Escapade

By Margery A. Neely

The pending presidential election, communist sympathizers, Korean conflict, and Thanksgiving have the attention of the national media. The residents of a small western Missouri town are focused on renovation of the local air base, high school activities, and holiday observances. Then, on base, two singular events occur: a teenager interrupts a military ceremony and an odd fatality occurs. That same day a prominent woman drowns in an apparent accident. Local police, base APs, and citizens, including feisty teenagers, are involved in the turmoil surrounding the events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546234364

Margery A. Neely

Margery A. Neely grew up in Missouri and still attends reunions for high school and university classmates. Her ancestors, relatives and some descendants were or are there. She enjoys reading, board games, laughing with friends and family, and music.

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PART ONE

TARP

CHAPTER ONE

S ir, the lad called across the hangar, Sarge! Mister! He tried to shout louder than the tirade going on a hundred feet away. Animated conversations and activities in the big hangar echoed in a cacophony reminiscent of an orchestra tuning up in a cave.

Mister Sergeant Tyler? You’re wanted on the phone, the boy shouted, voice louder, insistent. The boy’s shape was outlined in the door by the light inside the office. His voice pierced through the sound of tools, voices, motor, and dwindling pierce of a siren.

Take a number! Tell ’em to get in line. The ambulance just got here. Can’t you see we’re busy? Sergeant Phil Tyler was apoplectic. Now, you girlies, here, stop running outside to puke, he ordered in a loud, no-nonsense command. His attention could focus in only so many directions at a time. Right now, he was looking at a corpse in a mess, the focus of four ashen-faced orderlies as well as himself.

Edges of a tarpaulin under a man’s body were leaking watery blood and bits of innards all over the cracked cement floor by his boots. The strong overhead lights were not working in the hangar, making the corpse visible only under the ambulance headlights and an electrician’s lantern, causing difficulty in deciding how to progress.

It’s a Major Loren Mays; says it’s important, the boy sang out as he ran up and gingerly touched the sergeant’s sleeve, looking up at the frown on the sergeant’s face. Following one look at the mess on the floor, the boy stifled a groan and clapped his hand over his mouth before rushing away.

Oh. Mays, heh? Coming, Phil called to the boy’s back. He had been keeping his feet well out of range of the mess. Coming. Now, you guys from the hospital––keep working––try to find something with a name on it like a driver’s license under what’s left of that body. Put that corpse’s wet clothing in a bag. I’ll be right back. Of course, it’ll be some party boy who spent all his moolah on booze, got drunk, lost his billfold staggering around, and wrapped himself in the tarp when the rain started. He barked, Be careful!

Phil Tyler moved around construction equipment and set off toward the office. His squadron had been assigned to guard the reactivated Air Base south of Kansas City. Little used for the past seven years following the end of WWII, the base needed a lot of repair work. His orders had not mentioned any potential difficulties other than traffic violations occurring on the Air Base and, perhaps, some thefts when building materials were left unguarded overnight.

Scents inside the hangar were a combination of new sawdust, old mold, and dead rodents. Closer to the corpse were added odors of blood, feces––and vomit on the orderlies’ clothes. Some splatters of bat guano were in the center of the floor, and an occasional flutter of wings high in the darkness of the domed ceiling could be heard if and when things were quiet. The air was close and damp and cool.

Master Sergeant Phil Tyler strode quickly across the hard floor and picked up the phone in the little office. (The kid was leaning forward with his arms on the desk, his body tense and face, pale.) Tyler modulated the tone of his voice: Yes, sir? We working together again?

You remember me from Nagoya, I take it, so I’ll be brief. I’m at Strategic Air Command at Offutt Field, Nebraska, en route to D. C., but am going to stop by your Granstadt Air Base when the storm front passes. It’ll take me a little over two hours to get to you when the weather eases.

Obviously Major Loren Mays had been promoted to wearing gold leaves on his shoulder since Phil had last seen him as a captain. Phil tersely explained a little of his own current situation. Just came from my home over to the Base for an incident that’ll obviously keep me here a while. Sorry, I can’t predict the weather pattern for you. The runways here aren’t in good shape. Today a plane smaller than a DC-6 did take off and did land back here between heavy showers.

My pilot can handle it; he’s piloting a helicopter. You stay there close to a runway. I have some photos and letters I need you to look at from an incident you reported when you worked in Nagoya.

Glad to be of service, sir.

I was impressed to find out how far and quickly you’ve moved up in the Air Police. How’s life thereabouts?

Sergeant Phil Tyler wondered if perhaps Major Loren Mays could be alluding to the fact that he had moved up in rank, too. He chose not to voice the thought. Nothing going on at home except my daughter’s first birthday was last night. You know Donna Aldrich, my wife. She used to work for Captain Torleone in the Nagoya PIO downstairs from your office, writing news briefs. She was demobilized in early 1950, but I upped for another tour after the Korean War started in July.

Phil put his hand over the receiver to muffle a cough, patted the youngster’s shoulder—which relaxed under his touch—and continued, "Of course, I’m serving during the Cold War on top of that hot one. Excuse me, that hot police action, not war, in Korea. Figured the Air Force needed my expertise with all the security tightening down against the Commies."

True, true.

But my time’s up in a couple of months. The repple-depple sent me here to get this Missouri Air Base back in order––rather, I’m seeing to security, others are doing the labor. The Base Commanding Officer is Colonel Jerome Williamson. Do you know him?

The name’s not familiar. Glad you did re-up. I’ll send Donna a ‘note home’ from the office explaining why you’re being detained past the night shift. The note might remind her of the ole school days, dear old golden rule days, taught to the tune of a hickory stick. Mays’ laugh sounded thin and forced in Phil’s ear.

How is Mrs. Cora? Is she still in Japan with you and the kids?

Yes, she’s teaching … as you might have guessed from the song I just recited. I have to pick up a couple of things for her classes, like colored pencils that we cannot find at the PX. Tell me your address for the note I’ll send to Donna when I get back to Nagoya.

"Be careful how you word it, or she’ll put you in the corner wearing a dunce cap. One time I sent her a postcard and teased her with the last line wish you were her, instead of wish you were here. She’s still pretending she doesn’t believe I was joking and brings it up when she’s after me for some wrongdoing. I know she’ll certainly be more polite with you.

Donna still helps on public information announcements the CO and I release now and then. I gotta go now if there’s nothing further, sir. Sgt. Tyler jiggled his foot. It was really too late at night to carry on such a desultory conversation.

The major hung up his phone after saying a curt, Good night.

As Phil hung up his phone, the boy touched his sleeve again and frowned as though something urgent were pressing on his mind. "I’m Norman Ricker. I was coiling some wire for my dad this afternoon before you-all were called in tonight about the accident. He is repairing the hangar.

Mister sergeant. I think something was wrong out there, the boy said as he looked up, thoughtful eyes having replaced the closed ones he had had when he kept down the bile. Besides the dead guy, I mean.

Yes, Norman. I know what your father’s doing in here, but you have something to add, I gather, Phil said gently.

"Sir, I heard the plane land hours before Mr. Drellwork yelled at dad to come help outside. Furthermore, well, first that Lieutenant guy hollered to Mr. D. for help moving the dead body into our truck, and it was then my dad helped too, and then we rolled back the doors back for Mr. D to bring the truck in with the body. As Mr. D drove in, I saw the Lieutenant open the door of the jeep that’s over by the tower but jump on the hood, because a dog came roaring out of the rubbish, snarling, and limping toward him, barking like crazy." The boy spoke dramatically as he turned his back to the area where the Lieutenant in question was being interviewed by one of Phil’s Air Policemen.

Wasn’t it his dog?

That’s what has me puzzled. Dad said it might mean either the dog or jeep were stolen. The dog wasn’t acting like a pet or a discarded stray. Norman spoke quietly. My dad demanded that the Lieutenant get in here to explain himself. Dad also phoned the gate guard to tell him to call you.

One hospital orderly from town was waving both hands, seeking his attention. Phil patted the boy on the shoulder again and said he’d get back to him for a formal report.

Phil hollered as he returned to where four orderlies were working, his voice filling the hangar quite adequately. If you girlies had been in the war, you wouldn’t be running outside to puke all the time. Haven’t you ever eaten a chilidog where the chili squirts out the end of the bun? That’s what we have here. The plane ran over the guy rolled in the tarp, and he squirted out both ends. You guys simply opened up the bun. Remember that analogy, and you’ll keep your cookies in your tummies.

Three of the orderlies looked sick and gaunt in the meager lighting. Their faces clearly registered resentment at the sergeant. Phil Tyler was in charge, a stern master sergeant, and he continued bellowing orders. I said you gonna move this mess a bit so’s you can find his name printed on his underwear or something in his pocket. I found nothing in the clothes that were stuffed inside the top fold. Of the tarp. You––you said your name is Jigger Smith?––you’re doing it right. The rest of you help him. Careful now.

Jigger Smith again turned his attention to the body after he saluted Phil; pushed the chaw, a large, smelly cud, into his jaw with his tongue; and, spat tobacco juice off to one side. After those signs of preparation for a disgusting task, he endeavored to move the torso as an intact object, to no avail.

Appears to me the shoe is not military issue, but the underwear’s some kinda uniform or else is surplus from a military store. You see? Jigger Smith pointed at the feet and then the body.

You’re correct. Good observation.

As Jigger maneuvered around the dead body on the concrete floor, he continued his report. We’ll go through the clothes under better light when he’s cleaned up a bit.

Why did four of you orderlies come up? Only two were needed, Phil asked, looking with disgust at the pasty-faced fellows whose were supposed to know how to work with injured people.

Why four of us? It was change of shift, and nothing had happened all week, sir. A new ambulance had been bought by the hospital; we wanted to see how fast it would go up highway 71. We made a mile a minute for the 35 miles north before we had to turn off the highway to get here to the hangar. The guards at the gate made us stop and provide identification for some reason. We’re all in hospital uniforms, for Christ’s sake; they could see that with their own eyes. We needed the experience of dealing with an accident but didn’t expect it to be so gruesome. So some guys puke a little. He shrugged and glanced around.

The rain is a real toad choker, so the mess on your guys will wash away outside. No harm done as long as they don’t upchuck on the corpse, Sgt. Tyler replied, with a nod to the orderlies.

He then gave a signal and the men lifted the tarp onto a stretcher and took up the four corner posts.

All together now, up and in, he ordered. The stretcher was lifted onto a gurney, and then was wheeled over to be inserted into the ambulance, and, following those moves, all the men piled in; the two shortest were huddled, reluctantly, around the mess on the stretcher in the back. The ambulance turned around in the hangar.

An Air Policeman and the two local electricians pushed aside the rolling doors to permit the ambulance’s exit into a booming, rolling thunderstorm raging outside. The civilian workmen then went back to work on a partially dismantled office at the far side, having been impatient with the young AP interviewing them while he made notes slowly.

No one had a desire to clean up the gore on the floor; that could wait for somebody else.

A dark-haired Air Policeman, a well-toned five-striper named Nate Felton, was over on the east side of the hangar. He watched the ambulance leave before he signaled that he was through with his interview of the pilot––a Lieutenant who looked ready to collapse––and gestured MSgt. Tyler over. He saluted as Phil approached. The two men were standing by the one kerosene lantern that the electricians had provided to the investigators.

An eight-striper in the Air Force, Master Sergeant Theophilus Tyler, the head of Base security, with his impressive bodily presence that is typical of men who have stood at attention during a long military career, paired bright brown intelligent eyes with a smooth, broad face. He looked neat even in the dead hours of night. His demeanor was the type that commanded respect from subordinates, even when they did not particularly like him. In the dimly lit hangar, Master Sergeant Phil Tyler nodded to the AP to begin his report.

AP Nate Felton introduced the men. This is Lieutenant Haswell, Sergeant Tyler. He taxied in about 1845 in the heavy rain, ran over something on the way to the tie-down by the hangar, and his plane was almost thrown over on its side.

Haswell resembled a praying mantis, being a somewhat greenish and sallow color, as if nauseated by the gore. His skeletal frame had a small head that featured thin hair dripping over his ears, not exactly military style. One long arm, in his short-sleeved uniform shirt, ended in a forefinger hooked in his flight jacket slung over his back. His regulation flying-cap was dangling from the other hand. His narrow shoulders did not fill out the shirt from the neck outwards; the seams drooped down on his biceps. He must have lost a lot of weight. Trousers wet around the ankles flopped over his shoes. It seemed that he could hardly keep his head up. Glancing sideways now and then at one or the other APs from his lowered head, he mostly stared at the ground.

The pilot repeated, with apparent regret, what he had just told the AP. Yesterday afternoon when I flew in I heard some noises in the engine that might be trouble, and I had noticed earlier that the runway wasn’t really finished undergoing repairs as those workmen said they noticed when the plane was taking off. I tried to be careful landing, but I bumped over debris or something that almost flipped my plane over when I taxied close to that building yonder. After I tied down the plane, I called for help about the problem of what I’d run over, hollering to the night guy working here, and he brought over his partner and had their trainee, the kid over there in the office, help open the big doors.

He added, No one else was landing or taking off in this weather on this unfinished Base. The guys drove their truck to see what the obstruction was and found that god-awful bundle by me. We lifted it into the back of their truck, Haswell said, swallowed, and coughed into his fist. That’s all I know.

Your dog mad about something? Phil asked abruptly.

Ah. Yes. Ah. Thunder scares it.

Phil could not see the man’s face very well and let the subject drop. "We’ll be in touch. We have your address in the office, Lieutenant. You’re free to go. Good night––or rather sad morning, for someone’s wife’ll be missing the squashed guy. It’ll be similar to the way mourning became Electra, dear, scheming Electra––but of course the difference was that she had killed her husband. I trust your wife wouldn’t do you in like that, eh?"

The short, wan Lieutenant looked confused, a bit threatened, as well he might from the strange comment made by the senior sergeant. He shuffled backwards toward the outside door, looked up again from eying the floor, and reached for the handle to the small outside door.

In contrast, the patient technical sergeant was tuned into his top sergeant’s penchant for unusual, off the top of his head, irrelevant comments, and simply awaited instructions. Why the morning would need electricity, he wasn’t going to worry about.

Phil Tyler called to the teenage boy, who was watching the activity from the office, to drive the Lieutenant to his car. No need, Sergeant. I have my jeep across the way, countered the Lieutenant. The young officer shuffled out of the side door as the boy watched.

Thunder kept crashing as the heavy storm remained above and all around, throwing water into puddles that were already two inches deep. A shot of lightning paired with a crack of thunder seemed too close for safety. Phil felt his insides shrink like a pinecone’s tassel of needles do after a rainstorm, that very way his tummy did during battle fire during a war.

CHAPTER TWO

T he second Air Policeman, blond crew cut Airman First Class Ken Massey, walked over to his sergeants, Phil and Nate. The two workers are involved against their wishes and have no time to fool around. They told me that Mr. Drellwork had gone outside to retrieve something from the truck, flipped on the headlights, and, across the tarmac, saw a man leaning over a bundle, that Lieutenant who was here. The fellow shaded his eyes for a minute and then hollered at Mr. D, saying that he’d run over this tarpaulin with his plane but that blood was coming from it, and maybe they’d better take it inside the hangar.

Ken explained further, And the three men hauled it here in the electrician’s truck. Mr. Ricker, the other electrician, demanded that the pilot stay here to be interviewed when the man acted like he’d leave everything up to them to explain. Moreover, Mr. D’s not at all happy about the blood in his truck bed, and otherwise they don’t know nothin’, didn’t see nothin’, don’t wanna know nothin’. They’re both resentful about having to get blood all over themselves, wasting hours from their work because the pilot had them haul that mess inside, and then having to be interviewed after waiting around for us and the ambulance guys.

Who are they again?

Electricians. Following the Corps of Engineers’ plans.

That would make them the subcontractors. Veterans were given preference on most of the contracts. They’d know our military protocol surrounding disasters. Why are they working so late?

Promised to have all the ten-year-old, rat-chewed 1940’s wiring replaced before the next carpenter crew comes in tomorrow to start finishing the walls with asbestos insulation and drywall over on that side. They’d finished that other half, where the office lights are on, and were working on the side where they are now. The boy is the son of the bald one.

The APs looked over at the electricians who were working under heavy flashlight beams. Tyler ordered, Draw a sketch of the tarp where the corpse lay here and outside.

The single door on one side opened, and a city policeman walked in wearing rubber boots, a raincoat, and a plastic covering on his hat. Sorry, I took so long. Nelson’s Creek by my front ditch flooded, meaning I had to go way around through the alley and over a bridge down the road. What’s the problem? Why was I called out at this time of night to your Air Base?

The Granstadt chief of police, Manny Burdett, took off his GPD hat and shucked his raincoat off his shoulders like a robin in a birdbath fluffing water from its body. Fortunately, his body was strong and fit, not paunchy like a bird’s.

Oh, you’re just missing a weird accident. An airplane ran over a tarp.

So?

The tarp had a man in it.

Why?

How would I know what the man was doing in a tarp? I know what the plane was doing: taxiing.

Don’t be testy, Tyler. I’m no happier than you are to be called out at night. I already have one death to investigate today. Mrs. Schmidt, lives over in that stone house by the river, fell in and drowned, or was pushed, or slipped, into mud, mud, mud, yesterday. Her poor daughter, Rosie, had to identify her––father’s a train engineer and won’t be home until tonight sometime. Old family. Ancestors settled here at town’s beginning. Poor kid. Mother’d hit her head either before or after falling in the river. Can’t tell if it’s murder or accident yet. Ronnie Tollison saw a guy jump off the train as it slowed Monday and run toward that area on the river.

Phil shook the police chief’s hand and said, My wife will probably hear about it when she works at the library. The Schmidt daughter and another young girl volunteer with her.

The chief hardly acknowledged the statement, continuing with his take on events. The Granstadt Police Department is going to be in charge of this here investigation of yours, too, as you well know, if there’s any malfeasance, misfeasance, or whichever other ‘mish’-reason if it involves a civilian. What have you found out?

"All right, Manny. Here’s our scoop. A Lieutenant said he ran over a bump when he landed––the bump turned out to be the tarpaulin rolled around a human body. He yelled for help from an electrician working here who had gone outside to get some supplies. The men hauled the tarp over here when they saw a foot inside that wasn’t that of an animal. The hospital was called, we were called, and you were called.

One hospital orderly, name of Jigger Smith, said the underwear seemed to be from a uniform, but noticed that the one shoe was not from an Air Force uniform; the other shoe was missing. The body was squashed in the lower middle, and it’ll be hard to tell height or weight or what his liver’s like. I sent the body to the hospital morgue in Harrisonville. Jigger Smith will call us when it’s cleaned up, and let us know if any identification shows up. He knows to inform your office.

How could a plane land when there’s no air traffic tower operating here?

MSgt. Tyler gave Chief Burdett a surprised look and barked, Pilots know how to land and take off.

Well, that’s great to know, the chief said sarcastically. So, who’s the body?

Don’t know.

How about checking the people entering the gate today? All those at the ceremony. Glory be, what a mess that’ll be. Or, could the tarp have been there longer, and the guy died in it?

Yes, can do gate; don’t know as to timing. The blood was too fresh for the body to have died very long ago, but he could have been wrapped up for hours in the rainstorm. The pilot said he ran over the tarp in his plane about 1845 when he landed.

Chief Manny Burdett smacked his cap against his leg. You’re treating the dead man as a civilian intruder?

Currently.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll go down to the Cass County hospital morgue, wherever it is. Now, where are you going to be in a few hours?

In my office here. An emissary of the brass from my last duty station is coming in this morning when the rain stops.

The brass who were here yesterday?

No. Former officer colleague from where we were stationed in Japan.

What’s up?

Don’t know.

Let me have any findings about this incident tonight okay?

MSgt. Tyler grinned. Whatever is pertinent, sir, I certainly will. And, my phone is always available to receive your information in kind. Too, thanks for the escort of motorcycles this morning. Really dressed up the little parade. Seems this is an important year for brass and politicians alike.

I could anticipate that. Unfortunately for understanding the circumstances of this death of yours, I can see that it’s rained too hard to find out anything outside, even if they’d left the mess out there before hauling it in here and calling us. You stay here, get things squared away. I’ll put the body and tarp under lock and key there and let you know if we find any identification.

Will do. Sgt. Nate Felton, here, and Airman Ken Massey––shake hands, Nate, Ken, with Chief Manny Burdett––will be investigating. I’ll be at my office checking reports from the gate and any incidents that came in after I left work yesterday afternoon.

Granstadt Police Department Police Chief Manny Burdett put on his rain gear and departed after shaking hands with the three APs.

As he too started out of the hangar, Phil called back over his shoulder to the younger AP, "Airman Massey, hey, Ken! Stay here until I find someone to come salvage the rest of that mess on the floor. We must be sure we haven’t overlooked anything relevant to the case. You can catch some sleep in the office over there when the electricians leave, and you’ve locked up that side door. Have the electricians douse that kerosene lamp.

Also, a helicopter will be rolling in about 0930 if the weather clears––it’s supposed to leave Offutt about 0630 hours. Give me a call when it’s in sight. A major is going to pop in to see me here at the field. I’ll let Nate go home after a bit.

Outside, the zero-dark 30 October rain seemed warmer, and Nate sped off through the puddles in a jeep with Phil. Inside the Air Police office, after slipping their wet ponchos onto a coat rack and shaking water from their hats, they flicked on the lights, and each grabbed a cup of cold, stale coffee. Their white spats were splattered with mud and, um, other residue.

Phil had shoved his old oak desk against the wall to the left of the window. Most senior APs had the desk facing the door in order to scowl at anyone entering. He preferred glancing out the window occasionally while he contemplated his reports and, lately, thought about his future employment in the civilian world. The window was covered with a dusty venetian blind that could be closed when needed against cold or night or even the hailstones that could break the glass.

Phil sank into his oak chair and ordered Sgt. Nate Felton, "Get me the operator at the switchboard, even if you have to go over to shake him awake. I know plugging in the few phone connections that occur during night duty hours can be boring for a restless young man. However, I need to let the home