by Dave Balcom
As the sky in the west started displaying its palette of colors, Gardner pushed himself away from the kitchen island where we were sitting. “I envy you this place and this time of your life, Jim Stanton. I’m pleased to see you stayed fit and prepared. I always trusted you to do your duty, and while Art and some others thought you went way beyond duty to save us with your blood, that act of gallantry never surprised me coming from you.
“I knew you were the real deal even while it was clear you hated it all. I’m glad I can leave tonight without having to find out if I could take you. You didn’t betray me, and I never betrayed the United States of America. Please don’t forget that.”
He didn’t offer to shake hands or make any other gesture, simply pivoted on his heel and, like a man with a purpose, walked out of my house and my life. I heard his vehicle start and he drove away. My phone rang.
“Stanton.”
“Boyd. Is that he?”
“It is. He’s a good guy, Pete; please, let him pass.”
“No problem. You have any of that smooth brown liquor in your kitchen?”
“C’mon up.”
Epilogue
Bill Chance couldn’t quit gushing over the brook trout fishing in our mountains, and I couldn’t quit praising his skill with a fly rod. He’d been our guest over the July Fourth holiday, and in that week, we’d shared all the information we had on the events of the past months.
“Is there anything I can do for you folks?” He asked as we sat on the deck and counted stars the evening before he headed back to Missouri.
I handed him an envelope. “I’d like you to mail this after you’re home.”
He examined it, turning it in his hands. “I’m assuming you don’t want it traced back to you.”
I nodded, hoping he could see me in the growing darkness.
“Who is Maggie Lennon when she’s home in L.A.?”
“The granddaughter of a woman I knew briefly a long time ago.”
“What’s in it?”
“A blood stain smear in a baggie and a note.”
“Blood stain?”
“I’m told it’s sufficient for a thorough DNA analysis.”
“What’s the note say?”
“There’s no history of ovarian cancer in this man’s family, according to his sole surviving sibling, and that her birth grandmother died of lung cancer at age 55.”
“You just can’t resist tying these things up, can you?”
“Answers do that. Will you mail it?”
“Of course. Least we can do, right?”
-30-
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dave Balcom spent his adult life as an award winning journalist, writing, editing, and photographing local news and sports for community newspapers in a career that spanned 35 years and eight states. When he was no longer involved in the newspaper business, he turned to Jim Stanton Mysteries to satisfy his passion for writing. He and his wife and editor, Susie, have two happily married children and a spoiled Yellow Labrador retriever. Like their hero, they love the outdoors; foraging, hunting, and fishing at every opportunity.
Other works by Dave Balcom
The Jim Stanton Mysteries
The Next Cool Place 2012
Acorn 2013
Sea Change 2013
Song of suzies 2014
Even When You Win... 2014
Fear At First Glance 2015
Code Matters 2016
Here’s a bonus preview of a change of pace for Jim Stanton fans; a new story with a new cast in process ...
Chasing Regrets
©Dave Balcom 2016
Chapter 1
2016
Toothless, bedraggled, and dirty, Amos Hardy felt a jolt of surprise when he turned the wind-blown, littered corner of West Allegheny at North 25th and spied a white man sitting on the curb, legs stretched out in front of him into the deserted North Philadelphia street, eyes gazing into space, face fixed with a small, half smile bordering on a smirk. Amos turned his head from side to side without moving his narrow shoulders, just swiveling his emaciated head on his wrinkled and scrawny neck. Seeing no one else on the street so early in the morning, he shuffled towards the man.
“Hey, mister?”
There was no answer, but the man slowly turned his head in Hardy’s direction.
“You okay, mister?”
Still, no answer.; no sign of recognition.
Again Hardy eyed the street in all directions, and saw no one – no traffic, no walkers. Hardy knew this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where people rose up early on a Monday morning and jogged. He touched the shoulder of the expensive-looking but tattered suit coat. There was no response. He pulled up the sleeve of the man’s left arm and found no watch. That unfocused, gentle smile was unchanged, but to Hardy it was aimed not at him as much as through him.
“Gotta dollar for an old man?” He asked. When there was no answer, he knelt down and patted pockets, pushing the guy slightly over on one buttock to pat for a wallet. When he let go, the unresisting man returned to his original position.
“Shit, man, you got nothin’.” He stood, and was considering kicking the man just as he saw the neighborhood beat cop heading his way.
Officer Marcus Alotti had been walking the beat in North Philly days, nights, and weekends, for nearly two years. He had developed a love-hate relationship with the neighborhood and the work. His time on the beat had shown him the true grit as well as the inhumanity of the people who called this neighborhood home. He saw both courage and cowardice practiced side by side, day after day. He broke into a jog when he saw Amos Hardy waving his arms for attention, wondering which side of this place he was encountering this time. Then, noticing a man down on the curb, he picked up his pace while he keyed his radio and called for a “bus” and backup.
“What’s up, Amos?”
“This guy ain’t, that’s for sure,” answered the grizzled indigent.
The officer knelt, and whispered, “What’s up, pal?”
The man turned his head to the officer. Alotti could only describe the little smile on the man’s face as “serene,” but it was clear that his eyes were not focusing on the officer. Alotti immediately thought of his newborn nephew, and wondered if he was witnessing peaceful joy or gas pressure.
“When did you find him, Amos?”
“Just a minute ago. Checked him over a bit, you know?” He had both hands in the pouch of the hooded sweatshirt he wore underneath a Army-issue field jacket. Alotti recognized Hardy as a type common to the neighborhood: Living on the street since he’d outlasted the veteran safety net. Hardy, he noted, was overdressed for the season, and was likely wearing all the clothing he owned. Hardy seemed aware of Alotti’s inspection of him, and, while avoiding eye contact, was scraping one foot back and forth in front of his other, as if he were trying to erase tracks.
“Did you find anything worth taking, Amos?” The officer asked his question gently.
“No, sir,” the old man said. “He has no wallet, no watch; I didn’t know if maybe he’d have one a them, you know, bracelets that tell you if he’s prone to fits or somethin’, you know?”
“Sure, Amos. Just stick around here for a few minutes, okay? I hear the ambulance coming. They’ll take him in, and then I want to go over what you saw and all. Okay?”
“Didn’t see nuttin’, really; didn’t do nuttin’ neither. Really.”
“I’m sure; just hang out for a few. That’s all.”
“I’ll stand over here,” he said, sidling towards the corner of a building that would shield him from the morning breeze as the ambulance pulled up.
“What’s happening, Officer?” The EMT bounced out of the cab with concern in his eyes.
“No sign of a wound or anything, but I wanted you here before I tried to pat him down, find out who he might be.” He nodded at Amos, “That character flagged me over, says he just found him sitting like this.”
“Hi!” The EMT knelt down to the man’s fac
e. “How you doin’? Can you stand up?”
There was no evidence of hearing the question, or of an inclination to respond. The EMT put a hand under an armpit and started to rise, “Can you come up?”
His patient pulled a knee up, and put his right hand down on the ground in preparation for rising.
Officer Alotti put his hand under the other shoulder, and together all three rose to a standing position.
“Can you hear me?” The EMT asked.
When there was no response, Alotti cleared his throat, “Mister, can you hear me?”
Again, the head turned toward the sound of Alotti’s voice, but there was no response.
“I think we should take him to the hospital,” the driver said softly. “I don’t think we need to sound the siren.”
At the emergency room, the patient was checked over and found uninjured, but strangely mute and unresponsive. He was taken into a ward, and spent the day there. A police technician arrived and took his fingerprints without resistance or comment.
The next morning a state psychologist came to visit, “Hello, Mr. Markmann. I’m Dr. Emile Holgren. Do you know where you are, or how you came to be here?”
The patient turned his beatific smile to the psychologist, but his eyes didn’t focus. He remained silent.
The police had identified the patient from his fingerprints, and Holgren had his paperwork with him this morning. “Mr. Markmann, we’re trying to locate your family. Do you still live in Carlisle?”
No answer.
Holgren shrugged, and cast a glance at the duty nurse on the other side of the bed, “It has to be some sort of psychological shock or trauma,” he said, a bit of wonder in his voice. He flipped through the paperwork in his hands, “Scott Markmann, age 69, no criminal record, no known aliases.” He read silently again, before commenting, “A retired journalist is found mute on the street in a rough part of our city. Can you believe that?”
The nurse remained silent, studying Markmann’s face; the doctor continued, “They’ve tested him for anything and everything, and ruled out stroke or concussion. His clothes were dirty and one shoulder seam was ripped, but he has no visible injuries. I wish he’d talk to us.” He glanced at the nurse again, “I don’t know how pediatricians and veterinarians do it.”
“Do what?” The nurse asked.
“Treat patients that can’t tell them where it hurts.”
She smiled and shook her head, “He doesn’t seem to be in any pain. He eats whatever we put in front of him. If I lead him to the bathroom, he takes care of himself, but that expression doesn’t ever change. It’s weird; creepy, even.”
It took Corey Davis of the Carlisle Borough police less than 15 minutes to find Paul Markmann at his law office down the street from the police station. Markmann had listened without a word as Davis explained that a Scott Markmann was in a hospital in Philadelphia and wondered if Paul knew him. Rather than answer the patrolman, the younger Markmann lifted his office phone and dialed a number.
“Mary? Paul here. There’s a cop in my office saying Dad’s in a hospital down there. What’n hell’s goin’ on?”
He listened, and then said, “I have no idea.”
Fifteen minutes later, Scott’s daughter, Mary, an attorney for the Defense Association of Philadelphia, arrived in her father’s hospital room.
“Dad?”
Scott had no response for her. He just sat stiffly as she hugged him, her tears falling on his face. “Oh, Daddy, what happened to you?” She was rocking gently, holding her father close.
Dr. Holgren came into the room minutes later, watching the woman comforting her father.
“I’m sorry Miss Markmann, but I have to ask you some questions.”
“Who are you?” Mary asked as she settled herself next to her father on his bed.
Holgren introduced himself, cleared his throat, and then proceeded, “Can you give me any idea how your father might have ended up in North Philly yesterday just after dawn?”
“I have no idea,” she said, looking back at her dad. “He came down to visit me Saturday. My mom is in Europe. She and her best friend from high school have been making trips every other summer for years. He came down to have dinner, with me and my fiancé. He dropped me off at my apartment about 10. He was headed to his hotel for the night; I thought he was going back to Carlisle Sunday.”
She spoke not taking her eyes off her father, his serene smile in place, his eyes closed. “He always stays out at the Best Western on 476 at King of Prussia. Takes the freeways downtown, but stays as far as he can from the ‘Surekill;’” referring to the Schuylkill Expressway, fabled for its mostly stop-and-go traffic. “I can’t imagine how he might have become turned around and ended up in North.” A visible shudder rippled through her at the mention of the neighborhood.
“I spend a lot of time up there on the job; I never go alone, and certainly not at night. I can’t imagine.”
1982
Scott could smell Mary’s unique odor, a mixture of ginger and cinnamon, that he had noticed the first time he held her in the delivery room in Auburn, New York.
She had been an afterthought, an “oops baby,” but from the minute he plucked her out of the nurse’s arms, he had known a joy unlike any other he’d ever experienced. After Paul and then two miscarriages, they had decided to be a one-child family. He had scheduled a vasectomy, but, as so often happened, the newspaper’s needs forced him to postpone it. He couldn’t even remember the journalistic teapot, much less the tempest, that had interrupted his plans, but he hadn’t gotten around to rescheduling, and just a few months later Cindy had broken the news that she was once again pregnant.
He held that bundle in his arms that night in Auburn, and inhaled the scent of second chances...
2016
Mary hung out with her dad the rest of the day as police began a search for Scott’s car. She checked in with her office and arranged for someone else to handle her appointments.
Just after dark, the police informed her that their attempts to locate her dad’s car, or any information about how he’d spent Sunday night, had come up empty. His bed at the hotel had not been used since Saturday. They suggested she needed a good night’s sleep, and they’d resume their search and keep her updated.
She spent about four hours that night “clearing her decks” before going home for dinner and sleep. The next morning, Scott was released. Mary drove him back to Carlisle. Paul had contacted their mother, Cindy, who had immediately started for home. He also had found space for his dad in the Village of Angels Rehabilitation Center where he could stay until a full operational plan was settled.
In the room, Scott sat down at the edge of the bed as if he was waiting for something or someone. His day nurse checked on him from time to time, and when she left for the evening, the night staff made sure he was fed and took care of his hygiene. He was in bed asleep by nine. When his nurse came back on duty the next morning, she found him sitting on the edge of his bed as if he hadn’t moved at all, lost in the memories of a life that brought him, at age 69 and apparently fit as a fiddle, to a vegetative state on the outside; living a full and whole life in his mind.
Exploring his past was now his future.
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