Uncommon Thief

by William Manchee

  Chapter 17

  Felony Murder

  All morning, Fred managed to focus his attention on his classes, homework, Maria, and Candy with little thought of anything else. But before he knew it, the hour had come to go to work. He parked his car in the usual place and walked over to the motor pool. Jim was standing at the pumps filling one of the bank vehicles with gas.

  "Hi, Jim," he said, trying to act natural.

  "Hello, Fred," Jim replied, somewhat subdued.

  "Did you have a good weekend?"

  "Yeah, not so bad. How was yours, mate?" he asked.

  "Fabulous."

  "Fabulous? Well then, you must have done something quite extraordinary. Let me guess. . . . One of your women came through or you went to that football game everyone's been talking about?"

  "Right on both counts."

  "Both counts? You did have a fabulous weekend."

  "You're not a football fan, are you, Jim?"

  "Well, not American football for sure. But I like what you Yanks call soccer."

  "Did you go to the game?"

  "No, but I had it playing on the radio alright. Of course, I can't say I heard much of it since my young lass was keeping me pretty busy."

  "Maria wasn't too interested in the game either."

  "So you went to ball game with Maria and got lucky with—what's her bloody name?"

  "Candy."

  "Candy, the girl who wants to be your mistress, right?"

  "Right."

  "Tell me, Fred, when you and Maria get married, are you going to invite Candy to the wedding?"

  Fred smiled and laughed at Jim's sarcasm. He had decided he couldn't hide the situation with Candy, and it might actually help in making his life appear ordinary. "Probably not. Although she would probably like to come."

  "You better be careful, lad. As I remember, Maria was unforgiving and good with a knife."

  "Well, you're the master at juggling women, so how about some pointers?"

  "My only advice is not to fall in love with either one of them. If you do, the other one will feel it in the way you treat her, and she'll know there is another."

  "It may be too late then," Fred said. "I actually do love them both already."

  Just then, their conversation was interrupted by Sinclair's shouting. "Fuller! Get up here. I need to talk to you."

  Sinclair's voice sent shivers up and down Fred’s spine. He knew the dreaded moment had arrived. He took a deep breath, looked at Jim, raised his eyebrows and said, "I wonder what he wants."

  "I've got some idea," Jim replied.

  "What?"

  "You better go ahead and see Sinclair, but stop by here before you leave. I need to tell you a few things."

  "Okay."

  As he walked toward Sinclair, Fred felt his heart pounding rapidly. Calm down. Relax. He took a few deep breaths and exhaled slowly. When he got to Sinclair’s office, Fred gave him a puzzled look.

  "Fuller, there is going to be a change in your route today."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. There won't be a bag at San Bernardino."

  "How come?"

  "Didn't you hear the news today?"

  "No. I've been at school all day."

  "San Bernardino got robbed."

  "What? You're kidding!" he said, feigning surprise.

  "And Harvey Hamlin is dead."

  “Huh?" Fred gasped. “What happened?”

  “They found him dead inside the vault.”

  Fred thought back. He hadn’t looked in the vault because it had been so dark.

  "Consequently, the bank's closed today."

  "Did Harvey get shot?"

  "No, but he might as well have."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He died of a heart attack during the robbery. When they catch the robbers, they'll be charged with felony murder since Harvey died while a felony was in progress."

  Sinclair's words stunned Fred. It was one thing to be dragged into a bank robbery, but murder was an entirely different story. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, but he couldn’t afford to let Sinclair see his reaction, so he turned away. After a long moment, he finally took a breath and managed to say, "Damn! That’s horrible."

  "Oh, Sam quit, too, so you'll have to pick up Arrowhead and Big Bear in addition to your regular route."

  "Jesus! I won't be back here until midnight."

  "Well, we don't have any other choice just now."

  "Okay. Well, I better get going then."

  "Oh. . . . before you go, those guys you talked to before from the FBI want to talk to you again for a minute."

  Fred’s stomach twisted. He’d known he’d eventually have to face the FBI, but he wasn't prepared for it quite yet. He felt nauseous and struggled to keep from throwing up.

  “You okay?” Sinclair asked.

  "Sure, but if I've got to do two routes, I need to get going now."

  "It will just take a minute," Sinclair replied in a voice that indicated Fred had no choice in the matter.

  "Okay, so where are they?"

  "Take the elevator down to where you met them before."

  "Okay, thanks."

  As the elevator descended, Fred felt like he was sinking into the pits of hell. He didn't think they knew anything about the bag of money he’d hidden, or else Sinclair wouldn't be sending him out on a run. Nevertheless, he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. As he entered the conference room, he put them in his pocket so they wouldn't give him away.

  "Mr. Fuller," Agent Harper said as he entered the room. "Thank you for coming down."

  "No problem."

  "Do you remember Agent Walters?" Harper asked.

  "Yes, sir. Nice to see you again," he replied, not wanting to take his hands out of his pockets to shake theirs. They gave him a hard look but made no comment.

  "I guess you've heard about San Bernardino," Harper continued.

  "Yes. Mr. Sinclair just told me about it. I can't believe it. Poor Mr. Hamlin." Fred shook his head and looked down at the floor.

  "Did you see anything unusual Friday night?"

  "No. Nothing in particular comes to mind."

  "We need you to tell us everything that happened. We need a minute-by-minute account, and don’t leave out any details, even if you don’t think they’re important."

  "Why?"

  "You may have seen something and didn't realize it."

  "Okay. Well. . . . uh. . . . when I drove up I was pretty much on schedule, but Sam wasn't there yet. I guess you know I have the longest route, so I'm the last driver to get in at night. Sam is supposed to be there when I arrive so that I'm not delayed, but there was a note on the door from Hamlin that said Sam was going to be twenty minutes late."

  "What did you do after you read the note?"

  "I went inside to get the bags."

  "Did you do anything inside the bank other than bring out the bags?"

  Fred gave Harper a calculating stare, wondering if he was trying to set a trap. Reluctantly, he responded, "Well, when I got inside, I noticed it was pitch black. The night lamp was apparently out, so I went back outside to get a flashlight. Just as soon as I got out the door, I was blinded by headlights. It scared the shit. . . uh, excuse me, the crap out of me. Luckily, it just turned out to be Sam."

  "Did Sam say why he was late?" Walters asked.

  "Yeah. He said one of the tellers was out of balance, I think."

  "How long did Sam hang around?” Harper prodded.

  "Just a couple minutes."

  "Then what did you do?"

  "Well, I put Sam's bags in the car and went inside to get the bags that were still inside."

  "Did you see anything unusual inside?"

  "Well, other than it being really dark . . . wait. . . actually, I did see something kind of unusual, now that I think about it."

  Walters leaned forward and asked, "What?"

  "In the darkness, there was a light from down the hall. I thought maybe someone was sti
ll in the bank, so I went down to talk to them and tell them the night lamp was out."

  "Go on," Walters said.

  "It was Harvey Hamlin's office. His light was still on. I knew it was his office because he had taken me in there one time for something."

  "What did you see?" Walters asked.

  "Nothing really. It was empty. Nobody was there, so I just turned off the light and left."

  "Did you do anything else, anything at all?"

  Harper's question bothered him. If he had left a fingerprint somewhere else in the bank, they would find it sooner or later. Should I tell them I went into the President's office? It would be better for me to tell them than for them to discover it later. "No, I just dropped by the kitchen and bought a Coke from the vending machine."

  "I thought it was dark. How could you see to buy a Coke?"

  "I turned on the kitchen light. It's quite a ride from San Bernardino to LA, so I usually buy a Coke to drink on the way back."

  "Okay. Is there anything else you want to tell us?”

  Fred frowned and shook his head. “No, nothing I can think of.”

  “That will do then, except we’ll need to take your fingerprints."

  "My fingerprints? What for?"

  "Fingerprints can be most helpful in determining what happened at a crime scene. We need to know the identity of every print in that bank. Since you were there, admittedly, it’s protocol. Walters will take your prints right now."

  “The bank already has them. They took them when they first hired me.”

  “We need our own set.”

  "Okay. . . . I guess I better tell you one more thing," Fred said with a sigh. Walters' eyes narrowed as Fred continued, "I know I shouldn't have done it, but, well, you know, I've always kind of wondered what it would be like to be a bank president. Since I was killing time Friday night, waiting for Sam, I went into the president's office and sat in his chair just to see what it felt like, you know? I didn't touch anything though. . . . at least I don't remember touching anything."

  "How long were you in his office?" Walters asked.

  "Just a minute or two."

  "Anything else?" Walters said.

  "No. That's it, I think."

  "Oh, by the way," Harper added, "I understand you found the vault open at San Bernardino a few weeks ago?"

  "Yeah. Can you believe that?"

  "Well, Mr. Sinclair was pretty impressed with your honesty in that situation."

  "I am sure any other messenger would have done the same thing," Fred replied.

  "Not necessarily," Walters noted.

  Fred shrugged and turned to leave.

  “Uh, your fingerprints?” Harper reminded him.

  “Right,” Fred said nervously. He reluctantly took his hands out of his pocket and extended them to Walters.

  "Okay, right over here," Walters said as he pointed to a pad and some fingerprint charts at the end of the table. Walters took each of his fingers and pressed them onto the ink pad. Then he pressed them onto the chart in the appropriate spot. Fred tried to let his hand go limp so his fingers wouldn't shake, but apparently Walters felt the tension.

  "Don't worry. It's just routine."

  After Walters was done, Fred left, then went to talk to Jim, curious as to what he had to tell him. There were several drivers at the pumps as he walked up, so Fred waited for them to leave before he began talking to Jim.

  "What did Sinclair want?" Jim said.

  "Agents Walters and Harper are downstairs, and they wanted to talk to me."

  "I figured as much. I saw them come back with Sinclair."

  "Come back from where?"

  "FBI Headquarters. Sinclair had a meeting there today with Walters and Harper, some new agents, and a couple bank officials. He told me all about it."

  "Really? What happened at this meeting?"

  "They read the coroner's preliminary report. They know Hamlin died of a heart attack, but they don’t know what caused it. Being robbed might have done it, but being involved in the robbery could have caused it too. Hamlin had a history of pretty serious heart disease and an alcohol problem to boot, so it’s anyone’s guess."

  “He told me his wife had just left him too and he was pretty broken up about it,” Fred added.

  "That’s interesting. There was more to Hamlin than meets the eye then. Sinclair is bloody sure Hamlin was in on the heist, but they can't figure out who was working with him. Everyone knew he had a serious drinking problem, so some professionals might have approached him knowing he was vulnerable. It could have been a double-cross, or else Hamlin might have just succumbed from all the stress he was under, they just don't know."

  "Couldn't someone have just surprised Hamlin and overtaken him?" Fred asked.

  "They don't think that's likely since the perpetrator had to have had inside information."

  "Why is that?"

  "There was no sign of a forced entry. They apparently waltzed in and out of the bank unnoticed. Nothing unusual on the bank’s surveillance cameras."

  "Hmm."

  "The assistant cashier has been cleared. She had half the combination to the vault and should have stayed there to make sure Hamlin closed it, but she says Hamlin made her go home before the vault was closed. She claims to have protested, but says Hamlin insisted she leave. I guess her alibi checked out."

  "So, do they have any other suspects?" Fred asked timidly.

  "That's why I wanted to talk to you, Fred. You’re their number one suspect, and they have you under surveillance."

  A chill darted down Fred’s spine. "What? I can't believe this. What about Sam Stewart?" he asked angrily. "Isn't he a suspect?"

  "They said Sam quit his job on Wednesday and hasn't been seen since. The problem is, they knew he was quitting. He gave them notice two weeks ago."

  "So, he obviously had the heist well planned out. Why else would he conveniently quit his job and disappear right after the robbery?"

  "That's what I told Sinclair, but apparently Sam stopped to buy some ammo at an army surplus store on his way in from Big Bear. The owner is quite sure about the time, so it would have been nearly impossible for him to have been at the bank any earlier than you."

  "So, they think the robbery took place before I got there?"

  “It must have happened just before you got there, according to the time-line they’ve worked out.”

  “It’s pretty convenient that Sam quit on the day of the robbery,” Fred argued.

  "I don't think Sam has been ruled out entirely. They've got agents looking for him, but you definitely have number one billing at this stage of the game, lad."

  "What do you think I should do, Jim?"

  "Keep your mouth shut, for one thing. They've got a tail on you and probably a lot of bugs. You might warn your family and friends, too, since they're sending agents up to Ventura."

  "Oh my God! You've got to be kidding! They took my prints down there but told me it was just protocol, just routine."

  "I’m afraid you're in deep trouble, Fred, whether you deserve it or not."

  "Listen, Jim, if you hear anything else, will you tell me?"

  "I damn bloody will. I don't want to see an innocent man take a tumble."

  "You really believe I am innocent?"

  "No, I didn't say that, but even if you took the loot, I wouldn't blame you. If they leave money laying around, it’s their own fault if someone takes it. I'd have done the same given the chance."

  "You're a good man, Jim. Can I get your phone number in case I need to call you?"

  "Sure," Jim said. He reached in his pocket for a scrap of paper and wrote his number on it. "Don't be alarmed if a young lass answers."

  "Oh, believe me, I wouldn't be."

  "If by chance you're not here tomorrow, take care."

  "Thanks, Jim."

  After talking to Jim, Fred got the hell out of there as fast as he could without attracting attention. Once on the road, he took a deep breath and tried to relax. After fi
fteen or twenty minutes, he had calmed down and was looking forward to seeing Candy at the Palm Springs Branch. Then it occurred to him she might be gone since he was running late. He prayed she’d still be there. A little panicked at the thought of missing her, he increased his speed to try to make up time. Tonight—of all nights—he needed to see her. By the time he got to Palm Springs, he had made up ten minutes.

  When he approached the bank, there were no cars, and the bank was dark except for the night lamp. His heart sank as he realized he wasn't going to see Candy. Depression overcame him quickly as he walked to the door of the bank and slowly unlocked it. Tonight, he really needed Candy. "Damn it!" he blurted out to the empty lobby. As he walked toward the bags, he looked around hopefully but saw nothing. He picked them up and started to leave when he heard a whisper.

  "Fred, where have you been?"

  He looked toward the voice and saw someone standing in the dark behind the tellers’ windows.

  "Candy? Is that you?"

  "Who else do you think would be waiting around for you?"

  His heart began to pound with excitement. He dropped the bags and quickly ran over to her.

  "Oh, I am so glad to see you. I thought for sure I would miss you."

  "Actually, this worked out pretty well because everyone is gone and we’re alone."

  They put their arms around each other and began to kiss. Then Candy broke away. "Boy, you sure are tense," she said.

  "It's been a tough day. You won't believe it, but I've still got to go to Banning, Arrowhead and Big Bear tonight."

  "You're joking?"

  "No, unfortunately, I’m not. Sam quit."

  "Well, good. No one will notice if you're an extra fifteen or twenty minutes late."

  "No, probably not? What did you have in mind?"

  "Come with me, and I'll show you."

  Candy grabbed his hand and led him down the hall into the ladies’ room. Just inside the door was a sofa. Candy sat down and laid back, her eyes beckoning him to follow her. He knelt down and began kissing her thighs. She closed her eyes and moaned gently.

  A half hour later, Fred remembered he had a route to finish and sat up. He looked down at Candy’s naked body and wished he could stay longer. Words could not describe what had happened between them. He didn’t want to go, God knew he didn’t, but he had no choice. He started to get up to leave, but Candy yanked him back.

  "You can't go yet," she said softly. "You can't leave a woman in this condition."

  He sat up and looked at her. "But I am almost forty-five minutes late already."

  She put her hand on his arm. "Just hold me a minute longer. Please? Just another minute. . ."

  "Okay,” he said, rolling her over on top of him and holding her tightly. “Did you enjoy that?" he asked looking up at her.

  "Mmm, I sure did. Did you?"

  He nodded. "God, did I ever."

  She smiled, put her head on his shoulder, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, enjoying the heat of her body. After a few minutes, she pushed herself up and gave him a serious look. Her breasts were so beautiful he just stared at them, mesmerized.

  "Fred, can we talk for a few minutes before you go?"

  "Huh?”

  “Can we talk?”

  “Sure. I'd love to talk to you, honey, but I am really late. I've got to get out of here right now, but we can talk tomorrow."

  "But it's important."

  "I'm sure it is, but wouldn't you rather talk about it when I'm not rushed?"

  She sighed. "Okay, okay. Go on. . . . get out of here."

  They got dressed and made their way to the door. Candy peered outside to make sure no one was around. The coast seemed clear, so they walked outside. Fred locked the door behind them, and then they kissed and said their goodbyes.

  The road from Palm Springs to Banning was mountainous and full of dangerous curves. He knew it wouldn't be possible to make up too much time, but he tried anyway. The wheels of the white Impala shrieked as he sailed around each bend. Suddenly, he realized he was rapidly approaching a slow-moving car ahead. The road seemed clear beyond the car, so he passed it quickly. He looked at his speedometer and noticed he was traveling 75 MPH.

  As Fred approached the summit, he observed a car parked in a lookout adjacent to the road and some people admiring the view. Suddenly, out from behind the car came a little girl. There was no time to stop, so Fred swerved sharply to the left, barely missing the child. His heart nearly stopped as he narrowly averted plunging over the cliff on the other side of the summit. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw the child's mother lift her up. She’s okay. Thank God! The near accident brought him back to his senses. They expecting you to be late. Just relax.

  When he’d resigned himself to the fact that he was going to be late and couldn’t do anything about it, he began enjoying the drive again and particularly the memory of his latest encounter with Candy. Before he knew it, he was in San Bernardino, passing by Bank USA on his way to Arrowhead and Big Bear. As he drove past, he scrutinized the bank carefully. It was dark, and the parking lot was empty. To a stranger, it would seem as if nothing had happened. Then he noticed a dark blue car parked near the drug store. A man sat inside, sipping a cup of coffee. He surmised that it was an FBI agent watching to see if the bank robber would return to the scene of the crime, as they often did. Sorry, friend—not this unwitting thief.

  As he headed into the mountains, he thought of Sam, and he wondered what had happened to make him quit his route so suddenly. He certainly had not mentioned quitting to Fred. The memory of the little girl calling Sam Santa Claus amused him. It seemed to Fred that he could have made so much money if he had been willing to play the role, filling December malls with the laughter of children. It couldn't be that hard, and the financial rewards would be worth the drudgery of having hundreds of naïve youngsters sit on his lap.

  When he got into Arrowhead, Fred noticed he was getting low on gas. He saw a Union 76 station, so he pulled in and drove up to the pumps. A burly man with a beard came out and walked over to his window. "Fill it up," Fred ordered.

  The man nodded and then set the hose on automatic while he washed Fred’s windshield.

  While watching the attendant do the windows, Fred observed a small grocery store across the street. In front of the store, a red Volkswagen Beetle was parked, and it looked just like Sam’s. As the attendant finished the front window and proceeded to the rear, Fred thought he saw Sam coming out of the store with a load of groceries and getting into the VW. By this time, the attendant had come around. Fred handed him a credit card and asked, "Do you know Sam Stewart?"

  "Yeah. Everybody knows Sam."

  "Isn't that him getting in the car over there?"

  "Sure looks like it."

  "Hmm. I'd like to go talk to him for a minute."

  "Well, it looks like you're too late. He's leavin’. Maybe you can drop by his house."

  "You know where he lives?"

  "Sure. I'll give ya his address."

  Seeing Sam got Fred curious. If he was in town, why haven’t the FBI agents been able to talk to him? They must not be looking very hard. When the attendant came back, he gave Fred directions to Sam's house, but it was way out of his way, so Fred blew it off.

  After picking up the bags at the Arrowhead branch, he proceeded toward Big Bear. It was a beautiful trip through the tall pine trees during the daylight. After dark, however, there wasn't much to see—just miles and miles of winding road. It was still peaceful, though, and he thoroughly enjoyed the ride.

  He finally arrived back in LA after midnight. The motor pool was deserted when he pulled in. As he unloaded his bags, a security guard came over and said he would take his bags downstairs. Fred thanked him and left. It had been a very long, trying, somewhat terrifying day, but he had survived it. In retrospect, he realized he couldn't have planned it any better than it had actually turned out.

  When he got home, the dai
ly newspaper was lying in front of his apartment door. He took it inside, turned on the light, and opened it up. The headline jumped out at him: ‘BANK ROBBERS GET $6.7 MILLION FROM BANK USA, Cashier Found Dead in Vault’. Fred gasped as he realized whoever had masterminded the bank robbery had given him a million and escaped with 5.7 million dollars. He wondered why they’d been so generous. He was sick as he read the article over and over, memorizing every detail. The story said the police and FBI were baffled by the crime. They thought it might be an inside job, but they really had no clues. There was no sign of forced entry, no evidence of a struggle, and no one saw anything unusual. As he was pondering the article the phone rang. He picked it up.

  "Hello?"

  "Fred, where have you been?" Maria asked.

  "Maria, hi. I just got in from work." He suddenly felt very guilty.

  "It's after one, and I was worried sick about you."

  "Sam quit, and I had to take his route and mine."

  "You're kidding!"

  "No. I wish I was, but it was a very long night."

  "Did you hear about the robbery?"

  "Yeah. I was just reading about it when you called."

  "Isn't that one of the banks on your route?"

  "Uh huh. It's usually my last stop."

  "You didn't see anything Friday night, did you?"

  Fred hesitated.

  "Ah. . . . Not really. The FBI asked me the same thing."

  "The FBI has already talked to you?"

  "About a half hour before I left today."

  "Do they know who did it?"

  "Apparently not—according to the newspaper anyway. Of course, they won't tell anyone anything until they have something solid."

  "Did you know the guy who got killed?"

  "Harvey Hamlin? Yeah, I knew Harvey. He was a pretty nice guy when he was sober."

  "You're so lucky you didn't get to the bank during the robbery, or you might have been killed too."

  "Hmm. I suppose you’re right, but I hadn't given that much thought."

  "Now I am going to worry about you every time you go to work."

  "You needn't worry, babe. The odds of this happening again are very remote."

  "I hope so."

  "Listen, babe, I am really beat, and I need to hit the hay."

  "Okay. Well, I'm glad you made it home safely."

  "Thanks. Sweet dreams."

  "I love you."

  "Me too. Goodnight."

  It’s not a lie, Fred thought to himself—he did love her. It was possible to love two women—not too smart, but certainly possible. He didn't want to break up with Maria, but he knew it was the only decent thing to do. She'd get over him and find someone who would be true to her. In a few days, he would tell her, but right at that moment, he needed sleep.