From Somewhere in a Dream

By H.B. Berlow

For close to thirty years, Baron Witherspoon has lived another man's life. Now, he's been pushed out of his job as a beat cop in rural Ark City, Kansas. He should be looking forward to some kind of a future but instead there is too much from his past forcing him to face many hidden truths.

An unsolved murder demands justice. An unknown threat results in a lengthy journey. His health is in decline. What he doesn't realize is the answers are right there in front of him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jan 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509234325

H.B. Berlow

I studied film-making and creative writing at the University of Miami in the 80's, was involved in the Boston Poetry Scene in the 90's, and am a former president of the Kansas Writer's Association. My work has stretched from crime fiction to poetry, screen writing to experimental fiction. I live in Wichita, KS with my wife, Shelia, and Sir Pounce Alot (the orange manx) and Lady Mittens (the tuxedo manx). http://tikiman1962.wordpress.com

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Part One:

A Mother’s Anguish

How long will he vex my soul,

and break me in pieces with words?

~Job 19:2

Chapter One

I woke up one morning and I was fifty. At least that was the way it appeared to me. I looked back over my shoulder, saw a scrappy Irish kid grow up on Chicago’s North Side who barely missed a possibly brief career as a gangster. This was largely because a big-time gangster suggested I become patriotic instead. I witnessed a scared, young man learn such concepts as Friendship and Life and Death in a war run by mad generals, where survival was often a worse horror than a bloody and painful demise. I squeezed into the body of a dead friend, took over his life, and became a beat cop in a small Kansas town, as much to run away from the possibility of disgrace as to honor him. I watched too many good and decent people die, unable to do much about it other than pick up the pieces at the end and try to figure out the meaning, while I somehow came through with barely a scratch and an unidentifiable mask for a face. And then I woke up one morning and I was fifty. That was it.

It was Thursday, April 1, 1948, my birthday. I knew a surprise celebration awaited me at the station, more than likely orchestrated by Dave Morton. The guys were always up for a festivity to break up the boredom of a cop’s life in a burg of our size. However, this was unlike a similar gathering ten years earlier when my former landlady, the late Miss Banister, brought forth chocolate zucchini bread and lemon bars and other succulent delicacies. This time, the local bakery would have to suffice. I didn’t figure anyone would complain too much.

Dave was settling in quite comfortably in his new position as desk sergeant spending more of his time with paperwork and saving the wear and tear on his feet. Unlike Clifford Smiley, Dave used this as a stepping-stone to something bigger. He had plans. Right now, however, this little shindig was just another excuse to eat cake. It lacked some of the camaraderie of the past on account of fewer old timers still on the force, but I appreciated the gesture, nonetheless.

I tried hard to enjoy myself and allow everyone to celebrate my elder years. Marcus Hayes retired shortly after we captured the escaped German POW back in ’43. He had enough adventure to last him the rest of his life and opted to move to New Orleans for some fun. They had no idea what they were in for in The Crescent City. Evan Cobb and his family moved to Boston when he got a job managing a brokerage house and made a darn sight better salary than walking a beat in Arkansas City, Kansas. I can only imagine his wife was happy about the greater income as well as his safety. I’m sure he also got to spend a lot more time with his family. Clyde B. King, the city manager appointed Walter Gray, the former night police captain, as chief of police in 1945 after Chief Richardson tendered his resignation. I missed Lester Richardson’s stoic demeanor on the outside with an intelligent and thoughtful man underneath. Maybe Chief Gray had the same qualities but you would never know under the surface of a face with a perpetual scowl. I convinced myself that everyone had his or her own particular way and style that worked best.

I was just about the longest serving officer left on the force but it certainly wasn’t my intention to break any records. I didn’t have anything else to do and really nowhere to go. I never went through long sleepless nights concerned about my future. I figured it would get here soon enough.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chief Gray watch the revelry from his office, with nothing approaching a smile alight on his face. I really couldn’t tell if all the merry-making bothered him or if he didn’t think it was very important. By the same token, I often wondered if I was a thorn in his side, a remnant from the past and someone who might possibly not change his ways. In his first year as chief, drunkenness was the leading cause for arrests. There were no big city gangsters, vicious killers, or escaped German POWs to deal with, just whatever demon the unfortunate and desperate found in a bottle. He didn’t come across as the fire and brimstone type per se. To his way of thinking, keeping the peace was a real thing to him. He stood up and with a stern look on his face, beckoned me with a single index finger. I walked in, stood at attention, and then sat in the chair opposite his desk as he waved his arm.

So, Witherspoon, what are your plans? he asked succinctly. I found it hard to believe he would be concerned about how I planned to continue with my birthday celebration later in the evening.

My plans, sir? My face went slack with surprise, like a bloodhound that lost a scent. This was more than he had spoken to me in the past and lacked any clear meaning.

In the department. A fifty-year-old officer walking a beat is somewhat out of the ordinary. Wouldn’t you say?

Well, Cliff Smiley walked a beat for a long time.

Yes, but Officer Smiley has a desk job now. Has had one since—Gray referred to one of the two files on his desk. I assumed the other was mine—Nineteen thirty six. You, however, continue your patrol work, seemingly without any consideration for doing anything else. Caught off guard, I wondered what Chief Gray had in mind. As there hadn’t been many in-depth conversations between us, I doubted he was overly concerned about my well-being. I couldn’t imagine he felt threatened by me in any sense as I did not seek a higher position and wasn’t very comfortable with the politics of the department. He perused my file for a full minute before continuing. I’d like you to have a full physical with Dr. Brenz as soon as you can. I want to ensure the officers we have on the street are one hundred percent fit for duty. Assuming that is your intention. He looked up at me with a face as immobile as a block of Kansas limestone.

There was no sense in arguing or getting defensive. Neither one would have made much of a difference. Walter Gray had a notion about my fitness, mental and physical, and was the kind who would gather all his ducks in a row in order to validate whatever decision he most likely already made. Clifford Smiley was a good ten years older than I was. Despite a constant a polite smile on his face, he always looked tired and worn down. Maybe he was better off at his desk job. However, I wasn’t all that sure if it would work out for me. All I wanted was a fair shake, same as Chiefs Taylor and Richardson would have done. I was beginning to think the cards were on the table already.

My regular checkup was a month away but Doctie was able to get me in sooner, almost as though he expected me. I sat quietly while he did all the same things he had done for over twenty-five years. I was quiet and patient, not anticipating anything out of the ordinary.

Your blood pressure is a little high, he said after removing the cuff from my arm.

Well, I am fifty you know.

Yes, but even for a fifty-year-old man, your blood pressure is a little high. My ear caught that like he read from a script, one written by a local policeman and not a Hollywood scribe. I smiled inside, half wondering what was going on and half knowing. It wasn’t going to take a police report or a medical examiner to identify the death of a career.

He continued with all the typical tests: temperature, reflexes, glands, breathing. The bland wooden tongue depressor nearly made me gag. Other than that, I was fine most of the time, perhaps a little annoyed but overall in good shape. He finally got around to the examination of the scars on my face. He rubbed his thumbs along each one. I could feel the skin move independently, sliding against my skull. There was no pain to speak of, just an awkward feeling as though my flesh was melting slowly like the wax on a candle causing odd shapes to form. When I fell into barbed wire after a shell exploded behind me back in the first war in Europe, the surgical procedures were new and untested. I was fortunate to have a face all these years later, such as it was. Now it was unrecognizable even to me.

What is this all about? I finally asked, calmly and simply, trying to not sound annoyed.

Isn’t it time you thought about a desk job?

Is that your advice or what Chief Gray wants you to suggest? To have me sit behind a desk and file reports all day. Can’t the man just come out and talk to me himself?

I think what he wants is to forget Jake Hickey and those horrible murders and the escaped German soldier and anything else that doesn’t have to do with underage drinking and petty theft. Just remember—all those other events have only got one thing in common.

Me. I didn’t have to say it but doing so made the whole thing clear. I was involved in the worst circumstances that occurred in Ark City for the past fifteen years. That made me either a magnet or a bad luck charm.

What do you do when you are not working, Baron?

Read the newspaper. Listen to the radio. Hang out at Junior’s.

Is that all?

I nodded. I had come to a point in my life where everything from the past was a dream, filled with death and loss, and nothing about the future was clear, other than more of the same. Maybe I thought I could just walk a beat until I collapsed or died in the line of duty. Now, I was guided toward something safe and quiet and utterly boring, itself a living death.

He didn’t offer up a tsk, tsk or commentary. But when you say something out loud, it becomes real enough. For a single instant, I wished that shell had hit me, and Baron Witherspoon, the real son of Kansas, made it home alive.

I went back to my room at the Elmo Hotel, changed into civilian clothes, and continued the celebration of fifty years on this planet at Junior’s. You could no longer find the down-and-outs, old-timers, or good old boys. It was now a place for respectable gentlemen of means. They still welcomed me there for old time’s sake. Nevertheless, it was rather quiet for a Thursday night, less than ten people in the place. I sat at a table with a bottle and shot glass filled with something that passed for corn mash. Like counting sheep, names passed through my head, some with images attached, mostly just echoes calling out to me. I didn’t respond.

This wasn’t what I was expecting. It had come out of the blue and made me a mix of angry and scared. The realization struck me you either make a choice or one is made for you. I had no problem with that. I just wasn’t sure which one to make.

Chapter Two

Sandy Clevenger, the long-time secretary at the Ark City Traveler asked me to drop by the office specifically the Tuesday after my birthday at eleven in the morning. Her manner was casual but the exactness of the request had an ominous tone. She may have been gray haired and bespectacled but I couldn’t put anything past her. As she provided me with a great deal of research assistance over the years, I was only too happy to oblige. It was my day off so I dragged myself away from a crossword puzzle and ambled on over. A deep yawn escaped my mouth as I entered.

You look bored, she said as I walked in. Despite a few cups of coffee, I must have still had the sluggish look of a factory worker on a Saturday morning after payday on Friday afternoon.

I am bored.

She smiled. Mr. Stauffer wants to see you, she said matter-of-factly but just like a secretary for a chairman of the board at a big corporation in a big city. It had an air of importance to it.

Oscar S. Stauffer bought the Traveler back in 1924 along with a mess of other local newspapers, two in Independence and two in Pittsburg. He moved up to Topeka shortly before the war when he bought the Topeka State Journal. He was certainly the most important newspaperman in Kansas since the passing of William Allen White and probably the highest respected in the Great Plains. All of that and he came on back to Arkansas City from his cozy digs in the state capitol just to see me. This was right up there with my first meeting with Eliot Ness. I wasn’t sure whether to be honored or nervous. I settled for both.

Sandy indicated Mr. Stauffer was in the editor’s office and motioned for me to go on back. I pinched my cheeks and rubbed my eyes so I wouldn’t look quite so tired or bored. If I had known he was to be there, I would have put on my best Sunday shirt. Actually, it was my only Sunday shirt. He sat behind a simple desk reading today’s copy and appeared quite relaxed as though he didn’t have a care in the world. The man was clean-shaven with a high forehead and clear eyes that lacked any emotion. Not mean or dour, just waiting to respond to life as it unfolded. If it weren’t for the impeccable suit he wore, I would have taken him to be a farmer or rancher. I reached across the desk to shake his hand. For a man in his late sixties, one who sat behind a desk for most of his days, his grip was strong and impressive.

Officer Witherspoon, thank you for taking the time to visit with me. Between the two of us, he was the one with more irons in the fire. His graciousness caught me off guard even more than his presence.

Well, it is certainly my pleasure, sir.

You ever think about what you might do after you leave the police department? In the past few days, this had become a common theme. I started to think mind readers infested the town. Everyone that is, except for me.

Not really. I mean, on occasion but nothing with any degree of seriousness. I didn’t want it to sound like I didn’t have the slightest notion about my future even though that was the case. At best, I tried not to stutter.

Have you ever considered a career as a newspaper columnist? The question threw me an even bigger curveball than the appearance of Jake Hickey. If I had given it half a thought, I might have seen myself as a bartender at Junior’s.

To be honest, I don’t rightly know the first thing about it, Mr. Stauffer. It was all I could do to not bust out and laugh. I figured he wouldn’t have come all this way to tell jokes. I was torn between flattery and total astonishment. I couldn’t quite figure what this man saw in me to make these type of comments.

He leaned forward as if he was about to let me in on a big secret and encouraged me toward him as well. We were in the middle of a secret conference except no one was around to eavesdrop. However, as his invitee, it was my obligation to listen.

Circulation of the paper has been down since the war. I need something to boost it. My thinking was if you write a weekly column about the life of a police officer, you know, some of the tales from your rather heroic life, it might make for a few extra copies sold. People know you, Baron. But this would be an opportunity for you to show them a different side of yourself.

That part didn’t entice me a whole lot given the circumstances of how I got to Ark City. I still wondered whether Chief Richardson and Dr. Brenz had any inkling as to my true past. Further, while I appreciated his consideration, I knew I was no writer. I filled out police reports for nearly thirty years but they weren’t worthy of a Pulitzer or any other prize for that matter. Most of the folks I knew were already familiar with Jake Hickey, the gruesome killings in ’35, and the escaped German POW. What was the use of slinging old hash if all it would do was to make me sound like a blowhard and sell newspapers? I had the strange sensation my eyebrows squished together and before I knew it, my head shook slightly in the negative.

Sir, I just don’t—

As far as the writing goes, Charlie Gullickson, the English teacher at the high school, can guide you until you get on your feet. And of course, Miss Clevenger will be more than happy to oversee your work. She has a great deal of admiration and respect for you. I’m sure she would want to see you succeed as much as I do. Well, as much as we all do.

I looked at him square in the face in order to find a reason either to accept or decline. It is too hard at times to make a decision, but I knew well enough I had to make this one for myself. I couldn’t help but think Chief Gray and Doctie were in on this somehow, especially given my recent conversations with both. As it turned out neither of them was aware of it. After a while, I figured I could go on day after day with the uncertainty of a life as a policeman or the insecurity of something brand new at my age. The difference, as it turned out, was writing a newspaper column wasn’t going to get me killed. As long as I didn’t get too political, make accusations, or disparage some guy’s girlfriend or wife, I should wind up dying in bed. That was something I couldn’t have considered thirty years ago.

The letter of resignation I handed to Chief Gray was the first thing I wrote on the typewriter at my new desk. Since it wasn’t for publication, I didn’t worry too much about grammatical errors. Nevertheless, it was as professional as I could make it. Gray was gracious and courteous yet lacked a certain empathy and humanity. He read it, understood it, and accepted it. That was it. His efforts were to get me to take a desk job. My departure was a bonus. It was the mission of Chief Walter Gray to form the department in his own image. It didn’t include an old relic like me to show the new guys the ropes and die in an embarrassing fashion or draw attention to the force with national headlines. Dr. Brenz, on the other hand was entirely happy for me, knew I would do well, and wished me the best. He figured this alone would add years to my life. How good they might be was squarely on my shoulders.

Charlie Gullickson extensively reviewed the first few columns as he knew more about writing than I did. This was the most schooling I think I ever had in my life. After I corrected the same mistakes I made over and over again, he finally helped me find my voice even though I didn’t know I had one. He was far more patient with me than he was most of his students. Once it became second nature to me, Sandy encouraged me to alternate between funny stories of the everyday life of a policeman with the serious and darker stories of crime in our fair city. In this way, she explained, newspaper subscribers would read more often to wait for the juicy stuff as she liked to call it. I got the feeling it was she who made the recommendation to Mr. Stauffer. It just might be we all have a guardian angel over our shoulder. Mine apparently was gray haired and bespectacled.

On occasion, I visited the station and caught wind of a local domestic disturbance, a minor theft, or public drunkenness. My contacts were former co-workers, young guys who saw me as an older brother. I would try to educate the readers on local city ordinances. However, the managing editor heavily censored my story about Article 6—Offenses Affecting Morals and Decency, particularly 9-612, Section 82 on Street Walking. It might be something I could put into a book at a later point in my developing career. For the decent people of Arkansas City, it was like taking cod liver oil.

Whenever I was at Daisy Mae’s, someone would likely lift their paper and point out the column of mine they were reading. Bernard Welch’s favorite comment was, Well, you done it again. Twenty-eight years as a policeman made me recognizable around town. In a few short months, I now achieved a notoriety of a different sort. I was amazed to consider the many changes in my life, the various versions of myself I had been. Now, I was on a par with Walter Winchell or Ernie Pyle. A scribe, a guy named Scoop, hat pushed back from my head, pencil behind my ear, banging out a story you couldn’t stop reading, on the verge of breaking The Big One and yelling Stop the presses!, and rubbing elbows with butter and egg men and canaries.

It was as though I had been given a new life, or at the very least a new chance. I slept better, didn’t have quite the tingling in my face, and many of the dreams vanished like a puff of smoke. It was as though the past became a distant memory.

Until the day I came face to face with it.

Chapter Three

She looked a lot older than the sixty-two years she said she was. Bloodshot eyes stood out in a face filled with deep etched lines of experience, pain, grief, and loss as though tears flowed like the Big Muddy. She appeared breathless and weary, the very act of wakefulness and sitting upright too much to bear. Life itself was a malady; the more days that passed, the sicker she grew and the heavier the burden. When I finally got in, I found her waiting patiently with hands crossed on her lap, Sandy told her earlier she didn’t know when I would be back. The woman simply allowed time to pass without consideration guiding her every action. The clock was an enemy she constantly battled, like Satan himself, and the chair was no different from a pew in church.

We went into the same office I sat in with Mr. Stauffer only three and a half months prior. This time, I was the one who sat behind the desk but with no great air of authority. She announced her name as Regina O’Donnell, a declaration of person and character. An air of pride exhaled as if her name was the most valuable thing she owned. She indicated she lived in the unincorporated town of Hackney, which didn’t mean anything to me until I realized it was where Strother Army Airfield had been. She worked as a clerk there after the army left and turned the base over to civilian control. She was a remnant of a past most chose to forget. It was something we both shared.

I have nothing left to speak of anymore, she stated. My husband died when my three boys were young. The two oldest died in the war.

I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.

She leaned forward, just as Mr. Stauffer, as though it were some kind of conspiracy. Tears appeared in her eyes, a glaze like the rains on a summer day to coat everything with a heavenly grace.

My youngest, Jimmy—she stopped from either fear or distress. Her own son’s name caught in her throat as though it were cursed and too painful to recite—I don’t know where I went wrong. He got himself caught up with some bad men. I didn’t mind none he had no hankering for schooling. At least he worked here and there, brought a little money into the house. He was always good to me, Mr. Witherspoon. Never raised a hand or his voice. But after a bit, he was off with fellers who only had a thought for stealing and robbing and goodness knows what else. He couldn’t be bothered with me anymore after that.

What became of him? I asked quietly. It felt like it was my next line in this script. She shook her head.

That’s what I’m hoping you can find out.

I blinked suddenly and sat up straight, perhaps too fast as though a bolt of lightning had struck me. This was as surprising as Chief Gray’s personal assessment of my abilities as a beat cop or Mr. Stauffer’s job offer. These last months brought more surprises than the previous years, far more than I wanted to accept. I should have been used to them by now, but all I really wanted was to just fall into a meaningful life and not allow heavier considerations to bother me.

"Mrs. O’Donnell, I am not a police officer anymore. And I’m certainly no private detective of any sort,