Mr. Locator: Tracer of Missing Heirs

By Robert R. Nemecek

Through time, years, and decades, choruses of long-forgotten voices cry out find me, right old wrongs, avenge old scores.
One man has the skill and the knowledge to trace the most important events of their lives from birth to marriage to death, from humble beginnings to a sinister legacyhes Mr. Locator!
I selected six cases I deemed best for my book. I choose The Cicero Truck Driver, The Errant Widow, A Misplaced Aircraft, An Unusually Honest Con Artist, An AWOL City Controller, and Prospecting for Gold in Cripple Creek.
What do each of these have in common? Each is a missing heir, a lost face from a family tree. Some have sinister secrets they do not want told. Secrets which could tear lives apart. Only Mr. Locator can put them back together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 7, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462821778

Robert R. Nemecek

A Brief Biography of Robert R. Nemecek Robert R. Nemecek, a veteran of World War II, started tracing missing persons and doing genealogical research work in 1949. He formed his own company named Robert’s and Associates, which handled many cases both nationally and internationally. His research work proved invaluable in the movie The Lincoln Conspiracy and also in his search for long-lost art objects. In his free time, he is active on another book that shall soon be published. He and his wife, Twila, reside in Paradise California with their two or more cats. Robert may be contacted on Mr. Locator @ SBC global.Net.

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Copyright © 1997 by Robert R. Nemecek.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner Robert R. Nemecek.

Copyright Date 06/20/97

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

DEDICATION

We dedicate this book to our honored friend and associate of many years, Dr. Joe Strykowski. He, and a male companion lost their lives in a weather related accident while sailing in their boat off the coast of Madagascar in January of 2009.

We had been in contact with Joe for sixteen months while they were under way across the Pacific. Joe was in the best of spirits. He informed us that he was happy and wished he could just sail on and on and not ever think of returning from his adventurous life.

Joe Strykowski always filled his cup of life to the brim and certainly lived it before he died.

Sail on Joe!

Robert and Twila Nemecek.

Paradise, California

THANKS, BOB NEMECEK, FOR ALL YOU HAVE DONE FOR AVIATION. I SALUTE YOUR EFFORTS. I LOOK FORWARD TO READING YOUR NEW BOOK ON YOUR TRACING OF MISSING PERSONS.

DONALD D. ENGEN,

VICE ADMIRAL, U.S. NAVY, RET.

FORMER C.O. USS AMERICA

DIRECTOR OF THE NATIONAL

AIR AND SPACE MUSEUM

BOB NEMECEK HAS DONE MOST EVERYTHING IN AVIATION (PILOT, MECHANIC, FLIGHT INSTRUCTOR, SEARCH AND RESCUE WORK IN COLORADO, HE WORKED AS AN UNDERWATER DEMOLITION EXPERT IN THE VIRGIN ISLANDS, STILL THIS PALES COMPARED TO HIS DETECTIVE WORK IN HIS CHOSEN PROFESSION OF HIS SEARCH FOR MISSING HEIRS IN ESTATE MATTERS. HIS BOOK GIVES HIS READERS A PERSONAL AND PENETRATING LOOK ATTHE FOLKS OF AMERICA’S HEARTLAND. WITH POIGNANCY AND HUMOR, THE READER WILL ENJOY A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE WITH BOB ON A FEW OF HIS TRUE AND UNFORGETTABLE CASES.

MY FRIEND, FELLOW SCUBA INSTRUCTOR AND PILOT HAVE WRITTEN A CAPTIVATING AND COMPELLING STORY WITH ALL THE ELEMENTS OF HUMAN FRAILTY AND VIRTUE.

DR. JOE STRYKOWSKI

MARINE NATURALIST AND

BEST SELLING AUTHOR.

OVER THE YEARS I HAD TH E PLEASURE OF WORKING WITH BOB NEMECEK IN HIS SEARCH FOR UNKNOWN HEIRS IN PENDING ESTATES IN NEVADA. HE’S REALLY A MASTER OF HIS CRAFT. BOB WORKS HARD ON EVERY CASE. EVEN AFTER HE’S LOCATED POTENTIAL HEIRS IN AN ESTATE, HE ALWAYS KEEPS LOOKING FOR OTHERS THAT HE MIGHT HAVE MISSED TO BE SURE THE FINAL DISTRIBUTION WILL BE CORRECT!

GARY A. SHEERIN, ATTORNEY AT LAW.

FORMER SENATOR OF THE STATE OF NEVADA.

CARSON CITY, NEVADA.

I HAVE KNOWN BOB NEMECEK FOR MANY YEARS, AS A FRIEND, A NEIGHBOR AND AS AN AVIATION ENTHUSIAST OF MANY FACETS. HIS EXPERIENCES INCLUDES A FLIGHT INSTRUCTOR OF FIXED WING AIRCRAFT BOTH IN POWER AND IN GLIDERS AND ALSO HAS GROUND INSTRUCTORS RATINGS. HE’S STILL ACTIVE IN BALOONING. HE SHARES A WEALTH OF EXPERIENCE WHEN HE VENTURES FORTH IN HIS WAR SURPLUS AT-6, WHICH HE UTILIZES EFFECTIVELY IN HIS TRAVELS IN SEARCH FOR MISSING HEIRS WHICH HE MENTIONS IN HIS BOOK, MR. LOCATOR.

M. D. SHORT, RETIRED CMDR., U.S. NAVY

A.T.R., C.F.I., TEST PILOT (TAIL HOOK NSN) AND

A CANDIDATE IN MERCURY ASTRONAUT PROGRAMS

BOB.

IT’S ALWAYS A PLEASURE TO WORK WITH YOU ON THESE ESTATES. YOU CERTAINLY HAVE BEEN THE BEST HEIR FINDER I HAVE EVER HAD THE PLEASURE OF WORKING WITH. WE HAD SOME STIMULATING CASES TOGETHER AND I WAS ALWAYS IMPRESSED WITH THE DIFFERENT WAYS YOU COULD LOCATE PERSONS. WAYS I WOULD HAVE NEVER THOUGHT OF. YOU MADE MY JOB MUCH EASIER AND A LOT MORE FUN.

ALAN GLOVER

CARSON CITY PUBLIC ADMINISTRATOR

CARSON CITY, NEVADA

Dear Bob Nemecek:

From COL HUBERT ZEMKE, U.S.A.F., RET.

C.O. OF THE 56TH FIGHTER GROUP

U.S. 8TH AIR FORCE

DURING W.W.II, COL. HUB ZEMKE LEAD THE 56TH FIGHTER GROUP TO SCORING MORE AERIAL VICTORIES THAN ANY OTHER GROUP IN THE EUROPE THEATER OF OPERATION. COL. ZEMKE DOWNED NINETEEN GERMAN AIRCRAFT SUBSEQUENT TO HIS P51 AIRCRAFT DISINTEGRATED GATED IN FLIGHT. HE HARDLY ESCAPADE DEATH BY PARACHUTING TO SAFETY. AS THE RANKING ALLIED P.O.W., HE BECAME THE CO. OF ZEMKE’S STALAG.

CHAPTER ONE

THE CICERO TRUCK DRIVER

I find the door to Apartment 6 slightly ajar.

I knock. The force of my knuckles banging on the wood swings the unlocked door open a bit further.

There’s no answer; I knock again. Now the door swings open a little wider.

A shaft of light emanates from somewhere in the rear of the apartment. My eyes adjust slowly to the dimly lit room as I glance about from the safety of the doorway. For some reason, my gut feeling tells me all’s not well tonight. I’m beginning to think it might be best to just get the hell out of this rat box. I don’t often have the feeling of copping out—like I’m running from some unknown danger.

But why should I run?

I’m six feet four inches tall and trip the scales at 220 pounds. I went through four years of high school in Cicero, Illinois—Big Al Capone’s old stomping grounds—and in my work, I’ve bounced around in many of Chicago’s South Side establishments. I’m not used to running from imagined danger. I pride myself on the fact that I can take care of myself, but tonight I’m uneasy! I seem to smell trouble. This dark room reeks of filth and unwashed floors, and it all feels like a bad news item to me.

I knock again and call out, Hello! Anybody home?

Silence—dead silence!

There’s the outline of an overstuffed chair in the center of the room. I grope around the doorjamb, trying to find a light switch. No such luck! I feel the skin on the back of my neck tense as I begin to make out the bulky form of a person sitting in the chair.

Suddenly, a bright light snaps on. It lights up the entire room.

There, in the chair, less than ten feet away from me, sits a fat man, attired only in his underwear and a Chicago Cubs baseball cap.

Damn. He’s facing me. Cradled in his lap is a gun, which looks very much like an Army Colt .45. What really upsets me is that the gun is pointed directly at the pit of my stomach. His pudgy hands hold the gun steady, and worst of all, he looks like he knows how to use it. The hall light directly behind me makes me a perfectly silhouetted target for him to hit at very close range.

How does an experienced investigator, like me, walk into a trap like this? I’ve been set up! It’s obvious that he’s been waiting for me. On top of that, from the look in his glassy eyes, he’s pissed and not about to glad-hand me!

I sense his impatience. If I guess right, he’s not to be trifled with.

His gruff voice barks out, "Just what da hell do ya want, man?"

It’s a good question that needs a fast answer; but for some reason, I have trouble coming up with a good, quick answer. My only thought is that longevity has a strong appeal to me at this moment. I don’t want my life to come to an abrupt halt in this second-rate flophouse at the hands of this weirdo!

It’s clear that he’s been waiting for me for some time and, as the saying goes, he certainly has the drop on me. The army trained me to never point a gun at anyone unless I intended to use it. I hope that this clown has forgotten that part of his army training.

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Earlier that afternoon, I laid a ten-dollar bill on the mahogany bar of the tavern downstairs and told the bartender that I wanted to talk to Ralph Kelly.

The barkeep eyeballed me thoughtfully and then picked up the ten spot. I had the feeling that my request had not fallen on deaf ears. He knew who I was talking about even if he never acknowledged it. After all, the address the Indiana State Department of Motor Vehicles had furnished me for Ralph Kelly was the same address as the one I found on the front door of this tavern. I guessed that Ralph Kelly either was living in a back room of this honky-tonk bar or holed up in one of the upstairs rooms.

When the barkeep put the ten spot under his dirty apron, I knew I had hit pay dirt.

Come back after six tonight, he growled. I’ll see what I can do.

Will he be here then?

Juss yah show up, understand? And be on time.

I nodded to the Great One and walked out. I believed that I was beginning to make some progress in my search for the elusive Ralph Kelly. I’d had plenty of trouble trying to catch slippery old Ralph, but maybe there was some light at the end of the tunnel after all.

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When the small hand on the clock hit six, I opened the front door to the bar and old Mr. Bartender was waiting for me. He simply grunted, Upstairs, second door on the left, number 6.

How do I get upstairs?

Oh, hell. The elevator ain’t workin’ tonight, but if you want, I’ll take you by the hand and show you the way.

You just point the direction and I’ll manage it myself.

Just go out the door you came in, turn left, and take the first door on the left. Dat’s the door that leads to the second floor. Got it?

Got it!

The stairs leading to the second floor reeked of stale urine. It seemed like every drunk in town with a kidney problem must have peed in this stairwell more than once. A solitary sixty-watt lightbulb dangled from an overhead electrical cord like some giant spider waiting for a meal. The lighting was hardly adequate, but I managed to watch where I was stepping. I wasn’t going to linger here any longer than was necessary, so I took two steps at a time. At the top of the stairs, I found the second door on the left, number 6, and knocked.

Anybody home?

No answer.

I knocked again and my knuckles drove the door open even further. I stepped inside, and that’s when I was formally introduced to Mr. Ralph Kelly.

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Whatever brings me to this cheap, run-down flophouse in Gary, Indiana, on this miserable winter night? Guess it has to be the money that’s involved. Or is it the challenging experience of hunting for missing persons? Or is it that this is what it takes to feed my kids and pay for the new shoes that they seem to either outwear or outgrow at a frightful rate?

No! It’s probably the challenge of the hunt. Locating missing persons, that’s my specialty! There’s a great deal of satisfaction in tracing and finding people that others have failed to ferret out. That’s why I’m known in the industry as Mr. Locator! However, the satisfaction that I feel tonight is somewhat muted by the realization that the hunter had just become the hunted!

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Originally, my search for Ralph Kelly began several months earlier when the heir (or heirs) to his mother’s estate could not be located. Mrs. Emma Kelly had lived in Cicero for many years as a widow who had never remarried. To provide for herself and her young son, she took a job as an assembly-line worker in a nearby fluorescent light fixture factory. The hours were long and monotonous, but it was a job and it paid the bills. Emma lived frugally, and her number one priority in life was her only son, Ralph. She was a driven woman, bent on providing him with a worthy education. Emma understood very well the value of a good education because her parents had never approved of all that schoolin’ nonsense. She did not want Ralph to be trapped into the brown-bag routine at Western Electric as her late husband had been for so many years. She felt that the work ethic of the company was a cause of her husband’s death. He had started there when he was seventeen, and he worked there until his youth was exhausted. Then he was told that because of his poor health, he would be given a medical leave of absence. He died of a lung condition soon thereafter.

But she was determined that a life spent at Western Electric was not going to be her son’s legacy. Not her son! He was special! She would see to it that Ralph got out of that walking dead routine even if she broke her back working at the factory. Ralph was not going to be trapped at Western Electric on the eight-to-five shift and have to come home each night to a walk-up apartment and a bottle of beer. The incentive to get ahead at Western Electric meant nothing if you weren’t a gung ho company man. Her husband never had qualified as a man who could butter up the boss, so to speak.

Emma took the job at the fluorescent light fixture company. It was a small company, but everyone knew everyone else on a first-name basis, and she enjoyed the team feeling and her regular work schedule.

Prior to departing for work each morning, Emma would ready Ralph for school and then deliver him to her good friend and neighbor, Mrs. Fellers, who, in turn, saw to it that Ralph got off to school on time and returned to the Fellers’ house at the end of the school day.

Ralph turned out to be an excellent student. Even when he attended Morton High School in Cicero, he had enviable grades. He never went out for sports as his mother forbade him to play rough-and-tumble games. She preferred to have him spend his free time in the library or a study hall at school. She had dreams of Ralph eventually attending the University of Illinois at Champaign and, hopefully, winning an academic scholarship to that university.

However, Emma’s dreams soon came apart at the seams. World War II was brewing, and Hitler was busy stirring the big boiling pot in Germany. The movies that were shown in theatres in Cicero were full of high adventures about young men going off into The Wild Blue Yonder and young marines singing Marine’s Hymm. Ralph was soon indoctrinated into the spirit of it all. The war appealed to him; and when he met the army recruiter, Ralph enlisted, dropped out of high school, and thus ended his academic endeavors.

Then the Japs hit Pearl Harbor, and Ralph spent most of the next four years in the Pacific Theater as a foot soldier. At the war’s end, Ralph returned home with a chest full of ribbons, an honorable discharge, and a first-class drinking problem.

Instead of a joyful return to civilian life, his drinking problem escalated, and it was soon the source of endless bickering with Emma. He wasn’t the same boy that she had raised so carefully. Her pleading with Ralph to stop his constant drinking and to apply for the educational benefits he was entitled to receive under the GI Bill of Rights weren’t heeded. So much for education.

Ralph wasn’t the least bit interested. The furthest thing from his mind was going back to school. Pencils, blackboards, and stuffy teachers were not his cup of tea. Some Early Times on the rocks was more like it. The numerous nearby honky-tonk bars that lined the streets in Cicero beckoned him instead. The old West Suburban Hotel had an endless supply of booze and good-looking women who knew how to please men, especially ex-service men who still had some of their separation money left. (This West Suburban Hotel is the same hotel where Al Capone had almost met his demise some years earlier when it was raked with machine gun fire.) The hotel and bar had a reputation, and it was a reputation that Ralph favored. Sort of like rubbing elbows with history.

Ralph’s drinking sessions ran on into the wee hours of the night, and often he was just too drunk to find his way home. One night, Emma found Ralph sleeping in the basement coal bin—dirty and too drunk to even crawl up the stairs to his bedroom.

Emma was shattered! All of her fond dreams—the dreams that she had held so tightly for her only child—had simply circled the drain and vanished!

That had to be the breaking point in her life. No longer able to carry him upstairs, as she had done when he was a child, she was forced to let him sleep it off, alone and in his own filth. Enough was enough!

The next morning, she assisted him upstairs, made certain that he showered, fed him a warm meal, and put him back in his bed for one last time. Later, when he awoke, he found his bags packed with freshly washed clothes, waiting for him at the front door. Emma told him he had to leave. He picked up his belongings, stepped out the front door, and never returned.

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Fifteen years passed, and in that time, all contact between the mother and son was lost. So when he posed the question to me—"Just what the hell do you want, man?"—what it really boiled down to was the fact that after Emma’s death, her estate had been filed in the Probate Court of Cook County, Illinois. My quick review of Emma’s file revealed that after various fees such as the court costs, public administrator’s fees, lawyer’s and other sundry fees were deducted, there still remained a sizable sum of money for Emma’s unknown heirs to claim. Not all that much to show for a lifetime of charity living, but it was there for her heirs, if they would come forth to claim