by Rick Kueber
“Most definitely. Our team will find a way to tell your story, and the story of your family. The Rick that we left back in Evansville is pretty good at that.” Jenn smiled, knowing she had to contain herself and not call me by her 'term of endearment', E-V-Prick.
“Well, there you go... I tell you my story, you tell Rick the story, you all find a way to tell others the story... it now becomes your story too...there is the connection you said you didn't understand. When you genuinely care, and genuinely want to help someone...that's family. I don't care where you go to church, or if you go to church (she said the second part under her breath), what color your skin is, how old or how young... family is caring, and you've all shown me how much you care. I don't really have any blood family left, but I have my visiting nurse Penny, and I have my friend Linda in Evansville, and I have you all... that's all the family I have, and that's all I guess I really need.” Allison Bettiger's voice cracked at the end, but she smiled and choked back another tear.
She finished her stories of her life with her mother, and its tragic ending. Her voice seemed uplifting when she spoke about how she met Linda, and eventually sold her house in Evansville to move north, near Indianapolis. She didn't want to leave, but she needed, and wanted to be, closer to her cousins, who eventually passed on too, and their children, some of which had also passed, and those that hadn't died, had moved away. It was a sad tale filled with many heart-broken, lonely years, but also some tales of happiness and even love, though she had never married or had children of her own.
Afternoon began to creep into evening as the four new friends chatted and queried each other about all sorts of different topics. But eventually they had to part ways. Many hugs were given, and phone numbers were exchanged with those who did not have them, just in case there was another question, or someone just wanted to say 'hello'.
“It was wonderful meeting all of you. Tell Linda I am doing fine, and I will try to get down there to see her sometime soon. G'bye now.” She said, waving to her new friends, as the storm door closed. The three waved back to her and then the two girls said their good-byes to Rick Hayes, and they all began the long journey home.
Rick had spoken to Theo already about meeting up to discuss the story that we knew, the parts that all of us had experienced, and those things that only Theo and Rick Hayes had seen, or felt. As it turned out, we had worked it out with Barb and Del to all meet up on a Tuesday evening at the Owl's Nest #33, where we would recant all of the stories, the history, piece together the documents and use Rick Hayes' and Theo's intuitiveness to fill in the underlying tale that most of us would never know...and that is precisely what we did.
Chapter 15 Out of Many, One
It was a beautiful day, and not terribly hot for this time of year. The sky had been as pale blue as I believe I had ever seen it, like it had been painted by God himself, just for me. There hadn't been a cloud all day, not the big, puffy, cotton ball, cumulus clouds...not even the hints of shredded stratus clouds that were nearly see through, like cotton candy as it is being spun at a carnival. It was a perfect summer day.
A picturesque day had turned into an evening that only Shakespeare himself could describe, and even then the words would be like dribbles on a page compared to the culmination of senses that this evening had bestowed upon the good people of Evansville. I smiled at the beauty of it, and thought to myself, 'what a shame that there are people in this world who won’t even notice the awesome gift that nature gives us every day'.
There was something more about this day... something almost magical. I felt better and more positive than I had in quite some time. Soon we would be meeting at the Owl's Nest and working our puzzle. I just hoped we had enough pieces to get a good idea of what the real picture was. I did, however, feel that it would be a good night. How could it not be, after the seemingly flawless day I had experienced? My hopes were high, and my spirit was higher.
7 pm had arrived and so had the five of us. We had straggled in, but in the magnificence of the evening, we had decided to gather outside until everyone was there. I didn't want to leave the day outside, but I knew we had some serious work to do, and some gaps in our time line to fill in. I was intrigued by the thought of what I was about to learn. The stories that Allison had told were like candy on a shelf just out of the reach of a child. I wanted to know, but I had waited, however impatiently, for this night, and it was finally upon us.
“Hey guys, let's head inside. Barb and Del are probably waiting for us.” I urged them on, and our group found its way inside, where Barb and Del were attentively standing in the hallway, awaiting our visit. With only a quick “This way, please” from Del, the lucky seven ascended the stairs to the second story...in hopes of putting together a story of a different kind.
Del had brought some comfortable chairs upstairs, the kind that have cushioned backs and seats and stack for easy storage. He had also set up two folding tables for us all to sit around. They were the old style, card tables, with four folding legs and a fake brown wood grained top. It reminded me of my child hood and 'Bunco' nights, when all of my mother's friends would choose a house to meet at to play 'Bunco', a dice game much like Yahtzee. They were fond memories, and it only added to my already positive attitude as we gathered around the two tables snugly. There was a sudden flurry of sounds... notebooks shuffling, papers being sifted through and the sound of scooting chairs on the gritty wooden floor. It was time.
“Okay, Jenn or Katie, do you want to catch Rick, Barb and Del, up to speed on what we have learned so far?” I asked to get things started.
“Sure.” began Jenn. “So... Charles Bettiger was a shrewd businessman, but according to the stories we have heard, he had a darker side... Rick,” Jenn said, looking at Rick Hayes, “You've heard most of this from Allison herself, so feel free to chime in at any time...” and so the stories rambled on aimlessly at first, like Lego blocks strewn across a floor, but block by block, bit by bit, arranging and rearranging, we began to build, until we had assembled the many pieces into one cohesive story.
*** The story that unfolds before you now, is constructed from those tales we had pieced together. Though it is written as a descriptive narrative, instead of a documentary, I believe it covers the story from everyone's point of view. It took input from the documentation to the imagination and from the natural to the supernatural, to complete this tower of blocks that I call ... the Story of the Children of the Owl's.
*** Life was good for young Charles Bettiger. By his midtwenties, he was already one of the wealthiest business men in the mid-west. There were speculations that it was an inheritance...old money, and that he hadn't truly earned it. Others thought he must have hit a vast amount of oil on a large piece of land and sold out to an oil company. Many wondered, few knew, very few.
Charles was born and raised in Chicago, and his family was large. The members of his ‘family’ weren't entirely related, but they were a family none the less. Often labeled as mobsters and gangsters, Charles grew up tough, ruthless, and very keen on the way business in the family was run. When he was only in his teens he began to work for the family, and began running one of their more profitable companies, as well as one of the most profitable smuggling rings in all of Chicago.
Chicago wasn't enough for Charles, he wanted to expand, and he told the head of the family of his plans to move south to where he could take over the mid-west, from St. Louis to Cincinnati, and Chicago to Atlanta. As he laid out his plans to the head of the family, he placed a map of the U.S. on the table, and drew lines from city to city, east to west, north to south. Those lines intersected near a small river port town named Evansville, and with the river port, and its central location it would be perfect for his new venture.
Charles began by starting an expansion of the family's already successful and legitimate business, in Evansville. He had the company set up, and an official office space where he would occasionally work, but this was just to get himself established as a respectable business
-man in the area before his shipments of raw supplies began hiding illegal goods. Those goods came mostly in the form of fire-power, guns and ammunition. Business was grand, and just as he had figured, soon he had cornered the black market in the three cities he had tied to Chicago. It was said that he even began to handle all of the guns for Chicago too.
Charles' father had died at an early age, when Charles was just a boy, and he had grown close and protective of his mother, so naturally he had brought her to southern Indiana to live with him. Nearly a year had passed when Charles felt that he was established enough to make a major purchase without raising too many eye brows, and so he began looking for a nice home just outside of the bustling little city, but still close to the port.
The first road that went north from downtown was named, for obvious reasons, First Avenue. It was on this road, only a half of a mile from the business district, and only a block from one of the nicest and newest libraries in the mid-west, Willard library (which would later be known as one of the most haunted libraries in America) that he stumbled across a large piece of land for sale with three grand homes, with lovely and spacious carriage houses behind them. He set up a tour of the homes and without blinking an eye, he bought them right there on the spot. He set his mother up comfortably in one home, with a full time maid, while he lived next door.
It was nearly comical to think that these three huge homes were occupied by only two people. But then, his mother's 'accident' had left her unable to even walk without assistance. At that point, Charles moved his mother, and her full time maid, in with him. He also hand- picked a live in nurse to care for his mother, and whether it was love or convenience, no one can be certain, but he and the nurse, Amelia, began to take a liking to each other, and in only fourteen months, the two were married.
With his new bride being a nurse, Charles was able to continue on with his business, and though Amelia knew there was more to his dealings than he let on, she didn't want to know the truth. He had already built a small fortune and a thriving empire with a perfectly legal business. Life was good for the young couple, and soon the children began to come, four boys in only six years, but while life seemed to be going so well, Charles mother was worsening. He had made up his mind. It was time to retire from the illegal gun running and focus on his family. And so it was that when the Chicago boys dropped in to pick up the latest shipment, he broke the news to them, but it was not well received.
*** “I'm out.” said Charles Bettiger. “I can no longer do this. I have four young children and an ailing mother, who is in a wheelchair now, that need me to be here for them.”
The displeasure on the faces of Mikey and Geno Alanzo and Martin Smitty was obvious to Charles, but he was a wellrespected, upstanding business man in the community and intended on standing his ground.
“How you gonna take care of these urchins of yours without workin' with us? You know we can ruin your chances with any business in town, right? All we gotta do, it flex a little muscle, and you won't be able to buy a cup of coffee in this town.” Mikey growled at Charles with his thug rhetoric.
“My connections here run much deeper and stronger than the fear of you and your 'mob mentality'. My mind is made up, and there is nothing you can do to change it. If you still want it, just take this last shipment and be done. Otherwise, you can leave my home right now.” Charles' stern tone did not strike the correct chord with the tough guys.
Mickey leaned into Martin and muttered something under his breath, and then nodded to Charles and said, “ 'Scuse me.” and turned to walk out of the door and into the stairwell.
“Where are you going? This is my house!” Charles called out angrily. “Well, why don't you follow him and the three of you can just leave.” He was a bit worried about trying to get rid of the black market weapons he had acquired for them. It wasn't just that he needed the money, but he did have a sizable investment in the guns and ammo that he couldn't afford to just lose. The sweat quickly began to bead on his brow. He started to step past Martin and Geno to go after Mikey and see what likely devious act he was up to. Hopefully they weren't planning to take the shipment without paying… or worse, take it and then take Charles for a ride, never to return. Martin pulled back his overcoat to reveal his revolver tucked in its holster under his arm, and gave Charles a sinister grin.
“You ain't goin' nowhere pal!” He spat forth, and his words hit Charles like the rank smell of his uncleansed breath. “Pop!” the sound of small caliber shots echoed through the house and Charles shot forward screaming
“NOOOOOOO!!!” Just as he passed Martin, he heard the thud and felt the simultaneous cracking of the hilt of Martin's revolver on the crown of his skull. Charles heart sank, and his world went black.
When Mickey exited the room, he stumbled upon Donnie, and chased him down the stairs, drawing his gun. Donnie had fled far faster than Mickey, and when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he met two of his brothers. He quickly herded them into the storage cubby under the stairs and silently closed the door. Reaching the bottom of the steps, Mickey had lost the boy. He listened intently for only a moment when he heard the voice of Charles' mother. A sinister thought grew in his demented mind. He peeked around the corner and into the parlor, where he saw the elderly woman sitting with her back to him, in her wheelchair, and reading a book aloud. Creeping closer, he quietly aimed his derringer, and pulling the trigger, fired a shot that even his insensitive soul regretted. The bullet instantly killed the woman, but it also hit a second target that was most unfortunate.
Charles had no idea how long he had been unconscious when he heard the small voice in his ear. “Daddy… Wake up daddy. Can you hear me? Please wake up.” He recognized the sound of his oldest sons voice intermingled with sobs and sniffles.
“Ohhhh... Donnie...” Charles groaned and opened his eyes, struggling to focus on his young son, who was only eight. His head pounded and he could see that the daylight was dimming. “Where is your mother?”
“She's not home yet. That bad man chased me down the stairs. He had a gun, daddy. I was scared, so I ran and hid under the stairs with Brian and Timmy. We stayed hidden for a long time, but you never came for me. When I came out grandmother and baby John were sleeping, sort of like you were.” His innocent statement punched deep into the pit of his stomach and he jumped up and his head swam, almost to the point of vomiting.
Charles looked down to the floor where he saw the pool of nearly dried blood where he had been laying and then noticed the rusty dried stain on the shoulder of his crisp white cotton dress shirt. Reaching up, he felt his hair, matted and blood soaked, and a rather nasty goose-egg that had risen where he had been pummeled by the toughie's gun handle. He slowly, painful step by step, made his way to the stairs.
“Your brothers, where are they now?” He asked his son as he began his slow trod down what felt like an endless set of steps.
“Under the steps still, father.” He answered sheepishly. “Except for little John… He is lying with Grandmother, in the parlor.
Every step grew more diligent and each passing second, Charles found his strength returning, and with the words of his frightened son burning in his ears, his pace quickened. He exited the stairway door, and headed left, down the hall to the small first floor parlor, where he saw them.
Grief stricken, he called out to his eldest son, “Donnie boy, go and collect your brothers. Take them to your room.” “Yes father.” Donnie replied respectfully, though his stomach ached from not having any lunch and it now being nearly dinner time, he said nothing and did as he was told.
Charles stood in the parlor doorway and the warm salty tears began to dampen his cheeks. There directly in front of him was his mother, slumped over to her left side, pale and lifeless, still sitting in the wheelchair she had been confined to. He walked over to where she sat in her deathly silence, the children's book, 'Red Riding Hood', lay on the floor at her feet, appearing to have fallen from her outstretched arm. Closer now, he could clearly ma
ke out the single bullet wound to the back of her head...execution style. The vase, on the small end table next to her, had fallen over and shattered, spilling its contents of water and red roses on to the floor next to her.
Kneeling down he felt the cold of the watery blood saturating the fabric of his trousers. Charles gathered up the roses, now soaked and stained with the mix of blood and water. Carefully he placed them and the book in her lap. “Red Riding Hood.” He almost smiled. “Red was always your favorite color, mum.” He rubbed his eyes, leaned forward and kissed his mother's icy, pale gray forehead.
Turning as he began to stand a second horror overtook him. Though he knew it in depths of his heart, nothing could have prepared him to see little John lying silent as the dead, still in his night shirt, the pool of coppery crimson surrounding him.
“Oh no, dear God, please no!” The words gurgled in his throat through the snotty, tear-filled breaths, and seemed stuttered, with their sounds emerging with each short gasp of air. Charles' heart was breaking to degree of being irreparable.
He crawled over and scooped up the limp, cold, tiny body of his youngest child, little John, the ginger haired little man, who was barely a toddler. The cruel wetness of his nightshirt penetrated the sleeves and midriff of Charles' own shirt as he held his son tight against him kissing the soft, fine hair of his head and pressing his cheek to the cool
expressionless face in his arms, rocking him instinctively as he wept.
“Oh little Red” he said, calling him by the nickname his mother had given her youngest grandchild because of his dark red hair. “Red, I am so sorry son... this is entirely my fault.” His words were stuttered by his sobs and barely understandable, but there was no one there to hear him. With one single shot, one bullet, a single execution to convey the hierarchy of the mob family, two had died. The man had stepped up behind Charles' mother, and as she looked down, reading the book to little john, he pulled the trigger. The bullet had passed straight through her from the back of her head and exited her eye, but then quite by accident, the bullet's path met with the toddler who sat on the floor playing with his toy animals.