Defying Death in Hagerstown

by John Paul Carinci

  “It is a shame, though,” the captain continued. “Officer Flund was only months away from retiring. It could have been much worse, and usually is, after an officer’s gun is wrestled away by a prisoner.” The captain shook his head in disgust.

  I felt for the captain and the officer, but wondered if someone had put some kind of curse on me. Maybe, I thought, my boss is behind this; that man has a heart of stone. Maybe he did some voodoo on me. Maybe he had a doll and was sticking needles in it. I wondered what the hell could possibly be in store for me, as I had only begun the stinking assignment hours earlier. There was no way I would call in and report this latest turn of events to the “editor from hell,” for surely he would fire me on the spot, somehow convinced that the entire fiasco of the day thus far was all my doing.

  Loretta told me that the Hagerstown library, on West Washington Street, would have microfiche about the murders of ’23. The library, according to Loretta, was only ten minutes away, and it had just been renovated for the first time in many years. She also told me that the only newspaper in town, the Hagerstown New News, was only ten minutes away in the opposite direction. The newspaper had been around for over one hundred years and was still located in the very spot where it had been erected way back then. Loretta said, “I’ll call my cousin Sylvia, who works there. I’ll tell her about you.”

  We watched as the paramedics wheeled out Officer Flund, who was clearly in a lot of pain. An officer accompanied him, along with the two medics. I could see a lot of blood splattered on the officer, as well as his blood-soaked, wrapped right leg, as he slowly passed by. Captain Krolm spoke some words of encouragement to the officer as he was wheeled quickly past him.

  It had been quite an eventful day thus far, and I was craving a few strong drinks. And just as quickly as the pictures of the drinks entered my mind, they were replaced with the picture of my crazed boss-man, Glavin, his head beet-red as he screamed some obscene words and threatened to fire my “sorry ass” once again. I decided the drinks at the bar would have to wait. I closed my eyes, hoping Glavin’s image would be wiped out of my mind, at least for the time being. He was like a bad dream, the kind of nightmare you wake up from all wet with perspiration, the kind of nightmare that is so believable that you just can’t shake it, a nightmare that you keep reliving over again.

  Even though my hands were still shaking, and had been since the gas station shoot-’em-up, I needed a few cups of strong coffee. I knew the caffeine rush wouldn’t calm my nerves like alcohol would do, but alcohol at this time would be like suicide for my assignment.

  Captain Krolm escorted me out of the station house, clearly a very pissed-off man. “You know we will recapture that son of a bitch very shortly, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m sure you will, Captain.”

  “But in the meantime, be alert about your surroundings. The suspect is armed and very dangerous. He would have no problem killing anyone who gets in his way. And if he sees you nosing around, he may recognize you or your car from the gas station and try to take you out permanently. Eliminate witnesses, you know?”

  “Uh, I guess. I’m already shell-shocked, though, and I’ve only been around your town for a few hours now.”

  “Well, I can’t say that I’ll miss you when you leave,” he said with a friendly smile. “But when will you be leaving?”

  “I might stay, Captain. Loretta and I hit it off big under the table back there a while ago. We might get hitched!” I laughed.

  “Yeah, right. Smart ass!” He smirked.

  “See you around,” I said as I walked past him toward the door.

  “I hope not! Stop asking so many questions. I’ll have my officers keep an eye on you, anyway, just for good measure.”

  The wind was blowing strong, but the sun was shining bright and the afternoon had warmed considerably. I looked around the perimeter of the station house; it was like a ghost town. There wasn’t an officer to be found. No doubt they were all in frantic pursuit of one Billy Blaine. No matter what town or city you’re in, there’s no getting off easy when you shoot at, wound, or kill a local police officer. They will hunt you down to the ends of the earth. Billy Blaine would be caught, there was no doubt about it, but what else might he do before he was recaptured? He was capable of killing, and he might not be willing to be taken alive. Like a cornered rat, he might strike out. I would heed the captain’s advice and be very aware of my surroundings. After all, I had had enough action for a lifetime already.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was almost 4:30 p.m. when I pulled into the parking lot of Millie’s Diner on East Washington Street, a nice, tree-lined street in an old neighborhood. The trees were huge in height and circumference, and appeared to be oak trees.

  I wasn’t due to tour the nursing home until the next day, and I had an interview set up with Lolita shortly thereafter. My agenda for the rest of today was to get something to eat, nose around some more, go to the library, which was open late, and hit a bar to have a few brews, pretty much in that order. I decided I would only have a couple of drinks. All I needed at this point was to get bombed, arrested, and then released to a representative of the newspaper—and then get canned for good. No, I would be on my best behavior no matter how much it killed me. I pictured myself in the back of a police car, but this time cockeyed drunk. Glavin would have my ass for sure.

  Millie’s Diner stood directly across the street from the Hagerstown Home for the Aged where Lolita lived. The nursing home was a one-story structure of red brick. As I pulled up the street, I had noticed that the home was U-shaped and had a huge property. The grounds were landscaped beautifully and trimmed meticulously.

  As I looked over the diner, it appeared from the front to be retro-style, but unlike other diners I had seen, this one was much deeper in size.

  I noticed from my view of the side of the building that some years ago, a big addition had been put on the diner. The large neon sign out front read “Millie’s, est. 1930, serving the best pancakes in MD.”

  I laughed at the boast about pancakes, and wondered how many diners across the country claimed to have the best pancakes around.

  I once claimed that I was the best lover in America; the only problem was, no one else ever believed it.

  The front of the old diner was graced with gray stone, which ran up some four feet from the ground, with plate-glass windows that spanned the length of the building on all sides but the back. A red cloth canopy shielded the windows from the sun. It appeared that the owners had converted what had once been an old-fashioned all-metal diner to a stone and wood front, making it look more like a traditional modern restaurant.

  I later learned that Millie’s was named after its original owner, Mildred Farner, who started the diner with her husband Clarence in 1930. The diner had remained in the Farner family until it was sold in 1980 to its present owner, Sylvester Trylan, son of the minister of the largest church in Hagerstown. Sy had been the head cook since purchasing the diner. Millie’s was a Hagerstown landmark, and many residents frequented it regularly. I parked in the diner’s huge lot.

  My stomach was churning, making me wonder if it was more than just a matter of hunger. Maybe being around gunfire had set off stomach acid. Gunfire has strange effects on a body. This might just be the assignment from hell, I thought as I glanced around cautiously. After all, Blaine, the crazed gunman who had thought nothing of shooting up a police officer and the station, was still running loose somewhere. I thought about Billy Blaine. I wondered what drove young men to perform such stupid and destructive acts. Did they actually plan things out or just wing it? Hopefully, Billy was far, far away by now. But then again, he had already demonstrated that he really didn’t have any brains. I felt sorry for him in a strange way, mostly because I realized that people make stupid decisions then compound the problem with drastic additional choices.

  The attractive-looking diner was as impressive on the inside as it was on the outside. There were the old-fashio
ned stools at the counter that diners of the past were known for, and huge, plush booths throughout the large, open space, and what appeared to be a large room used for parties.

  The hostess greeted me and sat me in a booth that was set for four. I quickly ordered a coffee and dialed my newspaper in Washington. I wanted to make sure that I was still on to meet with Lolita the next day. I was told to meet her at one p.m. sharp, right after lunch. Harold’s assistant, Gloria, reminded me that my job was on the line and that Harold wanted routine updates. Gloria’s a bitch on wheels! I groused to myself. Everyone thinks that she and the boss are sleeping together, but sometimes I wonder about that. Who would want him?

  Gloria had that librarian look: thick glasses, long hair, lots of makeup, heels much too high, and skirts too short for her age. She was clearly trying too hard. And her bitchiness, snappy answers, and lack of any personality made her less attractive. She always seemed mad at the world; it was no wonder she was divorced.

  Gloria told me that Lolita was known to love homemade pistachio ice cream, which the nursing home rarely stocked, and fresh-made chocolates. She also told me again about an old diary Lolita sometimes shares with guests that covers an entire year of her life from the 1920s. I made some more quick notes as Gloria spoke. She asked me if I would like to speak with the boss.

  “Harold?” I asked sarcastically. “I would rather have a triple root canal without any Novocain.”

  “I’ll tell him you had to run quickly . . .”

  “Yeah, into oncoming traffic!” I laughed.

  Gloria hung the phone up rather hard. I had to chuckle at that. At least she didn’t try to suck up to me.

  The waitress—Kristen, according to her name tag—returned for my order. “What’ll it be, sweetie?” She smiled at me with perfectly straight, white teeth.

  “How’s the meatloaf special? Honestly, is it worth it?”

  “Oh, sure! That’s one of my favorites!” She beamed. Her hazel eyes shined as she smiled invitingly, waiting for my approval. I waited, looked her over. She was all of twenty-one, with long brown hair, naturally curling a little. She must have been about six feet tall and was very thin; she looked like she could use a couple of home-cooked meals herself.

  “Kristen, I’ll take your advice.”

  “Oh, you’ll love it!” she said as she rushed off, looking like she had hit the jackpot. She returned quickly with a pot of coffee. As she poured me a refill, she asked, “Are you a writer? I see you taking notes in that book.”

  “No, I’m a reporter from Washington, doing a story on Lolita, the most senior citizen of Hagerstown.”

  “Oh, wow! I don’t know her real well, but I’ve heard of her. A reporter? Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Like television reporter, cameras, action?”

  “No, not that exciting. Just boring newspapers.”

  “Still!” She giggled.

  I smiled and said, “Kristen, have you ever heard anything about the old Hagerstown murders from 1923?”

  “No, but I know someone who is an expert about anything Hagerstown,” she said as she rushed off all happy, screaming out as she hurried into the kitchen, “Sy, Sy, we have a real live reporter here! Do you know anything about the famous murders of 1923?” Her voice trailed off. Kristen was young, innocent, a little bit of an airhead, but genuine and likable. And now the entire diner knew that I was a reporter and that I was looking into a famous case from 1923. I felt the eyes of the Hagerstown locals looking at me, studying me as if I might be famous from television. I tried to concentrate on my notebook, reviewing and modifying my notes. I saw two black women at a table close to mine staring intently at me for a solid minute. I find it amazing how a person can tell when someone is staring at them, even though they aren’t looking at the person staring. It’s as if the person staring has eyes like laser beams.

  I looked up at the two women and smiled politely. One of them popped up out of her seat and came over. She was a big-breasted, big-boned woman. When she smiled shyly and said “Hello,” I saw a gold front tooth.

  “Oh, hi,” I said.

  “I overheard you speaking with the young one about the old one, Lolita. We work at the nursing home,” she said in a heavy Jamaican accent. “We know her.” She waved for her friend to come over as she helped herself to a seat in my booth. “Come on here, Nancy,” she yelled over to the other one, while clearly speaking with a heavy Jamaican accent.

  Nancy rushed over with a big excited smile. “Hi, there,” she said with a nervous laugh, her accent matching that of her friend.

  “We are food service workers at the home. I’m Mary,” the first woman said. “We have known Lolita for many years.”

  “Oh, great! You want to join me and share some stories?” I asked, now more excited as I felt I could finally get some insight into the mysterious old woman the whole town seemed to know.

  Nancy smiled. “We ate already, but we were just going to have some coffee.”

  “The Wise One,” Mary said. “Miss Lolita, as we call her, is known as the Wise One. She is very much respected by all the residents, and even the residents’ family members. She has been there many years now, ever since she fell and broke her hip, and got pneumonia. Must be over ten years now, huh, Nancy?” She looked at her co-worker, who had a close-cut haircut and a gold tooth like Mary’s. Nancy was also heavyset, but shorter than Mary.

  “Yes, be sure of it. Miss Lolita is the Wise One. She is always sought after for advice of all sorts: love, marital issues, job problems, and so much more.”

  “I gather that Miss Lolita has all her marbles?”

  “Be sure of that!” Mary giggled. “She is so sharp that no one can put anything over on her! She wins all the trivia contests at the home.”

  “And stubborn,” Nancy chimed in. “If there is a meal Miss Lolita doesn’t care for, you can stand on your head, but she won’t take a taste of it! She knows what she wants, and she won’t settle for less!”

  “Oh, yes. I heard that Miss Lolita likes ice cream, and in particular, pistachio; is that right?”

  “She loves pistachio ice cream,” Nancy confirmed. “Always has. But it is very rare that anyone brings some, and we don’t offer it at the home. You see, most residents want only vanilla or chocolate.”

  “I’d like to bring her some,” I responded.

  “You know,” Nancy said, “the very best ice cream around—and Lolita loves theirs—is from the farm. They make all their ice cream fresh from scratch.” She gave me the name and location of the farm, which sold only organic fruits and vegetables, and which also specialized in dairy products, including the freshest ice cream in Maryland.

  Mary and Nancy both departed, wishing me well with my interviews with Lolita and her family. They had not been able to shed much light on the 1923 Hagerstown murders, but told me all about an older resident, Josephine, who volunteered at the nursing home and came to Millie’s every night for dinner. Perhaps she would show up while I was there. They said she was born and raised in Hagerstown.

  Kristen brought my meatloaf dinner to the table, and she sat down across from me as I began to eat. She stared at me and smiled with big bright eyes. “I think you have a very exciting job, Mr. Lou. You get to see all kinds of famous people all the time.”

  “Not really, Kristen. It’s not like that at all. There’s an awful lot of ground work, investigative reporting, and mostly it is boring. I write news stories about a great many things and people, and some of the stories aren’t even interesting. But it’s a job. Then again, some of it is quite satisfying.”

  “Well, I like it!” Kristen laughed. “Oh, by the way, I have some information on those old killings. It seems that Sy does remember a couple of things he heard while growing up.”

  “I see,” I said, as I reached for my notebook.

  “Yes. He said when he was growing up, he heard rumors that two men were suspected in the murders years earlier. Sy tells me that one of them was a young doc
tor who worked at the Hagerstown Hospital. He wasn’t a married man; he was a playboy type, a heavy partier, a good dancer, and he had a different girl each night. The second person of interest was an older pharmacist who was married but had no children.”

  Just at that moment, I saw a middle-aged man come out of the kitchen, looking my way. He was taller than six feet, slim, with a dark mustache, crew cut, and piercing dark eyes. I asked Kristen if she had to get back to work.

  “Oh, that’s just Big Sy there. He’s owned Millie’s forever. I can stay another minute. Where was I? Oh, yeah, the pharmacist. It seems a couple of years after the murders he was mugged real bad, almost killed, and forced to retire and move away. He died a few years later.” She stood up and headed quickly back to the kitchen, calling loudly over her shoulder, “Neither of the two men was ever charged,” she yelled a little loudly as she was running back to the kitchen.

  Sy gave me one last long look as if he were studying me, and then he disappeared into the kitchen after Kristen. The meatloaf wasn’t bad. The mashed potatoes were a little lumpy, but the extra butter I added helped a lot.

  It was ten minutes later when an older woman walked in and came over to my table. “You must be Lou. Mary told me to stop by and speak with you. I’m Josephine Cleary.”

  “So nice to meet you,” I said as I stood to shake her hand. “I heard about your many years with the home.”

  “It feels like my whole life I’ve worked at the nursing home. I’ve loved every minute of it, and made so many friends over the years. I even volunteer now after taking my retirement.” She had a loving motherly look about her.

  “So, you must know everything there is to know about the nursing home, its residents, and, in particular, Lolita.”

  Josephine was a slim woman of about eighty. She walked with a cane made of what appeared to be the rough limb of a tree. She explained that her husband of more than fifty-five years had died a few years ago, and that’s when she had retired. But she soon realized that she needed to volunteer at the home because she was just too bored and missed the interaction with the residents. She explained that she also ate every day at the diner, mostly out of habit, but also because she didn’t like to eat alone at home. Josephine stressed how lonely life was when a spouse was suddenly gone from one’s home. “I could swear my husband speaks to me every so often.”