|
This was originally three stories, which I am melded into one mystery. Written in 1980-1, Król and Hough take on the syndicate
in State College, but even with the help of the federal government, they succeed a pyrrhic victory.
| "I'll wait for you, Buddy. |
|
| I want you to remember that!" |
"George, put the station on. This deejay seems to be messing up Concert Billboard."
I was also quite inquisitive, so I flipped the switch on the console to find out how well this new guy was announcing. "John
Cougar" just had to wait. Besides, I was soon to go on myself, and I could use all the help I can get.
Just a few second proved Dan Toft had been correct.
"He's not giving the dates in the right order," Michelle Coles affirmed the suspicion.
"What can we do? We'll have to wait until he goes off exposure," I reminded everyone.
"Michelle, you're the program director this term. You go in," Toft concluded.
"By the way," I interrupted with obsequiousness. "When am I going to get some work to do? I looked in the file cabinets for
the third time this week, and there is still nothing."
"Michelle, he's off," Toft blurted while ignoring my question. As Coles sallied out of the room, I stared at Toft. His boyish
and mischievous blue eyes twinkled, and his mouth curved upward, pulling up his beard. I had known that facetious grin.
"Okay, I'll make something up, but I do want some practice."
In a nonverbal agreement, Toft's locks bounced up and down.
Breaking through the exchange, the station door creaked open, and in stepped the smiling face of Bill Landers, a graduate
in marketing at the university last May and now a discjockey at a downtown FM station. He used to be one of the students at
the station.
Before either of us acknowledged Landers's presence, Coles burst out of the door from the control room. With an air mixed
between satisfaction and disgust, Coles sputtered, "I think he had it now, but I find it hard to get through to him."
I could see the frustration because Coles's countenance reddened in the dearth of national light of the operations room. I
averted the gaze by glancing at the clock in the control room.
"I hate to disturb anyone, but where is the jazz jock? It's five to noon, and it is Wednesday. Does Brian Minors do it today?"
Before I said anything more, Minors floated in from the hallway. He must have been reading our minds.
"Never mind that. -- Just get the jock to put on a long cut," Minors retorted. He wiped off his eyeglasses, pulled at his
curly butterscotch hair, nervously grabbed a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, and moved his 1.75-meter frame toward the
jazz cabinet.
"Am I still on for today?" I quizzed about the board training he'd promised me two weeks earlier.
As he passed me from behind, Minors answered, "Wait until I settle down. Perhaps by one thirty, I'll cut you in."
With that termination of our conversation, I turned the phonograph back on for Chicago XIV. Both Toft and Coles left the room
for production work, and Landers sauntered over to my table and broached, "We didn't get that album in yet."
"How about John Cougar's "Nothing Matters and What If It Did?" I asked, pointing at the album I had just labeled.
"No, but I haven't seen the mail from today yet."
"What're the tapes for?" I inquired, now observing the towering frame over me. Landers was tall at 1.86 meters, but I was
sitting as I asked about the tapes.
Landers's cerulean eyes peered out from under a pile of golden sepia hair, which spilled over attached lobed ears to his shoulders.
His forears had earbrows down to mouth level and a nosebrow hung beneath a long proboscis. His smile produced serpentine dimples
along cheeks ravaged by puberty.
"I'm now working fultime for XRR," he answered.
"Very good. When do you start?" I quizzed while offering a nearby chair for sitting.
"Next week from 1 to 6 AM."
I could feel my eyes light up. "Well, I guess I'll listen whenever I have insomnia."
Then we delved into expatiations of which I did the more of the talking. I finished my work, and Minors gave me an almost
useless board training. I knew the entire board, and I learned very little for the time spent. However, such perfunctory motions
were prerequisites toward getting on the air.
I then trudged home, fighting the thirty-degree heat up North Atherton Street. It appeared an ordinary Wednesday in July until
I arrived at the complex. While I was walking part the apartment of the neighbors, I noticed peripherally that the door was
ajar. When I put down my mail to open my door, I realized the door next down had been forced open and there was someone inside!
At least in hindsight that was the case. At the time, I'd thought nothing of it. The thieves must have detected my presence
when I rattled my key in my door, for they sallied out the nearby room before I even had a chance to put on my stereo.
I heard Janice, the secretary of the oil company which owned the exmotel, demand what they were doing there. I peeked out
my window over the aircond and managed to procure a glimpse of the perpetrators as they scurried to their car parked right
in front of my room. Unfortunately, I could not see the license plate because of the bushes. Some maintenance men chased the
fleeting vehicle to no avail.
As I opened my door, I saw Janice's going into the room. I stood on the porch as she went inside, but I could see that they
had ransacked the place. Obviously, the thieves knew the tenants did not live in the apartment during the weekdays. Of course!
I strolled over to the room next door and on the other side of the theft.
Tony wasn't home. I didn't need to knock, because his ultramarine Chevrolet was absent from the parking lot. In my mind's
eye, I saw that canary yellow Chrysler Horizon.
I suppose I had seen that car in my mind for quite a long time. I went back into the room and sat in my big green armchair,
but it was suppertime before I could think of anything else. Obviously, they must have been watching the place for the last
week.
It seemed as if the whole incident would pass by without a trace. The police dismissed it as a third-rate burglary. "These
must have been professional who just miscalculated," I thought. They found nothing in the place, but they took nothing. The
occupants were rarely there, so what was the reason? It was a clue for later encounters.
However, the following Sunday morning I dropped by the station on my way downtown. I walked upstairs, and to my surprise,
the door to the operations room was ajar. The lights were out, but natural light gave the room a dreary look.
Almost absent mindedly, I walked to the control room and found it locked. Well, at least they have some brains, I thought.
I strolled into the music library, thinking the discjockey must be somewhere. The room was quite a bit darker because the
drapes were drawn over the only window.
Then it became even darker. I could hear voices and running. It all seemed like an LSD trip, but then I became aware of the
cold maroon carpet on which I was lying prone.
I kept quiet about the incident, thinking I had surprised burglars, and again, nothing was missing. I left the station without
encountering anyone else. I felt an intuition that the two incidents were linked, but how? I left the whole problem bubble
in my subconscience.
"What's the matter, buddy?" I heard behind me. I whorled around and smiled at Don Hough. He was a handsome, dark-haired man
with whom I shared the solutions of many mysteries.
"Don, I'm involved in a mystery of burglaries in State College, but I don't want to bother you."
Don's hazel eyes lit up. "Tell me about it."
I narrated what I knew.
"George, this sounds like something related to what I'm doing right now. The police have contacted me about the mystery we
solved nearly two years ago. I think you called it 'The Arrogant Agriculturist'".
"Yes, it was a play to take over a farm," Don added.
"The State College police think the syndicate was behind it. Could it be behind these burglaries?"
Don reached up and patted my back. "Well, why don't we find out? You keep an eye out at the station and the former motel.
I'll check with my contacts."
The following Tuesday night concluded the enjoyable Red Dog Saloon, an oldies show at the station. The Discjockey, Joe Brian
Peters, his cosmic aide Ray Crony, and I performed our usual shticks and farces. Toward the end of the show, I noticed someone
new in the control room when I returned. When I inquired, Peters merely introduced him as Dave Lurkey. I scrutinized Lurkey
as if I had had an unconscious familiarity with him.
He stood about 1.80 meters, mass around 85 kilograms. His flaxen curly hair topped an eyeglassed face with a somatotonic chin
and protruding ears. When we shook hands, I definitely felt a cool and stressed metabolism. Anyway, Lurkey soon left the control
room, and I asked Peters what he had wanted.
"Oh, nothing much. He'd like to become a deejay and asked me about sitting in to watch me run the board."
I did not think anything of it as a possible connection between a new member and the burglary two days earlier.
"Even though the burglars took nothing from the station, I wouldn't dismiss it as a prank," Don advised. "Remember they'd
slugged you when you discovered them."
I became familiar with Lurkey in production. I was in a class, and Lurkey had been a reluctant learner. That summer I had
production the management continued to ignore. I was too busy on the alert to be discouraged.
I stopped bugging about production any more than badgering about announcing. I graduated that August into graduate school,
but the personnel at the station changed with the new school year.
I celebrated my assistantship and new opportunities that first week as the old management left. A radical alteration occurred
only ten days later. I was in the laundromat a short distance from home on a Friday night. Next door, under the same management,
was a Majak Mart, one of a chain around State College.
I had gone into the store to change a five for the four quarters in needed to operate the machine. I placed the quarters
into the two washers and walked out back. It was already dark at eight o'clock. I stood staring at the trees in deep contemplation
about my immediate future for at least twenty minutes. Then I realized I hadn't checked my wallet for quarters for the dryer.
Under the streetlight in the back of the parking lot, I found none -- only nickels and dimes.
A bit upset, I strolled along the laundromat side of the building and turned the corner. I would have continued, but just
as I circumvented, I had placed my wallet in my front pocket and looked up to see that same yellow Chevrolet Horizon. Instinct
of self-preservation seized me and pulled me back around the side. At the same time, they gang ran out of the store, jumped
into the car, and roared out of sight. Even getting as close as I dared, I still missed the license plate. All I could decipher
was that it was a Pennsylvania plate.
By the time I arrived in the store, the proprietor was calling the police. They had held her up out of brute strength, but
she had escaped unscathed. However, neither she nor I could describe the brigands, for they had covered their faces with stockings.
I never did get my quarter, so I took home damp clothes.
Final examinations arrived with the new week, so I had little time to worry about the miscreants. Furthermore, the police
were no better off, and that's their job!
Friday brought the last of the term and the finals. It was a sad affair; longtime deejay Todd Jiffers was leaving, so I went
by the professional station and waved farewell through the glass window from the outside.
I walked uphill to see "The Empire Strikes Back" for the third time later that evening. I was celebrating the the end of the
term and graduation. I emerged two hours hours later still dazzled.
I decided to visit Bill Landers, who was working the wee hours of late summer. It was so late that I slowly passed the window
and waved. I didn't want to disturb the AM jock, so I want around the building the long way past another Majak Mart opened
all night.
I began making my way toward the correct path in the darkness. I saw from the corner of my eye that same Horizon. I retreated
around the corner. Landers waved to me again, but I could see on the expression on his face that my countenance had betrayed
my sudden realization. I crossed the AM window fully aware of four eyes upon me. The audacity -- they were holding up the
Majak Mart next to the two stations!
The AM deejay had stepped out, so I tried to transfer the signal to call the police. Then a wan flash of fear grappled my
body. The other pair of eyes was in the car! Instant oscillation won over the choices of ducking into the shadows or scurrying
out of there. Fortunately, I did choose to compromise. -- I jumped into the darkness and behind a parked car.
I just had to get the license number! I slid under the wain and peered around the one parked next to it. It was the closest
I could get unseen. The thieves flew out of the store like disturbed bats in a cave, but this time I procured the number.
I pulled out of my position, signaled to the nonplussed Landers that I was going into the store, and I bolted toward it. They
were rougher with the male keeper, but I untied him after summoning the police.
This time I had a bit of pride in my ability to describe the car, the clothing of the masked perpetrators, and that the getaway
driver had seen me. The police offered to drop me off at home, but I accepted a ride only to Atherton Street as they chased
their lead.
"They must be looking for a place to dump the car," I thought, "probably out of town". It served them right. I continued to
contemplate while walking up North Atherton Street, feeling perfectly safe as the traffic of the interstate highway passed.
It was only a matter of time before they are caught.
Despite the time of night, there were many cars. As I approached a gasoline station, I thought I'd seen a yellow Horizon.
"It couldn't be," I thought. Just before I dismissed the possibility from my mind, a loud screech shattered the thought.
The next building along the highway was the exmotel complex where I lived. My options were limited. Crossing the highway wouldn't
help because the stores on the opposite side blocked escape, let alone the risk of crossing the highway. Had I been farther
down the highway, I would have had woods and a suburb into which I could duck. The only possibility of evasion was to get
home and hope they don't know where I live.
Some one hundred meters ahead, the yellow specter curved a U-turn while I made a mad dash toward the station itself. My worn
sneakers pounded the asphalt as I sprinted around the lighted side of the station. The welcome embrace of darkness made it
difficult for my eyes to adjust to the obstacles in my way.
A distant lamplight outlined the oil drums, some over a meter in diameter and almost two meters in length. As I passed the
cylinders, I heard the gravel rush off my feet and the Horizon screech to a stop. Some of the occupants alit the vehicle on
the highway front of the building, but I could not make out any of them.
Then I saw the yellow wain streak past me up the highway. They were going to cut me off at West Aaron Drive, just past the
complex. By this time, I reached the tan and sepia exmotel. I couldn't risk going around the front way and exposing my refuge,
so the only way was through the bathroom window.
Only slackening slightly, I raced for my window. Fortunately, the red Ford pickup truck was parked underneath my escape hatch.
Just when I jumped on the bed and pushed up the screen. I heard the double-sickening sound of my pursuers' running into an
oil drum and of a roaring car's turning the corner on the other side of the complex.
I delved into my bathroom headfirst, grabbing onto the sink and pulling my feet in. Just as I closed the screen, I saw the
car stop on Aaron Drive, blocking the back driveway. Laborious huffing and puffing betrayed my pursuers. Two jumped out of
the car and raced toward the other two in the driveway I had just deserted. Only a distant dog's barking desultorily interrupted
them.
"Did you see him at all?"
"No. Did you?"
"I'm sure that was the one who'd seen us!'
I peered through the darkness to see they were only fifteen meters away! Moreover, I recognized the voices, but I couldn't
make them out.
"Never mind. We've cops on our tails. How do we ditch this car?"
"Let's take the red pickup."
I felt my fear grip my entire body, but the back porch light three doors down went on. I had to duck the open window to remain
unseen.
"Let's get out of here!"
With that remark, the four fled into the vehicle, and it turned around back to Atherton Street. I slipped out of the washroom,
through my room, and peered out my door. The car headed back toward town.
Satisfied they had given up their chase, I dialed the familiar number, reported the direction and license again. Sleep grabbed
my head as my fear left me, so I slipped off my clothes, flopped into my double bed in pajamas, and fell asleep exhausted.
The next morning, my clock radio arose me with the very music of XRR. No sooner had the morning drowsiness disappeared when
I heard the news of the capture of the local burglary gang. I then heard the names of the gang. James Starr? Of course, the
one who had been misreading the script that day at the station. Dave Lurkey? Yes!
I shook my head, but I was awake. Sometimes reality is stranger than fiction. I concluded as I showered to drown my surprise.
Those were the voices I'd heard last night!
It turned out that we didn't find out why they had been working at the station. Two months later, we discovered that there
had been a cynical reason and a greater danger to me and to Don.
The weeks passed as I settled into my assistantship. I assumed the brush with local thugs had nothing lingering. My time at
the station revolved around classical music.
The wind howled as the rain bombed colorful leaves off the trees. An October night, the first night of standard time, acted
like November. It had followed a cloudy, cheerless, and short day, portending an early winter. I sat in my room all day, while
working with my stereo as a background distraction.
It was almost 9 PM, the first day of the shift, when the farspeaker rang. Somewhat oblivious, I struggled to my feet as answered
on the fourth ring.
"George, this's Don," a cheerful voice greeted.
"Don, what's up?"
"I want you to come to my place fast."
"But Don, I really don't..."
"Never mind. I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Don must have realized I had no vehicle," I thought as I hung up. Barbra Streisand hadn't finished the first side when Don
knocked on the door.
"George, we have a job to do!" Don continued as if he really hadn't stopped talking.
Curiosity overtook me. "Where?"
"At the Bás Farms."
"Don, that's abandoned land!"
The local police consider it a connection for organized crime, and they need trustworthy sleuths to check it out."
I knew that look in Don's green eyes.
"Okay," I concluded, putting my hand on his shoulder. "When do we go?"
"Tonight"
"In your van, I suppose," as I grabbed my black and red jacket and headed toward the door.
"Aren't you going to put your shoes on?"
I felt my face rouge as I looked down at my slippers.
In fifteen minutes, we arrived at the Bás Farms. The rain had halted, but the wind kept its presence.
"What are we looking..." I began.
"At this point, I'm not so sure."
I could feel the wind sneak up from the left side and blow my hair in the wrong direction. We left the van and approached
the gate. It groaned and creaked under the might of the wind.
Don motioned me toward the abandoned barn. The moon had not yet made an appearance, so the barn silhouetted a cloudy sky.
The back door screeched when Don opened it. Inside the stalls felt cold even though I made no physical contact with them.
However, the absence of the wind improved it.
Groping in the dark, we reached open barn. An empty hayloft sat above us as we entered the room.
"There's something," Don whispered.
Peering through the dark, I could see what looked like a pile of hay against the vertical slits of light from outside. Then
something else came from outside. A flash of light momentarily revealed the pile to be a poorly concealed stack of boxes --
crates.
Don beat a hasty retreat. "C'mon, George, we're getting out of here!"
In my haste, I bumped into something quite solid with my right shoulder. A crate crashed just missing me. Bewildered, I grabbed
one of the plastic packages and placed it in my pocket.
Apparently, the mishap had alerted the ones outside. Fortunately by this time, Don had opened the back door, so I could scurry
out of there. We ran full speed toward the van fully aware of our pursuers. Don gunned the motor as I jumped in from the right
side. The car by the barn came to life, but it was still too far away to be on our tail.
We reached the main road before it had caught up to our parking space. Don quickly went top speed into a fork in the road.
He swerved down the left side for a half kilometer, then he pulled off twenty meters into the woods, turned off the lights,
the motor, and waited. Our placidity remained only ten seconds when a black Continental raced by us, barely making the curve.
Don counted to ten, back up to the road, and moved back to the fork.
"That was a taste of the syndicate," he answered my question before I vocalized it. Then the van calmly took to the right
side of the fork.
"Do you think they saw who we were?"
"No, it was just too dark. Anyway, my suspicion was correct. I'll take you home, and we'll call it a night."
No sooner had I opened the door when Don raced for the telephone. He suggested that the police get a warrant for that barn
immediately.
"Thanks, George, that was one of the easiest jobs we're ever done", he smiled as he embraced my back with his right arm.
"But I didn't do anything," I protested.
"You got them to chase us which proved my theory."
I returned the embrace. "I wouldn't haven't wanted to do it with anyone else."
Both of us knew he had needed me as a witness. He was going to headquarters to swear an oath for the warrant.
With that he walked out the door, started up his van, and left the driveway. I just shook my head as I changed into my pajamas.
We always worked well together. I pulled the covers over and set the clock. It all seemed so fast. It was now just past 11
PM. I set the timer to turn off and was soon asleep to the music of WXRR.
I had slept so heavily that night that my sleep was dreamless. Some strange feeling awakened with me to the alarm. It seemed
as if the entire episode had been a dream! I headed for the shower to be sure.
A few days later, the telephone rang on a Wednesday night just as I walked in.
"George, it's Don. Are you doing anything early tomorrow morning?"
"No, but what's wrong?"
"Our theory is blown. We must meet the police at Bás Farms at 9 AM. I'll pick you up around 8:30."
"I'll be ready."
Fortunately, I was able to put my questions into the back of my mind until I was in Don's van.
"All that stuff has vanished from the barn," Don answered my question. "Apparently they were scared stiff and took off within
an hour after we'd left."
Sure enough, when we returned to the barn, the place was totally devoid of anything. -- Even the hay had been removed.
"I underestimated the syndicate," Don confessed as he kicked at the floorboards in the place where I had fallen. "They must
have had so little in this remote place to fill a truck quickly."
"Typically, the work of the syndicate," a voice confirmed Don. The police who had accompanied us to the search had a tail,
the person who had spoken. I peered at a 1.80-meter figure of brown hair and eyes, a round clefted chin, and a thin nosebrow.
"I'm Don Hough," Don replied, extending his hand.
"I'm afraid there's nothing anyone can do now," the figure told the police while ignoring Don. "I suggest we all leave."
"Hey, fella, what're you doing here?" I said using Don's irritation.
"Huh," he answered. "You must be the two sleuths whom the police used to check this place out."
Bewildered, I could only reply with a weak, "Yeah".
"Well, I have a lead I'm going to check out. Maybe I'll see you boys later."
As soon as he slammed the barn door, I blurted, "Backpfeifengesicht."
"Agreed. Shall we follow him?"
We took the back door out and watched him get into an American Motor Le Car. "Probably because it's easier to handle in,"
I thought.
Half an hour later, we were still following the ruddy vehicle, apparently still without his knowledge. Then suddenly he took
a turn which we attempted to match. However, the car seemed to vanish.
Don screeched to a halt. The cold morning air revealed not a sound as we scanned the horizon. We had lost him! Silently, we
got back into the car, turned around, and went home.
Later that evening, when I arrived home, I found him in my green chair.
"Welcome home, Król," he greeted.
I felt like throwing the egomaniac out, but something told me that there was a reason behind this madness.
"I'm Jim Walsh."
Without shaking hands, he continued. "I've examined both your records, and I think Hough and you can join me to conquer syndicate
influence in this area. As you can see, I did this only to prove my qualifications of a partnership."
I was dumfounded. "What did Don say?"
"Very good. We think alike. Hough!"
Don came out of the bathroom.
"He was waiting for me this afternoon at my place. What do you think?"
I walked between them and put my arms around their shoulders.
"Consider me your link."
Handshakes sealed the deal.
"Jim, what's your lead?" I recalled from earlier that day.
"Oh, I've already tried it, a cul-de-sac. I'd thought the new front had been two streets from here, but I was wrong."
I smiled and added," But you'll continue trying."
"We know that the syndicate is operating locally. They could have a front across the street for all we know," Jim pointed
to the gasoline station across the highway.
Then he looked at Don.
"Come on, I'll drive you home."
I hadn't seen any strange cars in the front driveway, and I found out why. Walsh had parked it in the back under my bathroom
window, which explained how they got in.
I called headquarters about that lead and discovered it still quite plausible. A single proprietor motel had been putting
up known syndicates quite regularly. I began regular spying upon the front of the place from across the highway.
Soon these syndicate visitors that headquarters suspected came at regular hours -- always around midnight. If we could only
find some way to connect these visits with syndicate activity with the motel!
Then I noticed the pattern. They rented the same place every time. I had to snoop a few times to piece it together. I notified
Don, and soon both of us were alternating watches. He also snooped, and the target was room thirty. Either they rented the
room by midnight or to someone else after midnight.
"George, you're amazing," Don lauded as he placed his right arm around my shoulders while holding his binoculars in his left.
"Buddy, you've outdone Walsh just by running a lead further from this hill across Atherton Street."
"Don, it's midnight, and that room has not been rented out. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Right. Let's go get my van."
We returned in five minutes. I had thought about waiting there until Don had come back, but we knew that the room we wanted
was the only one available. The "no" on the "No vacancy" sign just went off when we left, and it was still off when we returned.
The proprietor looked at us a little suspiciously when we told him specifically a room that just happened to be the only one
available, and we would get our luggage later. We went into room thirty where so many bosses had stepped.
We spent the first hour in the room looking into every nook and cranny for evidence.
"They didn't leave us anything, but we surely are going to," Don stated.
We placed the bugs in the best places ever -- under the radiator of the shower room. Just in case they found it or closed
the door to the main room, we put one under the other radiator. Dawn saw us leave with no sound, save for the noise of the
motor. We left before the morning crew had arrived.
"Now you monitor the one in the bathroom, I'll monitor the other radiator, and we'll bring Jim in with a fait accompli," Don
nudged. "He will be plenty mad."
But Jim's car was sitting outside my room when we returned. I hadn't had time to ask why when Jim opened the door and scolded,
"I cannot believe what you just did!"
"But--," we were nonplussed.
"When you bug a place, you must get a court order."
"We weren't going to use it as evidence," I began to protest.
"And you never use two bugs -- one will do. It's better to risk their going into the wrong room, rather having them leave
after discovering a bug! They may be alert to our stakeout!" he fumed, ignoring my objection completely.
"How did you know this?" asked Don, which broke Jim's harangue.
"Easily. I followed Król when he first showed up across the street on the hill overlooking the motel. Don't you guys have
respect for our stakeout, or at least for coördination?"
"Okay, Jim. We get the message; we accept the reprimand. What can we do now?" I practically begged.
Walsh replied quickly. "Stake the place out carefully tonight at your position. One of you monitors, and the other watches.
I'll try to coördinate a spot within sight of you. Use hand signals to gain my attention and hope they don't find the bugs!
I'll see you tonight at midnight tonight. Rumor has it that narcotics and money are going to exchange in that room. They will
check the area before they dare exchange, so midnight must be the time."
The last sentence dropped upon us like a bombshell.
"How do you know?" I quizzed.
Walsh gave the same old nonchalance.
"I suggest you check your police contact."
That we did. Apparently, we were sitting atop the results of nearly a year's worth of trailing with the FBI involved! State
College was a great place to coördinate the entire operation in Pennsylvania, maybe even of the entire East Coast.
The following night near midnight, we lay on the hill overlooking the highway and the motel. This time, three characters in
a Continental appeared. Not ten minutes later, another Continental pulled in besides the original one. All this time I was
listening to the bugs which confirmed our suspicions.
"Don, they're going to make the exchange," I whispered.
"Go back to the van and call headquarters. I will give Walsh the signal to get ready and to move in," Don replied.
With that order, I headed down the hill. A quick look behind me revealed Don's standing up giving the signal. From the hill
across the highway, flashed a light thrice. I had been in big busts before, but never on a national level. Petty crooks do
not excite me, but this one certainly did. That spiritual omen proved right as Don's exposure when he gave the signal. An
autumnal breeze greeted my descent, but it did not chill me as much as this caper.
I slide onto the cold seat sideways and grabbed the microphone.
"Central code three, North Atherton Street," I repeated twice. On the last request, I received the reply, "Sleuth 12?"
I grabbed the microphone even harder.
"Roger, big deal in progress at number thirty -- three oh."
"We'll be there in a few minutes."
My excitement grew as I slid out of the van. I looked to see if Don had gone down to the highway. Jim had disappeared from
his position on the hill, so I assumed he had been closing in toward the motel.
However, when I climbed the hill, I couldn't see Don anywhere. Nonplussed, I strove over to the place we had lain. Then I
saw the tap thrown into some bare brush. Curiosity seized me, so I placed the earphone in and listened. They were in the process
of exchange. One side was testing the heroin, while the other counted the money.
I heard a groan, so I walked a few meters farther up the hill. There lay Don on the ground prone with the same breeze that
had teased me just minutes earlier playing with the back of his dark hair. In the light of the full moon, I turned him supine.
"George?" he queried in a weak voice.
"Don, what happened?" I asked as I sat down and placed his head on my lap.
"While you were gone, he surprised me from behind."
I searched in the direction of Don's nod and saw a cold silhouette of a syndicate killer's lying supine with the handle of
a knife sticking in its chest!
"Stabbed me in the aorta," answered the waning voice. "I managed to pull it out and got him in the heart."
First shock, then horror crossed my mind.
"Don, I'll get you an ambulance--"
"No, too late," came the answer from a man I thought I'd known since we were boys. He had a resigning look in his hazel eyes.
"George, Buddy, I want you to know something --"
Sirens broke off what I could never hear.
"The police have surrounded the building. They'll get these ringleaders for sure now," I told Don.
But Don grabbed my arms.
"I will wait for you; I want you to remember that."
He tried to pat my back, but his strength just failed. I must have sat there for several minutes after he had succumbed in
my arms. I felt so numb and drifted in thoughtless reverie until Jim broke me out of it.
"George, we got them all!" Jim reported. "This bust will set them back for months, for we got their dons."
Then he noticed my position better on closer approach.
"What happened?"
"When I left to call the police, a syndicate stabbed him. Don got him back; he's lying over there."
Jim moved to the figure of the killer.
"He's dead alright. It looks as if he'd died instantly."
I became hysterically furious.
"Is that all you can say? Don expired in my arms!"
I hadn't moved since it had happened. Don's stab wound was internal, so there was little blood externally.
"George," Jim said as he approached and placed his hand on my right shoulder. "You must let it go. We can pray for his soul
if you should want."
I could feel Don's body grow limp in the frosty air.
"You call the morgue. I just want to hold him a little longer."
After Jim left, I began soul searching.
"Oh, Don, how could I have left when I did? How did they know we were here? Did I make a mistake which cost you your life?"
I finally did the inevitable and placed him softly on the ground. The rest of the night blurred the following events. I took
a sedative to get to sleep that night.
I learned a bit of necrology from the experience. Don's parents and my mother shared some of my grief, but I felt as though
I still carried the lion's share. The autopsy report had the cause of death as perforation of the aorta causing massive hemorrhaging
of the inferior vena cava, which proved Don's diagnosis of his mortal wound correct.
Undertakers must make up their clients well Don's dark looks, and his dark straight hair looked as good as he did alive. I
touched his cold hands to be sure. As I knelt by the coffin and touched the bier, I vowed that I would carry on.
The jury found all the perpetrators guilty, but it seemed like small consolation. I lost my confidant, my buddy, my friend
of thirteen years. Jim changed my position into a vacation, so I'd have a few months off to recover. Little did I know I needed
the rest for the challenge with Jim Walsh and the conclusion of the case.
Don's death had caused more than just untold suffering for me. My sister had considered him a friend also, just how close
I never knew. She came for the funeral, which was quite a distance. I noticed that she had come alone. She promised to visit
me when the January cold separated the semesters of her college.
It was still a pitiful scene two months later. Although we saw each other that Thanksgiving and Christmas, the loss remained.
I even forwent a tree, which didn't matter because no one else sees my Christmas decorations.
When she came, I hadn't planned anything. She wanted to go bowling on a Saturday night, but I was not ready for crowds. She
had come for a wedding, so we centered our conversation on it when she returned.
"How did it go?"
"I had trouble finding the church; it's along this highway way about two kilometers up."
"When you said Lutheran, I'd thought you meant the Grace Lutheran Church downtown."
"I made it there just time for the reception."
At the time, we were walking along the Embassy Building towards a pizza place, although we weren't hungry. As we passed the
window of the control room of WXRR, I noticed Bill Landers was on the air. I waved, but as soon as I had, he stood up and
motioned us toward the doors leading into the building. We met him in the main office.
"Do you know any good places open tonight for skating?"
Landers queried in lieu of greeting us.
I was speechless as my sister.
"Jerry wants to..." Landers continued.
"Jerry Schanz?" my voice squeaked.
"Yes, would your sister like a date tonight?"
"Where is he?" I smiled in agreement.
Landers's eyes blued instantly.
"He'll be here in ten minutes when I get off work."
I looked at my watch, 8:50, "Okay we'll wait for him and you."
We sat down as he left.
Lori objected slightly, "How could you forget so quickly?"
"Look," I nudged. "I know you went out with Don the last time you were here."
I had a Kinokopf of Don's smiling face. His dark straight hair surrounded his head like a halo. As a lefty, he combined it
down the middle. I remember how short he was with hazel eyes, the fading dark freckles, and most importantly, the friendship
we'd shared for so many years. He was like a little brother to me. He had died on a cold, windy November night, and my disposition
had remained wintry with the weather.
"Didn't you have other dates back home and at college?" I tried to change the subject.
"Yes, and none clicked. They were perfunctory."
The sorrow must have dissipated rapidly when the outside station door opened. In stepped a golden brown-haired, blue-eyed
man from the past. Perhaps the most striking of his features was a small pointy nose, which outdid his eyes and teeth.
"Gerd!"
He was surprised to see me, and when we embraced, I noticed his hair was still parted on the left side, which was opposite
for a lefty, instead of the right side like mine.
"Who's this?" Schanz looked over at Lori.
"Your date to go skating," Landers announced.
Schanz was the same height as Don, around 1.70 meters, still taller than my sister.
That night we had a great time. I was the weakest of the bunch, and my height made the falling harder. It was 1:30 by the
time we reached home. Lori insisted on sleeping on the floor, so I slept in my double bed. The next day the ephemeral visit
was over.
I t was late June and the middle of summer term. Those months had passed like a spinning top. On the last Saturday, I received
the call.
"Król, it's Walsh. How'd you like to go to Stone Valley Lake for some business and pleasure?"
"What's up?"
"A simple job of spying -- nothing dangerous. I know how you must still feel."
"Will I get a chance to enjoy it?"
"Do you call boating boring?"
"I'll be ready in five minutes."
Five minutes later, I saw his scarlet Ford convertible pull into the motel driveway.
"Now explain the boating trip."
"We have a spying job while boating at Stone Valley," Walsh replied while boasting friendly eyes.
"On whom?"
It seems the city officials suspect a theft ring in the area be stealing from the tourists."
I smiled.
"At least it isn't dangerous. We're there to observe and not apprehend?"
"Yes, and we're there in a half hour."
The boat was a mere rowboat which we rented.
"Some luxury," I thought. "I'll be sunburned without enjoying it."
However, Walsh started rowing back when we reached Whipple's Dam.
"Why are we going back?" I felt bewildered.
"No, just a detour. The gang is operating elsewhere."
"How do you know?"
Elementary, My Dear Król. They're not here."
"Where do they usually operate?"
Jim smirked.
"I don't know. I'm going on intuition, for I've never seen them."
"You've never seen them?" I parroted. "Then they expect us to observe what we don't know."
"George," Jim said as he patted my back. "You should have expected this." Why do you think I included you? This case will
probably need both our skills."
I didn't know whether to be angry or flattered.
"How are we getting paid?"
"Much more if we located the ring. The authorities suspect that they are operating in this area."
We were just about to row back into the main body of the lake. Jim signaled me to row toward shore. We stepped out of the
boat, and Jim began to observe the shore.
I just stood there absent-minded in the sunshine. It was beautiful as I sat on a rock. from where I sat, a mélange of rocks
bordered the lake, and the grass grew right out to the lake. Approximately ten meters away, the woods ran into the background.
I didn't see Jim slip into the woods because I had a flashback of that horrible night. There I was praying for Don's soul
in the light of the full moon as he lay dead supine on the ground. I felt the tears again and his last words. Once again,
Jim broke my reverie.
"George, we must get out of here!" Jim yelled as he ran down the path toward me. He grabbed my arm, and I was in the boat
so fast that I had no time for reaction. We rowed furiously along the lake at least two meters a second.
Several figures rushed out to where I had been sitting on a rock during the flashback only a minute earlier. We were a good
hundred meters away when they started firing at us!
"Get you head down!" Jim commanded. "You make a good target even at this distance."
Our momentum carried us out of range. Fortunately, there were no boats nearby for them to pursue us.
"I thought you'd said that this job wasn't dangerous," I mumbled from my position.
"That's what my contact said. As soon as we get to a telephone, I'm quitting us from this job. They've seen us, and they'll
be long gone before law enforcement arrives."
"Our cover's certainly blown," I thought. "One of these days, I'm going to be smart enough to stay out of the spy business.
The thieves certainly won't stay around there now that they know we're wise to them."
So ended my brief encounter with the group at Whipple's Dam. I returned to my books and the college radio station."
My sister came back in August to meet Schanz, but he couldn't get away that weekend. It was Sunday, 9 August when she arrived.
"And what am I going to do today?" she snapped in frustration as we stood outside the hallway of Landers and Schanz's apartment
after we heard that Schanz wasn't coming. It was afternoon, so i suggest that we go home and eat. After we finished, I was
washing dishes at 2:30.
"What'll we do now?"
"You could go back," I answered while draining the dishes.
"It's too late, besides I don't want to drive 230 kilometers in 30ş heat."
"How about if we should go to Whipple's Dam?"
"It's too late also. We should've left two hours ago. How far is it?"
"11 kilometers. It's the local beach around here. One may swim in the dam itself."
"I have no bathing suit."
I recognized it was a losing battle.
"You could sit on the porch."
"And then what?"
"How'd you like to visit our station?"
"What's going on there?"
"Denice Sandy called a jock meeting for 7 PM Sunday nights."
After supper we left with a quick drive and walk of two and a half kilometers. It was the first time I ever went to the campus
accompanied during the three years I lived on North Atherton Street so far. We walked into the operations room twenty minutes
early.
Only the deejay was there. I noticed how Lori eyed each male who walked in. She seemed especially interested in one of my
colleagues, Garry White. He stood at about 1.75 meters and 70 kilograms with brown curly hair, a protruding nose and a cerebrotonic
manner.
"Who's this vision of loveliness?" he noticed as the meeting broke up. Soon Lori was elsewhere in the crowded room with him.
Ray Crony walked up to me and opined, "I think you started something by bringing her here."
My mixed feelings dominated the scene the rest of the night. The meeting was brief, but I had a difficult time dragging Lori
away.
That night my phone rand around ten. I was quite surprised that it was Walsh.
"We scared them away. Headquarters wants us to make sure so they can begin searching elsewhere."
"And how're we going to do that?"
"We're to wait until the sixth, four weeks from now, and snoop around."
I was going to protest my continued participation, but I didn't have time. Besides, the check got me through the month easily.
I finally added a piece of furniture to the room.
My sister returned the Labor Day weekend to visit Garry, who was leaving State College. I debated with myself that weekend
whether I should explain where I was going Sunday. About noon, Walsh called to pick me up. I explained my situation.
"Don't worry about it, George. We can take her along. She can provide some cover."
"How'd you like to go to Whipple's Dam?"
"May Garry come too? We're meeting at one."
I passed that information onto Walsh, who agreed to pick up at twelve thirty, so Lori called Garry to meet her then.
I felt silly with our charade, particularly the possible danger. Walsh assured me that the place's probably clean and that
we were just checking two months later. It had been raining all week, and the cloudiness persisted that day. We left Lori
and Garry alone along the dam as we slipped back to the place where we had been last.
We split up when we reached shore. Summer's slow slide showed in the weakness of the sun, the abundance of seeds and berries,
and the increased number of colored leaves. I must have walked a kilometer in the woods with a backpack before I started thinking
about going back.
It was then I came upon a camp. Peering through the foliage, I saw the gang had a well-concealed hideout. An abandoned cabin
served as a center for smuggling. So that was why headquarters wanted us to check on the place! As I learned later, we were
their last resort. After conventional methods failed to detect the gang in two months, headquarters allowed us to fall into
a possible trap.
Well, I had enough for both of us. It was time to expose the lot the same way I'd discovered him. It took me a little longer
to go back the kilometer as I did not wish to run across any of the gang accidentally. After twenty minutes, I came out of
the woods some fifty meters from where I'd gone in. However, I could see immediately something was wrong.
Jim was not on shore but rather sitting down in the water about ten meters from shore. A huge log, about three meters long
and two decimeters in diameter lay nearby.
"George, I'm trapped!" Jim called.
I waded there, but the log itself had been moving farther out. We were in two third meters deep, and Jim's legs were hooked
underneath the log and upon the bottom.
"I was about to go hunting for you when the crooks appeared. I attempted to hide the boat in the thicket and myself behind
the log."
"By then, we had drifted into meter-high depth for it covered my waist. I attempted to lift the trap, but even in water, the
mass was easily a hundred kilograms. Many crazy thoughts flashed in my mind. I thought about getting Garry, but then it would
be too late.
Then I thought about the possibility of the log once the water was deep enough.
"Jim, I'll have to give you resuscitation if you should go under. Let's get into the rhythm of it."
By then, the waterline was up to his neck. We managed to practice twice when the gang started running toward us with guns.
Shore split our distance of about fifty meters.
I quickly took shelter behind the log, but my backpack gave them a target. I could feel Jim help me push the log farther from
shore, although it caused him to go under. Double panic seized me as I realized I couldn't find him, and we were caught in
the stream while dodging bullets.
They had come as close as thirty meters when the log carried us away. Ironically, I was moving toward the spot I had left
my sister. The stream speed accelerated as I approached the dam all the time searching for Jim. The speed became too strong
for me to hang on the log.
I saw Lori and Garry at the top of the dam. I lost my grip and swam orthogonally toward shore. They had seen me, and I exhaustedly
pulled myself out of the water. I told them to call the police as I took off the backpack and collapsed on the beach.
"George," Garry called, "George!"
I felt a gentle slap in the face. My sister shook my legs. Garry looked at me with green turquoise eyes.
"The police will be here in five minutes. What'll we tell them?"
I slowly explained, still half conscious, the situation. I gave the location of the hideout before collapsing again.
I felt falling down a whirlpool. The centipedal force of the maelstrom sucked me down farther. Weird beings rotated in the
eddy. Then came darkness.
When I became conscious again, I found myself in a hospital bed. Garry and Lori were in the room and came to the side of the
bed.
"Where am I?"
Garry cracked a smile.
"Nothing to worry about. You'll be out in a day."
"Why am I here?"
"Apparently you didn't feel the bullet graze. What happened at the hideout?" Lori updated.
"I tried to move my right leg.
"Ouch!"
"Nor the sprain," Garry added.
After I explained what had happened, I questioned, "Did they catch the gang?"
"Just about all of them. They had escaped the raid last year, yet they were still trying to signal the syndicate through the
college radio station! They were cynical enough to think they could still find patsies to help them.
"The police caught about half of them at the hideout. Thanks to you their camouflage failed. Then the captives ratted out
the others," Lori narrated.
I felt an ominous tone; a chill came over me.
"What aren't you telling me?"
"They found Jim," Garry said slowly.
"Oh, where? The last time I saw him, he was hooked to the log I rode down."
"They took him out of the water downstream. He was still attached to the log. Both had gone over the dam."
"But I never saw him after he helped me push the log into the stream. He drowned, didn't he?"
My eyes stared at the ceiling.
My second funeral in a year was even more somber. My thoughts wanted to explode out of my head. I was going to give up the
business. "Well, Jim, you're no longer around to keep me in it," I thought.
Later in a rainstorm I knelt beside Don's grave and prayed for Jim's soul.
"Say hello to my buddy, Don," I spoke to my best buddy.
Jim did look good in the coffin. "He lost his life while trying to save mine!" I mulled.
Throughout the week, I noticed Garry remained for the funeral. He and Lori were together everywhere, but eventually Garry
went back to Pittsburgh. Lori returned to Elmira at the same time.
I had time to reflect why I had wanted to explore criminal justice. It was too painful to contemplate. Don was dead, and so
was another man who had worked with me. It was no longer exciting enough to overcome the sorrow.
Little did I know that the connections and experience were with me for life. Other mysteries would enter into my life, and
I would play them the same way. I'd have other buddies who looked to me to join them.
Two years later, I was in the MBA program to find another profession. I chose to help a fellow student accused of murder in
"Mike's Murder".
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