Louis said. “Are you serious, for real, huh?”
Salvatore offers a prompt, “Yes, I’ve seen this kind before. You recall the Patty Hearst type, the little rich kid who is bored so they start committing crimes for excitement.”
Louis, up to speed now, “Yeah, yeah, I got ya’. Like all those hot shot rookie Academy pilots in Da Nang—I need a drink. How ’bout it? You want a bit of a nip?”
“Yeah, sounds good, but a short one, I’ve got work to do.”
Louis reaches into the cooler and looks up, almost like he was startled. He pops off a quick, “Rainy and a foggy day . . . huh, right? They always hit the banks on a foggy day right . . . the weather is always bad right?” asks Louis.
“Yeah, why?” comes back the response from Sal.
A laughing Louis grins and smiles up to the heavens. He, too, has added a key piece to the puzzle. He fundamentally found the linchpin even though he has not flown for over ten long years. “The weather reports,” is his answer to Sal.
“What, the weather, huh?” asks Sal.
“Yea, the scenario makes sense, the pilot reports . . . the weather reports, these guys watch the weather for a living, these guys are professional pilots. These men track the weather, their dispatch office is full of meteorologists tracking the weather . . . as aviators live and breathe weather.”
“When I flew every day, I tracked the weather 24/7. I could tell you whether or not it was going to rain today or next week. I may possibly also tell you if and how much the weather was going to be foggy tomorrow. In essence, if the temperature and dew point come within four degrees of each other you can bet on fog forming . . . and I’ll bet you 100 bucks these guys can tell you when the next foggy day is coming to a town near you. They have 12 hour, 24 hour forecasts along with hourly forecasts. Some of this used to be called ATIS (Automatic Terminal Information Services), but now I seem to recall it is now called the METAR.”
“The definition means something like a metrological area airport forecast or something like that. Hell, I think that’s a French term that the US and everyone went to somewhere back in the late 80s. It’s basically the same thing . . . it gives you the weather report at the airport you’re at or the one you are going to.”
“Truly?” asks Sal.
“Yeah, pilots get the weather forecasts better than they get out in the civilian world. They can get those 12/24 hour forecasts, 36 hour forecasts . . . man, pilots can get about whatever they want . . . out to a least a week. Damn, I love this.” Louis continues. And if the ceilings are too low, below say 1,000 feet above the ground level, the Police Choppers can’t fly . . . Hey, I like it . . . these guys are damn good . . . sneaky good. Yeah, son-of-a-bitch!” Louis has to chuckle as he now can distinguish how clever this set of crooks are. “How do you like those bandits? I mean they only rob banks when the cloud ceilings are rather low and you don’t need to worry about any pesky Police Helicopters chasing you down?
“Hell, the guys out in the squad cars can’t chase anyone anymore. If you do, you better get a Sergeant’s or Lieutenant’s permission and as soon as the traffic stacks up you better call off the chase or you’ll get your butt suspended, fired, or worse yet indicted. Ha, pretty damn good! Now I understand why you always like chasing down the real good ones, the ones who take the time to plan a good heist.” Louis says. Sure feels good for Louis to be doing real Police work again. He has, just this minute helped solve a case—no, several cases.
Standing up to leave, Sal pauses up front by the vintage Seeburg Juke Box. He starts to turn, but unexpectedly stops. After a bit of a pause, deep in thought, Sal at that moment pivots around. He calls out loudly to Louis, “Hey, whatever happened to the pilots . . . did they get rescued?”
“Fuck no!” said Louis without hesitation. “Hell no! I remember now.” Again, scratching his head, as the memories from 13,000 nautical miles away are now rushing back into the present.
“Hell no!” he continues, “The FAC lost contact with him overnight and the two men vanished . . . they were gone and on a bright sunny day . . . I was the last person, perhaps . . . uh, anyone ever heard from the downed aviators. Further, we never heard a peep out of the second pilot . . . I figured he must have been knocked out or dead before the Captain hit the eject button.”
“We were all on sight at first light the next day, but he was gone. No emergency radio calls, no locator beeper, no emergency pinger, nothing, nada. Not a damn thing.”
“Not a fucking thing . . . he vanished, they both disappeared from the face of the earth. The two men became another set of American flyers consumed by the fuckin’ jungles of Vietnam,” said a heartbroken Louis.
“The VC—Charlie must have captured them when the sun when down, uh before search and rescue could locate ’em and get them out, but they did land on the ground OK. Hell, I watched the one guy take off his parachute and run deeper into the jungle. Man the area was . . . I mean way too damn thick for me to try to land and pick him up. I’m telling you I was taking hits from tons of small arms fire from the ground anyway. Poor guys . . . in all probability never had a chance anyway . . . once those two punched out over Vietnam, their number was up.”
“Uh, sorry . . . later man.” Detective Salvatore exits onto the sidewalk and contemplates the sad story. As a Vietnam War veteran, this narrative is just another tragic story, a story Salvatore is acquainted with all too well. He lost family and friends too during the so called war. Peering upward, he takes off his glasses and wipes the tiny hints of the tear drops off his eyes. A brief look up to the heavens, he says a silent prayer to The Almighty One to return his older brother back home in one piece. After that, he takes another a deep sigh, then starts his grief stricken walk to his car.
* * * * *
As Sal stepped into the still air, the rough rasping sound of an alto saxophone broke the normal sounds of the night. Off to his right, at the next intersection was a man, that man again . . . a wino—an older man on crutches down on his luck or maybe just a bum who dropped out of rat race of life itself lost in his own little world. On the ground in front of this character was an open sax case where passers-by dropped in their loose change if they were pleased with the tune.
Today, this guy, a regular homeless person in the downtown area, sported a faded Army Ranger bonnie hat and an old worn, well-worn tiger striped camo jacket. It was covered with patches and sergeant stripes sewn on the man’s sleeves. Across the front of the jacket, he had a few different unit patches attached here and there, all units that served and fought in Vietnam from what Sal could remember. On his left was an old shopping cart with loads of stuff . . . junk stacked inside it; all this man’s worldly possessions. It had two flags attached to the basket. One was the American Flag and the other was a POW/MIA black We Will Never Forget Flag.
Sal had never spoken with this person up close, but always offered a wave or gave him a thumbs-up sign when he exited Fuzzy’s at two or three in the morning. Many times, the troubled man would play a simple rendition of famous U.S. Army tunes upon spotting Sal. Somehow, he knew that Sal was a vet. Tonight, he started with When Jonny Comes Marching Home, followed by The Battle Hymn of the Republic. For some reason, on this night, Sal stopped his walk to his car and strolled over to the music maker. He tossed an almost new twenty dollar bill into the man’s case. Next, he stepped back, offered a crisp salute as he spun around and headed back toward his car.
As the last notes of The Battle Hymn of the Republic still hung in the night air, this old tattered man offered up a quick, “bless you” toward Sal. He then cleared his throat, played a loud, quick C-note and then at that moment made the sign of the cross and looked up to the heavens. He started tapping his right foot to keep time as he played his rendition of Taps . . . soft at first then louder as Sal reached his car.
Detective Salvatore turned back toward the musician as he heard the tune floa
t gently into the nighttime air. Tears swelled up in his eyes—he knew the significance of the song all too well. Trying to gather himself, he started the car and exited the parking lot. Salvatore wanted out of there, but somehow could only drive slowly past the mysterious musician. Caught at a traffic light, Sal listened as the tune faded into never, never land.
Finally, the light turned green and Sal pulled away from the agony. He looked into the rear view mirror one more time as he saw the old decrepit wino stand up and offer a very fine salute—on his right wrist, the street light reflected something as he raised his arm, but it was only visible from a few feet away . . . there was no way Sal could have seen it as he drove off. On the musician’s right wrist was a faded red POW/MIA bracelet . . . one he had worn for almost 40 years; some Air Force pilot that he tried to rescue a long, long time ago. Sal drove on, well out of earshot as this old crazy Army Sergeant offered up a soft, “Go get your brother and bring him back home,” to no one . . .
As he adjusted his seat belt in his car, Salvatore drove along at a snail’s pace south bound, leaving the tall downtown buildings behind on his desired heading of due south to southeast along the Gulf Freeway. He loaded up his sad music CD for the healing drive south. The first song was one of his brother’s favorites after he was living overseas in the Air Force. The first song was sung by B.J. Thomas, I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry. The King, Elvis Presley himself, called it the saddest song he had ever heard. The next track on the CD is I’m Mr. Lonely, by Bobby Vinton.
Still others on the compact disk were songs by the Shirelles, Patsy Cline, and The Four Tops. The last song on the CD was still to this day, one of Sal’s favorites. It was the 1965 hit We Gotta ‘Get Out of This Place by The Animals. That little tune became his anthem right after his hut and bunk bed were shelled by VC mortar rounds in the middle of the night the second week he arrived in country. That was the last good night’s sleep he had for the next few years.
* * * * *
Sal is now driving toward the William P. Hobby Airport. Some twenty-two minutes later he is almost at the south side airport. At the Monroe Street exit Sal merges in with the other early morning traffic as he whips into the one way only circle drive. Once he hits his desired place to park at the red painted curb, Sal stops his faded red Ford Taurus on the curb, next to the five foot tall no-parking sign. As he exits his car, Sal puts his Official Police Business parking placard on the dash and leisurely walks toward the main lobby.
Off in the distance, Sal hears what appears to be a muffled scream: A faint cry for help from an injured female. Sal quickly scans the area for a uniformed Officer, but doesn’t locate anyone, not another soul is out tonight, nothing but the humid night air. Swiftly and in a flash, he reacts and moves toward the sound. Sal ducks and moves into the shadows of the first floor parking garage. This is one big parking lot with hundreds of vehicles filling the yellow striped parking spaces. He decides to stay low and in the shadows. Sal moves to the area where he believes the cry for help came from. In an effort to be as quite as he can be, he slips off his black dress shoes and now moves about in total secrecy in his socks. Moving between the vehicles and support columns, he picks up a faint moaning sound.
In his silent approach in total stealth mode, he can now catch a glimpse, off in the distance about 60 to 80 feet away what appears to be a female form laying on the cold hard concrete parking garage floor—she is still breathing from the tell-tell, signs of her chest and stomach moving smoothly up and down. Sal’s investigator’s mind assesses the situation in a flash and formulates a quick plan of action. Applying a hefty dose of deductive reasoning, he knows for sure this injured party is probably a fresh armed robbery victim. Her purse is missing, nowhere in sight, not next to her, not in her hands. The expensive handbag is gone, stolen. She has been attacked or . . . otherwise known as being mugged.
In an instant, in a micro-second, Detective Sal deduces that some punks in all probability knocked her in the head and almost certainly took off with her purse. His vast experience tells him further . . . he knows the bad guys are probably still around in the area. In a flash, like a ghost, Sal drops to the parking garage floor and looks around this way, then the other way, underneath all the parked vehicles. A short distance away, he can see four legs and two sets of Nike Air Jordan high-dollar tennis shoes of the two crooks. The two male suspects are digging through the lady’s dark-colored purse, which is sitting on the ground between the two sets of expensive tennis shoes. He knows the story all too well and makes his move.
Without making a sound, using the parking garage’s shadows for concealment, he slowly, but surely sneaks up on the two particularly occupied thieves. His years of police experience now . . . again working to his advantage, he knows that the two small-time thieves will be salivating over their fresh bounty. Like two lions with their fresh kill, he is betting the two punks will be engaged in their catch and not staying on alert. Via the dark shadows and traffic noise of a diesel powered bus driving past to cover his moves, he is able to almost appear out of thin air to the two teenage jerks kneeling on the ground rifling through the Louie Vuitton purse.
“FREEZE!” He barks out piercing the night air, startling the two amateur thieves. “Move an inch and you’re fuckin’ dead! . . . let me see your hands NOW!” Again he bellows out incredibly loud and clear like a seasoned Marine Corp Drill Sergeant.
The two startled punks are spooked so bad they almost wet their baggy fucking pants. Now while he has their attention and the upper hand, he continues. “On the ground, face down! NOW!” He barks again and motions with his blue steel Colt .45 pistol to reinforce his commanding non-negotiable order.
The two seventeen and eighteen-year-old male punks in quick order do as requested and are face down on the concrete floor shivering, scared shitless by the big man with the truly big gun in his right hand. These two thieves figure they have an easy mark, a petite 118 pound female to knock in the head. A moment ago, the crime seemed so easy and they have done the deed before right here in this parking garage. Fate was not kind to them tonight as they crossed paths with Detective First Class Salvatore A. Joseph. He won and they are headed to TDC for a set period of 5-99 years, once the official charges of Aggravated Armed Robbery are processed though the District Attorney’s Office and the State District Court System.
No public defender ever likes going up against the Robbery Detectives, but more than ever they don’t want to face Det. Salvatore A. Joseph. He has caused many a public defender to squirm in their chairs by merely entering the court room. Every big city court system enjoys its own set of players. There are defense attorneys who are known for being tough and it follows there are the police detectives, certain ones on the other side of the witness box, are in the same way, feared and respected. Many a rookie hot-shot defense attorney has regretted the day they ever asked Senior Detective First Class Salvatore A. Joseph a question . . . a simple question like please state your name, occupation, and qualifications for the court.
Usually as soon as the words Senior Detective First Class came out, the defense side of the bench gets worried. Subsequently when Salvatore goes on and on about his qualifications, awards, commendations, as well as the two college degrees, they certainly get worried. As he continues about how he teaches college classes on investigations and basic detective work-101, they are now dreadfully worried and usually are ready to have their client cop a plea.
One of the best compliments Sal ever received was from a well respected defense attorney, a well known liberal defense attorney. As the story goes . . . see one day, he pulled Sal off to the side and introduced himself. In point of fact the introduction wasn’t necessary because he was well known on the other side of the bench. He said, lightheartedly, “The next time I ask you for your credentials, will you please give me a swift kick in the ass.” Both men had a good laugh over the little joke. Even thought they were on opposite side of the witness box, a
great deal of respect was shared that moment.
As he entered the court and took the witness stand, Sal had adopted the little knack of always offering a slight smile toward the seated jury panel. Somehow making the connection . . . some sort of mystical connection oftentimes defense attorneys dread in a criminal court case. Sort of like he had signaled to the twelve men and women in the jury box that ol’ Sal had the situation all under control and to follow his lead. This punk or these punks are guilty as sin, so let’s throw the proverbial book at them and go on about our day-to-day business.
Thinking back to those days in court, Sal digs out his cell phone with his left hand and places a call to the police desk here at Hobby Airport directly. In an instance, he is connected to the sergeant’s desk, where he is able to summons an ambulance and some uniform boys to drags these two punks off to jail.
In a flash, more like a 100 yard dash, from the airport lobby two uniformed airport police officers arrive, followed by a frisk and cuff of the two robbers. A brief distance away, the poor victim is trying to move . . . to the sitting-up position and is rubbing the back of her head. She has a first-rate bump getting ever so much larger on the back of her head where the seventeen-year-old little prick clobbered her with a four-pound rusty metal tire iron. Sal quickly turns the two bad guys over to the airport patrol officers and after that tends to the little lady whose head is spinning round and round.
Kneeling down next to this Ms. Diaz, Sal identifies himself as he comforts her and tells her that help is on the way. The night air now smells like nice perfume and sweat all mixed in together. Today has been a very long day for Ms. Diaz, but she is still dressed well in her rather expensive Jones New York, size 6 outfit. A moment ago, she looked a wee bit better before someone knocked her in the head with a four pound piece of beat up iron ore. In short order, the paramedics and other airport officers arrive to take over the crime scene from retired Detective Salvatore.
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