William Brown - The Undertaker

In two minutes, I was on Route 33 headed south toward the bright lights of Columbus. It had four lanes and it carried me across the I-270 Beltway and down into the northwest suburbs. The first big intersection I came to was Longacre Boulevard. It had large strip centers on all four corners, complete with fast food restaurants and big box stores further down the street. The stores were mostly closed at this hour, but I drove into the first strip center on my right. It had a large food store and bowling alley and it backed up to a wooded hill. Perfect, I thought as I continued around back and saw a dark spot between the food store's dumpster and the trees where the sheriff's car couldn't be seen from the highway or the parking lot. The stores would open up at 9:00 or 10:00 in the morning and the workers might arrive a half-hour before. So, if there were no cops or security guards checking the parking lot, and if I was very lucky, Dannmeyer's car might sit here all night without being noticed.

I found a rag under the front seat and ran it over the steering wheel, the dashboard, the door, the maps, and anything else I could remember touching. I scooped up the big wad of bills from the sheriff's coffee fund, jammed it into my pocket, and got out of the car. The trunk was the only place I hadn't looked. I popped the hood. In the dim light, I saw a spare tire and jack, a metal evidence storage box, a first aid kit, and a garment bag. The evidence box had a hasp with a big combination lock. No hope there. In the garment bag were a blue nylon windbreaker and a softball uniform with Yankee pinstripes with “Kiwanis Knights” lettered across the back and #10 on the front of the shirt. I unzipped the garment bag and found a sports coat and slacks on hangers. I stripped off my shirt, opened the first aid kit, and taped two of the big gauze pads over the scalpel cut. That should hold for a while. I put on Dannmeyer's baseball shirt and windbreaker. They were a tad big for me, but at least they were clean. They would do.

Underneath the clothes lay a long, brushed aluminum gun case. Out of curiosity, I opened it. Inside, there was a place for the hunting rifle and the shotgun and several other cut-outs for handguns, two of which were occupied. I looked at the handguns. Should I take one? No. If it came to guns, I was a dead man anyway and I didn't want to give Tinkerton an excuse, so I closed the case and pushed it back in the trunk.

That was when I noticed an old-fashioned ”Jimmy” bar lying in the corner of the trunk. It was a piece of thin spring steel with a handle, designed to slide down a car window until you could pop open a door lock. Most cop cars carried them, because there were often some very legitimate reasons for a cop to open a car door. Maybe someone had lost his keys. Maybe a kid got himself locked inside. Maybe the cops needed to move a car fast or to tow it because of some emergency. Whatever, that's why you usually see a Jimmy in the trunk of a cop car.

That was when it dawned on me that I had the perfect use for one. I needed some wheels that would get me out of Columbus without being immediately ID’d and caught. My Bronco was dead. A cab or bus? Too easy to trace and the odds of my catching either one out here at this hour were zilch. The bus station? The train station? The airport? Too obvious. Tinkerton would have people watching those. Hitchhiking might work, but it would also leave me too visible and too vulnerable. No, what I needed was a car. Stealing one might also work, but that was only a short-term solution and it would inevitably add to my problems. The only car I could think of that no one else was laying claim to at the moment was the Buick my illegitimate twin brother, “Pete” left parked under that oak tree on Sickles. With the Jimmy, I could get inside. If I could get it started, I could get well away from Columbus without constantly looking over my shoulder. Now, all I had to do was figure out how to get there.

Give the man a cigar…

Walking alone down a major commercial boulevard in the middle of the night dressed in Dannmeyer's baseball shirt and windbreaker made me fair game for every suburban cop who happened to be out on patrol, not that I had much choice. I put my feet in gear and set off around the far side of the shopping center, walking south through the parking lot to Longacre Boulevard, the next main street, putting as much distance as I could between the Campbell County sheriff's car and myself. Longacre appeared to be an unbroken string of strip shopping centers, big-box stores, big electronic stores, big sporting goods stores, and big banks, but there was very little traffic at this hour. When an occasional car did come by, I'd stick out my thumb and put on my friendliest smile. After all, I didn't look like a total derelict and this wasn't LA. Folks don't drive down the road with one hand on the wheel and the other on a. 357 Magnum, waiting for some sucker to smile wrong or tell them to have a nice day. Even still, the few drivers that passed by looked away and ignored me.

My prospects were looking grim until a fat guy on a Honda Gold Wing motorcycle swung over to the curb and stopped next to me. His arms were as thick as hams and he wore a leather Viking helmet with two twelve-inch, black-and-white cow horns poking out the sides. His chinstrap was a bicycle chain. He wore a stonewashed, denim vest, and his bushy, gray beard stuck out the sides of his black, Plexiglas visor like a hairy halo. He gave me a quick once-over and pointed over his shoulder to the bike's padded rear fender.

“You want a ride bad enough, hop on,” he said in a hoarse, gravely voice.

It was a scary thought. I couldn't see his eyes through the dark visor, but my choice was Hagar the Horrible and his motorcycle or nothing. I threw my leg over the rear seat and grabbed onto his denim vest, not waiting for a second invitation.

“Mind the glittery stuff back there, now,” he warned.

I looked down and saw the hand-painted face of Elvis Presley staring at me from the back of the blue denim vest, complete with rhinestones and silver glitter. It was The King all right — the Las Vegas stage shot with the white jumpsuit and the dancing fringe. Elvis was humping the microphone, his right arm thrust upward in mid-wiggle, and his black hair falling in his eyes.

“Got it at Graceland as part of the King's Sixtieth Birthday Commemorative Package,” he announced proudly. “She's a real collector's item now, you know.”

“I'll bet,” I said, de-gripping the vest and shifting my hands to the seat frame.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“Sedgwick. It's a residential street east of Sickles, maybe 3000 north.”

Hagar nodded. “We'll find it.”

“You're a real lifesaver, man. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. The name's Morrie, by the way,” he said as he threw a big paw over his right shoulder.

“Mine's Pete,” I answered as we shook hands. “But I thought you bikers always used names like Ax Handle, or Eric the Red, or something like that?”

“Biker? Me? I'm an internal auditor with the State Treasurer's office. My wife hates the bike,” he said as he fondly patted the gas tank of the Honda. “If I don't sneak it out of the garage once or twice a week and blow the carbon out of the pipes — mine and the bike's — I'd go nuts.”

Ah, the sweet taste of freedom, I almost said, but I didn't want to walk. “So, you're just cruising around town?”

“Going everywhere and nowhere,” he grinned, as he roared off down the deserted street and I felt the wind whip my face.

This was great, I thought, but Morrie had asked me a good question. Where was I going? By morning, my face would be plastered across the front page of every newspaper in the state with headlines that screamed out, cop killer, building wrecker, flag burner, child molester, litterer, and anything else Tinkerton could make up. They'd pin my picture to the targets on the police pistol range and take particular delight in punching me full of holes. Boston? LA? From the rear fender of Morrie's Gold Wing, they might as well be on the dark side of the moon. What other choices did I have? Pay a house call on Jimmy Santorini's pals in New Jersey? Catch him on visitor's day over at Marion? Something told me I didn't want to play with them any more than I wanted to keep playing with Ralph Tinkerton or the Campbell County cops.