While Rome Was Sleeping

by M. S. Forsythe

  “Yeah, he’s doing okay,” Hal responded. “He hooked up with a pal of his, a guy named Leo Tanner. They both work at Atlas Window Cleaners. You know that company that cleans those high-rise windows downtown. Jake is keeping his nose clean, ha, ha, get it?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You mean Jake is going up and down buildings like the Rainier Tower and like that? Is this Leo on parole too?” asked Monte. He found it hard to imagine Jake as a window washer.

  “No,” Hal told him. “Not Leo, he’s a small time crook, car theft, petty crimes, and breaking and entering burglaries from time to time. He’s done some jail time but he’s clean at the moment. He and Jake bunk together at a flea trap down around Pioneer Square, the St. Croix Hotel. What’s the matter, no homicides to investigate? Why are you asking about Jake, anything I should know about?”

  “Oh no,” Monte said quickly. “I was just going through some files and checking them off so the Captain knows I’m on top of things. Things are pretty quiet for the moment. I helped put Jake away, so when I saw he was on parole I thought I’d check up on him. He’s not exactly Mr. ‘Nice Guy’.”

  “Well,” Hal told him, Jake reports in as required, and I haven’t heard anything going on with him. Maybe the thrill of all that height satisfies his needs for adventure or something, anyway... like I said...”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, he’s keeping his nose clean. I got it, Hal, and thanks. See you around,” Monte told Hal as he hung up.

  ✽✽✽

  Monte looked at Jake’s and Leo’s rap sheets. Both men were in their early forties. Leo was a little younger than Jake. Monte’s interest was confirmed when he noted that the weapon Jake used in two other assaults had been a knife.

  Neither man had ever been caught with a gun. Leo had been fairly successful at burglarizing but he had been caught attempting to steal a car that had been set up as part of a sting.

  “These two might be just what I need.” Monte thought, but he knew he had to be careful.

  At 4:30 that afternoon, Detective Maxwell left the Public Safety Building and drove to Bell Town. He parked on Fifth Avenue across the street from Atlas and waited for the 5:00 quitting time and for Jake and Leo to exit. He watched them as they left Atlas and headed for the Bull Dog Tavern down the hill on Third Avenue. Monte followed.

  Entering the tavern Monte spotted them at the bar and sidled up next to Jake. “Hi there, Jake. How’s it going?”

  Leo peered around Jake, looking at Monte. Monte quickly flashed his badge at Leo.

  Jake was immediately on guard. Then, looking closely at Monte, he spat in recognition, “You’re the stinking cop who busted me!” He angrily stepped away and swore at Monte. “Why are you bugging me, I ain’t done nuthin!’”

  Monte said smoothly. “Easy Jake, I might have a business deal for you and your friend here,” nodding toward Leo.

  “We’ve got a job. What are you tryin’ to do, set us up?” Leo asked contentiously

  Monte smiled. “How is the pay washing windows?”

  “We get paid enough,” Leo assured sullenly.

  “I just thought you might be interested in a big one-time job that could net you boys a few ‘thou’, but I can see that I’m wasting my time...yep, you guys seem really happy washing windows,” Monte remarked sarcastically. “See you around.” He pretended a loss of interest as he moved toward the door.

  “How many ‘thou’ are we talking about?” Leo pressed Monte. “What kind of a job?”

  “Thirty thousand each with a bonus, if it goes like clockwork,” Monte replied. “But once you’re in, you’re in; understand? And you do it exactly as you are told.” He watched their faces and knew he had them hooked.

  “Whew” Jake whistled. “Not bad! Who are we workin’ for?” he asked.

  Monte responded, “No information unless you agree and as long as you get paid what do you care?”

  “Just a minute,” Leo told Monte. “We gotta’ talk about this.”

  They moved away from Monte. After an animated discussion a couple of minutes later, Leo nodded.

  Monte walked up to them. “Agreed? Good! Let’s go over to that table and we’ll talk,” he said nodding to a dark corner booth away from the bar. After revealing the nature of the job and what was expected of them, Monte said, “We’re done now; I’ll be in touch in a day or so.”

  Looking around at the half empty, murky bar room, “This is as good a place as any to meet. See you here on Monday after work.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you boys, you keep your jobs at Atlas, in fact I insist. Take sick leave or vacation for this job if you have to. You catch my meaning?”

  They both nodded as Monte turned and headed for the door leaving Jake and Leo looking after him.

  ✽✽✽

  Later Monte placed a call from a pay phone. “Mr. Ramsey, this is Monte, I just want you to know I have located two good applicants and have interviewed them. They are eager to get the job, and I’ve set up another meeting on Monday, as soon as I get the information for them.”

  “Excellent, Monte; the information and partial payment will be delivered at the usual drop. An envelope will be left for you at the desk at the Washington Athletic Club,” he went on. It will contain all the information you will need to pass along to the two applicants, plus the down payment money, which is to be paid half now, the other half when the job is done. That will be confirmed when the merchandise is delivered into my hands by messenger service. Call me if anything comes up.”

  Ramsey sat back in his chair and drew a deep breath. The ball was rolling.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday, September 16, 1980 1:30PM

  “Is this Charlene Thayer?” The voice on the phone was hoarse and raspy, almost a whisper.

  Charlene hesitated, “Yes, who’s calling?”

  “Are you Paul Thayer’s widow?”

  Charlene froze, and answered tentatively, “Yes, who is this?”

  The voice continued, “Mrs. Thayer I have information about your husband, Colonel Thayer.”

  “Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded. “If this is some sort of sick joke it isn’t funny!”

  “There are things you should know about your husband’s death, Mrs. Thayer, things are not what they seem...”

  She cut him off by abruptly hanging up. She leaned against the wall; her breath coming in sharp gasps. Hearing Paul’s name brought pain, even after nearly ten years. But the voice had opened the door to a nagging question Charlene Thayer had turned her back on. It had been lying dormant and held in suspension until now by “busyness”. Suddenly no amount of busyness could close the door on the words, “Things are not what they seem...” echoing in her ears.

  ✽✽✽

  3:30 PM

  Seattle had lapsed into its typical fall weather pattern, torrential rain interspersed with wind and drizzle. This September day had some of all three. The raindrops were large and splashed against the windshield as journalist Andrew Kincaid maneuvered his 1972 Toyota Land Cruiser into his assigned parking place in the rain soaked lot across from the Seattle Times building. He had just finished what he considered to be a thoroughly frustrating and unsatisfactory on-the-air interview with King County Council member Robert “Bob” Mitchell.

  The topic, a political “hot potato”, was the need for a new disaster and transportation plan for the Puget Sound region largely dictated by the Mount St. Helens’ eruption that occurred last May. Mitchell had run for the Council and won based on his unique approach to disaster planning and his proposal for the area’s transportation needs.

  Previously made contingency plans were proving to be impractical for the movement of people out of dangerous areas in question. The impact of population growth projections on transportation needs, modernizing and improving freeways and possibly adding light rail were on the table as agenda items as well.

  Months before the actual volcanic eruption Governor Dixy Lee Ray had established a task force to examine those topi
cs and address other natural disaster issues. She had asked Andrew Kincaid to serve on the task force as the media liaison and Andrew had declined. However he continued to monitor the activities of the task force and following the eruption, Andrew along with several of the state’s top investigative reporters were probing the state’s response.

  Andrew knew that the State of Washington and the most populous King County had serious differences on several components of such a plan.

  With his knowledge of the subject and his interview skills in play, Andrew attempted to have Councilman Mitchell explain his and the King County Council’s position on disaster planning; asking Mitchell specifically where and how the County significantly disagreed with the State.

  He found it nearly impossible to keep the councilman on point. Mitchell changed his position several times on how a disaster plan should be adopted and implemented. To Andrew’s surprise Mitchell was even less definite on transportation needs and growth projections.

  At the end of the interview all Andrew wanted to do was go home, have a strong drink and go to bed, thinking it had been such a long day already, he couldn’t believe it wasn’t over. Instead he found himself back at the Times finalizing Wednesday’s column.

  As he drove into the Times parking lot and into his assigned space he noted the vehicle on the right was parked slightly across the line into his space, which would not allow a comfort zone for opening doors and exiting. “That does it!” he declared.

  Wiggling to exit the car Andrew swore under his breath and commented to himself that he should have ridden the Harley. A motorcycle was far easier to park albeit a less desirable vehicle in Seattle’s rainy weather.

  “Maybe I will ride the bike tomorrow, even if it’s still pouring buckets,” he grumbled as he splashed across the street and through the doors of the Seattle Times. “It can’t be harder than this!”

  As he passed the reception desk he groused, “Doesn’t anybody in this town know how to park? This has been some day!!”

  Wendy Hilyard, the dark haired receptionist raised her eyes from a page she was reading, adjusted her thick glasses and managed a weak smile. “Oh, hi, Andy, here are your messages,” she held out her hand containing a sheaf of 3 x 4 pink message slips and let her eyes drop back to the paper; he grabbed them as he hurried by hardly looking at her. Brushing wet hair out of his eyes, he mumbled “Thanks” while a disgruntled frown clouded his ordinarily congenial face.

  There wasn’t time to comment although Wendy wished she could think of some soothing remark. “This must have been a really bad day,” she thought. “Bye Andy” she called after the lanky man in the dripping raincoat dashing through the door to the stair well. “Have a nice...”she paused, weighing the obvious circumstance, “oh well.”

  He took the stairs two at a time to get to his second floor ‘office’ that consisted of a desk with a telephone, gooseneck lamp and a typewriter in the Northwest corner of the newsroom. The location offered him a small semblance of privacy.

  As Andrew threaded his way through the crowded city room, past reporters’ desks, water dripped from his clothes onto the asphalt tile floor; a few of those who sat in proximity enroute to his desk caught some of the moisture, causing mild consternation.

  “Hey, Kincaid, why don’t you furnish towels? For cryin’ out loud, I got wetter from you than from my shower this morning!” one disgruntled recipient of unwelcome drops complained as Andrew worked his way through the noisy, smoked filled room.

  “You could always use another shower, Ted.” Andy shot back. “I’ll order towels next week.”

  “Oh yeah, well next time it rains and you’re out in it, do us all a favor—don’t come in,” another voice complained. “You got water spots on my copy.”

  “That’s probably the most punctuation anyone has seen on your stuff. It gives it a little something extra. You should thank me,” Andrew retorted.

  “Ha, ha and ha; that’s very funny, Oh mighty king of drips! Remind me to recommend you for comedian of the month award!”

  The verbal sparring ended as Andrew reached his desk and flipped through his messages. One was an urgent request from Father Ben Lee to call him at the Seattle Seamen’s Center as soon as possible. He noted that the message came at 3:00 PM. Andrew ordinarily didn’t respond to his messages until after 5:00 PM, but he was expecting information for the next day’s program at radio station KGM so he carefully went through them and came back to Ben’s request. Usually unflappable Father Ben would not request an immediate response unless it was important.

  Shedding his wet coat and dropping it on a nearby chair, Andrew perched on the corner of his desk and dialed the Center. Ben answered on the second ring. “Father Ben, what’s going on? I got your message. Sounded serious; are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” responded Ben, “but a man came here today who I think may be in trouble”.

  "What kind of trouble, Father?”

  “I do not know, but I do know he is not a merchant seaman. Although he came in on a ship called the Tsien-Maru, he is not part of the crew. I have talked with some of the men from the ship and they do not know him. He is Caucasian and I think he is an American. He seems somewhat anxious. I have tried talking with him–but it seems as though...” his voice trailed off in search of the right words. “He asked for paper to write some letters; in fact, he has spent several hours writing letters. Then he asked me to look up a telephone number for Mrs. Paul Thayer, Charlene Thayer. I think...”

  Andrew broke in, “Hold on, Ben, was he asking about the woman you talk about that helps raise money for the Center? That one?”

  Ben responded, “Yes, Andrew, that is the only Charlene Thayer or Mrs. Paul Thayer listed. He knew both names, Andrew, and he did call her.” Father Ben paused, waiting for a response, “and—he asked about you.”

  Andrew mumbled, “About me? What about me? That’s strange,” and then added “okay, look, I have to go back to the station to make a couple of calls about tomorrow’s show. I will be taking live calls about today’s interview so I need to get some things in place. Then I’ll drop down to the Center and the two of us can talk with this guy when I get there. Okay? I’m sorry, Ben, I do need to get on this. Can you hold on to him for a little while?”

  Ben nodded to the phone as he peered out his office door at the stranger still at the table, bent over busily writing, “I will try, Andrew” he said wearily. “I will feel much better if you can come and talk with him.”

  Ben sighed as he hung up. “What a day, Lord, I need help!” Ben’s attention was drawn to two sailors arguing over a board game. One had thrown tiles on the floor and it appeared the other man was about to physically attack the thrower as Ben intervened.

  He reflected that his right arm Sister Ruth Myers had the day off as he shuffled through the papers on her otherwise neat desk looking for a list of repair people. He had to find someone to fix the restroom sink. Right now, this moment, he felt abandoned even by his friend Andrew. Dejectedly he mused, “Even Andrew is putting me off in helping that poor soul over there,” looking at the man hurriedly writing at a corner table.

  Ben tried to rid himself of the feeling of foreboding. He trusted Andrew to get there as soon as he could, but he wasn’t sure that Andrew had really heard; Ben knew he was preoccupied. “Ah well,” he thought, “there is nothing to do but wait and see.”

  ✽✽✽

  Andrew had heard and was annoyed not being able to respond to Ben immediately. This was important to Ben and his own curiosity had been piqued.

  Being an outspoken columnist and investigative reporter and radio talk show host was only a portion of Andrew Kincaid’s interests. His political views and intention to influence public policy were well known and generally respected in Seattle and Western Washington. He was seen as a “bulldog” crusader; when Andrew Kincaid believed in a cause he didn’t let go until the matter was resolved.

  Andrew was more than a glib “hired gun” for radio station KGM. Talk ra
dio was a new forum for political ideologues; he firmly believed it was a concept that could only grow and influence listeners. He had argued long and hard with his editors at the Seattle Times to agree to let him broadcast on KGM. Finally, he successfully negotiated an agreement that was mutually beneficial to both the newspaper and the radio station.

  His hour long programs were incisive, thought provoking and challenging; and the issues he raised for his daily audiences were generally explored in depth in his bi-weekly column in the Times.

  With all that said, Andrew was restless; he tried to dismiss the creeping dissatisfaction that troubled his quiet moments. He had made a personal commitment to himself to not ever becoming stale Now at thirty two he was a man on his way up and careful in his steps always looking over the horizon for a new challenge. He had caught the eye of some of the more seasoned politicians in Seattle and Olympia on both sides of the aisle. Political power brokers acknowledged that charismatic Andrew Kincaid would bear watching.

  ✽✽✽

  His support for Father Ben Lee and the Center began through Father Ben’s efforts to help a Chinese merchant sailor who had lost his papers and been arrested. He was subsequently ensnared in bureaucracies designed not to help the individual, only to thwart each other.

  The Seattle Seamen’s Center was a maritime outreach ministry sponsored by the local Episcopal Diocese. Located in an industrial area close to the container Port of Seattle, it offered shelter and hospitality for merchant sailors from ships from around the world predominately from Southeast Asia.

  The Center was a place where they could write letters, play pool or board games, have tea or coffee and conversation. If the need should arise, there was a good friend in Father Ben Lee who, as well as directing the Center, served as counselor, confessor and helper.

  Andrew had received a call from one of his sources in the Port of Seattle office suggesting he look into the matter, he checked out Father Ben Lee and the work he was doing at the Seamen’s Center. While the maritime mission itself interested Andrew, he was more intrigued by the humble Chinese Anglican/Episcopal priest behind the ministry. A man who had emigrated from Hong Kong, spoke five languages fluently as well as various dialects and yet had the heart of a servant to everyone he met.