A photo of a man, a dead man, has appeared in our local daily paper for a week. As a reporter, I have an ‘in’ with the police, but not a very big one. I can, however, enter without a search. The officers are swamped with calls. The gofers go outside for coffee as what’s in the kitchen stays there. Phones ring off the hook. Everyone is edgy, hoping the next call will I.D. the ice cold body. He’s more than one person’s neighbor, the uncle of at least ten, a young man who was shown a picture of his father years after the father disappeared, is confident he’s found him at last. The morbid game goes on and on with no end in sight. Each lead is taken seriously and gets attention. None work out. Chief Officer Kennedy gets the cases that may have some possibilities. Shapiro and Morton, a motley group I must say, get nothing but sore feet.
The photo shows a man with graying hair, neatly cut, eyebrows are shaggy, eyes closed. There is a small ring in his right ear, too difficult to make out. Particulars of weight, height, most likely not Jewish, (not circumcised) and an approximate idea of where he was found, near a lake is all there is to go on. Interest is fading. The cost so far is astronomical. I stop my visits to the police department and am ready for a new lead story.
I’m having dinner with my sweetie pie wife, Essie, when the phone rings and interrupts my enjoying her special hot, hot chili. The voice is masculine, middle aged, definitely I rule out a teen that twitters too much. ‘Is this Stan Kirk of the MD Forward?’ he asks. ‘Who’s calling?’ The voice sharply tells me I don’t need to know that so I hang up. He calls again and I gets right to the point. ‘Mr. Kirk, I have solid information about the dead man, information The Forward, all the other newspapers and police are looking for. Interested?’ ‘Maybe but why me?’ He ignores the question and tells me the man has a scar on his left shoulder blade, doesn’t he?’ ‘I am being honest, I don’t know. Give me your name and phone number so I can reach you.’ ‘Mr. Kirk, check this out with Officer Kennedy in the morning and I’ll call back sometime during the day. Just don’t be foolish enough to try to trace this call or the next.’ The line goes dead.
I place a call for Kennedy who is out of the precinct. ‘Give me Izzy Shapiro, please.’ He’s away from his desk. Officer Morton is with Officer Kennedy. He, is this you, Billy?’ My identity precedes me. I don’t even know the name of the operator but ask what’s going on.
‘Something is happening. Come in and find out.’ ‘Essie, I have to go to the precinct. Something is going on. I’ll be home soon as I can.’ She blows me a kiss.
Getting into the precinct isn’t easy. I show my badge and edge in. Kennedy is in the middle of everything. There are reporters from Shlabuckeville–or wherever. I’ve never seen them before nor know what paper they are with. The big man raises his revolver and shouts,
‘Shut up now, or somebody is going to be dead besides Mr. Flagler!’ Almost in unison we all yell, ‘Who? Who is Mr. Flagler?’ Silence is awesome.
From his office he brings in young man, no more than 15 years old. He is nervous. His teeth chatter. He twitters. ‘This is Jason Flagler. He is the son of the man who is, you know where. He told me he called to ask about his grandfather but nobody was interested. The I.D. is definite.
The scar on Mr. Flagler senior was made by Jason’s mother when she threw her father, ‘The Old Bastard’ out of the house. The last thing Jason remembers him saying was, Give me a hug, GrandPop. I’ll always remember you.’
‘Everybody, get your story in and get the devil out of here.’ The phones quieted. Jason got his grandfather’s little ring that was still in his ear.’
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