Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

With her nose pointed down, Luscious Lady spun rapidly out of control heading toward the ground at a tremendous rate of speed. Pieces separated from the airplane and chucks of metal fluttered in the air. Most of the plane’s left wing was missing.

An urgent voice came through the interphone: “Look for chutes, everybody.”

“C’mon, Buck, bail out, goddammit! Get out of the goddamn plane,” someone else said.

“Anybody see any chutes?” Captain Haskell asked in a calm voice.

But none were visible. The Lady crashed and exploded with all hands on board. Nine more letters would go out tonight. Each signed by Col. Edmonson himself. He would write to the airmen’s loved ones back home, telling them how sorry he was for their loss and how courageous Johnny had been.

The floor under Earl bucked violently. He bounced and hit his head against one of protruding ribs securing the skin of the plane. His vision blurred, but for only a moment. Maybe he felt the pain, but maybe he didn’t care. He pulled his parachute pack from its storage position and snapped on both sides of it to the harness straps that clung to his body.

Standing on shaky legs, he hung on to his gun mount for support and vomited. The aircraft continued to bounce and jerk violently as it moved through the sky. An artillery shell exploded close by. The plane heaved, rolled on its side, then leveled out again and continued on its heading.

Wild thoughts raced through Earl’s mind. We’re gonna die. We’re all dead men up here. We’re on a suicide mission to Hell.

He looked toward the front of the plane, toward the crawl space leading to the radio compartment. He saw fire! At the same time he heard three short rings of the alarm bell. “Prepare to bail out.”

Earl knew he should wait for the one long bell that signified “Abandon the aircraft.” He knew he should stay with the plane and the crew until the last possible moment. He knew he should grab the fire extinguisher and fight the blaze coming from the radio compartment. But he couldn’t move.

He had to jump now.

Not a second to waste.

The plane is gonna blow up.

To hell with the crew. Earl didn’t know these guys, never partied with them at the base, and hardly spoke to the men at all. He was a replacement. This was only the second combat mission that he flew with this gang. He didn’t owe then a goddamn thing.

He didn’t like the officers, or the rest of the enlisted men, hardly knew their names. And he hated the commander-that rich bastard, Raymond Haskell, with his spit-polished manner and by-the-book attitude.

Everyone around the base kissed his ass. Like they thought that maybe Haskell would part with some of his old man’s dough. Like he’d give it up just for the asking. Sure he would…what a laugh. Earl doubted that the son-of-a-bitch would ever help a crewmate out until payday when he ran a little short. Haskell never gave Earl a damn thing.

Haskell had snubbed him when Earl shook his hand at their first meeting. He knew Haskell had grown up in the snooty Bel Air section of Los Angeles. When Earl mentioned that he was from a jerk-water town back east, Haskell just nodded once. He didn’t say anything but Earl could tell from the look in his eyes that Haskell thought he was scum.

Earl knew Haskell would never abort a mission. He wanted to be a hero. Goddamn him! He wanted more citations and he wanted more bullshit write-ups in Stars and Stripes highlighting the brave exploits of the courageous captain. Earl figured Haskell wanted to go home a frigging conqueror and wave his shiny metals under his fat old man’s nose, regardless of how many of his men had to die.

But the men and officers of the B-17 crew adored Haskell.

No, he was not going to die today, not for these assholes.

Fuck ’em. They’re all dead anyway.

“Toe-to-toe my ass,” he muttered under his breath.

He bailed out through the main entrance hatch.

We left the Beverly Wilshirein the wee hours of the morning. I wanted to take off right after the meeting with Haskell; so did Sol. But Rita was having the time of her life, so I decided to stay out of her way and let her enjoy the evening. I found a cafe in the hotel and drank coffee until it was finally time to leave.

All the way back to Downey, Rita glowed in dreamy-eyed serenity. She leaned her head on the seatback and hummed old Sinatra tunes. It began to get under my skin.

When I dropped her at the apartment she didn’t say goodnight, just more or less drifted to the front door and slipped in without looking back. He had that old black magic working and he had her under his spell.

I didn’t know why women found Sinatra so exciting. He was just a skinny lounge singer from Hoboken, New Jersey… okay, that wasn’t true. Sinatra was an iconic superstar, a man who had the rare ability of making music that lived in people’s hearts.

Was I jealous? Now, how absurd was that?

Jealous of Frank Sinatra?

Hell yes!

I hung around my apartment, sorting through bills and papers most of Saturday, only venturing out to grab a bite to eat. Sunday morning I thumbed through the Times , glancing at the sports page. Then I looked through the paper again, more carefully, on the off chance of finding news that our “law and order” governor had approved the release of a life-term murderer. No mention of it. I tossed the paper aside. Either his people were keeping Roberts’s release under wraps, as they said they would, or something had scotched the deal. Maybe the commutation of an old harmless guy like Roberts just wasn’t a big enough deal to attract the media’s attention. One thing for sure: I’d know by the end of the day if he was going to get his freedom or not. Now all I had to do was sit and wait. I planned to spend the day honing my skills at solitaire.

But I didn’t have to wait long. After I showered and shaved, preparing to head out for a late breakfast at Dolan’s Donuts, the phone rang.

“Mr. O’Brien,” the voice said. “I’m from the District Attorney’s Office. The governor has just signed your client’s order of commutation.”

I took a deep breath and sat on the chair next to the phone.

“Are you there?”

“I’m here,” I said.

“Roberts will be released tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, Pacific Standard Time. I believe you have his bus ticket.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, here’s the drill. Tomorrow go to the east yard at the prison. Be there not later than 9:30 a.m. Park in the lot and walk to the guard booth. Tell them who you are. They’ll be expecting you. Go back and wait in your car. Park in view of the main sallyport. You’ll see him when he comes out. Then take him directly to the bus station. Is that clear?”

“Yes. But what about his clothes? He’ll need something to wear.”

“Taken care of. We’re sending dress-outs and a suitcase with an extra set of clothing to the prison today. Your guy is getting special treatment. Now it’s up to you. Don’t mess around. Get him to the bus station on time. Understand?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“And remember, his commutation is provisional. If he’s spotted anywhere in California tomorrow after the bus pulls out of the station, he’ll be arrested and dragged back to his cell. Is that understood?”

“Hey, I already said I understand.”

I stood there for a few seconds holding the phone. The governor had actually signed the order. A wave of relief came over me. There were too many things that could have gone wrong and at times I wondered if Roberts would actually get his freedom.