The killer lay alone in his bed, his head propped on his wadded pillow so he could see the TV on the mass-produced antique dresser facing the foot of the bed. He watched the umpire simply stand with his fists on his hips, staring off toward left field. Threats seemed to fall flat even before they reached him. The big-screen TV was tuned to a Mets game with the Houston Astros. A pop-fly ball that should have been caught had dropped between two Mets outfielders near the foul line, allowing an Astros player on third base to score a go-ahead run. Replays showed that the ball was clearly foul. The umpires, besieged by Mets players and the Mets manager, stood their ground and seemed to have minds focused elsewhere. The two players who had muffed the play stood off to the side as if they were lepers. Nothing was going to change the umpires’ decision. They turned in unison and walked away from the apoplectic Mets. Every Mets fan in the ballpark moaned as if they’d been stabbed in the heart.
