The Franklin Apartment

(February 2020)

My next story ran on the day that pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training. While those players are stretching and doing their half-hearted calisthenics, my story was winging its way through the sports world with perhaps a bit more precision. It was an exposé of the most pointed type, a classic hit-piece. And I decided to cash in a lot of my street-cred to ensure it found its way to fan blogs and news sources in every baseball city across the globe–including Cuba, Amsterdam, Dayton, and Texas–all of which will, of course, receive expansion teams next year.

I should note here that throughout these past couple months, I had run several pieces about Japanese baseball, and steering moderately clear of the investigation. Just dropping a hint here or there when we needed something. Mostly fluff, really, mostly just getting my feet under us. But Yuni and I decided that with MSB on the run from pretty much everyone, we needed to do something a bit more dramatic to turn the heat up on him.

So this story of mine … well. This one outlined specific requests the investigation team had been making to Ichihara’s international partners that asked for groups of inspectors associated with the case to be given access to bank records and receipts of various accounts MSB was now known to be using (the numbers of which, of course, we had now after chasing down the data out of Russia). I named names, and I identified who was benefiting from the refusal. In this case, those benefactors were almost certainly a collection of most definitely bad guys who were busy silently controlling much of the middle east and the eastern seaboard of Africa–which by now had become considerably more of an international player than most gave them credit for.

I told the world that baseball money was going into guns and rockets and land mines that were undoubtedly blowing up kids and mothers and grandparents. I pulled no punches. And while I stretched the boundaries of what we knew for certain, it wasn’t had to go from A to B to C.

While the story was in release, Yuni finally agreed to take me up to Saitama prefecture to see the “Shannon Franklin” apartment. By that, I mean the apartment MSB used while he was holding down his role with the Kawaguchi Transmitters.

This was Ichihara’s home turf, and he talked to me in quite animated terms about his time following the Transmitters. It would be tough for him to leave them, I saw. But it was now inevitable. At one point he blew the final smoke from his cigarette out the window, then tossed the butt. He sat silently, and I could see that inevitability etched in his jawbone. Yuni Ichihara was a good guy, in the end. A bit rigid, and prone to silly sense of humor when you got him out of the office. This job was killing him, though. Chasing down the guy who was responsible for the loss of his team.

“You’ve got to kick that habit,” I said.

“Again.”

“Maybe I can see about taking you to a couple games in the US,” I said all of a sudden.

“You would do that?”

“Sure. I can always get passes.”

“It won’t be the same.”

“No, it won’t. But the game will move on, and maybe even be better in some ways.”

He nodded.

Outside, the spring rain began to fall, and he kicked on the windshield wipers.

I didn’t see anything “new” in the Franklin apartment. In fact, with the obvious exception of architectural differences, the place felt just like the Cooper apartment. Orderly in its way, with clothes well folded and stored, but other areas–like the kitchen cabinets–out of control and haywire.

He had installed a huge TV across one wall, and the plants that he had scattered around the area were still growing well in their plastic realities.

He even had a sports memorabilia wall, again cram packed with a massively wide array of teams and sports and leagues.

“Nothing here,” Ichihara said as we left.

I didn’t say anything, and Yuni picked up on that fact.

“What is it?”

I couldn’t say, so I just shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. Something feels odd, though.”

On the way back to the investigation’s home base, I told him more about the PEBA and gave him some of the inside dirt on the story he had already read. He asked about Don-o, and I told him the truth–that I hadn’t heard from him since the note. Then we talked about the LRS and spring training. It was clear I had a lot to learn about Japanese baseball.

“We will go to spring game,” ichihara said.

“That sounds great.”

He smiled and gave that lurching laugh of his. “Yes, it will be very much great. Part of the investigation!”

When we got out of the car, one of Ichihara’s assistants came running toward us.

“What is it?” he said.

“Your story,” came the reply. “The banks have all released the account balances of the accounts in question.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes. Apparently none of them wanted to be aligned to the baby killers.”

“How much?”

“Zero yen, sir. The accounts are all empty.”