Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“I hope you’ll pardon me if I seem overly enthusiastic in my admiration of Raymond Haskell, a man of many accomplishments…”

The master of ceremonies droned on ad nauseum , describing Haskell’s success in the world of business and finance, his generous contributions to the numerous charities that his foundation supported, and his unparalleled funding of the arts and humanities.

He finally got around to highlighting Haskell’s World War II experiences. Words and phrases such as hero , selfless valor , and patriotic courage were bandied about.

The speaker described one mission in particular, Haskell’s last mission, a bomb run over Augsburg, Germany: “…Captain Raymond Haskell exhibited fearless determination as countless fighters attacked his B-17. Still he continued on, flying to his assigned target. But close to the Messerschmitt factory heavy German anti-aircraft gunfire proved to be too much. Shrapnel from the exploding shells ripped through the fuselage. The bomber caught fire and the cockpit was soon engulfed in flames.

“Ray could have bailed out right then, but at grave risk to his own life he thought only of his men. He unbuckled his seat belt and was trying to help his wounded co-pilot when suddenly the B-17 exploded. Fate intervened. The explosion blew Ray clear of the plane, rendering him unconscious. But thank God, he awoke in time and opened his parachute. All of his crewmates perished, however…”

Over Bavaria, March 1944

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

Fuck ’em. They’re all dead anyway.

Earl Lee Sims bailed out through the main entrance hatch an instant before the bomber exploded.

His chute opened and as he fell he noticed a curious sight. One of the crewmembers had been blown out of the airplane.

He watched as the man descended fast in freefall. Was he dead or alive?

Now below him, Sims saw the airman’s chute pop open just seconds before he hit the ground.

Sims drifted slowly down, finally making contact less than a hundred yards from his wounded crewmate. He gathered his parachute canopy, hid it behind some bushes, and cautiously approached the crewmember.

Capt. Raymond Haskell uttered, “Sims… thank God you made it. Help me… I’m hurt.”

Earl Lee Sims drew his army issue .45 caliber automatic from its holster and put the barrel to Haskell's head…

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,”the master of ceremonies said. “Without further ado, I give you our guest of honor, the esteemed Raymond Haskell.”

Everyone stood. Applause filled the room as Haskell stood and walked purposefully to the podium.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sol’s driver come into the hall past the security kid. He slipped up behind Sol and whispered, “Boss, the FBI called. They’re on their way.” He paused.

“So nu? ” Sol said with impatience. “What else?”

“The prints matched.”

Sol and I looked at each other, and I took a deep breath. Sol pumped his fist. “You nailed him, Jimmy.”

I smiled. “We both did, my friend.”

On stage, Haskell readjusted the mike, nodded to the others on the podium, took a sip of water, and began: “Thank you, John. Distinguished guests, members of the press, I’m humbled to be standing here before you tonight…”

I started to boil inside, thinking of all the years that Al Roberts had rotted in a prison hellhole because of that bastard up there on the stage. How could a cowardly son-of-a-bitch like that receive so much adulation?

No, the hell with this! “He can bite my ass,” I told Sol. “We’re not waiting for the FBI. C’mon, let’s take him now!”

“Christ, Jimmy, wait-!” Sol exclaimed.

But I’d already started to move to the front of the hall. Sol ran up beside me as we elbowed our way through the crowd, which was still on its feet.

Reaching the foot of the stage, I shouted up at Haskell, “Hey, Earl! Yeah, I’m talking to you, Earl Lee Sims!”

Haskell’s mouth dropped. He stood in silent shock, but only for a moment. “What the hell is this? Are you out of your mind-?”

“Don’t give us any bullshit,” Sol interrupted. “We know who you really are.” He turned and faced the crowd. “This man-this imposter-is a murdering son-of-a-bitch. He killed two helpless women-and who knows how many others!”

The bigwigs on the dais jumped to their feet and stared down at us, not knowing what to do. Two big goons rushed toward us and tried to grab our arms. I recognized both from the Reagan dinner: Haskell’s bodyguards.

“Get your filthy hands off of me, you prick!” Sol snapped at one of them.

“Hey, you’re the crazy bastards that hassled me in the Beverly Wilshire restroom. Joe, Roy, get these assholes out of here,” Haskell/Sims yelled to his bodyguards.

Sol, fighting off his attacker, shouted again: “Did you kill the real Raymond Haskell too, before you stole his dog tags and assumed the identity of a real war hero?”

A collective gasp arose from the crowd as I slammed the guy trying to contain me in his gut with my elbow. He let out a whoosh and loosened his grip. I spun around and smashed him in the face. He dropped like a stone.

Sol, a hell of a strong man, was making short work of the other asshole.

A bullhorn sounded at the back of the room. “This is the FBI. Everyone hold their places.” The agent in the lead stared at us, and his jaw dropped. “Silverman, what the hell…”

Half a dozen FBI agents now started working their way through the mass of people, all standing in horrified silence.

Haskell/Sims turned his head from side to side like it was on a swivel. Then he stopped and stared, wide-eyed, at the government agents as they moved closer. Sol shouted up at him, “Hey, schmuck , we’ve compared your fingerprints. We know who you are.”

Somehow, the bodyguard being pummeled by Sol managed to pull a gun. Sol twisted his arm up behind his back. The gun went off, the bullet probably lodging in the ceiling. “You fucking coward!” Sol bellowed. “I think I’m going to beat the crap out of you.”

“Okay, okay, goddammit.” He let go of the gun. “I ain’t being paid enough to get killed.”

Hearing the gunshot, the crowd stampeded for the exits. The FBI guys tried frantically to move against the flow of the frightened horde.

Sims now made a mad dash for the stage door. I jumped up and raced after him. After flattening the other bodyguard, Sol followed.

We chased Sims down a dim corridor. I caught up quickly, took a flying leap and tackled him to the ground. Grabbing him by his scrawny neck, I looked into his eyes. No defiance now; the asshole was terrified.

“You might as well kill me right now, O’Brien. I can’t go to prison,” he whined. Tears started to flow, and he buried his head in his hands.

I shook him. “Look at me, you no-good bastard. For what you did to Al Roberts, I ought to bash your head in. But you’ll live a long time, rotting in a dingy cell. You’ll be alone, except for the ghosts of everyone whose lives you’ve destroyed. They’ll be there too, haunting your every waking moment!”

I stood and jerked Sims to his feet as Sol came up beside me. Three FBI agents moved in, arrested Sims, and led him away in cuffs.

“There goes our fearless war hero,” Sol said. “Crying like a goddamn baby.”

I laughed-it sounded more like a crazed cackle. “Do you think I was too rough on him? Maybe he won’t give me back my Corvette.”

Sol put his arm around my shoulder. “O’Brien, boychik, you’re something else.”