by Harry Brady
Fumbled
Harry Brady
ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-54398-672-3
ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-54398-673-0
© 2019. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
To Shirley, Becky and Teresa
Chapter
1
Forbes Field Pittsburgh, PA - December 9, 1949, 3:54 P.M.
It was freezing, literally freezing, sitting in the stands at Forbes Field that Sunday afternoon watching the Pittsburgh Steelers and Philadelphia Eagles battle it out for the league lead.
The thirty-eight degrees at kickoff had dropped to the bone chilling thirty-one with a much lower wind chill factor. All of the remaining ninety five-hundred or so stalwart paying fans, and a little over one hundred freebees in the bleachers, seemed to shiver in unison uncertain that they were shivering due to the cold or due to the dire situation on the field of play. The KDKA radio broadcast was blaring over the public address system, “Two minutes and twenty seconds left in the game and the Eagles have the ball first and goal on the Steelers five yard line with Pittsburgh hanging on to a thirteen to ten lead. Hansen takes the snap hands off to Cunningham off left tackle. He breaks through to the three, WOW!! What a hit! The ball is out!! The Steelers have it!” As hearty a cheer that the freezing fans can muster filled the stadium.
“Two players are down, Cunningham and number eighty-eight for the Steelers, the rookie linebacker Skrcyzinski. The trainers are out and Skrcyzinski is up, but appears a little groggy. Cunningham has not moved and the team doctor is running onto the field. This does not look good.” On the field, the doctor and team trainer for the Eagles checked the still motionless player. After a few minutes, the doctor signaled for a stretcher. When it arrived he carefully immobilized Cunningham`s head and neck as the downed player was put on the stretcher. An ambulance came out of the runway in right field, as the stretcher was moved to the sidelines and then into the rear of the ambulance. Number eighty-eight, Damien Skrcyzinski, stood silently by and watched as the trainer and doctor both entered the rear of the ambulance still attending to the injured Philadelphia running back. The rear door was closed and after the ambulance left the field he walked unsteadily back to the Steelers bench.
Steelers Locker Room - 4:15 P.M. that afternoon
The smell of sweat, beer, testosterone, and boisterous shouting provided the setting for Abe Fletcher and his KDKA radio crew to conduct the postgame interviews. “Congratulations Damien Skrcyzinski you forced the fumble and saved the game for the Steelers. Describe the play for us.”
“All I remember was the full back coming into my territory and I hated him. I put my head down and aimed at his helmet.”
“Did you see the ball come out?”
“No! The next thing I remembered was sitting here in the locker room with a ferocious headache and people patting me on the back and everyone celebrating because we won.”
“Well you took a big hit out there yourself, but in essence you won the game and the Steelers now lead the division. The Chicago Bears are next on the schedule. Maybe you can give the Bears a headache next week.”
“Don`t worry about me. I`ve had my bell rung numerous times over the years and I`ll be at Soldier`s Field in Chicago ready to play next Sunday.”
Zone One Pittsburgh Police headquarters Homicide Division - December 4, 2018
Damien Skrcyzinski sat quietly in the interrogation room at Zone One headquarters on Pittsburgh`s north side. He stared blankly at the beige walls of the stuffy twelve by fourteen room. He put his elbows on the metal table and rested his head in his hands. He was somewhat confused but that is not unusual for him these days. How did this happen he asked himself.
“I`m a football player not a murderer. I don`t know what they are talking about. Why am I here?” Detective Phillip Cash from homicide entered the room and walked over to the metal table where Damien Skrcyzinski sat with his head in his hands. Pulling out a metal chair directly across from Damien he sat down. “O.K., Mr. Skrcyzinski, we’ve been at this for two hours now. Let`s try again. You understand this is a murder investigation and we just want to know your whereabouts on Friday evening September twenty eighth and also Thursday evening November fifteenth. Another thing, we need to know is where did you get the drugs that were in your room?”
Looking up Damien Skrcyzinski answered, “I told you I don`t remember where I was any day in September or November fifteenth and the drugs weren`t mine.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“My brain doesn`t work the way it used to. The doctors said it was from all the head trauma from playing football. I just don`t remember things.”
“I get that part. We`ve read you your rights. Do you want a lawyer?”
“No! I want to talk to Millie.”
“Who`s Millie?” Detective Cash asked.
“She`s my friend at Holy Angels Retirement Community. You can call her there.”
After the detective left the room, Damien put his elbows back on the table and rested his head in his oversized hands. “I just can`t remember what happened a few days ago. I don`t even remember what I had for dinner last night,” he said out loud to the walls. Then, he mentally began to take stock of what his long-term memory could bring back.
His first memory was when he was in the second grade and he found out that his father had been killed in the war.
His memory then jumped to when he was on a football field playing against the University of Indiana. It was a cold and rainy day and the field was muddy. It was a very physical game and not much scoring. All afternoon he had been bumping heads with Indiana`s All American tight end, Chuck Jacoby. Jacoby was all he could handle, and there had been more than one helmet to helmet collision. His memory then jumped to the College All Star game that year in Chicago, when he and Chuck Jacoby were All Star teammates. They had a few laughs over which one of them had the hardest head.
His memory was freewheeling now, he pictured in his mind when he tackled Johnny Lujack for a safety against Notre Dame. That was the only score for his team in that game, as they got steamrolled by the Fighting Irish. If I can remember that, why can`t I remember recent events he anguished to himself.
His next flash back was about Maria his high school sweetheart. He met her in the school cafeteria one afternoon while she was holding court with several members of the football team. He had noticed her many times previously, but he was too shy to start a conversation with her. In his mind she was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. A dark haired full bodied Italian beauty, who was very popular with everyone at the school. He had walked over to the group and started talking to one of his friends who introduced him to Maria. Her first words to him were, “Don`t you play football for the Trojans?” From that moment on there was no other girl for him. They married the week after he graduated from college. Damien smiled inwardly at this warm fuzzy memory. Then this inward happiness was invaded by that tragic day, when Maria and their five-year old daughter were involved in a fatal crash on an icy highway near Wexford Pennsylvania. At that point he felt that his life was over. His football days had ended and he became a loner, drinking heavily. As painful as these memories were Damien tried to jog his failing memory for more details. What came into his mind at this point was the sad story of the heavy drinking and the bad investments “friends” had advised him about. The next step was sleeping in a homeles
s shelter and spending his time panhandling on the Pittsburgh streets. He tried to recall how he got out of the homeless shelter and into Holy Angels Retirement Community. All of these details were not sharp, but he remembered that the National Football League had said that it wasn`t their fault for his memory problems and they did not owe him anything. Someone had told him to get a lawyer to sue the league but he did not have any money for that. He remembered standing outside the Steeler`s stadium one Sunday before one of their home games when one of his former teammates from the nineteen forties saw him and started a conversation. This is when the memory became foggy again. However, he did remember that about a week later the former team mate contacted Damien with the news that “Once a Steeler always a Steeler” and funds for his moving in and living at Holy Angels Retirement Community were being taken care of by an anonymous individual.
Chapter
2
New Iberia, LA - August 22, 2018
The call came in at six forty-five that morning to the 911 operator. An early morning jogger had found the body of a young woman in some bushes along the banks of the Bayou Teche. Detective Bill Malone had been notified at home, and by the time he arrived at the scene a patrol car was there with its flashing red and blue lights leading him to the exact spot where a young woman`s life had ended.
It was already hot and humid as Malone got out of his car. This day will be a scorcher, he thought as he walked toward the banks. The fog had begun to clear over the Bayou Teche, and he observed a blue heron indignantly flutter its wings and fly off while casting a glance at him as if to say, “How dare you disturb my breakfast in this serene setting.”
As he moved a few yards further, things were not so serene as he came upon the body of the young woman halfway down an embankment. The New Iberia patrolman was standing next to the body and recognized the detective. “Nothing has been touched and the coroner is on his way. I also notified the lab people to come and do their stuff.”
“What does it look like to you?” Malone asked.
“No obvious signs of trauma. It looks like she either fell or got pushed down the embankment.”
Malone eased himself down the slope to get a better view of the scene. “First off, she wasn`t jogging with those red stiletto heels.”
The woman`s body was on her back with arms and legs akimbo. She was African American and appeared to be in her early twenties. The expression on her face was placid. She was wearing a short sleeved, bright red sheath dress and had ruby red lipstick. Her eyes were open and the color dark brown. They were staring up at the morning sky as if she was looking for a blue heron. Malone bent down and looking at the left arm could see the needle tracks of a mainline drug user. Looking around the area no needles or syringes were found and no purse or wallet. As he walked back up the embankment, he wiped a few beads of perspiration from his forehead, got in his car, put the air conditioner on high, and headed back over the drawbridge toward the New Iberia court house, which also was the site of police headquarters.
Deputy Sheriff Carrie Landry was in her office when Detective Bill Malone arrived back at headquarters. Knocking lightly on her door and entering simultaneously, he walked up to her desk. Carrie looked up from some paperwork she was studying and said, “Thanks for waiting for me to say ‘Come in’ and thanks for tracking mud over the department’s new carpeting.”
“You should know by now, I’m not house broken.”
“Okay Bill, what did you find over on the bayou?”
“Young African American female. No Identification. A main line user. Possible overdose. No signs of a struggle. I think the body may have been dumped there because you can drive right up to the area.”
“Where do we go with this one? What`s your next step?”
“We need a time of death and a full toxicology drug panel. I think she`s probably a hooker. I`ll pick up a picture from the crime scene people and show it around.”
“So you think she overdosed, and whoever was with her panicked and dumped her body in the bayou.”
“That could be the narrative, but do you remember about a month ago the body of a prostitute they found in the Bayou up in St. Martinville. No trauma, fully clothed. The toxicology there showed a fentanyl overdose. The similarities are there. In addition to that, I talked to a sheriff`s deputy over in Morgan City last week. He told me about a new batch of fentanyl that`s come into the area. It`s apparently coming up through Florida from Central America. From what he said, this new stuff is ten times more potent than heroin and when the druggies try to switch from heroin, some of them end up dead.”
“Interesting info, Bill. Stay on this case and let me know what the toxicology shows.” With that Carrie Landry looked back at her mound of paperwork and Malone turned and walked out of her office tracking more Louisiana mud on the new departmental carpeting.
Chapter
3
The 3 to 11 shift was leaving the New Iberia Medical Center on East Main. Raymond Benson stepped out of the air conditioning into the still, hot, and humid night. By the time he got to his 1950 Ford pickup, a few beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. He glanced over and saw the fog already forming over the Bayou Teche. Looking to the sky he saw a few flashes of lightning and knew a storm was rolling in. Getting in the rusty and dusty truck, a few large raindrops splattered on the wind shield forming miniature mud puddles. Starting the engine, he put the truck in gear and slowly exited the parking lot onto East Main, as the rain increased. He stopped at the 24 hour convenience store on the corner of Bridge Street and picked up a six pack of Dixie beer.
This was Raymond`s favorite brand, even though it was presently being brewed in Wisconsin. Dixie was first brewed in nineteen hundred and seven and was a staple of the Cajun beer drinkers until the brewery was destroyed by hurricane Katrina. The Wisconsin Dixie beer wasn`t as good as the old Louisiana Dixie beer, but it was cheap enough for his budget. Crossing the drawbridge over Bayou Teche, he entered the City Park and stopped at one of the pavilions. He got out and entering the pavilion popped the top of a beer. He took a big first swallow and sat on one of the benches to wait for the two teenagers, who wanted to buy some weed from him. It was his last bag, but he needed some cash and he could steal a couple of baggies from his grandmother`s stash later that evening.
The rain had abated somewhat and promptly at 11:30 two teen age girls walked into the back of the pavilion and approached Raymond`s bench. The taller one`s blond hair was wet and stringy and the other girl was shorter and heavier and she had on a Ragin Cajun dark baseball cap. The shorter one asked, “Are you Raymond?”
He responded “Yeah, do you have the cash?”
She reached into her jeans pocket and silently pulled out several crumpled bills and handed them to him. He counted the money and told her to follow him back to his truck. When they got there he reached under the front seat and produced a baggie containing the marijuana and handed it to her.
Getting in on the driver`s side Raymond smiled and said to the blond girl, ”I`ve got some beer and I know where we can go and have some fun together. How about it?”
“Not with you, Loser Boy!” she laughed and pulling on the sleeve of her friend, they turned and ran laughing back into the pavilion and out the back entrance.
Raymond yelled, “That`s the last weed you`ll ever get from me you little whores.” He closed his door and thought to himself, if those little whores ever call me again for any weed, they may end up like those other ones in the bayou. He finished his Dixie beer and started the engine. Looking at the exit road, it began again. At first it was as if a searchlight was flashing straight ahead and getting larger and larger. Then it was the lightning bolts blue, red, and yellow across his vision but Raymond knew that they were not real. What he did know was a horrendous throbbing headache was coming and it would last all night. It was those damn little whores that caused it, and he swore that he would get even with them the nex
t time. He turned off the engine and rested his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes.
The searchlight was gone, but the red, blue, and yellow lightning flashes remained. After about fifteen to twenty minutes later, the visual aura faded and a throbbing headache began on the right side. He restarted the engine and eased out of the city park and turned onto the road to St. Martinville. As he traveled the rain slick two lane blacktop, he began brooding to himself as he considered all women to be bitches and tonight he would get even with that smart mouthed deputy sheriff up in St. Martinville. She was the one that got his driver’s license suspended for a third DUI. He knew where she lived and he would get his revenge this night.
Arriving on Main Street in St. Martinville, a small town that was a throwback to the 1930s, he drove slowly past the Evangeline Oak and St. Martin`s church. When he came to the deputy`s street, he turned left and turned off the head lights. He knew she was working the night shift and when he passed her house he saw that there was no car in the driveway. He parked half a block away and getting out of the truck reached in and took a half gallon jug of ammonia out of the back of the pickup. Looking at the neat white frame house, he saw his targets. On either side of the front steps leading up to the gallery were two large azalea bushes in full bloom. On the gallery deck were three hanging baskets flowing over with multicolored flowers. Opening the jug he dealt with the azaleas first and then the hanging baskets. He quickly finished his work and putting the cap back on the jug smiled to himself, that this would get even with that smart mouthed bitch. He threw the empty jug into the back of his truck and set out for home, his headache pounding and getting worse.
About five miles north of St. Martinville, Raymond turned off onto a gravel road that led to the Bayou Teche. On the corner was Boudreau`s Grocery and Live Bait Store run by his grandmother and her live-in boyfriend, Aldous Hebert. Aldous was a former worker on the gas pipeline and allegedly had enough back problems, that he was retired on disability. Despite being on disability, Aldous was known as a mean drunk and someone to be avoided in all the local saloons.
