Mystery on the Seine

by Terry McGhee

  My first year of retirement had been a hectic one. At first I was bored stiff. I didn’t fish or hunt, and had no desire to climb the many high peaks that surrounded our town. And you could forget the popular river rafting. I wasn’t into pain or swimming. Barb and I traveled all over the world for my business, so ‘hitting the road’ was not something in our retirement recreational plans.

  It turned out that excitement and danger would soon cross our paths. Read as ‘hair-raising’ fear, accompanied by a life-threatening moment for yours truly. Excitement quickly became a part of our life last year in our tranquil, laid back town. Barb talked me into (OK….I jumped at the chance) offering my pro-bono investigative service to our local small town police when they reopened a seventeen year old missing persons cold case. The FBI was brought in when multiple murders became a highly probable scenario that evidence indicated might have occurred right here in paradise. Yours truly was instrumental in supplying nuggets of investigative clues that helped solve the mystery. Somehow a local unidentified nut case viewed me as a threat, and…well, at Barb’s insistence I wrote my story and titled it “Mystery at Deadfall Lake.” Getting shot at, and receiving threatening notes was a little more than I had bargained for. Hey, I was retired. I had jokingly told the FBI I was no longer interested in being a target of some of their wanted crazies, and to take me off their ‘Contractor Investigator’s ‘ list. It was ‘touch and go’ for a while. Barb and Murphee had to stay at her mother’s house in San Francisco when things got a bit scary, and my life was being threatened.

  I ultimately became a close friend with Sam Jenkins, the FBI’s lead investigator in the case, and now proudly show all our house guests the beautiful gift plaque on our den wall. It is signed by the Director of the FBI. The walnut inlay piece is mounted above my favorite chair next to our den wood stove.

  I am especially proud to show visitors where it says, “…Jake Vincent remained undaunted in his pursuit of the truth, even after being fired upon and wounded by the suspect.” Well, I actually wasn’t really shot, but when I dove to the floor to evade the crazed killer, I banged my head on the edge of my desk. A few stitches closed the cut, but for a week it looked like I had a large-size marble sewn under the black and blue battle wound. It took another week of tests before I was medically cleared from the concussion one receives when one’s head is slammed against a solid immovable object. I was a local hero in our town for a couple of weeks. The FBI had cleared what information about ‘Jake’s Great Adventure’ I could make public. With Barb’s help I worked up a speech I could deliver to interested social groups in our mountain neighboring towns. I guess I experienced more than my fifteen minutes of fame Andy Warhol tells us we all will find during our lives.

  Sam had fallen in love with the beauty and solitude of our picturesque town snuggled next to a river at the foot of the surrounding high, snow-covered mountains, and had told me he and his wife had been looking for a retirement community. He and I spent time nursing a few drinks under the tall trees talking about the pros and cons of living in a small community out of the busy main-stream. I strongly suspected we would be seeing more of FBI agent Sam Jenkins.

  Sam convinced the FBI to present us with a vacation gift to Paris bundled with a fancy Seine River wine cruise. It happened to fit in with some work Sam’s FBI team was doing in France. It would include the flight (A Gulf Stream jet: ‘eat your hearts out my old fellow tourist-class traveler friends’), and a five star hotel stay near the Champs-Elysees.

  Like the comic strips, the day-dream thought bubble above my head burst as Barb gave me a foot-nudge. “Hey Sherlock, wake up, I need to bring you up to speed on our Paris vaca planning.”

  “Lay it on me Babe, but just the highlights.”

  Chapter 3

  “You remember Agent Simpson; Sam’s gofer during the cold case work last year?”

  “Yeah, he was ‘Mr. Efficiency’…a real man-Friday. He felt slighted when addressed if the word ‘Agent’ didn’t precede his name; even his first name. A little strange I always thought. Remember he traipsed around in the dirt and rocks in those polished Wing-Tip shoes? FBI to the core, but I like the guy.”

  “Well actually he’s an ‘Assistant to,’ sort of like a private secretary to Sam. The guy is helping us big time with all the details; reservations, flight and airport info, and tour bookings. We are registered into a suite at the Four Seasons Hotel. He says you are set up for a tour of the hotel’s fifty thousand wine-bottle inventory in the ‘La Cava,’ part of the old stone quarry beneath the hotel used to build the Arc de Triomphe.

  “Simpson has also set us up with our own private chauffer.”

  “Tell him we want a Rolls limo.”

  “Down size the greedy attitude Jake. Don’t push it. I think Sam has gone beyond maximum generosity.”

  “I was only kidding. Sam sent me an e-mail yesterday saying he wants to talk to me before we go. He should call about two o’clock this afternoon. I suppose just to wish us luck. I hope that’s all he wants. You don’t suppose there are any ‘strings’ attached to our FBI’s largess?”

  “Come on Jake, don’t you think Sam would have clued us in if he wanted the ‘famous Detective Vincent’ to do some investigating? Especially after his staff did all the planning and bookings. Give it a rest, and anyway, you just might get bored with the touristy stuff, fine food and wine, and relaxing without a care in the world. Admit it; you would love it if you were called on to do a little snooping.”

  “Well I do feel just a little obligated to help him if I could. I draw the line at chasing down the crazies, if there are any, and being the target of a bullet. I’ve been there, and done that. Once in a lifetime is enough. Your mother would tell me I was ‘buying trouble,’ or at least looking hard for it. If I can help him by using my ‘little gray cells,’ I’ll participate.”

  “Hey Sherlock, do you want to hear more about the cruise?”

  “Please continue madam. I’m all ears.”

  Barb was flipping through colorful brochures as she prepared to run through our itinerary. I told myself to be attentive as she had revealed that this vacation would have cost us about $27,000 if we had to pay ourselves. It was first class, five stars all the way…well maybe the Gulf Stream flight was a seven star treat.

  I trusted Barb’s super organizational skills, and said to myself: ‘Self, are you up to the about-to-begin travelogue lecture?’ I definitely heard ‘Self’ say NO. “On second thought Mrs. Sherlock, let’s do the vaca review after opening that new bottle of Malbec wine. Some smoked Gouda cheese, I think, would complement this vintage vino from Argentina.” Barb and I were new fans of this dark red varietal blend from South America. Were we becoming wine snobs? I didn’t think so. Like with fine art, we knew what we liked, but had no interest in the details about the source and creative process.

  Barb handed me the brochures and said, “Great idea, and I’ll cut up some of those fresh green peppers I just got from the Farmer’s Market.” She stood and gave Murph an ear scratch as he sensed a treat might soon emerge from the kitchen. Sticking close to us when we were in the kitchen was one of Murph’s practiced skills.

  I was not all that keen on learning more detail about our soon-to-be Paris vacation, but Barb had collaborated with Simpson to compile the stack of holiday pamphlets. I liked surprises when visiting a new locale. I gave a deep sigh; I had escaped for now. I leaned back in my chair and spread out the brochures on a side table. Murph read the sigh as a clue that there would be no action for a while…at least until Mom came back outside.

  Old Yellar suddenly stood up with his ears on alert and emitting a low growl. There was some commotion from the forest behind the house. Dead pine branches were crunching loudly…the ‘snap, crackle, and pop’ of a large critter. There had been sightings of a Mountain Lion prowling around some local goat pens according to our weekly newspaper, The Mountain Herald. A few neighborhood cats had disappeared lately. I stood up and grabbed Murph by his collar and
hustled him into the house. I snatched my mobile cell phone to alert the Fish and Game office if I saw the cat. A covey of Mountain Quail fluttered up from the forest floor as if escaping an intruder. I stood still staring into the forest along with The Murph. The ‘beast’ finally emerged.

  ***

  “Hey Jake; what’s happening?” Inspector Hannity jumped out from behind a large Ponderosa pine slapping the dust from his pants. Hannity, I and Sam Jenkins had worked closely on the missing person’s case last year. Hannity had brought down an armed attacker with a well-aimed blast to the lower legs from his shotgun. It turned out that our main perpetrator in a double murder had finally run out of luck. Darrell Jerkovick now is a guest in one of our max security prisons, convicted (he confessed) of the cold-blooded murder of one of our cold case missing kids. A nineteen year old college student, just beginning to plan out her adult life with her soon-to-be fiancée.

  Hannity and I had become close friends, and he and his wife often joined us for a cold one on a hot summer’s day. Our local deputy police chief stepped up on our deck as Murphee tail-wagged a greeting.

  “What’s got you sneaking through a citizen’s private property?”

  “A local tourist decided to park their camper in the field next to the dirt road behind your property. I had to encourage them to find one of our public camp sites for their overnight visit to paradise. Our campgrounds need the business.”

  Hannity was a rather large, muscular guy. He had played football at Cal Berkley, and was a Pac 12 second team All American. In his middle age he had grown a bulge around his gut. He sported a pure white crew flat top which gave him an odd, but menacing, no nonsense mature look.

  “I’ve got some news you’ll be interested in. This morning I got a call from FBI HQ in Washington. Sam wanted us to know that Darrell Jerkovick, our jailed murderer, had more bad luck. It seems some criminals look down on convicted killers that violate a certain silent code of conduct. Killing an innocent kid, that was no threat, by bashing in her skull from behind is one of those acts of brutality that gives the entire ‘Murderer’s Row’ a bad name. Darrel attracted an eight inch shiv that ended his life two days ago. A sort of ‘those-that-live-by-the-sword’ moment for him.”

  “Well I guess that closes your old missing person’s case. With the uncle and nephew residing in Hell, I hope the families get some final closure and can move on with their lives.”

  Hannity sat down and said, “Losing a child so violently guarantees that there will never be full closure Jake. We said a prayer at the station for the families of Wendy and Roy.”

  Barb emerged from the kitchen with a tray piled high with goodies. “Hey big guy,” she said giving Hannity a nod. She set the bottle of Malbec on a side table. Murphee was frozen in a sitting position knowing he had to restrain himself if he was to be included in the celebration. Canine over zealousness, which included whimpering, jumping, and drooling, normal reactions from a happy dog, was a no-no, and Murph was well-trained. Hannity and Barb did the usual hug-greeting. I could see we wouldn’t be doing a vacation itinerary review any time soon. I said a silent ‘Thank You.’

  Hannity accepted a glass of the Malbec, and maneuvered himself into a chair with Murphee sneaking over to lie next to him. Murph knew a push-over when he saw one, and Hannity was easy.

  I relayed the news to Barb about the demise of Darrel Jerkovick. “I can’t say I feel bad about his ‘accident’” she said. “He was the lowest of a low-life criminal. Good riddance.”

  We toasted to good friends, our health, and our upcoming trip to Paris. Hannity cleared his throat and said, “Sam passed on some other news, and I want you both to know about this latest bit of information that relates to the Jerkovicks. It turns out that old Darrell, now dead Darrell, has an estranged son. His name is Donnie. He and his old man were not close, and Donnie was a classic juvenile delinquent growing up. Like father, like son. He was kicked out of high school for a felony conviction, and disappeared after serving a stint in juvenile detention. He ended up joining the U.S. Army where he was always in trouble with his superior officers. He finally was booted with a Section 8 Dishonorable Discharge for attacking a drill sergeant. He returned to the states after spending some military jail time, and promptly did another disappearance. He was living somewhere in Florida, but at present no one knows where he is. The details of the Section 8 reveal that the Army felt he was mentally unfit to serve. It was the mentally unfit part that bothered us. The Army Personnel Office sent a photo from his enlistment file. We know what the guy looks like, ‘Mean’ would be the best description. He was in a lot of fights, and his nose looks like it was broken and never set right. I don’t think he could hide in plain site with that mug.

  “When he could not be reached, a registered letter with the news about his father was finally sent to his last known place of residence in Florida. The letter never was returned as undeliverable, so it seems he received the news. His reputation as a violent hot head is what prompted Sam to give us this news. He doubts that there could be trouble for us, but... Sam says that this is simply information. An agent has been assigned to try and locate Donnie to determine if he is in a revenging state of mind. It’s reassuring to believe that the FBI thinks we’re not a target, but they want us to have a heads-up. Sam says Donnie had to know about his father’s criminal problems, and now his death. As you recall there was considerable national publicity about this particularly heinous double murder. We hope the absence of any contact translates to Donnie wanting nothing to do with his old man. On the other hand they cannot confirm that Donnie Jerkovick will not try to avenge his father’s death by coming after those that caught him and put him in prison. After all it wouldn’t be difficult to locate a retired, snoopy ex-security investigator, and a hard-nosed cop that had shattered the legs of a certain Psychopath.”

  The four of us, including the Murph, went silent as we digested this latest bit of news. I poured more wine in the two glasses being thrust at me. I said, “Well crap, that’s all we need is to keep looking over our shoulder for a crazed criminal seeking to put a hurt on us. They gotta find this guy, and assign an agent to keep tabs on him. We can’t spend the rest of our lives cranking our necks left and right, and afraid to start our cars. Until they find this Donnie, is the FBI going to offer us any protection? What about an alarm for the house?”

  “Try not to fret too much Jake…hell I’m the one that shot him and blew up his knees with the double ought. Sam says someone will keep us up to date on this situation, but they can’t guarantee anything. They strongly feel that the kid wanted nothing to do with his Old Man, and now that Darrell is dead, the bet is Donnie will just dig his hidey hole deeper. Also someone will be in touch with me about a security system for our homes. After all this internal FBI ‘We’re doing the right thing’ publicity, they’re not about to let things go bad.

  “Relax Jake; I’ll have an officer keep watch on your place while you’re kicking back in Paris for two weeks on the tax-payer’s money. Don’t worry.”

  “Easy for you to say inspector, but don’t forget that if I hadn’t stuck my nose into the investigation and identified this loon, he just might have remained in hiding. I’m sure the crazy son thinks of me as the guy that ratted out his old man. I am the cause of this psychopath being identified, hunted, shot, arrested, and imprisoned for life where he was murdered. Yeah I believe this could piss-off the kid.”

  “I’ll keep you posted on any development. I do have more news on the positive side of the ledger. I got a call from a guy who identified himself as an independent agent in Hollywood. Said he’d been following our nationally covered double murder missing person’s case. He wanted to give me a ‘heads up’ about the possibility that a movie for television could be in the works. More than one TV network might be interested. The guy wants to come up here and interview us. There’s no promise, but he sounded excited about the whole thing.”

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Jake said. “OK Hannity, w
ho do you see as playing yourself?”

  “Haven’t thought much about it. I suppose John Wayne is long gone, so I’d have to think on it. That actor that played the detective living in the trailer at a Southern California beach would work. That’s my idea of a perfect semi-retirement: beach, sun, women in bathing suits…what could be better? What’s his name? It was called the Rockford File I think.”

  “Oh hell, you’re talking about James Garner. Cmon Hannity, these guys you’re thinking about are dead or a hundred years old.”

  “OK then Mr. retired investigator. Who do you see playing you?”

  “How about Sean Connery?”

  “Jeez Jake, Connery might not be a hundred years old, but he’s close. He couldn’t be climbing around the hills in the Deadfall Wilderness. It wouldn’t fit…sheesh!”

  Jake said, “We won’t have any say in the matter anyway. I’ll negotiate us an airtight, lucrative consulting contract. We’ll be into the big bucks, and won’t have to jump off a porch, shoot blanks at bad guys, or anything.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not counting those riches just yet. Thought you would be interested though. OK Barb, who would you like to see play the wife of the famous retired security investigator?”

  “Oh I don’t care as long as she is strong, smart, and knock-down gorgeous…oh, and be a past academy award winner.” Hannity and Jake gave an audible chuckle. “We’re all dreaming anyway.”

  Hannity slapped his palms on his knees, stood up and said, “Well, I’ve done my police duty for today. Gotta get back to the station and fill out another report. Jake, if you want to talk any more about this news, just call me. I’ll be in all afternoon.”

  I nodded to him. The three of us watched Hannity walk down our long driveway to the street where he had parked his patrol vehicle. Murph walked to the edge of the deck wagging his tail as his friend disappeared around a corner.