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That Girl
“What have you got, Warren?” Captain Hardesty snarled. It had been a long day and the life of a police shift captain wasn’t an easy one, not in a town where budgets kept the force small and the people kept the force working harder. He had been on duty since early morning and when his relief called in sick, well, what else could he do. He stayed over, hoping the chief could find someone to replace him.
“It looks like a homicide, Captain. Here’s the gun.” He gingerly handed the other a weapon hanging from his pencil. “I haven’t touched it.”
“Why homicide?”
“Well, sir, he was shot through the forehead but the gun was over there.” He pointed to a spot about twenty feet away. Hardesty glanced and nodded.
“You’re sure that’s the gun?”
“No, sir, but it has been fired recently and it doesn’t appear to have laid here long. I can’t swear to it but maybe the medical examiner can tell us for sure.”
Hardesty shuddered. That would mean he would have to call in the state crime lab. More expense and he was going to hear about that, you could just bet. His rating wasn’t too high with the chief right now anyway but he had no other choice. The city didn’t have facilities for any thorough examinations of its own. He looked down at the body.
“He looks familiar? Know him?” he asked his officer.
“Yes, sir, that’s Tom Mosston, the writer.”
“Writer?”
“Yes, sir, he addressed one of our classes last fall. Told us about writing and how to put details into a report. Sort of looks like he is a report by himself, doesn’t it?”
“That would be my assumption, too. What else do you know about him?”
“Not too much. I think he’s single but I seem to recall someone saying something about a divorce. I’ll have to check that, though.”
“OK, see what you can find out, particularly who might have seen him last….”
“That might be a bit difficult because he wasn’t much of a tavern hopper, or mixer of any kind. Kept pretty much to himself unless you called on him. He worked out in the area.”
“I thought you said he was a writer.”
“I did but I guess he didn’t make too much although he did sell fairly regularly.” The officer grinned at the captain. “Writing is one of those chicken today, feathers tomorrow, sort of things.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” Hardesty replied, impatiently, “But see what you can find out about him.”
Springtime in the Tri-Cities could be a beautiful time of the year. Not too much rain, everything turning green, a soft wind blowing and the Columbia river mirroring the blue of the sky. Tom Mosston was on his way to work and he didn’t really want to. Still, there were bills to pay and he was already late with his car payment. Those things made real incentives for one to keep his nose to the proverbial grindstone. Someday, somehow, he hoped to write the great American novel then he could do as Hemingway had done – winter in the Caribbean, sport fishing off Baja, and things like that. Maybe he wouldn’t have to worry about such mundane things as rent and car payments and typewriter ribbons – little things like that.
It was right at that time of the year when it was too warm with the window rolled up and too cool with it down. He had just rolled the window up again when he noticed the little red sports car up ahead, hood up and a girl standing by the right rear wheel. Didn’t she know that all the advice said for women disabled along the road to stay in their car? He glanced at his watch. Damn, he just barely had time to get to work, too. He slowed imperceptibly as he went by and she smiled encouragingly and pointed at the gas cap.
So that was her problem, he muttered to himself, the dumb broad forgot to gas up last night. He glanced at her again. Golly, she might be a dumb broad but she was sure a beautiful one. Maybe she needed his help.
Almost immediately, he got another thought. Why should he? He had helped out a beautiful girl once, then he got involved and wound up marrying her. Now the alimony payments – child support, the court called it, even though the child wasn’t his – were helping to keep his nose to the grindstone. He shook his head and picked up speed again. Still, she had been an uncommonly good looking chick. The type he might have described in one of his stories as the girl next door. Come to think of it, she did sort of look like one he had described once. He reached the Columbia Center exit and left the freeway. Maybe she did deserve help after all.
He had to buy a gas can. The station attendant wouldn’t accept a deposit on a can, he only sold them but Tom figured he needed one anyway. He filled the container and left the station. Crossing over the freeway he followed the on-ramp and got into the eastbound lane. Now he’d have to go clear to the Kennewick exit before he could double back to give her the gas. Oh, well, he’d just have to clock in tardy. The company didn’t like it too well but his record was pretty good and it might be worth the trouble.
By the time he was approaching the spot where she’d be he knew he was too late. Someone else had already stopped, someone who carried spare gas with him. They were busily emptying a gallon can into the tank and he knew he would never get back there in time to even stop and offer belated help. He went on to the exit, turned around and headed back. As he suspected, she was already gone. Damn, she was such a good looking girl, too. Now how would he find out who she was? What the Hell, why should he? That was the way he got into the predicament he was in now. He shrugged his shoulders and went on to work, clocking in at thirty-six minutes after the hour.
Tom Mosston’s supervisor had been understanding and there had been no problem with his tardiness. At first Tom had put the situation out of his mind. The pressure of his work had helped but later in the afternoon, after he had begun to catch up with the pile of paper on his desk, he had a little time for his mind to wander and he thought of the girl, her golden hair blowing in the light springtime breeze.
That bothered him somewhat because since his divorce he had had little time or thoughts for women. He was, he guessed, a little soured on the subject and that was why he was mildly surprised when he began to think about the golden haired girl. Now if he’d only been carrying a can of gas as her benefactor had, he’d have been able to meet her. It’s true, he admitted, hindsight is nearly always 20/20 vision. He’d have to get a can to carry. Then he remembered, he now had the can, but the odds of meeting her again under similar situations were phenomenal. Well, he might just as well put her out of his mind.
Officer Warren Frenssley was a good cop, at least he thought he was and he was continually trying to improve his skills. His friends called him “Friendly,’ but his enemies had another name for him. He tried not to play favorites but in a town this size it was easy to get acquainted with a lot of people. His feelings on his name were pretty flexible. He knew that a lot of people considered him ‘easy’ and maybe he was. However, he tried to let the conditions temper his judgment and so far he had always come out ahead. That was before he responded to the call about a body being found in Columbia Park.
The more he considered the evidence the more puzzled he became. Mosston’s body had been found along the river in an area that was somewhat secluded by willows. There were no tire tracks so that meant they, whoever ‘they’ were, left the car on the road and walked to this area. They must have walked because there was no sign of a struggle, nor was there any evidence that Mosston had been carried or even dragged. Then, too, there were bloodstains where he’d lain. No, he must have been killed on the spot. He had even asked the Sheriff to bring in the dogs and strangely enough even the dogs were baffled, either they couldn’t or wouldn’t pick up a scent. They could track Mosston back to the car but as to the assailant, there was nothing.
How did the assailant arrive and depart? Mosston’s car was undisturbed. It was unlocked but did not appear to have been ransacked. That would have seemed to rule out drugs. But he had felt it would be his preliminary investigation with Mosston’s employer and the people he worked with did not indicate any drug connection. Still….
Gradually the pressure of work and his few other activities eliminated most thoughts of the golden haired girl. When he did think of her now it was in the abstract and not nearly as forceful or painful as it had been that first day or two. He would still like to meet her, maybe even date her, but more than that, well, time would tell. First, he would have to find out who she was, where she lived, or at least where she worked, and then he’d have to finagle a date with her.
It was almost two weeks before he saw her again. He had parked his car in the company parking lot to catch the commuter bus because for the next ten days he would be working out in the area. His bus pulled up at a light on Jadwin Avenue and he first felt the presence of another bus along side the one he was riding in. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual because there were a large number of commuter buses going to the area. No, what was unusual was the fact that when he glanced into the next bus he saw her.
Suddenly, he felt like a fool because he knew his mouth dropped open. He shut his mouth so hard his teeth clicked and then she smiled, a quick, warm smile and then she was gone, her bus had pulled out ahead of his. But she had smiled. Why? Was it because he looked like an idiot, his mouth dropping open and all. He guessed he would have smiled too under those circumstances but secretly he was hoping the smile was not meant for that but for him. Oh, how he suddenly wished the smile was intended for him.
Now, how would he be able to concentrate on his work? My gosh, he thought, I’m thirty-two and acting like thirteen. It’s about time I grew up, he told himself. He knew, though, that he wouldn’t. Not where she was concerned anyway. Now he just had to meet her, but how? He didn’t know her name, where she worked, where she lived, even if she went to church or not. The day had been pure torture and when he got on the commuter bus that night he scanned the passengers, hoping to see her but she wasn’t there. His bus was one of the early buses and he waited at his ‘park and ride’ lot until all of the buses had come in but she wasn’t on any of them. That really wasn’t a good test because there were a number of ‘park and ride’ lots as well as a number of drops for pedestrian riders. She could have gotten off at any of them.
Now thoughts of her were beginning to torture him more. Every time a commuter bus went by he quickly scanned the window seats in vain. She wasn’t there. Several times he thought he’d seen her in a crowd but when he got up to the person it wasn’t her at all, in fact, several times the woman didn’t even resemble her from the front and he always felt foolish after one of these episodes.
Then one day he had to go from one floor to the other from his office in the Federal building. When he got to the crowded elevator he did as he was always doing now, he glanced over the crowd. It was her! In the back of the elevator, in a corner, she stood crowded between two women. They were talking around her, not even including her in the conversation, as often happens in crowded situations like this and then his car stopped at his floor. Without thinking he stepped out and then just before the door shut she had glanced up and given him a quick smile.
Too late, he had missed his chance and now she was gone again. Quickly, he ran to the stairway and dashed up to the next floor. There was no one in sight when he got there and he could hear the elevator retreating back down the shaft. He had missed her again.
Springtime was rapidly giving way to early summer and the days were much warmer. He knew his work was suffering and he hadn’t been near his typewriter in weeks. He had even received an agreeable reply to a query he had sent an editor but he couldn’t concentrate enough to get started on the yarn. That girl was driving him crazy.
He was not a regular churchgoer, not since he’d left home, but one Sunday morning he simply felt he had to do something. If he sat around his apartment he would go crazy. He could have gone for a ride but riding alone over roads that he knew so well just didn’t appeal to him. He decided to go to church. His mother had been a great believer in the church to solve many of her problems. Just going had always seemed to give her a lift and although he had never felt as strongly as she had he decided this one time might be just the time for him.
It wasn’t his regular church but it was close to home and he walked the several blocks from his apartment. As soon as he entered the door he knew something was going to be good. He could feel it. Then as soon as he entered the sanctuary he saw her, or he saw what looked like the back of her head. The pew was nearly full but there was one seat on the aisle, next to her. Please, God, make it her. It was her and with shaking hands and a dry throat he sat down next to her. She glanced up and gave him that quick smile.
He was in a trance, it seemed, and through nearly all of the service he was in a fool’s paradise.
Officer Warren Frenssley rapped on the Captain’s door. It wasn’t always necessary but that was the way he’d been trained and he could think of no reason why he shouldn’t. Hearing a terse, ‘come in,’ he entered his superior’s office and handed him a sheaf of papers.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to call for help on this one, Captain. I’m against a blank wall.”
Captain Hardesty took the papers, laid them on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “I kind of thought you were, Warren, from your reports.” He waved his arm toward the other chair in the room. “Set down,” he ordered, “Relax and we’ll try to go through this thing, step by step. Sometimes two heads….” his voice drifted away as he picked up the file and began thumbing through it.
Warren Frenssly sat silently for a short while, twiddling his thumbs. He pulled out his notebook after a few moments and flipped over a few pages. He looked up to see his captain watching him.
“What’s this about only one set of footprints?” he asked. “You trying to tell me that his attacker flew in there?”
Frenssley grinned. “Seems that way, doesn’t it? Then when you read there were no fingerprints on the gun….”
“Now I know why you’re confused.” Hardesty agreed. “Any wild thoughts?”
“Lots of wild thoughts and the first thing that comes to my mind is why it didn’t take place in Pasco or Richland. Then they could play with it.”
Captain Hardest grinned over the report, “Yeah, or the county sheriff. He needs something like this.”
“Actually, I was considering the fact that someone might have arrived by boat after shooting him, wiped the gun clean, threw it up on the bank and left.” He sighed, “There’s one thing that bothers me a great deal about that,” he said with a groan. “Why was the gun left there?”
“Good thought,” Hardesty agreed, “but who?” Frenssley shrugged. Captain Hardesty riffled through the papers aimlessly. “OK, but where does that leave you?”
“Right where I’ve been all the time… with a dead man, the gun, and too damn few clues.”
“OK, Warren, but let’s put it on the back burner for a while, Maybe you’ve been too close to it.”
“Yes, sir, but…”
Hardesty waved his arm. “I know but don’t worry about it. Hell, they have thousands of unsolved murders every year.
When the service ended Tom stood up and let her out of the pew, following her up the aisle into the foyer. He shook hands with the minister and muttered the usual greeting. He was thinking more of what he was going to say to the girl than what he should say to the minister.
They were on the steps when he suddenly blurted out, “Can I take you to lunch?”
She hardly hesitated before replying, “I think that would be very nice.”
They walked up the street to his apartment and picked up his car. He wondered if anyone saw them, not that it mattered because he certainly wasn’t ashamed to be seen with her. A lot of his friends, both in the apartments and at work had commented a number of times about his singleness. Not only his single state, which was understandable, but his lack of interest, which was not understandable.
Their lunch was light, neither of them eating very much, but it took them a long time. The restaurant was quite busy and he knew the waitress wanted to get the table cleared because she kept coming back, making sure they didn’t want anything else. But they had so much to talk about. They had to get acquainted, in spite of the fact that Tom felt he already knew her from the few times he had seen her and from his day dreams about her.
Her name was Susan but she preferred plain Sue; she was left handed but her parents had made her eat with her right hand; she was a computer operator; no, she wasn’t married, nor engaged, not even going with anyone; yes, she had been engaged once but her fiance had been killed, shot by an intruder.
Finally, unable to ward off the waitress’ insistence that they must want something more, they made ready to leave. He left a fat tip to make up for their occupying the table so long and departed. They drove down over the hill and took the Columbia Park exit. He parked the car and they walked up a bicycle path, crossed over and walked back by the river. They stopped to look at things, to question the use of certain plants or why the park people had done certain things. It wasn’t that they were so concerned, it just filled in the holes in their conversation when they weren’t discovering more about each other. The afternoon was waning fast by the time they had completed their stroll.
Tom couldn’t seem to shake the notion that he had know this girl before but he knew, or thought he knew, that he had never met her before in his life. He also knew that he had fallen madly and completely in love with her. He had a feeling that there must be some feeling in return but how much he didn’t know.
They sat in the car for awhile after returning to it and just talked. Tom told about his childhood, his disastrous marriage, and then his trouble trying to get acquainted with her. By now the sun was getting low in the western sky. They had spent the entire afternoon together and Tom had been utterly entranced and unaware of time’s passing so engrossed had he been in her nearness.
“Let’s walk down by the river,” she suggested, “I love to watch the sun set.”
They got out of the car and Tom, taking her hand, led her down to the shore. They sat on the bank as the sun went lower and lower. The few clouds on the horizon blazed for a while and then as the sun dropped below the horizon they stared in awe as the same clouds turned a delicate pink, edged with orange.
“Sue,” he said, finally, as the last rays of the sun left the horizon in a fiery glow. “Sue, I’ve got a confession to make. You remember I told you about seeing you the first time when you were out of gas on the freeway?”
She nodded, her eyes aglow.
“Would you think it screwy if I told you I fell in love with you that day?”
“Oh, Tom,” she sighed, “You didn’t?”
“But I did,” he insisted.
They were still holding hands and she lifted his and rubbed it against her cheek. “Tom, I don’t think you understand something.”
“Is there another fellow?”
“No, I told you the truth when I said my fiance had been killed. There has been no one since then.”
“Good!” he exclaimed fervently, letting his breath out with a rush, “So what….”
“I told you my last name was Samuels, doesn’t that tell you anything?”
“No, should it?” There was nothing about the name that was too familiar. It was a common enough name, except he had more often heard it used as a first name without the second “s.” He looked at her closely. He still had vague notions running around in his head that he had known her from somewhere. Yet, as he looked at her again in the fading light there was no recognition.
“Tom, you’re a writer, aren’t you?” He nodded. She continued, “Tom, I would like to fall in love with you. If only we could have met under different circumstances….”
“What do you mean, ‘different circumstances’?”
“A long time ago, Tom, you wrote a story which was very successful, it was one of your first published works.”
Tom wracked his brain. There had been so many, some successful and some not. He had forgotten many of them and even when he would go through his carbons he would often have difficulty remembering having written a certain piece. How did she know, he asked himself? He shook his head, “You’ll have to remind me,” he pleaded.
Sue uncoupled her hand from his and stood up, walking to the bank’s edge. For several minutes she stood there staring out over the darkening water. Then she turned.
“There was a girl and a fellow, Joe Bierkes, and they were madly in love. Do you remember now?”
There was a faint glimmer coming to him now. “Oh, yes, vaguely I seem to remember it. It is coming back to me slowly. He was involved in a racket of some kind and one night an opponent came into his apartment, the girl was there and Joe was shot to death.”
“Tom, Joe wasn’t involved in any racket. That was a case of mistaken identity.”
“What are you talking about?” he shouted, “I wrote the story.”
“Tom, the girl’s name was Sue, remember?”
“Oh, my God!” It was becoming quite dark now but he saw her open her purse.
“Tom, I don’t exist. I have never existed.”
“But you can’t be….”
“I am, Tom. I’m Sue. You’ve got to believe me. I am the girl and I pleaded for Joe not to die. I loved him so very much. You wouldn’t let him live.”
“Sue, you can’t be. She was in my imagination.”
“She still is, Tom, but this gun isn’t. I’m so sorry, Tom, I think I could have fallen in love with you but I can’t rest until I even the score….”
Professional and semi-professional writers can handle situations like this, their characters suddenly coming to life but I feel I should warn the amateurs to be extremely careful. Many did not take Rod Sterling seriously when he used to speak of the twilight zone. That was too bad, too.
What Caused the Death of Convertibles?
A number of times I have heard that remark uttered, mostly by younger people, and for a while I was without an answer.
The heyday of the convertibles was probably during the late 30’s and early 40’s, when speeds were usually in the mid-forties. I know, that might be a bit difficult for a lot of people, especially those under 40, to consider highway traffic moving at a sedate 45 to 50 MPH (and that at a time when most limits were pegged at 40 to 45 MPH), but that’s the way it was. In fact, many country roads were set at 35 MPH. Considering what a lot of country roads were like in pre-WW II days, that may have been a little fast. They were crooked, largely gravel, and rather narrow. Yes, and not only that but the average car’s most economical speed was somewhere between 35 and 40.
Now are you beginning to get the picture? I’m afraid that’s right. It was speed that killed the convertible. Oh, they could go that fast and cruising around town you wouldn’t notice it but get out on the highway… well, even at the legal 55 mph you’ll get badly whipped by the wind and at 60 it’s murder.
Last fall Rosella and I were in a shopping mall in Mobile, Alabama when the local auto dealers were putting on a show. At one point while Rosella was doing a bit of shopping I sat on a bench near one of the Chrysler’s new convertibles. Watching the young people *ooh* and *aah* over it was one thing but watching the senior citizens, well, that was a whole new ballgame.
A number of older men, my generation old, would come up to it, gently rub its shiny, smooth sides and you could see their eyes gradually glaze over and a faint smile come over their face. They were remembering, they were recalling an ancient youth when they probably owned one or dreamed of owning one. The woman with them may or may not have been their wife but the woman in their dream was young, beautiful and in the classic pose, laid back in the seat while the wind raced through her hair.
Yeah, those were the days.
Another computer job from
Jack and Rosella Hageman
Still at Yakima until October 4th. Our official address is still
Kennewick, Washing Done 99336