Wednesday’s Child

by Douglass, Carl;

  The FBI crime lab finds traces of significant quantities of chloral hydrate and ethanol in samples of red liquid found in seams between the parquet floors of the kitchen at the house allegedly owned by Mrs. Chang. Nothing comes of any search for the mysterious Asian woman.

  The information about the trucks proves to be more rewarding. Martin gets a call from the command post at 1 Police Plaza within the hour that sends him racing over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge towards Staten Island. He pulls into the big Exxon truck stop on the 28th and races into the station and store. It is silly to run—he knows—because the trucks would have had to have been there four or maybe five days previously and are long gone by now.

  The station manager confirms that there were two old Wonder Bread semis in the parking lot overnight on the 5th, and that the drivers were Asians. He remembers that one of them talked about heading north. Martin gets another call from Mary Margaret telling him of another sighting in the huge busy K&T Conoco truck stop just off I-278. There, he learns that there were two trucks, but not Wonder Bread trucks.

  “See any Chinese?” Martin asks the manager.

  “Now that you mention it, I did. Not real friendly types, if you know what I mean,” he says.

  “Get any idea where they were headed?”

  “Not really, except one of them said something about being glad they were almost there.”

  “Like maybe the port?” Martin asks with more hope than expectation.

  “Could be, I guess, but none of them really mentioned the port.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t know—probably nothing—but I would swear that I heard something banging on the inside of one of the trailers when I came to work in the morning. Like I say, probably just some truck noise from one of the trailers. We have maybe thirty trucks a night in here. Sorry I can’t be of more help. Has this got anything to do with those poor Wednesday’s Girls who went missing?”

  “Not sure,” Martin says. “But we have to check out everything. Just routine, you know.”

  Headquarters sends out another BOLO about the unmarked trailers. The FBI link up with NYPD and New Jersey state troopers to drive all over Staten Island and points north. Mary Margaret calls McGee to get him to have his Mafia contacts take a peek around the Port Newark-Elizabeth Marine Terminal docks in Newark, New Jersey.

  “We don’t want to spook them, if they’re there, McGee. Some of Don Dominic’s guys might help. They won’t want to deal with us cops, but you and your Mafia cronies might get something useful,” Mary Margaret says.

  “They’re hardly my cronies, Mary Margaret,” says McGee, “but maybe if I can spread some greenbacks around to the right people, we can catch a break.”

  “You know we don’t have all that much money to use to grease the skids, McGee. Everything’s very tight budgetwise. Try and scare up some working money from Devon Carlisle or maybe from Rasmussen, O’Herligy, Rodriguez, and Applewhite. David Rasmussen has been pretty willing to help us out for a good cause since he won the big civil case against that cult in Wyoming. Devon and his wife and mother became billionaires and philanthropists from their portion of the settlement. They have been most generous. If ever there was a good cause, this is it, even if it isn’t entirely copacetic.”

  “You’re right. Money talks, and more importantly, it can get other people to talk. I’ll get on the horn with Dominic Lanza and see what we can shake out down at the port.”

  McGee calls Don Dominic on his private cell phone.

  “Nobody ever calls me on this line. It has to be McGee. Howa ya doin’? And whadda ya need now?”

  “I need to share some money with you and your nice friends over in Jersey at the port.”

  “Somehow, I’m pretty sure this is goin’ ta cost me in the end.”

  “Nah, this is just a good business arrangement. Nothing illegal, but it just has to be on the QT. Remember, I told you about the kidnapped girls. Maybe there’s a lead pointing to Newark and the port.”

  “How can I help?”

  Whatever one thinks about the Mafia, it has to be admitted that their organization is effective. Within an hour, Ivory White—McGee’s partner at McGee & Associates Investigations—is in a meeting in the International Longshoremen’s Union Atlantic Coast District Union Hall at the Port Newark-Elizabeth Marine Terminal docks in Newark, New Jersey. The vice presidents of the International Dockworkers Union Local No. 1, Teamsters Local 929, and the International Association of Machinists Local 447 are all in the room. Michelangelo Lanza is there to represent Dominic Lanza’s import-export business interests.

  “Don Dominic told us somethin’ about what youse want. And he says it is cop business—somethin’ about kidnapped kids. Youse probably know that we are gettin’ ready ta go on strike against Del Monte again. They won’t budge on their plan to move to a less costly port. We’re thinkin’ like maybe they got in mind some non-union port like in Mexico or some other spic place. We ain’t gonna allow that. Whatta youse have in mind that is important enough for us to change our plans, Mr. White? We’re already inta this thing a boatload a dough. We’re just workin’ stiffs, and the union can’t afford to drop that kinda money,” says Henry Price, the VP of the ILA.

  “How much money?” Ivory says, cutting right to the chase as is his usual approach.

  “Coupla hundred large.”

  “What if I can get you that much today?”

  “Sounds like we could start to negotiate,” Henry says.

  “Look, we need to save some girls today. You all have daughters, right? Good Catholic girls? How about we skip the b-s and do what good fathers do, all right?”

  Henry pauses. “You sure you can get that kinda dough today, White?”

  “I can. You get your guys into a hall and tell them what we are after—girls on a freighter bound for China or some other faraway place. Good info will be worth a grand to the guy that gets to us first.”

  “Deal,” says Henry. “We’ll call a strike meeting this afternoon, and the main topic will be about them girls. But … no money from you and our meeting is about puttin’ together a strike. We clear?”

  “Perfectly. Sit tight,” Ivory says, picks up his iPhone, and calls McGee, who calls Devon Carlisle and David Rasmussen, who are used to responding quickly.

  Ten minutes later, he says, “Check your account at the Seafarers Bank.”

  “Whew!” says Henry. “Two hundred K to the good. You got your meetin.’”

  Ivory makes a serious decision based on the information he gets from the union meeting that afternoon. He has a name—the Golden Traveler—and a destination, probably China. But he has no departure date. One teamster says he thinks that he saw some kids chained to each other being off-loaded from a couple of trucks near where the Golden Traveler is berthed, maybe five or six days ago. Ivory’s decision is to check the ship out with his homies without getting law enforcement involved until he can get a better feel. If the cops come in like the cavalry and stir the place up, the human smugglers will be alerted and get spooked. If he and his homies wait too long, they might miss the one chance to save the kids. Who knows what could happen to the girls and what the ship’s captain might decide to do?

  Chapter Eleven

  June 9–10, 2020

  Brigid is aware that more and more of the girls are getting sick. The air in the hold is bad; the sanitation is terrible; the food is inadequate; and everyone is dehydrated. She has to do something. By herself, she looks for some way out of the cavernous hollow in the bowels of the big ship. At the top of the stairs, the door is locked from the outside. There are no windows. She thinks there are holes at the top of the hold, but that is two stories above her. Rats the size of big cats are beginning to creep closer to the girls; it was terrifying. She decides on the one thing she and the girls can do—make noise.

  She organizes the girls to begin screaming altogether. Nothing happens. It is obvious that their pitiful high voices cannot be heard outside the huge echoey ch
amber. Brigid is a good student. She remembers something that might be useful from science class. Sound travels better through solids than through air. In class back at Saint Anne’s—which seems like a hundred years ago—Sister Mary M. did an experiment. She had the girls hold a pipe to their ears while she tapped lightly on the pipe with a spoon. She repeated by tapping on wood. Brigid remembered how loud the sound was through the metal and how crisp and high the sound was.

  “Girls,” she says, “everybody get a spoon and let’s begin tapping on the walls of this big hole in the ship.”

  That gives the girls something to do, but it is little better than a cacophony and not very coordinated.

  Timid little Ingrid O’Malley makes a suggestion, “Brigid, how can anybody out there tell if the sound is coming from humans, especially from a bunch of little girls? I think we should tap out the tune for one of the songs we sing at the orphanage. Maybe some good Catholic will hear us and understand what we are trying to do.”

  Brigid and all of the rest of the Wednesday’s Girls nod their heads in agreement with Ingrid’s plan. It is the best idea any of them has had yet, and they have a short democratic discussion about what would be the best and most recognizable tune to identify them.

  At two in the morning on the tenth, Ivory White and his homies and Caitlin O’Brian and McGee, Ivory’s other two partners, board the Golden Traveler uninvited. It is easier than they could have imagined. The gangplank is down, and all the black-clad interlopers have to do is walk softly up onto the deck. They can hear sentries walking about on the deck above, but there do not seem to be any guards near where they are standing.

  Ivory whispers, “Do a sneak-and-peek everywhere on the ship. Avoid contact with the guards if it is at all possible. No noise. I repeat, no noise. Now, spread out. I’ll stay here and McGee will be up on the next deck right above here. Meet every fifteen minutes to report. Now get out there and find our girls.”

  The ten men and one woman all slip into the shadows between the deck lights and try each door and peep into every window they can. At the first meeting, the only thing that is learned is that this appears to be an entirely normal cargo ship with its sleeping crew waiting for orders to sail.

  At the one-hour mark, one of Ivory’s homies says he hears funny noises coming from below decks by the hold. He says he could not open the locked door into the hold itself.

  Caitlin asks, “What kind of noises? Voices? Screaming? Banging on the walls?”

  “Not sure. It was funny. It was like … kinda like, say steel drum music … maybe like reggae.”

  “Maybe some of the crew are having a party,” Caitlin says, “but it is the only sign of life here. Let’s take a listen. McGee, Ivory, and I will go back down with Big Tommy and listen. See if it means anything.”

  “I brought a stethoscope for just that purpose,” Ivory shows the others. “Let’s get down there before we have company from the crew.”

  The three plaster their ears to the bulk head and strain to listen. Ivory gets a clear signal through his stethoscope.

  “It’s music,” he says. “I don’t think it’s reggae, but I have no idea what it is. Think we’re onto something we can use?”

  McGee shakes his head. “Beats me.”

  Caitlin takes her turn with the stethoscope, waits for a minute or two, then begins to hum. Finally, she lights up.

  “I know exactly what this is. We are hearing a whole orchestra tapping on the steel bulkhead from the inside. They are playing a tune every kid who goes through Catholic Sunday school or gets an education through the Catholic system learns. I could never forget Mary, Mother! Shield Us.”

  McGee gets out his phone. “Tap out the melody, Caitlin. We can record it and get this back as evidence. Know the lyrics?”

  “Some. It’s been a while. Let’s see.

  “Mary, Mother, shield us through life!

  “Protect us from the ocean’s strife!

  “Star of the Main! Beneath thy Veil

  “Clinging to thee, We safely sail!”

  She hums a little more.

  “I’m not sure, but I think I remember a few more fragments from my active Catholic girlhood.

  “Sweet morning star … uh … when life is o’er

  “Then, land us on … uh … the eternal shore.”

  McGee and Ivory look at Caitlin as if they have just witnessed a miracle. McGee gives her a huge hug.

  “‘You done splendid,’ as Casey Stengel used to say. Way to go, Caitlin! Now, you guys, let’s get the flock outta here. We have work to do.”

  Despite all of the effort that has been expended to achieve cooperation among several agencies and organizations that are now involved in the efforts of the NYPD elite Organized Crime Human Trafficking Unit, the cogs and wheels of bureaucracy grind frustratingly slowly for McGee & Associates. The go-aheads have to include the top floor of 1 Police Plaza, the FBI regional office, the Coast Guard officers responsible for the port, Washington, DC, the mayor and police chief of Newark, the colonel of New Jersey State Police, the heads of the unions at the port of Newark-Elizabeth, and the supervisor of the Port Newark Container Terminal. It is like swimming through molasses to get everybody on board. It takes two hours of jurisdictional haggling to get SWAT from the NYPD and the FBI Critical Incident Response Team to agree as to which unit will head up the assault teams, and to get medical personnel ready to go in with the teams to help the children if they are hurt or sick.

  “SNAFU,” Ivory says, harking back to his days in the Marine Corps.

  It is ridiculous that it is already high noon in Newark before the squabbling parties all mount up and gather in a vacant field on Corbin Street, less than a mile from the docks.

  Detective Sergeant Mary Margaret MacLeese, Special Agent Dwight Cunnahay, and Coast Guard captain Roger Kennard have joint leadership responsibility, as cumbersome as that promises to be.

  Mary Margaret is discouraged by all of the folderol that has preceded the gathering of elite law enforcement units.

  “It’s a lovely bright, sunshiny day, Dwight, Roger,” she says sarcastically. “We lose every advantage of surprise if we go in now. I’m afraid they’ll kill all the girls and jump overboard as soon as they see the cavalry come over the hill.”

  “I agree. I hate the committee approach to cop work, but we have policies and bosses. Can’t be helped. I also hate the fact that we will have to wait until it is pitch black out and everybody on that boat is asleep before we move in. We’ll just have to twiddle our thumbs until then. You tell your people, and I’ll tell mine,” Special Agent Cunnahay says.

  There is a collective groan from the troops when they receive the directive and know that they are going to have to settle down to a day of agitated boredom.

  Chapter Twelve

  June 10–11, 2020

  Money—especially bribery—works in more than one direction. George Smuthers has been in the Teamsters for nearly twenty years. This is long enough to become a functioning alcoholic, an inveterate gambler, and to have an unsympathetic bookie. He is in debt up to his ears. When the bosses ask for information about a ship called the Golden Traveler, he sees dollar signs. And a grand won’t cut it.

  “How ‘bout I have a little talk with that Chinee captain,” he thinks, remembering that he drove a load of food and bottled water to the loading dock of the ship a week earlier.

  As soon as the union hall clears, he makes a beeline to the Golden Traveler and catches the first crewman he finds and tells him that he has a message for the captain.

  “It’s urgent. And it’s only for the captain,” he says.

  He is in the captain’s cabin inside of five minutes.

  “I got news worth a hundred grand to youse,” he says as soon as the captain steps over the threshold into his cabin.

  Captain Shi Ning is polite but comes directly to the point. “What could possibly be worth a hundred thousand dollars to me?” he asks looking intently into the bleary eyes of the teamster.


  “Money, first,” Smuther’s says.

  “Get real. What’ve you got? I haven’t got all day.”

  “That’s the God’s own truth, Captain. My info is urgent.”

  “Better be good. How good it is will determine how much it’s worth.”

  “Can I trust, youse?”

  “Of course. We’re brothers of the sea,” Captain Shi says suppressing a smile.

  “This is the thing. I got it from the union bosses just fifteen minutes ago. The cops know about youse; and NYPD, the fibbies, and the Coast Guard’re on their way today to board your ship in the next few hours.”

  Captain Shi presses a button on his desk top, and five minutes later, Sister Chi enters the room.

  “What’s the problem?” she demands sharply.

  Shi explains and Smuthers holds his peace.

  “This’ll cost us a small fortune … what’s your name?”

  “Smuthers, Ma’am.”

  “Captain Shi and me are going to act on this, but you will wish you had never been born if you are lying and this is a false alarm. Captain Shi, see to it that Smuthers, here, gets a thousand up front and another ten K once we get our work done and once we see if the gíngchaat [Cantonese for police] comes our way.”

  “But—” Smuthers stammers. But after a better look into those black stone pebble eyes of Sister Chi, he thinks better of arguing and meekly says, “Okay.”

  Where the law enforcement authorities bog down in bureaucratic nonsense, the criminals are the very picture of speed and efficiency. Sister Chi is used to dealing with emergencies and is able to think very quickly while on the run.

  “Here’s the plan,” she says as soon as Smuthers leaves the room. “Find a graving dock and get this tub out of the water. Make it very snappy. As soon as it is humanly possible, put up a new sign to cover the Golden Traveler one. It’s our only chance to hide. As soon as we start to move out into the harbor, the U.S. Coast Guard will board us; and we can’t let them find our cargo.”