The Copycat Caper

by John V. Madormo

  “Do you think it’s cleaned up by now?” my mom said.

  “I sure hope so,” my dad replied. “What a mess.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “The office next to your dad’s flooded yesterday,” my mom said.

  Flooded? What was she talking about? I had apparently missed part of the conversation.

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  My dad set his paper down. “Some idiot in my office went to the cleaners at lunchtime yesterday. When he came back, he was looking for somewhere to hang the suit he had just picked up. When he couldn’t find a hook, he decided to hang it on one of the sprinkler system heads. Big mistake. You can’t tamper with those things. It completely flooded his office . . . and part of mine.”

  “Bummer,” I said. “I didn’t think that much water came out of one of those things.”

  “Try a hundred gallons a minute,” he said. “And whenever those things go off, it triggers an alarm. So the police and the fire department showed up. It was a madhouse.” My dad sighed and continued reading the paper.

  “Hey, where’s Gram?” I asked.

  “Sound asleep,” my dad said.

  “She never sleeps this late,” my mom said. “I wonder if she’s feeling all right.”

  They didn’t know what I knew. And it was best kept between me and Gram. I guessed I’d have to wait until after school to find out what happened last night. Then again, if Eugene and company had spotted the suspect, I’m sure they would have contacted the police. And if that were the case, it would have made the morning news.

  “Is it okay if I turn on the TV? Just want to catch the news.”

  My dad shrugged.

  I took that as a yes. I reached over and flipped it on. The weatherman was in the middle of a forecast.

  “Winds are out of the southeast at ten miles per hour, and the humidity is thirty percent. Today we’re looking at partly cloudy skies with a high of sixty-two. And much of the same for tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Frank,” the news anchor said. “When we come back, we’ll hear from Mitzi Malone in our newsroom with word of a breaking story.”

  While the commercial aired, I poured myself a glass of orange juice and began devouring a bowl of cereal.

  When the newscast resumed, a female reporter was sitting next to the anchor. “I’ve asked Mitzi Malone from our newsroom to join us this morning,” the newsman began. “Mitzi, it apparently has happened again.”

  “Yes, Todd. For the fourth consecutive Tuesday morning, authorities are reporting an overnight burglary. This time it was at the Fontana Art Gallery on East Washington.”

  Fontana Art Gallery? I was expecting to hear them say that the museum had been robbed.

  “Here we go again,” my mom said.

  “So, what was missing this time?” the newsman asked.

  “About seven hundred dollars from the cash register,” the reporter said. “And the thief also made off with a painting.”

  “A painting?” the anchor said. “What type?”

  “It’s a contemporary piece titled Summer Repose. It’s a painting of a small table on an outdoor patio. And on the table is a large water pitcher and two small glasses.”

  I dropped my spoon. It hit the cereal bowl and splashed milk onto my dad’s newspaper.

  “Charlie! Watch what you’re doing!” he said.

  “And,” the reporter continued, “that familiar business card with the SS circled was found by police on the floor of the gallery.”

  I needed to talk to my grandmother in the worst way. I gulped down my orange juice, asked to be excused, and headed into the living room, where I had left my backpack. As I passed Gram’s room, I thought I heard someone moving around in there. I didn’t want to bother her, but I just had to. I tapped lightly on her door.

  A few seconds later, the door opened. Gram was in her nightgown and robe. She placed a finger to her lips. She apparently didn’t want my parents to hear what she was about to say. She motioned for me to come into her room and closed the door behind me.

  “Did you hear the news this morning?” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Well, we were right about the pitcher . . . sort of.”

  “We were so close,” I said. “We managed to figure out the double meaning but staked out the wrong place. Gram, this guy is really clever. Do you remember the name of the Sam Solomon episode last night? It was ‘The Pitcher Frame Caper.’ And that’s exactly what he took—a painting of a pitcher that just happened to be in a frame.”

  She sat down on her bed and motioned for me to join her. “Charlie, we sat and sat outside the museum for hours, and then about four thirty this morning, over the police radio, we heard a report of a break-in at the art gallery.”

  “So, now what?”

  “Now we wait a week and try to do a better job of figuring out his next target.”

  “It seems a shame to have to wait a whole week,” I said, “and even then we’re not guaranteed we’ll be able to predict where he’ll strike next.”

  “Realistically, it could take months for us to find this bird,” she said. “You just gotta be patient.”

  I got up and reached for the doorknob. “If there was only a way to set a trap, then we wouldn’t be wasting all this time.”

  “How do you propose we do that?” she said. “Are you going to write a new Sam Solomon script yourself, with a story that’ll lead him right to you?” She chuckled.

  “No, that’d be crazy.” I turned to leave. At least, I thought it was crazy.

  • • •

  As I sat on the bus on my way to school, I kept racking my brain to come up with a way to solve this caper. It was so frustrating to think that we’d have to wait another week to get another shot at this guy. And there wasn’t really anything we could do in the interim. There were no strategies to plan out, no stakeouts to arrange, no witnesses to interview. We were his slaves. He controlled our every move. He acted, and we reacted. No one should be able to wield that kind of power over others. If there was only a way to know the details of the next episode or, better yet, to have some control over the content of the story, then we might have a chance to nab this guy. Maybe Gram had the right idea. Maybe we should think about creating our own radio drama. But that was impossible.

  A minute or so later, Henry climbed up onto the bus. When he spotted me, he made a beeline for the empty seat next to mine.

  “I heard about the burglary at that art gallery last night,” Henry said. “Since the suspect’s at large, I’m guessing that Eugene wasn’t there waiting for him when he showed up.”

  “We were so close, Henry.” I spent the remainder of the ride bringing him up to speed. He had apparently started listening to the Sam Solomon drama last night but fell asleep about halfway through. I told him about the conversation with Eugene after the program and how my grandmother nearly scared me to death when I heard her on the extension. I talked about the process of identifying key words from the show and then looking for one with a double meaning or a play on words. I then told him how Eugene, Gram, and Chicken Bone worked an all-night stakeout at the museum but unfortunately were outwitted by the suspect.

  When we got to school, we met up with Scarlett on the playground. As I had done with Henry, I shared all the details from the previous night. We were frustrated that we only had one chance each week to solve this caper, but no one had any ideas on what we could be doing until the next Monday night.

  “Let’s just concentrate on the play,” Scarlett said. “That’ll keep us busy, and at the same time, it’ll take our minds off the crime spree.”

  It was good advice. We could think ourselves silly about this case for the next few days and still be no closer to solving it than when we started. I did my best to put the crime spree on the back burner and tried to concentrate
on school matters. But it was more difficult than I expected. It wasn’t that my classes were any more boring than usual, it was just that I was having a really tough time keeping my eyes open. The sleep I’d lost the night before was catching up to me.

  When we finally made it to last period, Mrs. Jansen’s class, I was relieved. I kept thinking about how good it would feel to go to bed tonight. I guess I might have been imagining my head hitting the pillow a bit too much. I remembered walking into class, opening up my science book to a page 52, and that was it. Everything seemed to stop at that point. I soon came to the conclusion that a growing boy needs his sleep.

  “Charlie . . . Charlie . . . wake up.” Mrs. Jansen was hovering over me.

  I couldn’t believe I had fallen asleep at my desk. I’d never done that before. Besides the tone of an irritated teacher, I could also hear my classmates giggling. It would take a while to live this one down.

  “I realize that my lectures can be a little dry at times,” Mrs. Jansen said, “but I didn’t think they actually put people to sleep.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” I said. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  Mrs. Jansen gazed into my eyes. “You look tired. Up late?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, just make sure you get to bed early tonight. Okay?”

  I smiled sheepishly. The giggling and pointing had yet to die down. As Mrs. Jansen made her way to the front of the room, I found myself thinking about a time when Sam Solomon had suffered public humiliation. It was Episode #49—The High Steaks Caper. This was the story of a meatpacking facility that was suspected of dealing with poachers. Rumor had it that they would buy meat from unscrupulous suppliers who were involved in the slaughter of animals on the endangered species list. Sam had gone undercover as a meat packer in order to expose these unethical and illegal practices. When he was certain that he had determined the identity of the ringleader, he made it known that he was a private detective and informed his suspect that he’d be escorting him to jail. What Sam didn’t know, unfortunately, was that the so-called ringleader was actually a police officer who was also undercover. Sam had inadvertently blown the officer’s cover and had ruined six weeks of the investigation. Sam was so embarrassed that he thought he would never live it down. But in time, the veteran P.I. shared key evidence with the officer that eventually blew the lid off the illegal meatpacking racket.

  So, if Sam could endure public embarrassment and survive, then so could I. It might not be easy. And it might take time to rebuild my reputation, but I was determined to do so. And the best way to make that happen was to solve another high-profile crime. Identifying the crook behind this recent string of burglaries was no longer an opportunity to showcase my talents. It was now an absolute necessity.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Knot Guilty Caper

  When the bell finally rang, I let my eyes close for just a few seconds. If Henry hadn’t nudged me, I might have been in that desk for quite some time. This had not been one of my better performances.

  “Are you ready?” Henry said.

  “For what?”

  “Play practice. What else?”

  I was not looking forward to sitting in the front row watching everyone else rehearse. Not only was it deathly boring, but I knew I’d never be able to stay awake. I thought about informing Mr. Miles that this was one of the days I needed to research the case. But I knew that I might legitimately need an off day sometime in the future.

  When we walked into the auditorium, most of the kids were in place onstage. I assumed my usual spot in the front row with my fellow understudies. Each day I was feeling less and less part of this ensemble. I knew that if the slacker missed school one day, I would be pressed into service. But for some odd reason, he hadn’t missed a day since he had been elevated to leading man. Apparently he now had a reason to show up.

  Always seeming to run fashionably late, Mr. Miles strolled in.

  “Excuse my tardiness, thespians,” he said as he made his entrance from stage left with his script tucked under his arm. “All right, let’s begin with act 3, scene 2. This is a critical scene. This is where Nick Dakota tracks down the bookie, Noah Brand, at a rundown motel on the east side of town. The bookie’s been on the lam ever since Rebecca’s parents were discovered missing.”

  The next ten minutes were absolutely brutal. I was forced to endure a halfhearted effort by the slacker and the hisser. I couldn’t make up my mind who was more pathetic. And it seemed that Mr. Miles was thinking the exact same thing.

  “No, no, no, gentlemen,” he said. “This isn’t a wake. It’s one of the most important scenes in the entire production. The audience now knows that the bookie does indeed exist and that Rebecca has been telling the truth the entire time. This is her ticket to freedom.” He turned to the slacker. “Patrick, you’ve just found the Holy Grail. Act like it. And Brian, the last thing you want right now is for someone to find you. If he turns you over to the police, they’ll toss your sorry butt in the slammer. And if your bosses get ahold of you, they’ll make an example of someone who runs out on them.” He sighed. “Okay, gentlemen, I want to see some real intensity. From the top, please.”

  When the scene resumed, the pair of underachievers managed to kick it up a notch, but just slightly. The expression on Mr. Miles’s face suggested that it was more of the same. I did my best to stay awake. It wasn’t easy. I shook my arms and legs to keep the blood flowing. I hoped that would work. Then I tried actually following the story line of the play. I had to give Mr. Miles credit. He had created a fairly interesting story, but it was painful to watch it performed in this manner. The central theme of the play was the missing bookie. The audience was reminded of that fact throughout. It got me to thinking. If this had been one of the Monday night Sam Solomon dramas, our suspect would have undoubtedly chosen bookie for his little word game.

  Mr. Miles marched to the center of the stage and threw his arms up. He apparently had had enough.

  “Gentlemen, I’ll be very honest with you,” he said. “Unless your performances improve, I may be forced to make some casting changes. It’s not something I enjoy doing.” He paused for a moment. “Why don’t I demonstrate exactly what we’d like to see.” He paged through his script until he found the exact passage he was looking for. “Patrick, Brian, listen carefully.” Mr. Miles held the script with one hand and was suddenly transformed into character.

  NICK DAKOTA

  Well, look who we have here. It just proves—if you check under enough rocks, you’re bound to find a slug.

  NOAH BRAND

  Who are you? How’d you get in here?

  Mr. Miles was simply amazing. He wasn’t just mouthing someone’s lines. He had taken on new personas. He altered his voice for each role. If you closed your eyes, you would have sworn that there were two completely different people onstage. And then I remembered something about Mr. Miles. He’s known as the man of a thousand voices. It was true, and it was remarkable.

  NICK DAKOTA

  Put both hands where I can see ’em. And don’t even think about going for that gun under the pillow.

  NOAH BRAND

  Well, I assume you’re not a member of the family. I’d be dead already. So that leaves a cop or a private cop.

  NICK DAKOTA

  The name’s Dakota. Nick Dakota. And there’s a lady by the name of Rebecca Ramsey who’d like to have a little chat with you.

  NOAH BRAND

  Listen, I had nuthin’ to do with what happened to her folks. You want somebody else. I’m small potatoes. Maybe we can work out some kind of deal. I know things that might be helpful. What do you say?

  I had never heard the school auditorium as quiet as it was at that very moment. Each and every cast member was spellbound by Mr. Miles’s performance. It was easy to see why he had been so successful as an actor on Broadway and in dozens of ol
d-time radio serials.

  “Does that help?” he said to the two struggling actors onstage.

  They both nodded. And for the remainder of play practice, the performance of virtually every actor onstage noticeably improved. Mr. Miles’s acting demonstration turned out to be a real inspiration. Not only had he executed a perfect teaching moment, but he made me think about something that my grandmother had said earlier. After the blown stakeout at the museum, she had jokingly suggested that we create our own Sam Solomon drama so that we might be able to lead our suspect right into a trap. The thought of doing so earlier had seemed silly, but was it really such a wild idea?

  I could suddenly feel the wheels in my brain beginning to spin at breakneck speed. Wait a minute now. This just might work. It was crazy, but it could be the perfect solution. I began strategizing immediately. First, I had to approach Mr. Miles to see if he would be interested in helping us out. Since he was friends with both Gram and Eugene, he might just buy in. I would have to convince him to let us produce a thirty-minute radio program based on the play that we were now rehearsing. That way he wouldn’t have to write any new material. The work would be all done. We could just add appropriate sound effects and music and turn it into a bona fide old-time radio drama.

  The wheels continued to turn. We could change the name of the hero from Nick Dakota to Sam Solomon. It would be easy. The toughest part would be to match up the voices from the original series. If Mr. Miles was truly the man of a thousand voices, then he might just be able to match his voice to that of the Sam Solomon series star, Peter Wentworth. Then, of course, we’d need other actors—adult actors—but there had to be some in the area. I knew of a community theater group here in Oak Grove that put on holiday shows. Maybe a few of them would be interested.

  Then there was the little matter of approaching the radio station owner in town and asking him if we could use one of his studios to record the production and then getting his permission to substitute it for the next Sam Solomon program. This was where Eugene would come in handy. Since this was such a noble cause, I was sure that Eugene could convince his old pal, Ned Stewart, to help us out. And then all that would be left was our analysis of the program’s main events. I was betting on the fact that the word bookie, because of how frequently it was mentioned throughout the script, would be integral to solving this crime.