The Copycat Caper

by John V. Madormo

  “You know . . . about setting up a stakeout there as well as the bookstores.”

  “Oh, oh, oh, sorry,” he said. “No, Charlie, I’m afraid I haven’t changed my mind. It’s all about available bodies. Your grandmother and I will be at Anderson’s Bookshop, and Chicken Bone and his brother-in-law, T-Bone, will be watching the big bookstore over on Fullerton. We’re already stretched pretty thin.”

  “Don’t forget about us,” Henry said. “We’re not worried about curfew or anything.”

  Eugene smiled. “Well, I am. And even if we weren’t talking about the middle of the night, I’d never allow you kids to go over there by yourselves. It’s just too dangerous.”

  “And you don’t have any other associates you could ask to help out?” I asked.

  “Not at this late date,” he said. “If we had more time, we probably could have recruited a small army, but there’s just no way that . . .” Eugene stopped in mid-sentence. He put his finger to his lips. “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?” I said.

  Eugene slid open his top desk drawer and pulled out a ring of keys. “C’mon, boys, I have an idea.”

  Seconds later we found ourselves in the backseat of Eugene’s hearse driving through town. We had tossed our bikes in the back, in the spot where a casket would normally sit. Eugene turned on Front Street and stopped in front of the Oak Grove Police Station.

  “Of course,” I said. “The police can cover the library for us.” Even though I was dying for a chance to be included in the Monday night stakeout, I realized that it was far more important that we catch this guy than for me to be a member of the surveillance team. I was more than happy to defer to the police. If they were brought in, we would certainly welcome their manpower and expertise.

  “Our job, gentlemen, is to convince the authorities that the culprit picks his targets based on the story line of the Sam Solomon programs,” Eugene said.

  “Why wouldn’t they believe us?” Henry asked. “It’s a great theory.”

  “To them it might seem like a series of coincidences,” Eugene said. “Let’s go find out.”

  We exited the vehicle, climbed the stone steps, and headed into the police station. We waited while Eugene spoke to the officer at the front desk. A minute later, Eugene was motioning us to follow him. We walked down a hallway and into an office marked DETECTIVE DON KENT. The officer immediately greeted us with a smile.

  “Eugene Patterson, you old son of a gun, what brings you in here?”

  “Well, my friends and I need a little assistance.”

  Detective Kent extended his hand to Eugene and then to Henry and me. “Don Kent . . . nice to meet you.”

  “This is Charlie Collier and Henry Cunningham,” Eugene said.

  “Hi, boys. Why don’t you all have a seat. So, Eugene, how can I be of service?”

  “It has to do with this series of unsolved burglaries.”

  The mid-fifties detective shook his head. “We’ve been working on this case day and night for a month now, with nothing to show for it. I suppose you have a tip for us, huh? You’ll be number”—he picked up a pad of paper from his desk—“157.”

  “Well, it’s more of a theory than a tip,” Eugene replied.

  Detective Kent put his hands behind his head and sat back in his chair. “Let me hear it.”

  And so for the next ten minutes or so, the three of us laid out the rationale behind our theory. We started with the first Sam Solomon program and the theft at the Persian rug shop. Then we recounted the plots of the next three programs and the burglaries that followed. We explained how the suspect seemed to be playing a word association game that was actually predicting the location of his crimes. Then we talked about Mr. Miles’s connection and how he was helping create a similar program that just might lead the culprit right into a trap. When we had finished, the detective leaned forward.

  “So you’ve got this guy pegged as kind of a copycat, is that it?” the detective said.

  “Sort of a copycat with a twist,” I said. “He’s making us work for it.”

  Detective Kent smiled. “What you’ve got here, fellas, would make a pretty good book. But what you’re missing is the hard evidence.”

  “What about the SS cards?” I asked.

  “I suppose they could stand for ‘Sam Solomon,’” he said. “But they could just as easily be the guy’s initials. Some crooks are pretty vain, you know.” The detective folded his hands and rested them on top of his desk. “I’m not completely dismissing your theory, and I’ll tell you why.” He slid open the top desk drawer and pulled out a book. I recognized it immediately. It was Sam Solomon, Episode #5—The Steamed Carats Caper. “We found this at the last crime scene.” He handed it to Eugene.

  Eugene held the book up to the light and stuck his finger into an indentation in the front cover.

  “There’s a hole through the entire book,” he said.

  “That’s because we also found this sticking in it,” Detective Kent said as he pulled a large kitchen knife from the same drawer. “Notice that our suspect stuck the knife right through the picture of the character on the front cover—like he was stabbing him or something. This guy’s a real sicko.”

  Eugene flipped through the pages as he examined the hole. “And you found no prints on the book or the knife, I assume?” He set the book on the edge of the desk.

  The detective shook his head. “They were clean.”

  “Then all of this proves our theory,” I said. “This case is definitely connected to Sam Solomon. It’s almost as if this guy is trying to kill Sam.” I picked up the book. “Look at this, Eugene.” I pointed to the hole. “This guy’s gonna want to continue his assault on the book series. And the library is his best bet of finding them.”

  “I just don’t know,” Eugene said.

  “Can I see that, Charlie?” Henry said as he motioned for the book. He stuck his finger right through the hole and began twirling it around. “If you ask me, I’d say we’re dealing with a real nut job.”

  “I’ll give you that,” the detective replied. “Our suspect is clearly unstable. But we’re still missing physical evidence. We have no fingerprints or DNA. We need more than hunches.”

  “I guess that means you’re not going to put a detail on the library Monday night?” Eugene said.

  “Listen, Eugene, I just don’t have the officers to spare—and especially overnight. I’m afraid I can’t help you. I wish I could.”

  “I know it sounds pretty crazy,” Eugene said. “Thanks anyway.”

  And so we were back where we started. It was apparent that the police were unconvinced that the perp was somehow influenced by the radio dramas. And that meant there wouldn’t be anyone watching the library. Eugene had made it pretty clear that he’d never allow Henry and me to go over there alone. So it seemed that this quest of mine had come to an end. And although it was killing me to do so, something was telling me to just back off and allow Eugene to run this investigation the way he saw fit. Having been overruled reminded me of a time when Sam Solomon had taken a stand only to be outvoted.

  It happened in Episode #54—The Pair o’ Dice Caper. In an unusual partnership, Sam had been contacted by the Chicago Police superintendent to assist the force in a series of gambling raids on the city’s South Side. The problem had gotten so bad that the department’s resources were stretched dangerously thin. The superintendent decided to team up with local private detectives, much to the chagrin of the rank and file. Veteran officers wanted nothing to do with cop wannabes, as they referred to them. Sam took it all in stride. But when the gambling task force had to decide where to position their officers for an all-night stakeout and possible raid, Sam’s suggestions were dismissed. There was just no way that a private cop would be telling the boys in blue how to do their jobs.

  And so, while the bulk of the force sat out
side a seedy bar on Ashland Avenue, Sam hid behind a Dumpster alongside an abandoned warehouse on West Ogden. As it turned out, the veteran P.I. had guessed right, but his decision to conduct his own one-man raid was shortsighted. He was captured by the gamblers, and had it not been for one lone officer who shared Sam’s views on the stakeout location, it might have been his final roll of the dice.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Ill Will Caper

  With Friday morning upon us, we were only three days away from the moment of truth. I had asked my dad the night before if he would mind driving Henry and me to school early today. He reluctantly agreed. It wasn’t that my dad wasn’t in the habit of doing favors for people, it was just that he was relatively inflexible—and he’d be the first person to tell you that. Whenever something came up that wasn’t on his day planner, it would throw him for a loop. So the thought of an unscheduled stop that would force a detour was asking a lot. But thanks to a dose of guilt carefully injected by my mom, we managed to secure the necessary transportation.

  When we arrived at Mr. Miles’s office, the door was closed and locked. There didn’t appear to be any lights on inside, but just to be sure, Henry got down on his knees and peeked under the door.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I guess we’ll just have to wait.”

  We dropped our backpacks to the floor and sat down with our backs up against the office door. And within seconds, we heard sounds coming from inside.

  “Did you hear that?” I said as we quickly hopped to our feet.

  “It might be a prowler,” Henry said. “What should we do?”

  But before we were able to take action, the door flew open and standing before us was something we were completely unprepared for. Holding the door frame with both hands was Mr. Miles. His hair was mussed and his shirttail hanging out as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  “What time is it?” he said. He appeared somewhat dazed.

  “Just past seven thirty,” Henry said.

  “Oh dear,” he said as he tucked his shirt back into his pants. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “The last thing I remember is looking at the clock. It was two thirty. I had just finished the script. I put my head down for a second. And that was it. This is so embarrassing.”

  I couldn’t understand why Mr. Miles was embarrassed. I fell asleep in my clothes all the time. And it was pretty normal to wear the same clothes the next day. But this apparently was unacceptable for someone of his stature. I couldn’t ever remember seeing him in anything but a fresh, clean, colorful outfit each and every day.

  Mr. Miles motioned for us to come into his office as he plopped down in his desk chair.

  “Did I hear you say you finished the script?” Henry said.

  Mr. Miles nodded.

  “And you remembered to emphasize the word bookie throughout the entire story, right?” I said.

  “Heavens, yes,” Mr. Miles replied. “I must have mentioned it fifty times. And for good measure, I managed to work it into the title.”

  Now that was an excellent idea. Why hadn’t I thought of it?

  “So, what’s the new title?” Henry asked.

  Mr. Miles smiled. He seemed proud of what he was about to tell us. “Okay, now, get this,” he said. “You know how bookies like to lie low. The last thing they want is for the police to find them with a pocketful of illegal betting slips. A typical bookie would usually maintain an alias. He’d pretend to be in another line of work to throw off suspicion. So try this for the title: You Can’t Judge a Bookie by Its Cover Caper.” He raised his eyebrows, hoping for our approval.

  “It’s brilliant,” I said.

  “Glad to hear that.” Mr. Miles turned and faced his computer. “I’m going to run off twelve copies of the script. That should be plenty. Charlie, make sure there’s paper in that printer.”

  I checked and nodded.

  “Now I need you boys to refill the printer when it runs out, to collate these, and then to staple them together. Got it?”

  “Got it,” we said together.

  “Just leave the copies on my desk, and please close and lock the door when you’re done.”

  “Don’t worry,” Henry said. “We’ll take care of everything.”

  Mr. Miles got up and was just about to leave when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the back of his door.

  “Oh my,” he said. “What a sight.” He spun around to face us. “I have to go home and get cleaned up. Not a word of this to anyone, gentlemen. I have an image to maintain. Promise?”

  “I didn’t see anything unusual,” I said. “Did you, Henry?”

  “Nope, just a typical day at good old Roosevelt.”

  Mr. Miles winked, smiled, and shuffled out. Finding a teacher asleep in his office would actually have been a pretty good story to spread around, but Henry and I never once betrayed his trust. And how could we? Mr. Miles was doing us such a huge favor. We owed him our complete confidence.

  After organizing and stapling the scripts, we piled them on the desk and made a hasty exit, barely making it in time for our first period. The remainder of the day was uneventful, and before we knew it, we were back at Mr. Miles’s office minutes after the final bell sounded. When we arrived, we found him in a royal-blue blazer and white slacks with a red ascot around his neck. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to achieve the patriotic look, but he sure had done it. Unlike early this morning, every hair was in place, and you could detect just a hint of aftershave. Now that was the Mr. Miles we had come to know and love.

  “Wonderful job, boys,” he said as soon as he noticed us in the doorway. “I’m happy to report that all of the actors now have their scripts and they are enthusiastically poring over them.”

  “Is there anything else we can do to help?” I said.

  “Can’t think of anything at the moment.”

  “So, tomorrow you record?” Henry asked.

  “Yes, at ten A.M. over at the radio station.” He paused. “Hey, if you want to, you might ask your parents to drop you off over there. I think you’ll get a real kick out of watching some professionals in action. And you might just learn something.”

  “Really?” I said. “Now that would be sensational.”

  Mr. Miles stood, removed his jacket, carefully placed it on a wooden hanger, and hung it on a hook on the wall behind him.

  Henry and I turned to leave.

  “Oh, boys,” Mr. Miles said. “Thanks. And I don’t mean for the copies. I want to thank you for the opportunity to jump back into the saddle. Some of the most exciting times in my life occurred when I was doing live radio drama back in the forties and fifties. It was a wonderful experience. Thanks for making this happen.”

  “It’s our pleasure, sir, and thank you,” I said.

  As Henry and I made our way to the bus stop, we decided that we would do whatever it took to get ourselves over to the radio station to watch Mr. Miles and his friends perform tomorrow morning. On our way to the bus, we noticed Scarlett getting into her mom’s car.

  “Hey, maybe we should tell her about the recording session,” I said.

  “Nah, she won’t be interested,” Henry said.

  But I knew better. After watching her onstage the past couple of weeks, I had a feeling that she’d jump at a chance to watch actors doing their thing.

  “Hey, Scarlett,” I yelled out.

  “Yeah?” she said. She almost seemed to be preparing herself for bad news of some kind.

  “Mr. Miles and his actor friends are recording the new Sam Solomon program tomorrow morning over at the radio station. He invited Henry and me to watch. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you came too.”

  She seemed to light up. “Really? What time?”

  “Ten.”

  She leaned into the car. “Mom, is it all right? And can you take me ov
er there tomorrow morning?”

  “I guess so,” her mom said as she slid over to the passenger side and stuck her head out the window. “Do you boys need a ride over there too?”

  I couldn’t believe it. Problem solved. Now we wouldn’t have to tell our parents what we were up to. Immediately following the offer of a ride, however, I couldn’t help but notice Scarlett frowning at her mom. Apparently she wasn’t on board with us riding alongside her, especially in public.

  “That’d be great, Mrs. Alexander,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ll pick both of you up about nine-forty-ish.”

  “Thanks again,” I said. “See you in the morning, Scarlett.”

  She rolled her eyes and ducked into the car.

  “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Henry said.

  I placed my hand on Henry’s shoulder as we continued on our way to the bus stop. “I know you have a hard time accepting it, but Scarlett is part of the agency now. It wouldn’t be right to exclude her.”

  Henry stewed for a minute, and then as he would always do whenever he got his nose out of joint, he flashed a devious smile and fired off a brainteaser.

  “The twenty-second and twenty-fourth presidents of the United States had the same parents, yet they weren’t brothers. How is this possible?”

  Now this was an interesting problem. Most brainteasers are trick questions. You didn’t have to be a whiz at math or social studies or whatever in order to answer them, but this one was different. This was an American history question pure and simple. And simple was the operative word.

  “Both presidents had the same parents because it was the same man—Grover Cleveland—who just happened to have served two terms as president, but not consecutive terms.” I grinned. “Happy?”

  He wasn’t. The bus ride home was quiet to say the least. But that was okay. I knew that once we met up at the radio station the next day, Henry would have forgotten all about it.

  • • •

  Coming up with an excuse to sneak out on Saturday morning proved easier than I had expected. Once I mentioned that Scarlett’s mom would be picking me up, my parents were perfectly fine with it. I did stretch the truth a little, though. I told them that I was doing research at the library with Henry and Scarlett. Come to think of it, observing Mr. Miles and his friends was like research. It was a chance to bone up on theater history in a way. The reference to the library was the only part of the excuse that made me feel just the least bit guilty. But it was for the good of humanity, so I could live with myself.