M. Forsythe - While Rome Was Sleeping

A bedroom phone rang in another part of the city and a man answered, “Maxwell.”

“Hello, Detective, this is Leo.”

Monte responded, “Just a minute, give me your number and let me call you back.” Monte got out of bed and went to a phone in the den and dialed the hospital pay phone.

“You’re done? Did you get the stuff?” Monte was impatient to hear.

Leo began explaining the situation while Jake stood by, shifting from one foot to the other and looking around nervously.

“Never mind all the crap” Maxwell broke in, “Were you successful?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Leo replied. “The guy died… but at the hospital.”

“At the hospital!” he exclaimed, “why was that?” Monte asked, his voice betraying his anger

“We were interrupted,” Leo told him, “by the priest and this other guy who come out of this Seamen’s Center place where Kelshaw was hangin’.” He paused.Jake could see sweat breaking out on Leo’s face.

“Get on with it,” Monte commanded.

“Well”… Leo stammered, “we never got to finish him off. The ambulance came, loaded the Kelshaw guy and the priest. We did follow them to Harborview.” He paused and was met by silence at the other end of the line.

“Ask him about the rest of our pay for Kelshaw,” Jake told Leo. Leo gave Jake a disgusted look and waved him to silence.

Leo went on. “We did try to get to Kelshaw in the hospital, but the priest and another guy was with him.”

Monte broke his silence. “Who was the other guy, was it the same guy from the Center?”

“No, not him, a different guy; one we don’t know,” Leo answered, “but a doctor was there too, I think he was a doctor anyway. And anyway Kelshaw died.”

“Good. Where’s the merchandise, you know the stuff the guy carried that you were supposed to get?” Monte wanted to know.

Leo winced as he answered. “N…no, we didn’t see any merchandise or anything and we didn’t get any of his stuff. And the cops were still around,” Leo added, “we had to beat it fast.” Leo could almost hear Monte grinding his teeth; even over the phone… this was not a good sign.

“You were hired to do a job and paid well to do it and now you’re telling me you screwed up on every thing!” Monte was furious. Then he continued threatening, “You are going to find that merchandise and deliver it to me! It was part of the contract and you had damned well better get it— do you understand me??”

“Oh yes sir,” Leo answered respectfully, his legs were shaking by this time. “We will get the merchandise, Detective Maxwell, yes indeed!”

“Make sure that you do.” Monte hung up.

After finishing the call, Leo filled Jake in on the details of Monte’s conversation and his orders to them.

“Whew,” Jake breathed. “What about the rest of our money?”

“We’d better find Kelshaw’s stuff. Uh oh,” Leo muttered, “Stay calm,” he told Jake. “Here comes a nurse.”

“Can I help you fellows with something?” she asked looking at them closely.

“Oh, no,” Leo told her, “We were just leaving.”

“Why” she exclaimed, “You both have blood all over your clothes! Let me call someone to have a look at you.”

“No, don’t do that.” Jake told her quickly. “We really have to go, now.”

“Well, maybe you guys should wait a minute,” she suggested, moving toward one of the police officers.

She was nodding toward Jake and Leo. “They say they aren’t hurt but they’re covered with blood and they didn’t want me to call anyone to treat them.”

The officer eyed them and said to the nurse, “I’ll saunter over and see what’s up. That guy who came in a while ago died. He had been knifed… they didn’t catch the guys who did it.”

Leo and Jake saw the nurse talking with the police officer and saw him start toward them.

“Let’s get out of here. That cop is coming this way!” Jake was frightened.

“Yeah, but we walk out nice and easy and don’t call any more attention to ourselves. Pretend you don’t notice him,” Leo told him.

They went out the door and broke into a run and disappeared into the darkness.

The officer did not give chase and returned to where the nurse was waiting by the desk, “They’re gone. If you see them hanging around again we’ll pick them up, but I doubt they would be dumb enough to follow a victim to the hospital. They are probably just a couple drifters with a nose bleed.”

The nurse shrugged, nodded in agreement and returned to her charting.

Wednesday, September 17, 1980

Andrew arrived at the Times at 7:30 AM, ostensibly to work on his next column and make a few calls later regarding his afternoon radio broadcast. Adrenaline and several cups of very strong coffee were not enough to entirely overcome the effects of yesterdays “Bob” Mitchell interview, the Kelshaw stabbing, the short night and the early morning wake up, but Andrew wanted to be at his desk when the first mail was delivered. He was uncertain if Kelshaw’s letter would be in today’s mail but waiting was out of the question.

It was just an unassuming, generic white envelope. Andrew recognized it as the kind given out at the center and his pulse quickened as his letter opener sliced through the flap. He looked at the hurried but neat handwriting as he read the strange message.

“Andrew Kincaid; your name was given to me by a mutual friend as a person I might have to trust with some very sensitive material. Jack Hubbard, with the United Press, whom I met in Vientiane, suggested that should I find myself in need of help, you were in a position to render such. A packet will be given either to you or to Father Ben Lee at the Seamen’s Center for you. Its contents could affect our national security. Someone is following me and will probably attempt to rob and/or kill me. Should that happen these instructions must be adhered to without question.

The packet needs to reach a man in the U.S. State Department in D.C. whose name is Neil Klein. His secure telephone number is 202 274-9035. Speak only to him and follow his instructions to the letter. Give him this message. “Your Aunt Martha has arrived in Seattle. She may be delayed due to a medical condition. Her luggage is with me and she has asked that it be sent home to you, however, I need the correct shipping address.”

The letter continued, “Don’t open the packet and don’t give it to the police, the FBI or anyone other than Klein. He will be expecting it. I’m counting on you. I hope we both make it. Destroy this letter as soon as you have contacted Klein.”

Andrew hadn’t heard from Jack Hubbard other than a Christmas card in more than seven years as he thought about it; although he had followed his column as often as time would allow.

He remembered the last time he had seen Jack was at SeaTac Airport. Jack had flown in from Guam and was heading back to New York for his next assignment. He had called Andrew to join him for a drink between flights. Andrew had met Jack years earlier at a political rally in Washington, D. C. They hit it off immediately; Jack slightly older was a war correspondent and more than happy to regale Andrew and the younger up and coming reporters with close encounters with death and demolition in some war torn country.

Andrew was more than a little impressed. Working for the United Press International and The New York Times had given Hubbard assignments that showcased his nose for news and allowed his journalistic abilities to present a side of issues sometimes unpopular in political and diplomatic circles. Andrew admired Jack fiercely.

At the time they met, Andrew was considering which direction to take as far as military service. Two more years at the University and he would have his degree in Journalism. However, now he was thinking about the war and all of its ramifications, he knew that he wanted his life’s work to aim at effecting public policy.