Wyatt, Richard

by Fathers of Myth

  “Tell me, Mrs. Lindbergh, when your brother was kidnapped and your father began receiving all those ransom notes, did he ever tell the police about the threats that he received from this guy? Did he ever tell them about the time he threatened your father, that night he appeared in front of your father’s porch?”

  “You must realize how difficult it would have been for him to divulge that information, Mr. Brooks. You just told me yourself how vigilantly discreet you have been; very cautious of telling anyone what you know of this man,” she points out.

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “My father was very cautious and discreet for the same reason you are cautious and discreet, for fear of how people would react to your story, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Since there was so much media attention given to the kidnapping, father decided that it would be best not to mention anything about the mysterious stranger that threatened him, and just allow the police to do their job.

  “In the beginning, father believed that the man in these photos was the one that kidnapped and murdered my brother. By the time the police apprehended Bruno Hauptmann and then convicted him of kidnapping and murder, he was so confused he didn’t know what to believe.

  “No one will ever know how much stress my father and mother went through during that time. It almost destroyed them both,” she painfully relates.

  “It must have seemed like the end of the world to them.” I empathize.

  “Well, one thing positive came from all of that terrible tribulation. Father stopped his investigation of the man in the photos, and he never heard from the mysterious man again. A very high price to pay to have someone leave you in peace, wouldn’t you say so, Matthew?”

  “Yes Mrs. Lindbergh, a very high price indeed.”

  “You know Matthew, after the court trial of Bruno Hauptmann, my father and mother sold their house and moved here out in the middle of the Pacific. Everyone thought they were isolating themselves in order to take their lives out of the media spotlight. Of course, that is partially the reason.

  However, the main reason why they moved here is because of being overwhelmingly grieved from the loss of their son and distressed at the possibility of Bruno Hauptmann being innocently condemned to death. Two great tragedies in their lives that they felt they had no control over.

  “They told me once, that they felt like they had been forced onto a giant carnival ride called the media machine. The ride kept going round and round, and would never stop to let them off. By the time it finally did stop, it was too late. Two innocent lives had been lost.

  “They just wanted to go somewhere and grieve in peace. They suffered grievously over these two tragedies for the rest of their lives.”

  “I’m very sorry Mrs. Lindbergh. It must be very difficult for you to talk about.”

  “Yes, it is a very tragic memory.”

  “Well Matthew, I have been babbling on long enough I think.” She wipes the corner of each eye once again.

  “It is almost noon. Would you like to stay for lunch?”

  “That is very nice of you to offer Mrs. Lindbergh, but I think I have imposed on your gracious hospitality long enough. I need to head back to town, look over my notes, and make some important phone calls.” I turn down her invitation.

  “Oh that’s too bad, are you sure?” She persists.

  “Yes, I really need to go.

  “Mrs. Lindbergh.” I take hold of her hand and then continue.

  “It has been such an outstanding privilege to be able to sit down and talk with you. It has been so much more than I even hoped for. I will always treasure the time you allowed me. Thank you so much.”

  “Matthew, it has been a pleasure, a real pleasure. Promise me. Promise me that you will keep in touch. I want to know how this all turns out.”

  “I will Mrs. Lindbergh, I will.”

  As I drive back to the little hamlet of Hana, my mind is saturated with an ocean of thoughts. To think, I just had a conversation with the daughter of Charles Lindbergh. That is an overwhelming thought in itself. On top of that, she has bestowed upon me a great family secret, and beside herself I am the only other living creature on Earth that knows.

  I have gambled and traveled 3,000 miles in the hope of finding a small fragment of the puzzle, and I am coming away with a large chunk of the truth. I am invigorated and nothing will stop me now, nothing short of death. I am determined to find out the true identity of this seemingly deathless man.

  Traveling along the coast road back to Hana, I encounter gentle balmy breezes that bring the sweet fragrance of plumeria blossoms to my senses. All my senses yield into a kind of tropical daydream. I find myself thoroughly caught up in the pleasantness of this moment of life.

  Just then, ‘The saints go marching on’ abruptly jingles from my cell phone that is fastened to my belt. That reminds me. Note to self: Change the tune on my cell phone. I hate being interrupted from a tropical daydream by ‘The saints go marching on.’

  “Hello, this is Matt.”

  “Matt, how are things in paradise?”

  “It’s so good to hear from you, I’ve missed you!”

  “Missed me? What’s wrong Matt, a couple of days just on your own and you fall apart?” She snidely remarks.

  “You got it. I don’t do well without my partner.”

  “Well Matt, I got some bad news for you. Are you sitting down?

  “Yeah, I’m driving a car. How bad is it anyway? Do I need to park so that I don’t run off the road?”

  “Well, it’s not like you didn’t know that it was coming,” she forewarns me.

  “I’m guessing that good ol’ Lloyd wasn’t happy about me coming to Hawaii. I am no longer an employee of the Portland Herald, right?”

  “I’m sorry Matt. He never even thought twice about it. After I told him of you going to Hawaii, he just smiled and said to tell you to come and clean out your desk and to get your final check from payroll. I think he really enjoyed it.” Her voice is starting to crackle from emotion.

  “Well, at least I finally did something he really enjoyed.” It feels good to be sarcastic.

  “Don’t worry about it. Everything will work out, you just wait and see.”

  “Do you want me to pick you up at the airport when you get back?”

  “No, don’t worry about that. I have my car at the airport anyway. I’ll see you at The Herald in a couple of days, OK?”

  “OK Matt. Have a safe trip. See you when you get back.”

  No matter how important or exciting this private little investigation is to me, the thought of having to work without Kelly greatly diminishes my enthusiasm to go on with it.

  Maybe something will work out. Besides, I can’t think about that now. If I do, I may start to slowly crumble. I knew that I would most likely be on my own, when I first decided to go down this path. I’ve come this far; now is no time to stop.

  §

  TWENTY FOUR

  Everyone that lives in Portland must be at the airport today, I think to myself, as I enter the terminal. The Portland airport seems unusually crowded.

  I pick up my luggage and head for my car. It is one of those exceptional days in Portland when it is not raining. The sun is out and I can see white-capped Mount Hood in the distance, rising up behind the skyline of the city.

  I finally see my car up ahead. I take out my keys and push the unlock button, my car responds with its characteristic tweet, chirp.

  As I fumble for the ignition key, I suddenly notice the writing scratched into the paint on the side of my beautiful black Austin Healy.

  “Some deranged delinquent has keyed my car,” I shout out loud.

  Just at the moment my frustrated rage is about to reach its apex, I stop short of spasmodically giving into a cerebral hemorrhage and think for a heartbeat or two.

  Wait; what about this strange time wandering provocateur I search for? Could it be another one of his threatening messages? It may ve
ry well be, since the words scratched on my car say, ‘Stop or you will die.’

  I quickly look in every direction around me for movement or shadow, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. Warily I unlock my car, cautiously peer into the depths of the back seat, then buckle up for the road.

  Receiving yet another threat from my own secret predator has sent me reeling a little from the episode. I attempt to control my shaken nerves and drive from the airport to The Herald, as best I can.

  Betty the receptionist is the first face I see as I enter the third floor of the Portland Herald.

  “Good morning Betty, any messages for me?” I sing cheerfully. To my surprise, Betty actually stops chewing her gum and just stares at me as I pass. Her face seems to ask the question; don’t you know you are fired? In fact, everyone on this morning, on the third floor of the Portland Herald stops whatever they are doing and stares.

  It reminds me of one of those dreams everybody has, when you come to work, but have forgotten to put your cloths on. It strikes me funny, so I return their stares with a smile and a whimsical wave.

  I look around the office of staring former coworkers, but see nothing of Kelly. Lloyd probably has her out on assignment, I tell myself.

  I then focus my attention toward the large window paned hallowed chamber in the back of the room. I see Lloyd sitting there, with his feet up on his desk. A fat cigar the size, shape, and color of a large fragment of dog guano, protrudes from his mouth. A cloudlet of smoke surrounds the periphery of his head, as if his head were a great pile of hot steaming mash potatoes.

  I find my way to what used to be my desk and sit down. The first thing I notice is a neat stack of envelopes in front of me. Baffled at their presence, I reach over and start to pick through the letters.

  The curious correspondence all looks as if they are from other newspapers, prominent newspapers at that. Letters addressed to me from the Baltimore Sun, Chicago Sun Times, Houston Chronicle, and the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. Even letters from the Washington Post, LA Times, and the New York Times are here, all addressed to me, Matthew Brooks. Why in the world would I be getting letters from such top-notch newspapers, I ask myself bewilderedly?

  After sitting there stunned for a moment, I decide to open one and get to the bottom of this unusual phenomenon. I open the envelope from the Chicago Sun Times and begin to read.

  ‘Dear Mr. Matthew Brooks,

  Congratulations on your recent journalistic investigation success. We are very interested in finding out more about your new archeological discovery in Montana.

  We are always on the lookout for dedicated and talented professional journalist as yourself. If you would ever consider working for the Chicago Sun Times, please give us a call. We would be happy to talk with you and your managing editor about this possibility.

  Good luck to you in the future.

  Sincerely

  George Wyatt, Managing Editor

  After reading the letter the fifth time, Betty comes up to my desk and interrupts my state of utter amazement.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Brooks. I forgot to tell yah that Mr. Hatch says he wants ta see yah the minute you arrive.” She pops her gum several times before I have a chance to acknowledge her message.

  “Okay, thanks Betty.” I take a deep breath.

  “Oh by the way Mr. Brooks.” Taking the pencil from her ear and using it as a tool to gesture with, she continues. “I think it is awful what Mr. Hatch done to yah, firing you that way. I’m sorry and I hope things will go OK for you and yours.” She abruptly nods her head as evidence of her sincere affirmation.

  “Thanks Betty, I appreciate that.”

  A pleased look illuminates Betty’s face, and then she quickly flitters off.

  Pushing up against the arms of my chair, I stand, take an abysmal breath, and begin trudging toward Lloyd’s office. I feel as if I can only move in slow motion, as I sense the heat of a hundred eyes watching me walk to Mr. Hatch’s office.

  Still puffing away on his cigar, he is talking to someone on the phone and laughs out loud, his laugh sounding comparable to that of a donkey. While one hand holds the phone, the thumb of the other hand hooks around one of his suspenders, arrogantly latched there.

  A dignified looking man of fifty years of age or so, his silver gray hair perfectly trimmed, his French cuffed white dress shirt meticulously laundered and pressed, embellished with gold cuff links. He finally finishes his phone call and hangs up the phone. The door is open, and I step inside.

  “Good morning Lloyd. Betty informed me that you wanted to see me before I go,” I mechanically begin the conversation in a kind of perfunctory greeting.

  “Matt boy, good morning! Don’t just stand there. Sit down, take a load off. You had your coffee yet this morning?” He greets me with a hint of bootlicking in his manner. This is not like Lloyd at all, I think to myself. He has never been civil to me or anyone that I know, unless he wants something in return.

  “Coffee? Well, no I… I didn’t have much of a chance to….” Mr. Hatch interrupts me before I can finish my explanation of why I haven’t had coffee yet this morning.

  “Sit down. Let me get you some coffee,” he demands, and then picks up the phone.

  “Leo, get a cup of coffee to my office on the double.

  “I know you just gave me a cup of coffee. It’s not for me, you idiot. Now hurry it up.” He snarls out the order with menace.

  “Well, I guess congratulations are in order.” He takes another large drag from his cigar.

  For some reason this reminds me of my father when I was a boy. One cold morning in November, I watched him while he attempted to coax our old tom turkey over toward the direction of the chopping block. Walking backwards slowly, he drew the big dumb bird closer and closer by sprinkling bird seed on the ground, while holding a freshly sharpened axe behind his back.

  It was my first lesson in deception. A graphic way for a child to learn, that when someone is sprinkling, or shoveling something good in front of you, make sure you know what they are holding behind their back.

  “Congratulations for what?” I ask in disbelief.

  “For what? Don’t you know? Haven’t you read a paper lately? Here, look on page three,” he throws a newspaper over in my direction.

  I turn to page three, and read the headline appearing just above the fold.

  ‘Unknown Civilization Discovered in Montana’

  The article reads:

  ‘Matthew Brooks, a journalist working for the Portland Herald, discovers the archeological find of the century. Inside a cave, in a very remote and uninhabited region of Montana, Brooks and his assistant Kelly O’Hara discovered the remnants of a completely unknown civilization, apparently hidden for centuries.

  “The archeological find of the century,” so says Jeremiah James, a paleontologist digging for dinosaur’s bones in the badlands of Montana.

  “This discovery may change everything of what we previously believed to be the history of North America.” Dr James went on to say.

  Several major museums from around the country have been trying to contact Mr. Brooks, to learn more about his discovery. Mr. John Cooper, curator of the New York Museum of Natural History, says that the museum would like Mr. Brooks to be their guest of honor at an award presentation ceremony, to award him for the discovery.

  Besides museums, several newspapers and reporters have made efforts to contact and interview the journalist Matthew Brooks at his place of employment, the Portland Herald in Portland, Oregon.

  Lloyd Hatch, The managing editor of The Herald, told reporters, The Herald was very proud to have Matthew Brooks as an employee, and that Brooks was his best investigating reporter. Mr. Brooks was unavailable for comment due to being gone out of town on a very important assignment.’

  “What’s going on Lloyd? What’s all this, ‘proud to have Matthew Brooks as an employee, cause he is the best dang reporter I got,’ baloney? Did you forget to tell everybody that you fired me for going on th
at very important assignment? I did come here this morning to clean out my desk; right? You did fire me, right?” I flippantly inquire.

  The door suddenly opens and Leo frantically enters the room holding a steaming cup of coffee. I feel sorry for the nerveless little sweating bald man. Lloyd has got him performing like a neurotic monkey in a cage.

  “Come on and sit down son, let’s talk about it,” he tries to say, in the most fatherly tone he is capable of.

  “Now I have to admit that when I heard that you went off to Hawaii on an assignment of your own choosing, I was upset and I fired you. Now that you’re back and I have had some time to think, I have decided that I may have been a little hasty.

  “What would you say to forget the whole incident? I mean, as long as you give me your assurance that this kind of thing will never happen again, I think we can just put it all behind us.” I think he is even smiling, but I’m not really sure. I haven’t seen his face smile before.

  “Oh you mean; if I promise not to go on any more wild goose chases, you will let me keep my job. Huh, is that what you mean?” I retort, sprinkled with a little sarcasm.

  “That is precisely what I mean Matt.”

  “Yes, plus the fact that The Herald has picked up a lot of notoriety over this discovery thing in Montana, and Lloyd Hatch has got his name printed in few newspapers to boot. We wouldn’t want to put a damper on all of that publicity, now would we?” I begin to dilute his whitewash.

  “Not to mention the stack of letters from major newspapers asking for interviews and offering me lucrative opportunities for employment.”

  “Letters, I didn’t know you received any letters.” He endeavors to act dumb.

  “Well, like I said before Matt. You are to be congratulated. No doubt about that!”

  “I took everything into consideration before making any decisions about continuing your employment here at The Herald. All things considered, I decided it would be a win-win situation for both you and The Herald,” he sounds very condescending.

  “Yeah, and of course it wouldn’t hurt anything for me and Kelly to go the New York Museum of Natural History award dinner, while we’re still employed at The Herald, would it? Since Kelly and I were on assignment for The Herald when we made the discovery, it would only be right to put in few plugs for The Herald and its managing editor Lloyd Hatch.