Defying Death in Hagerstown

by John Paul Carinci

  “No, I can’t let go. And, yes, I realize that the killers are dead. But someone is spooked by my interest in those murders is very much alive, and is kicking hard.”

  Back at the hotel, I wanted to freshen up before meeting Felicia and Graham for dinner. This time, though, I purchased a Snapple diet iced tea and drank it straight from the bottle. Ever since I had arrived at Hagerstown and the gas station the first day, I’d been a basket case. Someone wanted me dead, and that wasn’t going to change for a while.

  My head throbbed as I endured a call from the insane asylum boss Glavin. Harold was growling at me through the cell phone. I couldn’t even make out everything he was rambling on about, but he really was pissed. Something about disrupting an entire town all by myself. And he wanted to know if I had asked Miss Lolita to call him on my behalf. He was cursing at a fast pace.

  “If you died, I’d have a much better story!” he screamed. I changed the cell phone to my other ear.

  “You’d miss me, boss! If someone shot me dead, you’d be sad.”

  “I’d miss nothing, hump-head! And maybe my ulcers would ease up.”

  “Well, I’ll be back real soon, so you can scream at me in person.” I laughed.

  “I swear that I will throw your ass out in the street if you don’t have an award-winning story.”

  “Don’t worry, boss. I’ve got something very special. And I think there will be a second story, even bigger.”

  “Just remember, you are so close to being in the street. One more bonehead blunder and you’ll be eating out of garbage cans.”

  We said our goodbyes. I still had a job, and a knucklehead as a boss. I guess many people love their jobs but hate their bosses. Some of it was my fault, I agree. After the breakup, nothing in life meant anything to me. People could read between the lines. They knew I was slowly self-destructing. Some people are so thrown by the blows life tosses their way. Life can be hell at times.

  I felt grimy, as if I’d been sweating in the desert for a week. I needed a hot shower and a clean shave. But as I turned on the water of the shower, I was hesitant to enter. I remembered the scene from the movie Psycho. I double-locked the bathroom door and fought through my sudden sense of panic. The intense fear of the past few days had caught up to me. Knowing someone could knife me when I closed my eyes just freaked me out. I had never before taken such a quick shower and shampoo. It must have been two minutes flat. “I need a drink,” I said out loud, but knew that was a road I didn’t really want to continue down. I did have a problem, of course, but I had been in denial about it. Many people have a drinking problem but discount it because they feel they can function during the work day. But they fail to recognize that they are operating at a diminished capacity. Nor do they even care, while everyone around them is fully aware of their decline.

  Time was moving quickly, but I still had a couple of hours before my eight o’clock dinner appointment. I lay on the bed, fixing my eyes firmly on the bubble stucco ceiling and studying it carefully as I thought and thought and thought, so much that my head ached.

  I thought about Billy Blaine and how he had just self-destructed. I thought about Lolita and how very wise we seem to become just before we pass away. It’s like we make all the mistakes early in life. We keep reinventing ourselves, and then, if we are lucky and very old, our mind is the only thing that still works.

  I thought about Felicia, and how one person who was so perfect, an angel, could be here just for me. Was she really that perfect for everyone else too, or had I hypnotized myself through her astonishingly gorgeous gray eyes to fall madly in love with her? Was my mind grasping onto someone who could finally save me from myself? I knew I had been self-destructing; in that way, I was similar to Billy Blaine. I hated to admit it, but I knew that it was true. Even I had been in my own hellhole of a cesspool. Felicia, though, was my angel, my real answer. This was my one chance at life, and I would not ruin it, not even with alcohol or attitude. Miss Lolita’s wisdom had convinced me to become a new man—a better man.

  My eyes suddenly opened, and for a split second, I had no idea where I was. But I soon realized that sheer exhaustion had forced my eyes shut. The ceiling was staring back at me, and it took a full second for me to jump out of bed. It was 6:55. Then suddenly I heard it, the jiggling of my hotel room door. That must have been what woke me up. It scared the crap out of me as I shouted, “Who is it? Who’s there? Hello, who is it?”

  There was no answer. Then I heard the sound of running feet. Holy crap, not again!

  When I looked out my window a few floors above street level, I saw police officers. Great, at least my dead body will have a nice escort on its way to the morgue!

  I dressed quickly, making sure to put on a pair of pants first in case I had to make a run for it down the hallway and stairs. I listened some more, then quickly exited my room and ran for the stairs and out to where the officers were. I found Officer Cianci out front and told him of my concern. The officer smiled and said very nicely, “You know, Lou, sometimes when we are worried, our minds play funny tricks on us.”

  “Yeah, funny tricks, like someone axing me to death! Then we’ll all agree: ‘Well, I guess that wasn’t his imagination.’”

  He laughed. “Hey, that’s a good one!”

  As I chatted with Officer Cianci and another officer, who was short and pudgy, we spoke about Billy Blaine. They agreed that Graham was lucky he didn’t get hurt because Billy was a dangerous character, capable of mass murder. They could tell he was not your run-of-the-mill criminal, the way he shot up the gas station and police station. But they assured me that there was nothing to be concerned about any longer.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought when I was in the nursing home visiting, and look what happened.”

  They all agreed that someone out there in Hagerstown had put Blaine up to the violence. But they were convinced that the person behind it all wasn’t capable of the violence himself, and that they would quickly apprehend that person, as well.

  “Well, I’ll be glad to get out of this town,” I laughed nervously.

  “We won’t be missing you either,” Cianci said, but he was laughing with me. “You stirred up a real hornets’ nest, you did. We ain’t seen anything quite that exciting in these parts in many a year.”

  “Normally we only arrest drunks at the town bar for excitement around here,” the pudgy officer said. “You really got the old captain’s knickers in a twist!”

  “Yeah, I’m not one of his favorites, either,” I agreed.

  “No, you ain’t!” Cianci agreed. “The captain ain’t sleeping too well these days.”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, you guys hear anything new on the case?”

  “Nothing we can readily share,” Pudgy smiled.

  I left and returned shortly with some Dunkin’ Donuts coffees and donuts for the officers, and joined them in some coffee as we chatted about how bad the Yankees had become in the last year, and how overpaid they all were. We agreed that money has ruined the game and taken the joy out of going to see a major league game at a stadium.

  “Eight dollars and fifty cents for a plastic bottle of beer? You know how many beers I need at a game?” Pudgy asked.

  “Twenty?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Wise ass!” he shouted, and we all laughed.

  Officer Cianci said, “What time are you meeting everyone for dinner?”

  “I want to be there at about a quarter to eight.”

  “Good. We’ll leave about five minutes before that time. It’s only a couple blocks from here. I’ll take you in the squad car, and I’ll be watching from outside.”

  “I can’t just walk there, Officer?”

  “No. My ass is on the line, and I don’t want to have to answer to my captain if you get taken out.”

  “I just hate feeling helpless,” I complained. “So the restaurant is good?”

  “That’s this town’s finest Italian restaurant. I eat there often,” the pudgy officer said.


  “Now I know it’s good!” I smiled.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We had just left the hotel. I was riding, for a change, in the front seat with Cianci, at my request. When we were about a block away from the restaurant, suddenly Cianci said, “There’s a motorcycle tailing us. Slide down in your seat, and don’t even think of getting out of the car until you hear from me. Understand?” A note of firm authority accompanied his words.

  “Okay, Officer.”

  Cianci quickly called for backup, and we pulled right in front of the restaurant, Maurino’s Italian.

  “Stay low, Lou,” he said loudly.

  He didn’t need to tell me twice; my legs were folded into the floorboard.

  “He’s a half block back,” he said, just as I heard the blaring of police sirens.

  “There he goes!” Cianci said excitedly.

  I heard the screeching of tires, and the chase was on. We stayed put. I stayed scrunched low.

  “There he goes; he’s running down sidewalks now, with the motorcycle. We have to try to corner him before he runs down people’s backyards and escapes!” He yelled as if everyone outside could hear him. I stayed down, and my legs cramped up something fierce.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Fine!” I said, sucking it up a bit.

  After a few minutes, Officer Cianci said, “Stay here; remain down low. I just want to look inside the restaurant to make sure it’s all clear.” As he stepped outside the car, he yelled a final “Don’t move!”

  “Don’t worry. I think I’m now frozen in this position. You may need a crane to get me out again,” I joked in a pained voice.

  “You’re doing real good, Lou,” he said, and he walked to the restaurant.

  He returned thirty seconds later and told me all was clear. He then came to the passenger side and helped me from my folded position. My legs were dead asleep and couldn’t hold my weight. It took a minute before the blood flow returned and I could stand on my own.

  Graham was already seated at a booth in the restaurant waiting for me. We hugged as if we hadn’t seen each other for years. The ordeal from earlier in the day had fully sunken in with both of us. We both realized just how fortunate we were, as well as the others at the nursing home. Billy Blaine easily could have killed many people. The diversion, we agreed, was perfectly planned, buying just the right amount of time he needed to carry out a masterful and deadly act.

  We spoke about Harold Glavin and how he wanted to fire me and strip me of the assignment and story I had been writing. He didn’t even care where I was with the assignment, Miss Lolita, her story, or the investigation of the 1923 murders.

  Graham wanted to know all about the murders. I told him everything I knew about the three young women, and how the killer had butchered the bodies. We spoke about how brazen the murders were, how no one could even come close to capturing the murderer, and how traumatic it was for everyone in Hagerstown and all of Maryland.

  I explained to Graham how Blaine was key to the investigation, but neither of us could guess the identity of the mastermind behind the latest havoc, or whether there was more than one.

  “Why would anyone in 2013 even care about a killer from ninety years ago? Who would try to protect them? What’s the motive? There’s always a motive,” Graham pondered aloud.

  Just then, I caught a glimpse of Felicia at the restaurant entrance. I looked carefully around the dining area, studying the room and the other diners. There was nothing suspicious. I was finally at ease for a change.

  As I introduced Felicia to Graham, and she hugged him and thanked him for his unselfish act of kindness, I saw a big smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. As he looked at me, his eyes told me, “Boy, you’ve got a real winner here!”

  Felicia wanted to know about Graham, and he wanted to know about her, and they both ragged on me a little just for fun. We shared a lot of laughs.

  As I looked into Felicia’s eyes, I knew that I wanted to hug her long and hard. But I also knew that we couldn’t look like we were a couple. I fought the temptation, knowing that I could be putting Felicia’s life at risk if the mastermind of the recent terror knew we cared so much about each other. I was on cloud nine just being with Felicia and looking at her.

  We feasted on flatbread pizza, Caesar salads, and pasta in a special homemade meat sauce that was different from any sauce I had ever had before. By the end of the meal, we were stuffed. No one had any alcohol. I didn’t want to go back to drinking, and I really couldn’t explain why. I knew I had earned the right to have some wine or an imported beer. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to order any drinks. Rather, I had sparkling bottled water along with Felicia and Graham. Felicia hated alcohol after her bad marriage to her alcoholic husband.

  “So, Lou,” Graham said, “do you have any worthwhile data for a good story yet?”

  “I have enough for a ten-week documentary. There are so many angles and characters to talk about. I have to cover the 1923 murders, the town, and the great people in this town. I also have to cover what Lolita’s life was like in 1923, and for Hagerstown in general.”

  “You know, Lou, I was sent here to report back to boss-man Glavin. But he also wanted me to tail you and, of course, take some photos with that fancy new camera. So tomorrow, I’ll be taking photos at the nursing home. Felicia, I also want you there with Miss Lolita. I want shots of you attending to her as you usually do.”

  “All right, I guess,” Felicia said happily.

  “That would be good. Also, in the recreation room, we could get a good wide-angle shot including the other residents, and also Jeremy Roberts, the director,” I added.

  We finished up after about two hours and prepared to leave. I looked deeply into Felicia’s eyes, and once again, my heart felt like it skipped a beat. How I longed to kiss her right there and then. But I knew that was a terrible idea. Our romance must be kept very low-key. The torture was killing me. There was no telling who or how many people were involved in the violence that had surrounded me since my arrival in town. Someone could do harm to Felicia just to get back at me or to use me in a bad way. That weighed on my mind continually.

  Graham could tell I was crazy about Felicia, and he was genuinely happy for me. He knew firsthand how far down the road of destruction I had traveled. There was nothing anyone could do. I had to help myself. If Harold Glavin had fired me a month ago, I probably wouldn’t have cared. I probably would have continued drinking and making excuses. My heart was cold to life after my breakup; nothing mattered to me then—not the job, not women beyond one-night stands, not food, not even world destruction, or if the world stopped turning altogether. I guess that happens to people suffering from depression.

  So I arranged for Graham to exit the restaurant first, saying I’d send Felicia in five minutes. When it was just the two of us, we looked deeply into each other’s eyes and said goodbye. I told her I would call her when I got back to the room sometime later. No kiss, no holding hands, no hug, as others in the restaurant were well aware of our actions.

  After Felicia went out, I stayed a while longer and then paid the bill. I looked around carefully for any strange characters and started for the door. I would be extra-careful as I exited the restaurant, just as a precaution, and because my guard had been raised for some time now. I would look for Sergeant Pawler as soon as I hit the street, as he was due to relieve Cianci.

  The cruiser was parked across the street. I could see he was sitting in the front, observing the immediate area with the engine on. I wondered how these officers on stakeouts and guard duty, sitting for hours in their cruisers, managed to stay awake.

  But there he was, watching everything. Pawler was tough as nails and clearly very rough around the edges, but no one could ever say he was not a good and dedicated officer, and a good protector.

  As soon as I exited the restaurant and set my feet on the front sidewalk, I heard a loud motorcycle from a distance. My eyes turned quickly in the dire
ction of the blaring engine and muffler. The sounds of the motorcycle hurt my ears, though enthusiasts love the noisiest cycles the most.

  I saw the motorcycle racing toward the restaurant and then heard a blast and then another. Before I knew it, Sergeant Pawler was out of his car waving me to get down and shouting, “Hit the deck, Lou!”

  The sergeant ran into the street in the direct line of oncoming fire and the racing motorcycle, and started firing his gun at the rider on the motorcycle. I was in shock as I looked on.

  I was flat on my stomach, watching the scene play out in front of me. The blasts were numerous, like loud firecrackers next to my ears.

  There was no mistaking the sounds of gunfire so close. I cringed at each shot. The motorcycle raced directly toward the entranceway of the Italian restaurant, closer and closer to Pawler and me. The sergeant stood firm, aiming and shooting at the assailant. The cyclist’s shots ricocheted off the façade and sidewalk of the restaurant. I remained on my stomach, motionless, but now with my hands covering my head. My body shook.

  Time moves in ultra-slow motion when you’re in life-or-death danger. In reality, it was only ten seconds, but it felt like minutes. And all I could think was, I’m going to die! This is it—my ass is grass now! I thought about Felicia, and how much I wanted to live so that I could be with her for the rest of my life.

  The shots continued, too numerous to count or to figure out which guns were doing the shooting. Then, just as the motorcyclist got real close and the shots got louder, I saw the motorcycle swerve away from Sergeant Pawler and closer to my side of the street as it sped up.

  The motorcycle’s tires smoked and burned a line of rubber, swerving slightly out of control, and suddenly slammed into a telephone pole. It then veered off to the right, the rider bouncing off it to the left of the pole.

  The motorcycle’s wheels were spinning and the loud engine rumbled as the rider lay motionless.

  “Stay down! Stay down!” Pawler yelled at me as he ran straight up the street to the scene of the dead-still shooter. Pawler’s gun was aimed at the cyclist’s head as he approached the body. He screamed something at the shooter. Then he screamed again. No movement, no sound from the rider; seconds ticked by very slowly. Then, abruptly, Pawler kicked at the body, turning it. Then he kicked at the gun lying a few feet away on the sidewalk. The gun went spinning; the body lay perfectly still. The motorcycle still roared loudly—the only noise in an otherwise dead-silent street—as its wheels slowed down. I lay motionless, looking, waiting, dreading another attack, and praying it was all over.