.
Just like the unwritten rule said: you don’t bunt in the ninth to break up a perfect game.
But Rawls had.
And Jack Money had answered with one final swing.
As they stepped out of the interrogation room, a deputy leaned in, eyes still wide.
“Hey, can EDA track down a guy’s whole family tree?”
Jim kept walking. “Given enough data—sure.”
The deputy gave a low whistle. “Man… that’s creepy.”
Jim offered a half-smile. “So is a flashlight… if you’re holding it right.”
EDA turned slightly, voice calm. “Good night, Deputy.”
The hum of the bullpen felt different tonight.
Jim Shore sat at his desk, EDA closed and silent beside him. Around him, the usual shuffle of reports, cold coffee, and quiet conversations moved like a low tide. But for the first time in weeks, the current felt still.
Across from him, Mark Reynolds finished tapping out his report. “Funny,” he said, stretching. “After all that, it ends with checkboxes and signatures.”
Jim offered a small smile. “Every story becomes paperwork eventually.”
The confession was logged. Surveillance synced. The stadium footage had confirmed the rest. Money’s voice on the audio—slurred, bitter, bragging—was the final thread in a tangled web of pride and broken trust.
Mark leaned back. “You sticking around?”
Jim shook his head. “Nah. I’ve got a date with Section 112 tomorrow.”
Mark grinned. “Family all in?”
“Tim’s counting the hours. Leigh already packed her stuffed Orca. Lisa… yeah, she’s in. It’ll be good.”
Mark paused, watching his friend. “You think they’ll understand what really happened?”
Jim glanced down at his scuffed wristwatch. “They don’t have to. They just need to know the truth matters—and that sometimes, it wins.”
A knock interrupted them. Deputy Sanchez stepped in with a file. “Final warrant paperwork, Shore.”
Jim signed it without a word. As Sanchez left, he muttered, “That EDA thing still creeps me out.”
Mark chuckled. “Only if you’ve got something to hide.”
Alone again, the two detectives sat in a rare, comfortable silence.
Mark finally stood. “You know, I didn’t expect this one to crack.”
Jim rose too. “Neither did Money.”
They exchanged a brief nod. It wasn’t triumph. It was something quieter—earned.
Outside, the station lights cast long shadows. Jim slid behind the wheel of his car, exhaled, and looked up at the faint stars above Orange County.
Tomorrow, the stadium would be bright. Loud. Whole again.
But tonight, the quiet was enough.
Case closed.
The sun dipped low over Orange County, casting a golden hue across the stadium. The stands were filled with fans dressed head-to-toe in the home team’s colors—orange and white. Orcas jerseys and caps were everywhere. There was a feeling in the air that this wasn’t just any game—it was a return, a restoration.
In Section 112, Row G, the Shore family was seated: Jim, then Tim, then Leigh, then Lisa.
Jim wore his white Orcas jersey with orange lettering and a matching cap, sitting with a quiet pride. Tim had the same number on his jersey—7—and was bouncing with anticipation. He leaned forward constantly, trying to catch a glimpse of the players warming up.
Leigh, nestled between her older brother and her mom, clutched her stuffed Orcas with both arms. Her orange cap slid a little too low over her forehead, but she refused to let anyone adjust it again. Lisa smiled, gently brushing Leigh’s shoulder and soaking in the energy of the crowd.
The PA system crackled. “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise and remove your caps for the singing of our national anthem.”
Bryan Duncan stepped forward near home plate, microphone in hand. His smooth, soulful voice carried through the ballpark, wrapping the crowd in a reverent stillness as he sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Everyone stood. Jim rested a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Lisa took Leigh’s hand. The anthem began, the stadium hushed, and for a moment, it was as if last night had never happened.
As the final note rang out and the cheers surged back to life, the players took their positions on the field. The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, introducing the Orcas one by one. The crowd roared with every name.
Detective Mark Reynolds stood quietly a few rows down, blending into the crowd in a plain polo and jeans. He turned as Jim made his way over to him in the concourse.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Jim said.
Mark smirked. “Had to see the result of all that work. You were right. It wasn’t about stats. It was about people.”
Jim gave a small nod. “Truth always wins. Even in the ninth.”
Mark looked toward the field. “So… Monday morning?”
“Absolutely,” Jim said. “But this time, donuts are on you.”
Mark chuckled and disappeared into the crowd. Jim turned back toward Section 112.
Back in their row, the first batter stepped to the plate as Jim slid into his seat.
Leigh clutched her Orcas tighter and pointed. “There they are!”
Tim leaned toward his dad. “Do you think we’ll win?”
Jim put an arm around his son. “We already did.”
Lisa smiled softly and rested her hand on Jim’s. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
He nodded. “It feels right.”
As the pitcher wound up and the ball sailed toward home plate, the family sat shoulder to shoulder, caps on and eyes forward.
The past was behind them.
The truth was out.
And the Orcas were back where they belonged.