Good Night! John Doe

By Andy Femino

Good Night! John Doe. is a journey through the life of a young lady who discovers that life isnt always as it appears. Amy, a young detective is assigned to the death of a man that appears to be a transient. Battling burn out, a relationship gone bad and the loss of her father and a friend, she is at a crossroads in her life. As her life unexpectedly changes direction, she finds that all of her assumptions have been wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503565913

Andy Femino

Andy is a still livestock inspector in Northern California and loves every minute of it. Not amused by the way he smells after a day of working cattle or his poor attempt at humor, his wife and kids still kindly accept him with muffled grumbles and uneasy smiles. “Let Those Ponies Run” is Andy’s second attempt at fleeting stardom and elusive dreams of recognition as an author. Finding success in his first book “Good Night! John Doe,” Andy is grateful to his fans for encouraging another outing in the literary circus.

Book preview

THE OLD MAN AND THE PENINSULA

5:07 a.m.

Amy’s phone vibrated across her dusty nightstand. Begrudgingly, she clasped the phone and squinted her eyes at the screen. This can’t be good, she mumbled as she hesitantly flipped it open. Detective Morton! she said tiredly. Detective Morton, I hate to do this to you, but we have an 11-44, the dispatcher said sympathetically. Okay, that’s lovely, Amy muttered. Let me get myself together and I will call you back for the details. Calmly, the dispatcher replied, No problem, Amy, talk to you in a few.

Amy pulled her curly red hair back, and in one swift move tricked a scrunchie into it. Hesitantly, she dialed dispatch. Nine-one-one dispatch, how can I help you? the dispatcher said dryly. Hi, Jen, what do have for me? Amy asked. Well, said the dispatcher, Amy, Almanor Peninsula security called in at 4:45 a.m. to report an 11-44 at the rec center. Precisely, the location is on the beach near the boat ramp. Officer Lumbee is on scene, the dispatcher said dryly. Good enough, Jen. Let Lumbee know that my ETA is twenty.

Amy listened to the steady lull of her patrol vehicle’s snow tires and began to prepare herself for the call. As a cop, she knew to expect the unexpected and she could only hope that this case would be quick and easy. The pine covered hills of Plumas County were a far cry from the mean streets of Richmond and she would never let herself forget that. For Amy, there was contentment in the winding, pine covered hills of Plumas County. The charm of its fading mining towns and mills is something far from the chaotic hustle of Contra Costa County and her old beat in Richmond.

Plumas County is nestled in the Northern end of California’s scenic Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. The aging mining towns of Chester, Quincy, and Greenville are filled with the summer homes of the rich. Tucked in between are the old-money ranches and inherited hand-me-downs. Chester’s tranquil streets come alive in the summer with tourists looking for a break from the valley heat. The half-dead restaurants and seasonal stores gulp the free-flowing money that seeps from the pockets of Lake Almanor residents next door. The food chain leads to the Peninsula and its gated haven for sun-hungry city dwellers.

Multi-million-dollar homes are seated strategically around the Greens of Bailey Creek Golf Course. These expensive hideaways flow like a gold-laden river down idealistic drives named Clifford, Marina, and Winterwood. In between the multi-level gems are simple clapboard, rebuilt mill relics, and aged hand-hewn log masterpieces from a time long past. Year-rounders tolerate the vacationers with a patient ease. Those who can’t handle the sun and booze are quietly escorted out of the Peninsula’s front gates by security.

Simply named Recreation Area 1, the beach where the deceased waited patiently is tucked off Peninsula Drive. Neatly manicured lawns cradle winding paths and handsome tennis courts, which in turn fondle the skyline of gentle pines. Past the playground, the white sandy beach juts out into the blue water of the lake. An empty lifeguard station looks watch over well carved picnic tables and fire pits.

THE WHEELERS

Long ago, the entire valley was lush grazing land for cattle. Two rivers straddled expansive meadows with ample timber for the burgeoning mills. Once part of the Big Meadow Ranch, the Wheeler family gave in to the Great Western Power Company and sold everything under 4,500 feet, thus joining the old-money crowd.

Retaining a few hundred acres above 4,500 feet, the Wheelers ran their fat steers over what is now the Peninsula. Within a few years and around 1913, the Almanor Dam was built and the old resort towns and mills that sat in the valley were flooded. The Walker family, who owned most everything around the Wheelers, sold their remaining timber land to a Seattle lawyer in late ’49.

The lawyer had the grand idea of developing the land into a resort. Jack Hitch Wheeler agreed to sell the remaining Peninsula land with one stipulation. He recognized the value in the land once it was developed and asked to keep a small plot of land next to the water. On that little piece of land sat his family’s one-room summer range cabin. With a little groveling, the lawyer agreed to let him keep it. Jack shook his hand and took the big-city money to a new ranch in Indian Valley. In 1953, that little piece of land where the fat steers used to graze became the Lake Almanor Country Club.

AN OLD MAN AND A POLYESTER SUIT

As Amy pulled up to the country club gate, the lowly Lake Almanor security guard waved his hand from the window of his emblazoned truck. With a half-frantic whipping motion, the guard’s lit cigarette left a glowing circle in the predawn air. Amy shook her head in disgust as she followed the guard through the narrow, winding streets.

That morning, the smell of coffee and bacon hung in the cool, moist air like a neon sign announcing the opening of a new day. Past the deer munching on fresh grass, she looked side to side at the grandeur of the homes. The warm lights in bustling kitchens momentarily took her home, back to Napa and her mom’s pancakes.

As Amy turned her Expedition into the rec area, she passed the tennis courts and could immediately see Lumbee’s patrol car parked cock-eyed in the lot next to the beach. He sat on the hood of his car, blowing warm air into his hands. Smiling, he gave Amy a quick wave of acknowledgement. Plumas County, D-25, Amy said professionally into her radio and she looked at the scene through her windshield. D-25, Plumas County, go ahead with your traffic, the dispatcher said quickly. Amy keyed the mic again and said, I am 10-97 at the Peninsula. Copy, D-25! the dispatcher replied. Ten-ninety-seven, the Peninsula. Amy slowly stepped out of the Ford and watched as Lumbee motioned with his head to a figure sitting in a wooden chair on the beach.

Without saying anything, Lumbee put his hands in the air as if to motion his own confusion. Amy quizzically squinted her eyes at him and painfully said, What’s up, Tom? Tom quipped, Not much, Amy. I wish I had some answers on this one for you. Dead guy in a chair, looks like a transient in a suit, he said with a deep chuckle and then continued, I am not sure what to think. Security found him on a routine patrol of the area. Lumbee motioned with his head in the direction of the security guard standing next to the cable. Intently, he stared at the dead person in the chair. Amy surprised the guard as she asked, Hey, buddy, are you the one who found him? The guard, still staring the corpse, lit a cigarette and said, My name is Ed. We just don’t see shit like this here. This is just fucking, odd man.

With a dejected look, Ed stomped his cigarette out, hung his head, and put his hands in the pockets of his parka. Amy studied the scene in front of her and took note of the taped-off area. A light dusting of snow covered the ground. Amy quizzically asked, Tom, does it look like a natural? Tom quickly replied, There are no holes in him! It looks like he just sat down and went to sleep. Okay, let’s get this done then, Amy said empathetically. Do me a favor, Tom, and put some boot covers on. We don’t know what this is yet.

As she ducked under the yellow police tape, Amy scanned the snow-covered sand in front of her for anything unusual. Slowly, she walked toward the dead man. His frail body was slumped low in the wooden chair. She could see that he was wearing a sweat-stained straw cowboy hat. A light dusting of snow filled the brim and covered his shoulders. As Amy walked to the front of the old guy, she pursed her lips and then mumbled, Why is this guy wearing a polyester suit? Tom shrugged his shoulders and said, I don’t have a fucking clue. The dead man’s brown polyester suit was tattered and threadbare. Amy slowly studied his three-day gray beard. The peaceful look on his face tugged at her heart, but she knew better than to let her emotions get the best of her.

Her own father questioned her softness the day she told him she was going into the police academy. She knew he was right, but she was also as stubborn as him and would succeed just to prove him wrong. Amy lifted the dead man’s hands. They were soft and cold. His fingernails were clean and manicured. She blurted out to Tom, Something isn’t right about this! Tom rolled his eyes and said, Look, he is probably an old drunk that just passed out and froze to death. Look at him! Unnerved, Amy gave Tom a dirty look, but refrained from calling him an asshole. Do you see a booze bottle anywhere in the friggin’ area? Amy asked sarcastically. Gently, she patted the front pockets of the dead guy’s pants. Sarcastically, Tom piped in, Already checked them. Nothing there! Amy shook her head, kept patting, gently pulling each of the dead guy’s pockets inside out. See, only lint! Happy now? Tom said jovially.

As she patted the right side of the dead man’s jacket, she could feel a bundle. What do we have here? she said quizzically. Amy gently opened the man’s coat and from his suit pocket she pulled out a bundle of letters. They were tied neatly with a worn and dirty yellow ribbon. Amy squinted her eyes and mumbled, Hmmm, as she dropped them into a plastic bag. From the left inside suit pocket she could feel cold metal through her latex gloves. She cupped the object tightly and pulled it slowly from the pocket. As she opened her hand, she looked at the gold pocket watch with confusion. What the hell is this? she exclaimed. It looks like it has a bullet hole in it, Tom said as he craned his head to look closely as it.

As Amy studied the dead man’s white shirt, she quietly said, There isn’t any blood on his shirt or on the watch. She unbuttoned just enough of the dead man’s shirt, and with her flashlight in the other hand, she thumbed through the soft gray hair on his chest for any sign of blood or a bullet hole. I got nothing! she said in frustration. She then turned her attention back to the watch. As she eased it open, she could see partial engraving. Though most of the writing had been lost to the bullet hole, she could see the words, Love, Bit. Slowly, she dropped the watch into another plastic bag and then stood up and crossed her arms. With confusion on her face, she exclaimed, Call the wagon, Tom! Already did, ten-minute ETA, Tom hastily said.

Soon, a plain white van pulled in. Amy watched an older plump gentleman pop out of the driver’s seat with a determined quickness. Tom heartily yelled, What up, Rich? The ends of the driver’s gray pencil mustache turned up in a half smile. His bushy eyebrows peeked over the tops of his gold square-framed glasses like two caterpillars trying to escape his ice blue eyes. Quickly, Rich yanked the back doors of the van open. Inside, Amy could see a stainless steel gurney with a rumpled black body bag strapped to it. With a solid yank, Rich pulled the gurney out of the van, letting its steel legs pop open in a series of loud pops. Standing up straight, Rich put his hands on his hips and in a choppy, half-unintelligible statement said, Looks like… gonna need… your help. Quickly, Rich unstrapped the body bag from the gurney, threw it over his shoulder, and said, Let’s… do this pe… po… Amy slowly took the cowboy hat from the dead man’s head. His soft, wavy silver hair was neatly combed back. As she stood contemplating his demise, she looked at the inside of the worn straw hat. Years of dirt and sweat lined its crevices. Amy couldn’t help but think of her own father and how much she missed him. Once again, she fought her softness. Rich once again placed his hands on his hips and said, Another dead drunk, huh? Amy shook her head in disappointment. As the three of them stood there, looking at the dead man, Rich took charge. Tom, get un one arm and I’ll get un the other. Detective, yous get the body bag un him. Rich and Tom slowly pulled the dead man out of the chair, and with a quick movement lowered him into the bag.

Quickly, Rich had the bag zipped and stood waiting with one side of the bag’s handles gripped tightly in his hands. He looked at Tom, waiting for him to do the same. Tom hastily gripped the handles, and in a fluid motion, they trudged across the sand like ants with the carcass of a dead beetle. In a heaving motion, Rich and Tom placed the body bag on the silver gurney. Rich cinched the bag down with precision, and with a solid push from his heavy frame, the gurney clicked, clattered, and popped its way into the van. With two hands, he slammed the heavy white doors closed and once again placed his hands on his hips and said, He is going to Plumas General. Without haste, he hopped on to the driver’s seat and sped away.

Amy stood staring at the empty chair. She felt a certain finality in the emptiness of the wooden chair. Somebody had lost a father, a son, a husband, and she had no idea who he was. Tom, I am going to take one more look around the area for footprints, Amy said as she scanned the powdery snow on the ground. In the parking lot, the only vehicles were Tom’s and hers. Out loud she muttered, How did he get here? Either he lived close by and walked here or he was dropped off, she thought. Slowly, she picked up the chair. In her other hand she grasped the dead man’s hat and her clipboard with the evidence envelopes neatly attached to it and walked toward her vehicle.

As Tom pulled the crime scene tape, Amy placed the chair in the back of the Expedition. She neatly placed the dead man’s cowboy hat on top of her clipboard in the front seat, then turned to Tom, smiled, and said, Thanks for your help. Tom half-heartedly smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and drove off. Amy picked up the mic in her car and said, Plumas County, D-25! Dispatch squawked back, Go ahead, D-25. With trepidation in her voice, Amy quietly said, Plumas County, I’m 10-8. Scene is Clear.

AMY JANE

November 16, 1975, was a cold, rainy fall day. Along with the storm that blew in that day, a baby also found her way into the world. Amy Jane Morton was born on that cold day to Paul and Mary Morton at 6:16 p.m. As the first and only child of Paul and Mary, she was the light of their eyes. From the moment she took her first look at the world and screamed loud enough for half of the maternity ward at Fremont Hospital to hear, they knew she was always going to be the center of attention.

Paul made a decent living working for a large winery in Napa, California. In seven years, he had worked his way up to vineyard foreman. As a perk of that position, he was offered a small clapboard home on the outskirts of the winery. Mary was happy to make the old two-bedroom farmhouse into a new home for her growing family. During the day, she supplemented the family income by making lunches for the workers. A large number of the migrant workers at the time were in the country illegally and deathly afraid to trudge into town looking for groceries. Most of the men and a few very young boys spoke little or no English and had little means of eating well on the pittance that they made either. That is where Mary came in.

Paul would drive his old farm truck across the winery to his house and pick up the hot burritos, enchiladas, and tamales for delivery to the men. Some of the men bought enough to last them until the next day. At the end of the day, Paul would set Mary’s old coffee can down on the counter with her day’s take. She never counted the money as she knew some of the men had already spent what little money they had and did a little pretending when it came to paying up.

She knew that eventually it would all even out. Mary made sure that compassion was an early lesson for a fast-growing Amy. Paul, on the other hand, taught Amy to be tough. This caused friction in the house as Amy grew. She loved to ride in the old truck with her dad to deliver the food to the workers. Sometimes Amy would stand up on the passenger seat holding the old coffee can out of the open window while Mary watched her from the center of the truck bench seat as the men walked by, dropping money as they went. On sunny days, Mary and Amy would sit on the tailgate. The men would pick up their food from a box and then drop their money in the can. The men were so hungry for the hot food that they would pick up the foil-wrapped food, and as they filed past Amy and her can, they would sullenly look at Mary empty-handed. Mary would nod them on.

When Amy got old enough to question this, Mary would just explain that everybody needed to eat, regardless of whether they had money or not. Paul would catch on to this and voice his disgust. "What are we running here? A goddamn