“Look, you bum. Don’t bullshit me. You stole the kid so you could sell him. Admit it.” Parsoni stood back and rubbed his large hairy fists as he glared at Alan. “We’ll get it out of you sooner or later. You think you’re smart. You’re not. You’re a loser. Don’t waste my time. I got a family to go home to. You are nothing.”
After two hours of relentless grilling, Alan was done. He put it bluntly to Parsoni and Warden.
“I don’t have to answer any more questions. I told you—and I’ll tell you one final time. So type it up in your report. I found ‘little fella’ in a large black plastic garbage bag in a dumpster on 3rd and Avenue A about two weeks ago.” He then reached into his pocket.
Lunging on to Alan, Parsoni yelled, “He’s got a weapon,” and delivered three hard punches to Alan’s face in rapid succession with fists as large as catcher’s mits.
Warden bear-hugged Parsoni. “Stop it. You know he was frisked and run through the detector. Get a grip.” Warden pulled Parsoni off of Alan and backed him away.
Parsoni fumed, “Warden, get your head out of your ass.”
Alan’s eyes were closed as he turned his head from left to right a few times trying to ascertain if his neck still worked after the assault. He opened his eyes and spat some blood on to the floor. His lip was bleeding and so was his nose. Seeing this, Parsoni’s face lit up as he said, “Now we’re going to get somewhere with this lowlife.” Warden handed Alan a bunch of paper napkins and put a metal waste basket by his feet.
Alan looked straight at Warden. “As I was saying before I was interrupted by Cro Magnon over there—- I found ‘little fella’ in a dumpster on 3rd and Avenue A.” He then cautiously began to again reach into his pocket as he stared at Warden. Warden nodded permission. Alan pulled out a crumpled black plastic bag.
“This is the bag that the baby was in.”
Warden looked shocked as he took the bag from Alan. “This is it?”
“Yes that’s it. ‘Little fella’ was in that bag.”
Warden spread the bag out on the interrogation table, patting and smoothing it to its full size. He gazed at it as if he had never before seen a garbage bag. He then lifted it up, delicately opened it and looked inside. Then he neatly folded the bag and put it in a clear evidence bag which bore a label, “Exhibit A.”
“You’re not going to believe this crap?” Parsoni said to Warden. “A few more love taps and he’d being telling the truth instead of this fairy tale. Why don’t you go get a Coke and come back in five minutes while I make some progress here.”
Alan continued, “I could have left ‘little fella’ where I found him and then I wouldn’t be here now. But I wasn’t going to let him die. To me, he wasn’t a piece of trash like he was to whoever threw him out. And as for the stroller and the other baby stuff—- do you have any witnesses who saw anything stolen? I don’t think you do. So leave me alone and go write some parking tickets. And while you’re at it, get me one of those free lawyers.”
The veins on Parsoni’s temples were bulging. He spat into the wastebasket next to Alan’s feet and largely missed the basket so that most of his spit spattered on to Alan’s pants. He kicked the basket with so much force that it flew past the door and half way across the room, spilling its contents. Alan was removed and taken to a holding cell.
A few more days went by. Weeks went by. What the hell was going on? officer Jackson wondered. There gotta be some heartbroken parents out there who just haven’t reported this yet because they’re still searching for themselves. Damn, this is a white baby. A perfect white baby. They’ll call. We’ll find ‘em. Just a few more days.
Jackson kept telling the head of his precinct, Captain Palmer, to let the case sit for awhile longer. “Give it time to breathe,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’ll tell that two-bit lawyer the court appointed for the bum to go screw himself.”
Jackson was sure that the aggrieved parents would come forward, claim #2764 and press charges against Alan Gottschalk for kidnapping. Jackson would then be the hero cop who rescued the adorable caucasian infant from a deranged hobo kidnapper, and reunited him with his loving parents. This would be the career watershed moment that he had been waiting for. It was all just around the corner. The only thing I need is for these goddamn parents to show themselves and claim the kid, and then I’m set. I’m set, he mused.
Dr. Drummond’s conclusion that the infant wasn’t born in a hospital or with the assistance of an experienced nurse or mid-wife, coupled with the absence of anyone claiming a lost or stolen infant, was making it look like the police officers had rushed to judgment. Alan’s court appointed lawyer was making noises about contacting the American Civil Liberties Union with false imprisonment, malicious prosecution, and civil rights claims.
Five weeks after Alan’s arrest, no one had claimed that their infant had been kidnapped or was missing. The coffin which contained the remnants of Officer Jackson’s dreams was hammered shut when DNA tests taken from hair and saliva samples that were found inside the garbage bag matched that of the infant. Captain Palmer called Officer Jackson into his office.
“Jackson, this case is a total fiasco and one of the worst embarrassments that this department has had in the last ten years. The commissioner called me today and he was fuming. The mayor is all over his ass.”
“Who would know? Who the hell would know that hobo was telling the truth? ” sputtered Jackson.
Palmer was not placated. “It’s your job to find the truth. And you blew it.”
His face red as a traffic light, Jackson looked like his blood pressure would blow the top of his head right off. He began to leave Palmer’s office.
“Wait, Jackson, I didn’t dismiss you. There’s more,” Palmer said. “As part of the settlement, which your Mr. Gottschalk, now represented by the American Civil Liberties Union, has made—- the mayor and the police commissioner will both issue a public apology to him to be delivered in person at Riverview Estates, and he’ll receive a six-figure settlement payment so he doesn’t sue the city.”
It was an election year and a litigation by the ACLU on behalf of a homeless person that would attract national attention was not the kind of publicity that the mayor and city council wanted. And anyway, this was no ordinary homeless person. Alan Gottschalk was a hero. A full-blown American hero.
The media outlets had a story they could exploit relentlessly. It dominated the local newspapers, TV and radio stations for almost a week, and spread to national coverage. It was the subject of talk shows, special reports, blogging and editorials, all speculating as to what had led to #2764’s fate. Gottschalk was dubbed “HOBO HERO,” “THE GOLDEN TRAMP,” and “HOMELESS KNIGHT.” His photo, taken from old employee records at the now shuttered manufacturing plant where he had worked before the jobs were sent overseas, was plastered everywhere within twenty-four hours of the story’s breaking.
The apology ceremony which was to take place at Riverview Estates as part of the ACLU litigation settlement was re-jiggered by the mayor’s office into a political photo-op event for the Mayor, all members of the city council and the police commissioner. In preparation for the event, the city’s sanitation department showed up with an advance-crew to “spruce up” Riverview Estates so it wouldn’t look quite as shocking on television. The mayor had his speech writer prepare a long dissertation about the plight of the homeless and jobless and what his administration, after his re-election, would be doing to help the members of Riverview Estates and “all the other good people of this city who find themselves in need.”
Alan shuddered as he shook off the past. Bringing his cup to his lips, his trembling hand caused some coffee to spill on Bobby’s letter. He wiped it as carefully as if it were an ancient document and then gently blew it dry. Getting up slowly, Alan placed the letter back in its envelope and put it in his jacket pocket. He headed off to work in a daze.
>
38
As Bobby pushed the door open and walked out of the deli, the small brass bells hanging from the string over the door jingled loudly. He took a sip from his twenty-four ounce cup of coffee, the first of five he had every day. Bobby squinted from the brightness of the sun, which was intensified as it reflected off the remains of the prior week’s substantial snowfall. There was no wind and the temperature was just slightly below freezing, which made it a warm day for February in Boston. Bobby inhaled the crisp air deeply and smiled. He loved this kind of winter’s morning.
Walking toward Tufts, he saw a large crowd of people gathered in front of the main gates. This was a sight that had become all too familiar to him over the last few months. He put on his sunglasses and pulled down hard on the visor of his baseball cap.
Their overhead lights flashing, five police cars were askew in front of the main entrance to Tufts, and at least fifteen officers and a dozen campus security guards were trying to contain fifty or more demonstrators who were intent on blocking the campus entrance. A remote broadcasting truck from one of the local television stations was also on the scene. Some of the demonstrators were picketing with placards that said “Stop Austin Now” and “Let God Decide.” Others were waving signs and chanting, “Austin Will Bring His Wrath.” As Bobby weaved through the crowd, he looked like any other student trying to make his way to class. Having eschewed the media and avoided being photographed for years, no one outside of a small circle knew what he looked like. As a leaflet was thrust into his hand that was titled, “God Has A Plan,” Bobby noticed that someone had splattered the ornate wrought iron gates with red paint.
Other than their disdain for Bobby, the demonstrators had little in common. But Bobby’s accomplishments had managed to unite Christian Scientists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Muslim Fundamentalists, Scientologists and Pentecostalists. But the largest contingent was comprised of an angry looking group, dressed in pseudo-military garb,who were rhythmically shouting, “The Anti-Christ Works Here.” They were members of a radical organization called RASI which was an acronym for Retribution Against Scientific Interference. RASI advocated violent opposition to modern medicine which it believed to be contrary to the ordained natural order of life and God’s divine plan. Over the years, RASI had picketed and defaced research laboratories and pharmaceutical companies.
It was Bobby’s recent double Nobel Prize win that seemed to have changed everything. Prior to that he had been able to maintain a low-key presence at the university and the privacy of his research had not been a problem. There had been some forays from reporters and curiosity seekers but these were sporadic and usually petered out within a few days after the announcement of a discovery or an award. But the weight of the most recent Nobels, on top of the four prior ones, coupled with the worldwide impact of Bobby’s discoveries, had escalated media and public interest to a new level. The limited resources of Tufts’ campus security staff were being overwhelmed. Tufts was now highlighted on all of the Boston tourist maps and was a regular drive-by attraction on the tour-bus schedule, where Tufts was called, “Home of the Miracle Man.”
Dean Walterberg summoned Bobby to his office. As the dean looked outside the windows of his office, he pointed toward the main entrance gates. “Robert, the Trustees and I are very concerned about what’s been going on out there with these demonstrators. Yesterday, ten of those characters scaled the side-entrance fence, placards and all, and were scouring the campus, questioning students, trying to find you and your lab. They staged a bizarre ceremony in the middle of the commons and blew up a model of the science building with M-80s. The blast shook the windows on half the campus.”
“That’s crazy. I’m really sorry,” said Bobby, his face pale.
Walterberg gazed out his windows onto the campus below. “We’re worried about the safety of the students and the facilities—and quite frankly, we’re worried about you.” Walterberg turned to face Bobby and he looked pained. “These RASI people are potentially very dangerous—they’re on the FBI watch-list. Our security people aren’t equipped to handle this. We’re going to double our guard staff and we’re thinking of barb-wiring the perimeters of the campus. Entirely new security procedures need to be put into effect.”
Bobby shook his head. “This campus shouldn’t have to be a fortress.”
“The paparazzi are also out of control,” Walterberg said. “It seems they’re being offered substantial bounties for photographs of you.”
Bobby plopped down into one of the guest chairs and leaned into its sidearm. “ I never wanted to be disruptive or cause a problem. It’s probably going to get worse as time goes on.”
Walterberg pulled over a chair and sat next to him. “Robert, make no mistake. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to this University. We’re so proud to have you here, and quite frankly, your presence has raised our profile and reputation incredibly. We’re now attracting the absolute top rank of students and professors—no school has it over us anymore. And alumni contributions have more than tripled. We’ll do anything and everything to support you.”
“That’s very generous and I appreciate it. But the spotlight isn’t a light that I can work in. And sooner or later, someone’s going to get hurt. I can’t live with knowing that my presence here might do that or get one of your buildings blown up. I hate to say it dean, but the time has come for me to start making arrangements to move to a more private location.”
Bobby and Walterberg crafted the details of the plan going forward. Bobby would continue to be listed as a professor (this was important to Tufts for prestige reasons and would give Bobby a personal income since he took no salary from his research foundation), but he would be newly denominated as a non-resident professor emeritus. It would be publicly announced that Bobby would no longer work on campus. Bobby would have unlimited access to Tufts’ supercomputers via a remote interface from his new location, and he and his staff would continue to utilize the laboratories in the physical sciences departments and the medical school on an ‘as needed’ basis. Tufts would not object to Bobby’s taking with him whatever Tufts’ lab assistants or other staff he wished, but these people would then be on the foundation’s payroll.
While Bobby knew that he had made the right decision, he was concerned about the logistics of setting up his own research facility. As usual, he turned to Susan.
“I have a little job for you that should provide a nice distraction from your everyday routine. I’ve noticed you’re getting bored,” Bobby said, smiling.
“There’s hardly anything to do around here,” Susan replied, rolling her eyes.
Bobby gestured toward the window. “With all the craziness that’s been going on out there, we have to leave Tufts as soon as possible and set-up our own facility. We need to find a place that’s private, remote and secluded—but not far from Boston. And we need to get it up and running pronto.”
Susan’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Bobby. “I’m concerned by the way you’re using the word ‘we.’ Why are you telling me this? It’s just information, right?”
Bobby smiled. “No, my dear— you’re in charge. You’re going to make it happen.”
Susan’s voice rose as her words came tumbling out. “Are you kidding me? I don’t recall ‘lab relocator’ in my job description. What makes you think I can do it? It’s a huge job.”
Bobby walked over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “And that’s the beautiful thing about your job. It’s constantly evolving because I have unlimited faith in your abilities. Our time frame is ninety days to find the space and get in there. You can do it, Susan. You’re like that stubborn little train in the children’s story that gets to the top of the mountain by saying, ‘I think I can, I think I can.’”
“Thanks for that. I’m like a fat locomotive.”
Bobby laughed, “I didn’t say fat.”
Susan groaned. “Why is your belief in me always so convenient for you?”
As he sat down at his desk and turned his attention to his computer, Bobby smiled and said, “I love you Susan. Thank you.”
Susan combed the Multiple Listing Service on the internet for real estate offerings in communities within a thirty mile radius of Tufts. After much investigation, she came to the conclusion that Bobby’s marching orders—- a secluded, private and remote location—- meant that a residential property was needed, as commercial properties were invariably situated on main roads that are easily accessible and visible to the public. After searching for two weeks, she came across the following listing:
Beverly, Mass—prestigious Prides Crossing area—“fixer upper” with great potential; 8 acres fenced and gated, large single story house. Priced for quick sale by estate.
Susan called the broker and made an appointment to see the property. As Susan drove around with her, she was encouraged by the difficulty the broker had finding the house. Once off the main road, they got lost in a labyrinth of twisting private roads that were inadequately marked, lanes going nowhere, dead ends and cul de sacs. The vehicle’s GPS was of no help. Finally, after two calls to the broker’s office for directions, they pulled the black BMW up to a nameless dirt road, wide enough for one vehicle to pass at a time. The only sign was one that said “No Trespassing Violators Will Be Prosecuted.” The broker ignored the sign and turned into the road which rambled in a seemingly aimless fashion. After driving a quarter mile, the road led them to a set of very tall metal electronic gates that were distinctly non-residential in appearance. There was no address number, mail box or other identification. Two signs were posted. One said, “Private Property” and the other said, “Guard Dogs On Patrol.” Security cameras were mounted on tall posts next to the gates, and there was a “call box” for visitors to request admission.
Miracle Man Page 17
