“We’re in your den now.”
No shit, Sherlock. Yes, it was a den much like this one. And according to JT, the safe held at least 200 ounces of gold coins. Back in 1957, when all this happened, gold was at about $35 an ounce. So 200 ounces would be worth close to $20,000. In today’s money, that’s about a quarter of a million.
“Wow.”
JT seemed to know everything about the place. Knew how to pick the lock on the back door, knew where the old man’s bedroom was in relation to the den, knew what time the old man went to bed.
“What about security systems?”
This was 1957, or did you forget that already? Most people didn’t even lock their doors at night. All we had to do, JT said, was to tiptoe inside after Silas was asleep, pick up the safe and carry it out. It was a two-man job, he said. He would stand guard at the bottom of the stairs, I would slide the safe out into the foyer, then we would both pick it up and get the heck out of there. Easy-peasy, right?
“You said there were three bodies in the snow.”
Good for you. You ears do work, and so does your memory on occasion. That’s a good sign. So, to continue. According to JT, Sunday night was the time to do it. He said old Silas would spend most of that day drinking wine and that he’d be out cold by 10:00. So the plan was, I would slip out of the house around 11:30. He would pick me up down the road, we’d do the job, and I’d be back in my bed by one a.m. Then we could take our good old time breaking open the safe.
“Weren’t you scared?”
That’s a salient point. I was scared to death. Truth is, I didn’t want to do it. But I also didn’t want my new friend to know that I was scared. He made me feel wanted. Needed. And I didn’t want that feeling to end. And that was a very stupid, immature way of looking at things. It lacked self-analysis. What I should have done was to ask myself, do you really need a friend who wants you to do something that could land you in prison? Do you really need a—if that damn cell phone of yours buzzes one more time….
“Sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll shut it off. There. So what happened?”
What happened was, come Sunday night—which was as cold as a witch’s tit, by the way, and with a fairly steady snow coming down—we parked the car behind the hedgerow, crept up onto the back porch, where JT takes a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door.
“How did he get a key?”
I started to ask him that question but he shushed me. Drew a finger across his lips. Nothing but sign language from there on in.
So into the house we go, and whatever he does, I do. He takes his shoes off and leaves them on the back porch, I do the same. He hands me a revolver, I take it.
“You had a gun?”
What did I just say? I didn’t want to take it. Even shook my head no. But then he pushed it into my chest. And I took it. Because I was weak. Because I had placed myself under somebody else’s control. Worst mistake a person can make.
“And then what happened?”
We creep in through the mudroom and the kitchen and the dining room, moving a step at a time. He seems to know where he’s going, even without a single light on, so I’m following right behind like a good donkey. Finally we get to the foyer, where the staircase comes down. He stops at the bottom of the stairs and points into the room across the foyer. Then he points to me, then back to that room. So in I go, brainless puppet that I was. Into the den.
“Did you find the safe?”
Think before you talk, all right? It’s not a talent most people use, but if you learn to do so, it will make you stand out. You want to stand out?
“I guess.”
If you’re not sure, I’m wasting my time with you.
“I do. I’m sure.”
Fine. Yes, I found the safe. By then my eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the safe was in plain view, on the floor beside the bookcase. Just a square black box, a couple of feet tall and wide. With a padlock on the door.
“Just like yours?”
Exactly like mine. I tried lifting it but I couldn’t get it off the floor. My guess is it weighed the same as mine fully loaded, which is about as much as you weigh, I’d guess.
“I weigh 152.”
And most of it’s dead weight. There’s only three pounds of you that really matter. You know where those three pounds are?
“My brain?”
Good guess. There’s a couple of other parts that matter too, but if I say heart you’re going to think I mean the actual heart, and if I say electromagnetic field it’s only going to make you more confused than you already are. So let’s go with the brain for now. Anyway…where was I?
“You found the safe.”
Okay, right. So I stuck the revolver down behind my belt, worked the safe away from the wall, got in behind it and started pushing it across the floor and out toward the foyer. I was about two-thirds of the way there when I heard a pair of feet hit the floor above my head. And before I know it, those feet were pounding down the stairs. There was only one way out of the den, and that was into the foyer. In other words, I was stuck. So I stood up and pulled out the revolver. Do you need a break, or what?
“No. Why?”
First it was your phone, and now you keep looking out the window. Who’s in that blue pickup truck? It’s gone past the house three times now.
“How would I know who it is?”
I’m going to finish this story, and then you’re going to tell me who it is. You understand?
“But I don’t have any idea—”
Be quiet. Not another word from you.
So I’m standing there shivering like an idiot, holding onto that revolver JT gave me, waiting for old Silas to come down the stairs and into the den. But he doesn’t. He turns the other way. He goes into the living room and then to the kitchen. I figure he must be in there getting a drink or something. So, as quiet as I can, I start creeping toward the foyer, because by now I’m wondering why the hell Silas never noticed JT out there. But then I hear a sound from the kitchen, like somebody rummaging around in a drawer. So now I’m thinking he’s getting himself a weapon of some kind, a big knife or a gun. And I’m thinking I’m a goner. I’m going to have to shoot the old man if he comes in and sees me. But that’s when all hell breaks loose.
“What does that—sorry.”
Go ahead and ask it.
“What do you mean, all hell breaks loose?”
The old man had taken a pistol out of the kitchen drawer. But he didn’t head back toward me, he crept toward the back door, which, as you’ll remember, JT and I had left partially open, And what does the old man see out there on his porch but a couple of dark figures. Because by then the snow was falling and the sky was pitch black, so all he could make out were the shapes of two men. And the pistol went pop pop pop pop. Four times. Then nothing.
“He shot JT?”
It wasn’t JT. Because what JT had done was to position Eddie and Rich out there without telling me he was going to do it.
“And that’s who the old man shot?”
Bingo.
“Why wouldn’t JT tell you they were out there?”
You know what a patsy is?
“I think I do.”
Spit it out.
“A patsy is somebody who takes the blame for something.”
Close but no cigar. A patsy is a weak-minded donkey who takes all the risk so that somebody else can get all the profit. But he’s so weak-minded that he doesn’t even realize he’s a donkey. He thinks he’s being smart. Thinks he’s a genius. That sound familiar to you?
“Maybe. How does this relate to you and Rich and Eddie?”
I didn’t figure this out until later, but I’m pretty sure that JT’s plan was for me to kill the old man. I don’t think he was counting on the old man going to the back door before heading for the den. Then JT would call Rich and Eddie inside, and JT would take the revolver from me and shoot the three of us.
“What? All that because of the safe? Was he going to carry it outside
by himself?”
Didn’t I tell you to stop thinking and just listen?
“Yeah, but… The old man’s still alive, right? Did he come into the den or not?”
I’m still waiting for him to come in. But then I hear a kind of a bang, more of a thump, I guess, out beyond the kitchen somewhere.
“Another gunshot?”
No, it was different. I’ll get to that in a minute. First I heard the thump, and then, maybe 15 seconds later, I heard footsteps coming. And I knew the old man was on his way. It was going to be me or him. So when he stepped into the threshold, I pulled the trigger.
“Grandpa. You shot somebody?”
I missed. And it wasn’t the old man standing there looking at me, it was JT. He sees me holding that revolver still pointing in his direction, my whole body shaking to beat the band, and off he runs.
“What?”
I must have stood there for a couple of minutes before I pulled myself together and knew I had to beat it out of there or get blamed for everything. So I dropped the gun and ran. Stopped long enough to grab my shoes and jam them on, then jumped off the porch and tripped over the old man face-down in the snow beside Rich and Eddie.
“That was the bang you heard?”
JT had smashed his head in with a cast-iron skillet. And you know what thought hit me at that very moment?
“What?”
Those black lambskin-driving gloves JT was so proud of. I never saw him when he wasn’t wearing them. Including that night. Which meant what?
“No fingerprints.”
Good thinking for a change. But my fingerprints were on that revolver in the den. So back inside I go. I grabbed it and made like the Invisible Man.
“Huh?”
I disappeared. I ran.
“And they were all dead? Rich and Eddie and the old man?”
I wasn’t sure. So first I wiped the revolver on the tail of my shirt, then heaved it down a storm drain. Then on the way home I stopped at a phone booth on the corner and dialed the operator and told her somebody was shooting a gun at the old man’s house. She said it had already been called in.
“By JT?”
We’ll never know. But I can’t think of anybody else who would’ve heard the shots that far out of town. And that’s the end of the story. I hung up and went home, and have regretted that night ever since. Now, you have any questions?
“Well, yeah. I mean…did you or JT get arrested?”
By the time the police got there, everybody in the snow was dead. Now, you have to remember that this was 1957. Police weren’t so careful around a crime scene back then. They found two dead boys, shot with the old man’s pistol. And they found a skillet with the old man’s brain matter on it. They found the safe pulled away from the wall, and figured that Eddie and Rich had been trying to steal it when old Silas caught them in the act. He then chased them outside, where one of them bashed him on the head. Whether he shot them before or after getting bashed didn’t really matter. Dead is dead. Case closed.
“What happened to JT?”
Nobody ever saw him again. I think he was probably staying in one of the motels farther out. About a month later, though, a moving van showed up at the old man’s house and hauled everything away. Later that week, the newspaper printed a picture of Silas’ heir, his only son. Apparently the two hadn’t spoken to each other in 10 or more years. The kid had his mother’s last name, so everybody figured the boy was illegitimate. The newspaper said that the picture was several years old, the son’s high school photo. But I could see the similarities. And it explained a lot. It explained how JT knew the layout of the house, and how he might have acquired a key. My guess is he might have visited his father on the sly a few times, probably not long before he came to town and seduced me into helping him get the safe, which was never his real goal anyway, which you can figure out if have half the brains you should have.
“JT was the old man’s son?”
I want you to think about all the ramifications not only of JT’s actions, but of mine. I want you to think about what will happen to me if you ever breathe a word of this story to anyone. And I want you to think about all the bad things that could have come from you stealing my favorite watch.
“I’m sorry I did that, Grandpa. I really am. But I’m kind of hung up on Eddie and Rich being there that night. JT had you to help him, right? You were the patsy. So what did he really need Eddie and Rich for? That part doesn’t make any sense to me.”
It was a long time ago, I might have an extra person in there somewhere. I get things mixed up sometimes. Anyway, none of that matters. What matters is what you learned from the story. Did you learn anything at all?
“Do you think JT feels bad about how it all turned out? I mean, he did get the gold, right? Plus everything else.”
Tell you what. Put yourself in his position. If you were JT, would you feel bad?
“I mean, yeah. He killed his own father. Plus got two of his friends killed.”
I’m betting that JT didn’t have any friends back then. He was probably so full of anger and bitterness that he wasn’t thinking about anybody but himself. It’s likely that his father was a nasty, miserly person, but that doesn’t justify what happened. I would like to think that JT realized this, and that he changed his ways. I hope he gave up cheating and lying and made something of himself. He certainly had the means to do so. I hope he spent the rest of his life trying to help other people. Trying to make up, in some small way, for all the harm he caused.
“He must have worried all the time that you were going to rat him out.”
Naw, I doubt it. He picked me because he knew I wasn’t a rat. That might have been my only redeeming virtue back then. He saw the good and the bad in me, and took advantage of both.
“I really am sorry I took your watch, Grandpa. I’ll never do anything like that again.”
Good. Apology accepted. Now let’s talk about your friends in that blue pickup truck that keeps going past the house. You want to text them and let them know you didn’t get the watch? While you’re at it, invite them in for a glass of lemonade. I’d love to meet them.
A Little Rest
The decision did not come easily. Years in the making. Then three days of thinking of nothing else before he committed himself to the action. Much of those days was spent lying on the hotel bed with a too-soft mattress and a foam pillow that made his neck hurt. Once or twice each day he took a walk through the conference room downstairs, where he smiled at people he had met at previous conferences in the same city, and lingered long enough to share a few words with them. Now and then he stood at the back of the room for a few minutes during a presentation.
But most of the time was spent in the hotel room. He thought of his wife 800 miles away and of his daughter Alexa. She had been a talented gymnast and had been working hard to qualify for the Junior Olympics. His favorite way to spend a Saturday back then had been to watch her practice her routines. He had never been much of an athlete himself so her grace and agility and self-composure always took his breath away.
He did not deliberately wait until the next to last day of the conference, the Saturday, to commit himself to the decision, but that was when it happened. At first he thought the juxtaposition of the two events was a coincidence, but later he realized it was probably not.
On that Saturday he spent most of the day in the conference room, then told a couple of people that he wasn’t feeling well and would probably skip the dinner that night. Late in the afternoon he went to his hotel room for an hour to calm himself. Around dusk, when the conference dinner began, he went outside to his car and drove away. He left a light on in his room, one that could be seen from outside the window and left the television on loud enough that he could hear it when he stood outside the door. When he drove away he made a left out of the hotel’s driveway, continued on through four stoplights, made a right down a side street and stayed on that road until he was nearly out of the city. Then he made another rig
ht and merged onto the same street that ran past the hotel, which was soon miles behind him. He parked across from the man’s apartment and watched the light in his second floor window.
A little after 8:00, just as the sun was setting below the buildings, the man came out onto the balcony, checked to make sure that his door had locked behind him, then crossed the balcony to the stairs, came down them and went to his car in the parking lot. Alexa’s father did not yet know precisely when the action would be completed, whether before the man went to the bar or when he came back out. Whichever circumstance presented the best opportunity. Alexa’s father had spent six conference weeks, six years observing the man’s habits, every year since the man had been released from prison. But only this year had he not driven his rental car straight from the airport to the hotel. This year he first drove to a part of town he had never visited before, but where, according to the online research he had done years earlier, he could make a necessary purchase. He thought he would be frightened when he made that purchase, but he wasn’t. It was easier than he thought it would be, and only after the purchase had been made did he realize that his lack of fear was directly related to his lack of concern about whether or not he would survive the transaction.
And now, out on the street and a couple of car lengths behind the man’s car, Alexa’s father sped up in his rental car and passed the man’s car and was already parked with his lights out when the man pulled into the bar’s parking lot. Nobody was standing around outside the bar and the music was so loud inside that Alexa’s father could feel the pulsing booms in the pressure on his eardrums, and that’s when he told himself, It’s as good a time as any. He unlatched his door as quietly as possible and sat waiting.
He allowed the man to climb out of his own car and cross in front of the rental car on his way to the bar. Then Alexa’s father fully opened his car door and stood and said, “John. Hey. Wait up.”
Incident on Ten-Right Road Page 11
