Free Dead Ball by R. D. Rosen

note, then hung the head from his garage ceiling.”
    “Any evidence there’s more than one person involved?”
    “Not yet. Why?”
    “Two or more, and it falls under possible FBI jurisdiction. Title 18, U.S. Code 241, Conspiracy against Rights.”
    “Right now we’re not trying to shine a big light on it. It could just be some asshole showboating.”
    “Who knows about it?”
    “The team’s top management and me, basically.”
    “They haven’t gone to the locals?”
    “No. I’m their insurance policy right now against having to open the thing up to a public viewing. That’s why I need you.”
    “Well, go on, give me my marching orders.”
    “First of all, can you get on the Web while I’m baby-sitting and find out everything you can about Negro lawn jockeys, especially cast-iron ones—who still makes them, who distributes them in Rhode Island, any news stories or legal cases involving lawn jockeys? This one’s about two feet tall, goes about fifty pounds. He’s hunched over, wearing a red vest and cap, and he’s holding a hitching ring in his extended right hand. His head is a caricature—bulging eyes, obsequious grin. You still have access to FBI databases?”
    “I’ve got a friend in the BAU, but the bureau frowns on the abuse of database privileges.”
    “Doesn’t it count for anything that you’re a proud member of the Society of Ex-Special Agents?”
    “Yeah. That and six dollars will get me an FBI souvenir key ring. I don’t like to call in too many favors, Harvey. It puts my buddy at risk.”
    “Oh, for chrissakes, Jerry, I’m feeding you data the FBI can use in their profiling.”
    “But it’s not their case.”
    “Some day it might be theirs. I just need to run with it for a while.”
    “Well, tell me what you want,” Bellaggio said, wheezing.
    “I need to know about any right-wing or racist activity in southern New England, especially groups or incidents where death threats involving lawn jockeys or other segregationist symbols are the signature. Also anybody in southern New England currently under federal surveillance for suspected hate crimes.”
    “All right. Let me see if I can get my buddy to tap in for you. What about the note?”
    “What about it?”
    “Is it handwritten or typed?”
    “Neither. Cut-out letters from magazines.”
    “Did you know that ninety percent of those are written by the so-called victims themselves?”
    “You’re kidding,” Harvey said.
    “Nope. It’s a curious fact, since the bad guys would be better off using that technique, but for some reason they insist on writing or typing them themselves. Bureau’s got a huge repository of death threats and ransom notes to draw on, but cutouts aren’t going to help you.”
    “In any case, I seriously doubt that Moss Cooley sent himself a decapitated lawn jockey with a note telling him to lay off DiMaggio’s streak. He doesn’t need publicity that bad.”
    “No, I suppose not. So where do I reach you?”
    “I’ll be on the fly, Jerry, so use my cell phone number the minute anything lights up.”
    On the way out of the house, he gave Mickey’s ass a fierce squeeze, and she gave him two sheets of computer downloaded printout, folded in thirds, saying, “Read this before you see Cooley today.”
    As Harvey drove from Boston to Providence, there was a moment—it was soon after he hit the straight leg of 95 that began around Norwood and shot south to Rhode Island’s capital—when he felt like he was passing through a membrane from one world to another. It was hard to explain to others, the uncanny feeling he had about Providence, that it existed in another place and time. Maybe it went back to his childhood outside Boston. Providence was only fifty miles away, yet he had never gone there as a boy. It lurked on the edge of his awareness, like an aunt too eccentric to visit. That he had finished his playing career there, in the costume jewelry capital of America, only enriched its personal