A Wilderness of Mirrors

By RJ KapHart

James Hoffman is a successful aviator and businessman who has a secret. Several in fact. Events and experiences in his youth have shaped his behavior and choices. Choices his wife and her best friend fully support. But Hoffman’s behavior masks a deeper desire.

Set in a Midwestern University town, A Wilderness of Mirrors explores the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wilderness Ink
• Release date: Jun 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998872360

RJ KapHart

RJ KapHart is a collaborative authoring effort between Dr. Robert W. Kaps and J.W. Hartung. Both have extensive experience in the global air transport industry. The two have collaborated on a variety of commercial air transport ventures and collegiate educational development projects in the airline operations business segment over a thirty-year span. Kaps has authored, with Hartung editing, several widely-adopted air transport textbooks. A Wilderness of Mirrors is their first work of fiction. Both Kaps and Hartung are avid sailors and have competed in several amateur class Caribbean Regatta's over the years and plan to continue those adventures in the years ahead.

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A Wilderness of Mirrors

RJ KapHart

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Wilderness, Inc.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes) prior written permission must be obtained from the publisher at [e-mail].

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First eBook Edition April 2017

ePub ISBN 978-0-9988723-6-0

Cover design by Jake Hartung

Shattered Eye artwork © CJDevil

One

She began her attack in the soft haze of early morning light. She parked her car in front of the hospital annex building and emerged, carrying a vase of pink flowers. She was dressed elegantly, suitable for any major city in the world. But her mode of dress was completely foreign to the sleepy, small, town of Sagan. She was wearing black Louboutin stilettos with five-inch heels. A tight fitting black skirt hemmed just above the knee, and a long sleeved red silk blouse, completed her ensemble. The frame of her glasses matched her blouse. She wore no coat as she strode elegantly toward the annex entrance. Her gait was indicative of a woman confident and comfortable, moving through the world in such towering heels.

The annex, though of newer construction, was similar in style to the older buildings of the facility, and the annex entrance was equally foreboding. She entered to find the security desk checkpoint unmanned. Ignoring the sign indicating ‘all visitors must check in’ she decided to continue deeper into the building. She originally expected, she’d have to leave the flowers at the Security Desk to be delivered by a hospital staff member. Now she might be able to deliver them in person. This would be an even better outcome than she’d hoped. Most of the building’s security measures focused on keeping patients from getting out, not necessarily from someone coming in. This annex was, after all, part of a mental health facility. A timeworn one at that.

As she began climbing the center stairwell, she recalled all the data she’d researched on this complex of buildings. The Malcolm Bliss Mental Health Complex in the city of Sagan began life as the Sagan Hospital for the Insane. She stopped briefly on the third step of the center stairwell and listened for footsteps, checking, if anyone was coming. She already knew which room to deliver the flowers on the second-floor. The silence was palpable as she began again to ascend the center stairwell quietly.

The soft light of the morning created dark shadows between the windows. She entered the second-floor corridor and quickly glanced in both directions. Few overhead lights were on, and most patient room doors were shut creating another set of deep shadows. She quietly weaved her way toward the north end of the building, staying in the shadows as much as practical. She also stayed on tiptoe, so the heels of her stilettos couldn’t make their usual clicking sound. She reached the room and was about to enter.

Verne Fletcher emerged from the room. The pair almost collided. Verne, known as the gentle giant of Ward B, due both to his ample size and his mild disposition, quickly extended his arm and blocked the woman from entering.

How did you get up here Ma’am? You’re not supposed to be here. We aren’t open for visitors yet.

I’m sorry. There was no one at the desk, and I wanted to deliver these flowers to Dr. McNabb. May I?

Sorry, but no. I’ll have to speak to the guard. No one is allowed up here this early in the morning. However, I can give them to him for you. He’s still sleeping, and, also not allowed visitors now.

Oh, OK, sure. I understand. I put a card in with the bouquet. Could you make sure Bob reads it?

Of course, Ma’am. Gladly. May I tell him who they’re from?

Please say they’re from his wife. He just loves roses.

Fletcher looked quizzically at the bouquet in the expensive Mikasa cut crystal vase. He shrugged his shoulders. People had strange tastes.

Please register at the front desk if the guard is there when you leave, which I must insist you do now, Ma’am. I’d escort you down, but we’re short staffed this early in the morning. Can I trust you to exit promptly?

Of course, I’m sorry for breaking the rules. Good day.

And good day to you Mrs. McNabb. I’ll see that he receives the roses directly.

The stunning woman, a couple of inches over six feet tall in the heels, turned and walked rapidly down the center of the corridor, her stilettos clicked softly on the well-worn, faded floor tiles. Fletcher couldn’t help but watch her departure appreciatively. He then entered the room and placed the vase of roses on the nightstand. He was surprised at the persistent, yet delightful, aroma of the bouquet. Unusual, he thought to himself. McNabb was still sleeping. Fletcher let him have another fifteen minutes and then, gently roused him. It’s almost 7:30 AM and he had orders to wake McNabb and help him get ready for the day’s activities.

McNabb began to awaken slowly, but kept his eyes closed, as if that act would delay the return of full awareness. Lately, that awareness had become a battlefield, and he had no desire to fight today. Fight the anxiety, fight the anger, and fight the frustration, no, not today. But something was different this morning. Something penetrated his defenses effortlessly. He struggled to identify this new foe. It was right there, just below the surface of his mind. An aroma.

That’s it. He recognized it. It’s familiar, but the drugs have slowed his mind, just enough, that he can’t quite connect the aroma with a name, a location or an event. He rolled the covers off and slowly sat up on the opposite side of the bed, his back to the nightstand. He began breathing in the aroma deeply through his nose trying to lock in on the smell and its associated memories.

Suddenly, his eyes popped wide open. The awareness he’d tried to avoid instantly filled his brain. Sense memories, associated with this aromatic, flooded his consciousness. He was very much alert. And very much afraid as well. He knew what this aroma was with frightening certainty and who’s it was. Nothing else in this world possessed the combination of pheromones and odors, sickly sweet and pungent at the same time, blended into a sensual perfume. McNabb, now totally engrossed, felt the first tingling of an erection. He turned his head slowly and looked at the amiable giant superintendent with pleading eyes, as he pointed at the Mikasa cut crystal vase.

She just dropped them off for you Doc. Here’s the card.

Fletcher retrieved the little card envelope and gave it to him. He took it with a shaking hand as he continued to stare at the crystal vase. His wife knew he liked roses. Where the roses in the vase from her? Had his wife had a change of heart? She’d filed for divorce. Was she now having second thoughts? Fletcher saw the shaking hands.

Relax Doc. They’re from your wife. She told me you loved roses.

He nodded his head slowly.

I do.

He tore open the envelope, pulled the card out and read the inscription.

‘… Your loving wife, Crystal.’

McNabb let the card fall from his hands. His arms fell limp into his lap. His shoulders slumped. He began to softly repeat the word No over and over slowly, deliberately, obsessively. Fletcher watched and noted McNabb’s unnerving stillness. Apparently, something associated with the roses, or the card, triggered some psychic event in him, leaving him unresponsive to Fletcher’s verbal instructions. He physically moved McNabb to the chair with no resistance. He sat motionless and continued repeating the word ‘no’ softly and slowly.

Fletcher quickly checked McNabb’s file to make sure there was no order entered that banned flowers or cards. No such entry existed. Fletcher then called the attending Psychiatrist, Dr. Fred Nietzsche, requesting his presence as soon as possible. Nietzsche arrived within minutes. Fletcher comprehensively recounted the events of the past 15 minutes.

Evidently, Dr. Nietzsche, the dipshit guard was in the crapper, or, otherwise absent from his post when this tall, elegantly dressed blonde walked into the building, climbed the stairs, walked on down the corridor and almost entered McNabb’s room. I stopped her, though, and McNabb was still asleep at the time.

Did she give you her name?

No Doc, she didn’t. I asked who the flowers were from and she said to tell him, they were from his wife. I guess I just assumed it was his wife, I was speaking with.

Did you touch that card, Verne?

No Sir. I did handle the vase, and I did hand him the little envelope with the card in it. That was all. I’m certain, 100%.

Ok Verne, for now, let’s get him moved to another room. Then I want this room on lockdown. Nobody goes in or out until I report this incident. I must call the Detective, the DA, and McNabb’s lawyer. Oh, and, enter an order in his file, no outside items, period, without my expressed approval. OK?

Sure, Doc, no problem. Can you give me any background that might help me with him?

For starters Verne, McNabb’s wife is divorcing him over this mess. Her name is Victoria, and from what I know, she is in Massachusetts attending to a sick mother. Oh, and by the way, Verne, don’t touch anything, consider this room a crime scene!

I totally understand. Is there anything else we need to do before I seal this area off?

No, I don’t think so. But Verne, lean over and look at the name on that card laying on the bed. Don’t touch it, just read it.

Crystal, Verne responded with a quizzical look on his face. Oh shit, Doc! That’s the name of the woman he allegedly murdered. Isn’t it?"

Bingo Verne. Do you think you can accurately describe the woman that gave you that vase of roses?

Yes Sir, I do.

Nietzsche saw another look of puzzlement cross Fletcher’s face.

What is it, Verne?

The flowers! Who the hell gives a bouquet of Rose of Sharon? They’re a rose that shrivels and dies in two days or less off the bush. They also have virtually no aroma. These have a wonderful aroma. Someone must have scented them with perfume.

Interesting. How do you know so much about flowers Verne?

I worked in my Aunt’s flower shop while in college. We never had any calls for Rose of Sharon bouquets, nor, any other type of arrangements using them. They weren’t practical.

Strange, Nietzsche responded before returning to McNabb’s situation.

OK Verne, let’s get him secured in another room, and then I want you to go write out as full a description of the event, and the woman, as you possibly can while it’s fresh in your memory. And, one other thing, be sure to add your thoughts concerning the Rose of Sharon bouquet and the perfuming of the arrangement. It may be of some help, and could have some bearing on the event. And while you’re doing that Verne, I’m going to start a reassessment of him and try and understand what’s going on.

Sure, Doc, I’ll move him to room four right now and then get that description done.

Nietzsche called McNabb’s lawyer first. Then the District Attorney’s office, and finally Detective Jake Hollis of the Pilot Point Police Department. Nietzsche explained, to all parties, the known details of the event. He concluded that, in a very real sense, someone just attacked McNabb emotionally. Because of this attack, McNabb is now unresponsive to verbal or physical inputs. Nietzsche told all three parties that at present, McNabb would be unable to provide further relevant information until this psychic event is resolved.

Detective Hollis immediately requested sequestration of all security videos. He said he’d drive down from Pilot Point to Sagan, within the hour, to pick up the discs. Nietzsche said he could support that and called the security office to have them make a copy, sequestering the originals for Detective Hollis.

Nietzsche also told McNabb’s lawyer, Dewey Maloney, that something seemed very fishy. Maloney agreed. Nietzsche and Maloney had been friends for some years, but that friendship was and always would be, outside of their professional duties. Both were honest and fair in their assessments, conduct, and behavior. Maloney knows the physical evidence against his client is both overwhelming and airtight. So why would anyone want to risk exposure by playing games with, barring a miracle, a dead man walking?

Did this mean the evidence is too overwhelming and too airtight? According to Maloney, based on his profile, McNabb didn't seem capable of such a heinous crime. But Maloney also knew that when sex, marriage, and money were involved, anything was possible.

Let me ask you something, only as a psychiatric resource, what’s going on with this guy? Let’s start with this Fred; is this guy faking?

No, absolutely not Dewey. McNabb has real problems, even though they may, in fact, be imaginary, they’re real to him. I’m going to have to start over with him. And I have a few ideas where that might lead.

Help me out here, Fred. What direction do I, and my team, need to head? Can you give me a compass reading? I mean, I feel horrid about this guy’s condition. He was a basket of agitation, anger, and anxiety during the pre-trial stuff. You know, you saw it. I mean, Christ, we’re the ones that suggested he do a voluntary commit, as much for building a defense strategy, as for getting him calmed down, so he could be alert and helpful at trial. Now this?

Well, seeing as how he’s in on a voluntary commitment, and, as I will be reporting my findings as a defense expert witness, I feel comfortable feeding you this information. Right now, I mildly sedated him again, and I intend on keeping him on the anxiety inhibitors. Tomorrow, I’ll start trying to identify and unravel the knots in his head. Beyond that, I’d rather not say. I’ll have more for you in a few days, a week at the outside.

OK Fred, thanks. Any ideas who the mystery woman was? Obviously, it wasn’t his wife. I know she and her daughters are staying with her parents in Boston helping her Mom. Alzheimer’s I think she said. I spoke with her a few days ago.

That’s one of the scarier aspects of this event. I haven’t read Verne Fletcher’s description yet, but from what he said to me verbally, it sure sounded like he was describing the murder victim. I’ve already had security pull the video feeds and lock them up for Detective Hollis. You’ll need to file discovery with the DA to get copies. And no, I haven’t seen them yet.

Sure Fred, I get that. And you’ll call me as soon as possible with an update?

Yep, a week at most. I assume you’re going to have your guys start over from scratch as well, with a review of all the case evidence to date?

Maloney chuckled, You’re starting from scratch. I’m starting from scratch. The DA’s office is the only one with nothing to do but wait, and maybe, investigate a sinister floral delivery girl.

Two

A week after the Attack of the Roses, Maloney returned to his office from court and found a note on his desk from his secretary.

‘Dr. Nietzsche has some info about McNabb. Will, meet you tonight, 7:00 PM at Mungo’s.’

Dewey!

Nietzsche waved to his friend, motioning him to the corner table of the pub. A pitcher of Sam Adams and two iced glasses were already on the table. Nietzsche began to fill the glasses, as Maloney sat down.

Hey Fred, how are you doing?

You ain’t gonna like what I have to say about your boy. McNabb has some severe problems. Unfortunately, they’re the kind of mental health problems that are nightmares for you defense guys.

Oh hell. How bad is he, and how bad are my problems going to be at trial?

I think he’s suffering from a case of what might be considered externally triggered self-induced amnesia, caused by trauma to his personal belief structure.

Say what? Give it to me in English please, Fred. Amnesia? Granted, he was fairly wound up and distressed when I first asked you to evaluate him, but amnesia?

Look, the incident was seven days ago. I have him off all sedatives. He’s still on the anxiety inhibitors, and I’ve no reason to add any other medications. He’s responsive to dialogue, and although his responses are often far off the point, at least he’s talking. He’ll also follow physical commands, but will not move of his own volition. He must be told to move.

Is that weird Fred?

Not particularly, No.

So, this poor guy has no memory at all? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?

Again, No. McNabb remembers things and events, but cannot recall other peripheral memories directly related to the event he does remember.

Nietzsche raised his left hand to halt the oncoming onslaught of questions.

Here’s some examples to clarify for you. McNabb remembers me. He remembers Verne Fletcher, the superintendent. He doesn’t remember where he is, or why. When I asked if he’s married, he couldn’t remember. When I asked what his wife’s name was, he instantly replied Victoria. When I asked him anything at all related to the murder victim or the charges against him, he always answers, with a very confused expression on his face, ‘You mean that crystal vase?’ Please understand Dewey, during this entire process of re-evaluation, I have NEVER brought up that vase, full of roses or perfume. Not once.

Christ almighty. You’re right. I’m going to have to be very careful how I approach this. Selective amnesia, with the amnesiac parts being anything and everything to do with the murder charge. Fred, right now I’m kind of stuck. I don’t know how to proceed with this guy. I know I can’t use amnesia as a defense strategy, nor can I use it in a competency proceeding, but by introducing it, I may be able to use it to mitigate penalty or even get his conviction reduced to a lesser charge. So, I need a thorough and rapid Ph.D. level understanding of amnesia. What can you give me?

Well, amnesia can be a total or partial loss of memory, and, is usually caused by trauma. Amnesia, depending on its cause, can be either organic or psychogenic.

So, what does McNabb have? Is it organic? Or, the other one?

Psychogenic.

Okay, psychogenic. What does that mean and is that McNabb’s?

Well, I would say so, yes. The trigger for psychogenic amnesia is psychological. Things like career-related stress, economic hardships, emotional difficulties, and even criminal accusations, stuff like that. In short, any severely traumatic emotional events.

So, if I hear you correctly, Fred, the symptoms McNabb is having could be due solely from the emotional stress of the murder charge itself. Or, from the murder charge and the pre-trial. Or, from the murder charge, the pre-trial and getting a card and flowers soaked in perfume from the dead woman. Is that, about, right?

Essentially, yes. The most enigmatic psychogenic amnesia is identity loss. A person affected by this type of amnesia loses all personal memories while retaining his or her general knowledge.

You’re saying that the amnesiac may not know his or her name, if he’s married, or to whom, or whether he murdered someone, but still be able to speak an acquired second language or some such thing?

That’s exactly right. And another thing, with psychogenic amnesia there is, in most cases, no retrograde memory loss, only anterograde memory loss. And most important to you, psychogenic amnesia is reversible in time.

Do you mean by anterograde that all events following the trauma are forgotten, but everything beforehand is still accessible?

Yes! Precisely. The question now is what was the trauma and when did it occur?

Isn’t that obvious Fred? Isn’t the visit by the mysterious florist bimbo the trigger? That’s when he went off the cliff isn’t it?

Not necessarily.

Not necessarily? I can’t defend ‘Not Necessarily’ Fred. Help me out here. Please!

The roses, the card, and the perfume, Yes, they were the trigger. But what they triggered, and how far back in time the memory loss goes is what I’m trying hard to discern right now. Our guy may be one of the small number of individuals who have a rare amnesiac event, in that there is some degree of retrograde blanking. I’m certain he remembers nothing of being arrested and charged, or, any of the pre-trial stuff. So, he’s blanked back that far.

Damn! It just gets weirder and stranger with this guy, doesn’t it?

Do you and your team have a complete timeline of McNabb’s activities leading up to the murder discovery? I could use any information about his activities prior to arrest as question points to explore his recall. That would be helpful.

We’ve got a lot, yeah. The guys are working to flesh out even more. I’ll send you what we have. Oh, and by the way, did you review the video of the morning of the incident?

Yes, and unfortunately there were too many shadows due to the lighting. It’s too dark to make out any real identity of our mystery woman. In addition to the poor lighting, when you do get a glimpse of her face, she’s wearing a pair of large, tinted glasses with red frames. Her face is indistinct. But I’ve got to tell you; Verne Fletcher was right. She’s a damn good looking woman, even with a partially obscured face.

Within a week, Nietzsche telephoned Maloney with an update.

Well, Dewey here’s the best I can give you for now. His last cogent memory, I have unequivocal documentary support for, is the Hoffman woman going ballistic when Detective Hollis paid her a visit.

Yeah. I heard about that too. She evidently went into a screaming fit when Hollis showed up to question her. She didn’t do anything that would get her hauled in. Just screaming at Hollis from her front porch. I read the report. McNabb told me he was parked down the road and saw the whole thing. He also said that Hollis stopped and spoke with him as he was leaving.

Well, he remembers that event clearly, Dewey. But ask him about anything that happened after that event, until two weeks ago, and all you’ll get is ‘You mean the crystal vase?’ and nothing else. I do believe he’ll regain those memories, but, when… no idea my friend.

OK, I’ve got work to do. McNabb’s wife called me. They aren’t divorced yet. She’s stopped her lawyers from proceeding, and, sent me enough money to bring in two colleagues, of yours, for supporting evaluations. She evidently still thinks he’s a schmuck, but not a murderer. You pick your own experts and make it happen, please. The DA will bring in his experts as well. So, it’s going to be a circus for a bit. That’ll give my guys a chance to dig even deeper. I do believe this guy was set up, but, of course, I have nothing to prove, or even suggest it. I mean, I get the sperm, the hair, and fingerprints. They’re his, no question. But something just doesn’t add up. I’ve got a riddle to solve.

"We both do, Dewey. I need to solve the riddle of his mind. And you, my friend, will have to start from the very beginning and solve the riddle of his life.

Three

Only a short time ago, a sleepy town in the Midwest with a major University was of little or no thought to Dr. Robert Wentworth McNabb. Serendipity played a key role in matching Bob McNabb with a unique possibility to enter the collegiate education field, at that University. The school in question was only one of a few schools across the United States, offering among other vocational programs, aviation, and automotive degree programs that produced pilots, mechanics, and entry level managers in both fields. The opportunity centered on the University’s desire to expand their transportation curriculum to include railway, trucking, and cruise line sub-specialties. But, more importantly to create, and, offer, a truly intermodal transportation degree program at both the Baccalaureate and Masters levels.

The serendipitous part of the opportunity came in the form of James David Orlando and his wife, Dotty. They booked passage on a seven-night cruise of the eastern Caribbean out of Miami, in the beginning of September 2005. McNabb was the Senior VP of Planning for that cruise line, and he and his wife Victoria booked the same cruise. It was a working cruise for McNabb. He kept his planning staff busy surveying passengers for impressions, unmet desires, and unsatisfying experiences. But often, McNabb wanted the immediacy of real-time interactions with passengers. He would join a sailing at its origin, or more often, mid-cruise to gather information directly from the source.

On the third day out from Miami, while docked on the island of Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands, the McNabb’s made the acquaintance of the Orlando’s, while all four were enjoying fruity island drinks at the famous Pusser’s Pub. A typical traveler’s conversation began. ‘Where are you folks from,’ followed by ‘Have you sailed often?’

Dotty Orlando was stunned when Victoria McNabb responded she and Bob had sailed on over forty cruises. That level of cruise travel piqued Orlando’s interest in McNabb’s stories concerning their cruising adventures and the places they had seen. Talking about the specifics of the cruise industry and its relationship to air travel, McNabb noticed Jim Orlando’s sudden and heightened interest in what he had to say.

Several drinks later, the couples braced themselves for the long trek back to the ship, dodging numerous island hawkers and sellers of untold treasures. They agreed to have dinner together aboard ship that evening.

McNabb arranged to seat the four of them at the Captain’s Table. The conversation quickly turned informative between McNabb and Orlando. Orlando identified himself as the current President of the Collegiate Aviation Board, a fact already known to McNabb, having accessed and surveyed the ship’s passenger records. They spent the evening conversing about the transportation industry, its regulation, and its future.

Afterward, at the bar on the observatory deck, Orlando informed McNabb about a major University in the Midwest that wanted to develop an intermodal transportation program addressing every aspect of the transportation sector, air, sea, and land. Orlando said that Cranfield University in Britain seemed to be the only institution on the planet, offering a fully integrated transport curriculum. No school in the USA was pursuing development of any such offering. After a lengthy discussion concerning, jets, trains, and ships, Dotty and Victoria redirected the subject to the dance floor.

During short discussions between dances that evening, and throughout the remainder of the cruise week, Orlando and McNabb shared opinions about the direction of various industry segments of the global transport sector. But most important to Orlando, they conversed regularly about the curriculum of an intermodal degree program. Orlando listened intently to McNabb’s input. On the seventh day, as the vessel maneuvered into its dock in Miami, he informed McNabb his talents were sorely needed in academia, rather desperately in fact!

Bob, I’m going to say something, and I’d appreciate it greatly if you’d not interrupt me.

Of course, Jim.

Academia needs people like you. People with real world experience, knowledge, skills, and abilities. I know! I’m an academician, and as hard as I try, I’m still way behind the curve of current corporate needs in the aviation industry. I think you’d be perfect, and I do mean perfect, for the position I mentioned. You’d get to create the entire curriculum from scratch, keep what they have, if it’s good, otherwise, trash what doesn’t work and develop the first ever curriculum of its kind in the USA. The University is serious about wanting to do this, and I’m certain, with the right guy driving it, they’ll put enough bucks into the project to give it a real chance. I’d like you to give me a full resume’, and I’d like to submit your name and credentials to the University. Would you be willing to let them have a look at your resume’ and maybe have a chat with them?

McNabb found himself genuinely perplexed, a rare event.

Jesus, Jim. Yeah, I guess I’d be comfortable doing that, but I have no wish to jeopardize, in any way, my current deal. So, I’d have to have a rather draconian Confidentiality and Nondisclosure Agreement with the University. If we chat, I say no, and somehow it leaks and causes me problems where I’m employed, they’re going to pay big time. But if they’re willing to chat with me very quietly, I’d at least entertain the idea. I guess what I’m saying Jim, is with certain basic protections; I’ll be glad to give you my resume’.

McNabb and Orlando shook hands, and Orlando said he’d forward the resume’ to Dick Johnson, the Chancellor of the University and Orlando’s college roommate from their days at Auburn.

You send me your resume’, and I’ll send you everything I have on the University and the curriculum development project.

Fine, as long as it’s discreet, Jim.

The parties bid their adieus. Several days later, McNabb received a FedEx from Orlando. After digesting the information, he started researching the University, and its location.

While doing his due diligence on the University, the name Robert Wentworth McNabb began to be bantered about by key members of the University’s Administration, including members of the Board of Regents.

So, who is this guy?

The vision impaired University Chancellor, Dick Johnson, often used his administrative assistant Josh Barnes as a reader.

Well, sir, Jim Orlando, the CAB President, sent us McNabb’s resume’ and a not so brief note to you.

Well, what do the Resume’ and Jim’s note say Mr. Barnes?

The Resume’ indicates McNabb is thirty-nine years of age, holds a BA in Business from St. Louis University, completed in three years, an MBA from Wharton done in one year, and a Ph.D. in Economics from Yale, completed in two years.

Jesus, with those credentials, he can take over my job. Maybe we should offer him the Chair of the Aviation Management Program, promote Ben Clifford to Dean and get rid of the daffy Dumbaugh broad. You know, nothing's been the same in that Aviation Management Program since Dave Newman retired.

Yes, Sir. I’m quite sure you’re correct.

Incidentally Mr. Barnes, you didn’t hear me say any of that.

Oh, of course not, Sir, of course not.

Has our academic ‘Savior in Christ’ ever done anything but go to school?

Oh, yes sir, Dr. McNabb worked for EuropaAir AG for five years immediately after completing his Ph.D. He was Senior Market Analyst for North America. He then joined Stockholm Investments for two years as Director of the Transportation and Travel Sector Analysis Group. He next moved to TransCon Railroad for three years as a Vice President of Revenue Forecasting. He left TransCon five years ago for his present position, Senior Vice President of Strategic Planning for Mardi Gras Cruise Lines. He currently lives in Key Biscayne with his wife Victoria and two young daughters.

Jesus, who is this guy? Lee Iacocca Jr.?

Johnson had tried diligently, over the years, to bring people with real world knowledge, skills, and abilities into the University, but with only moderate success. McNabb sounded like someone worth going after aggressively. Getting a man like McNabb would be a real coup for Johnson and his network, not to mention a boon to the University’s credibility within the industry sector.

There’s more Dr. Johnson. Orlando added the personal note, I mentioned. It says, in part, Dick, I checked with all my contacts, and they checked with theirs, and we managed to assemble a deep profile for your information. McNabb was born in Ladue, Missouri, an affluent suburb of St. Louis. He found the East Coast a fascinating and comfortable environment. He moved into and was accepted by the East Coast Gentry as one of their own. He met Victoria Annette O’Rourke at an NYC Charity Ball during his final year at Yale. They dated for six months and married two weeks after his Doctoral graduation. They have two daughters, Eleanor Annelle age twelve, and Margaret Nichole age eight.

Orlando goes on to say that in a very personal conversation with him, McNabb sees no reason why his already excellent career progress and results in the corporate world couldn’t continue within academia.  He believes, if selected by the College of Business and the Aviation Management Program, he can help define and launch a relevant curriculum that will be widely supported by industry.

And, one more thing Chancellor. Doctor Orlando’s note goes on to say McNabb is athletically fit, charming and financially secure, if not outright wealthy. He seems to have expensive taste in cars and clothes. He is a force to be reckoned with, and his drive and enthusiasm is contagious. He is not risk averse. Rather, he tries to maneuver the odds in his favor. So, Dick, if you hire him, stay away from him on the tennis courts, golf courses and most importantly, the poker tables.

Two weeks later, McNabb flew commercially into the Midwest, via St. Louis to get a feel for the University and the surrounding area.

Upon arrival at Troy Regional Airport, McNabb rented a Hertz car. He drove seventeen miles to the outskirts of the town of Pilot Point, home of the University. A couple of hours driving around the area revealed little to impress or engage the sensibilities of a sophisticated and worldly player. He also noted the environment didn’t seem like a traditional college town. There didn’t appear to be much to do for the twenty-year-old college crowd, except drink. It looked as if the clear majority of the restaurants were fast food establishments slinging hamburgers and pizzas. He could only locate one coffee house. There were at least twenty bars within walking distance of the campus.

He inquired of several people what the best restaurant in town was. Many of the middle-aged people said that Pilot Point didn’t have any good specialty restaurants, save one that was new and on the rise. He got the impression that visiting this establishment at Happy Hour might offer casual encounters with Professors and staff from the University yielding further information. Before visiting this restaurant, the Global Connoisseur, he thought it best to check in at the hotel and phone his wife.

Arriving at the Hamilton Inn, east of Pilot Point, outside the city limits, he phoned his wife.

Hello Victoria, how’s the weather in Miami?

Bob, you never were any good at hiding things from me. Quit with the small talk and give me the details. What’s it like there?

Well, my dear, your guess was better than mine. This place seems culturally challenged, to be sure. I’ll know more in another day or so. It may, in fact, be culturally bankrupt. I don’t think you’d want to live here.

It can’t be that bad, can it? The University is relatively large, isn’t it? Are you jerking me around Robert?

No, and you’re right about the relative sizes. The University has about 26,000 students. The city is about the same size.

OK, Bob, what else?

The area is served by a regional daily newspaper called the County Drum and by the University Newspaper, which is an award-winning collegiate newspaper.

Time out! You’re kidding me, right Robert?

No! What would I be pulling your leg about?

The Newspaper. The County Drum?

What’s wrong with that?

OK, Yale graduate, Ph.D., Rhodes Scholar and all the other things you are. Think about it for a minute. I may be a little off-base, but it seems odd, to me, a University wouldn’t correct the towns use a name like ‘County Drum.’ If you pronounce it using typical Midwestern inflection, it sounds like ‘conundrum.’ If I recall my lesser educational accomplishments, it appears the newspaper is advertising itself as a riddle, or an enigma. Doesn’t that strike you as odd Robert?

Well, yes a little, I guess.

OK, Robert go ahead with the amazing attributes of Pilot Point.

Well, there are a variety of civic action organizations like the Elk’s, the Eagle’s, the Lion’s and the Rotary.

Ok, do they have anything like the Women’s League, the Junior League or NOW? I mean, it’s not like I’m asking about Cotillions and Debuts, but you have to give me something better than a Moose Lodge.

I know, I understand where you are going with this Victoria, but I’m sure it isn’t that bad.

Well, if it is, St. Louis is only a little over an hour and a half drive away, right?

Correct.

McNabb let out a short sigh of despair. He knew convincing her to move to Pilot Point was going to be a very steep uphill climb. Her sibyl was accurate, when earlier, she told him she could see nothing about ‘that town’ that would compel her to move there. After all, Victoria was cosmopolitan, cultured and according to his thinking, would not want to live in a small college town, any small town except maybe New Haven.

You’re right, Robert. I know what’s going through your mind right now and you’re right. Couldn’t you acquiesce, and we’ll get a beautiful property in St. Louis, and you can drive to Pilot Point? You know, just kind of commute?

I suppose so, but let me look a little while longer. There may be some merit to living here, OK? Will you keep an open mind, at least, and let me give you all the details when I get home?

Ok honey-bun. You know I will.

He was very aware that she held the trump card in this negotiation, but losing was not in his nature. He might, yet, find something that would entice her into living in, if not Sodom, then maybe neighboring Gomorra.

OK Victoria, I’ll look some more. I’m getting ready to go to dinner, so I’ll call you later this week. We can then discuss our options when I get back home.

Four

Dinner that evening proved to be well beyond McNabb’s expectations; an absolute delight, both in terms of the restaurant itself and the information he could glean. He knew Victoria would also love this place.

The location proved easily accessible, the ground floor of an old building on the edge of the old town square. The layout of the interior of the restaurant created a peculiar, yet engaging, ambiance. The main features were an L-shaped granite bar, two dozen four person tables with red and white checked tablecloths scattered about the floor space and a great outdoor patio in the back. The patio was complete with California heaters and umbrella tables for dealing with bright sun or inclement weather. The patio bar, another massive granite slab, backed by a very well stocked selection of liquor completed the scene.

There were more than a few international flourishes as well as airplane pictures and models of airliners from long defunct airlines like Pan Am, Eastern and sadly, the greatest name of all, Trans World Airlines. Also, scattered about were what appeared to be gifts bestowed upon, or memento’s collected by, the owners during international travels.

Other mementos were clearly local in nature, and he would soon learn many of these represented the relationship of a jovial fellow named ‘Tiny, the restaurant’s ‘Jack of All Trades,’ had with the University Aviation Management and Flight Programs. Other items caught McNabb’s eye as well as his interest. A Phantom of the Opera Monkey clock on the bar. He would discover other oddities and quirks over time, like lighting a menorah for the Jewish holidays. The eclectic content and quirkiness of the establishment made McNabb feel at home and in his customary way of easily making contacts, he proceeded to learn all he could about the proprietors. He envisioned this being his future workshop away from campus should the University made an acceptable offer.

While seated at the bar, after a superb meal, he met Ariana Williams, the woman behind it all, the proprietor, chef, wine taster, menu planner, dishwasher, decorator, babysitter, bartender, psychiatrist and the creative half-owner. Ariana was a delightful and entertaining personality, and she exchanged life stories with McNabb.

Ariana indicated she was raised in the area and received a Bachelor’s degree from the University, as well as a Certificate of Baking & Pastry at the Culinary Institute of America. She also attended the prestigious École Culinaire and worked in various restaurants in, and around, St. Louis before opening the Global Connoisseur.

Well, what about all these travel mementos? How did they come to be here Ariana?

I have four passions in my life, Bob. Cooking, wine, perfume, as in all things Chanel, and traveling.

She enumerated the countries she’d been to, the places she’d visited and some of the people she’d met. She was excited to meet a kindred spirit in McNabb. Someone who appreciated and shared her joy of travel.

Ariana, what’s your favorite city?

I’m an Anglophile, so I love London, but now with the restaurant, it’s going to be difficult to get across the pond as often as I’d like.

Spoken like a true traveler. I haven’t heard anyone refer to the North Atlantic crossing as ‘the Pond’ in ages. That’s an old expression, an old airline expression.

They spent another hour and several more martini’s discussing the town of Pilot Point and its peculiarities. He explained his concern that Victoria would not want to live here.

Ariana understood his dilemma and assured him there was plenty to do in Pilot Point, especially if she was an activist.

A large, imposing black man entered the restaurant and ambled to a corner at the other end of the long indoor granite bar, to what McNabb would soon discover was his usual seat. This man was easily six feet three inches tall and McNabb guessed around 250 pounds, very little of which was fat. Ariana informed McNabb that this gentleman was the other half of the Global Connoisseur, Tiny.

His stature was impressive and with a wink and a nod, he invited McNabb to his end of the bar. McNabb accepted, and the man extended a huge hand in greeting. Tiny’s hand swallowed McNabb’s.

I’m Tiny.

Robert McNabb pleased to make your acquaintance.

I overheard that last bit of conversation with Ariana, and I thought maybe I could offer you a little more info on Pilot Point.

Sure. I’ll listen to any ideas and input you want to offer. And let me compliment the two of you on a great establishment. What do you do here?

That depends on who you ask. If you ask me, I run the place. I’m the public relations person! Now if you ask Ariana she’ll give you my complete resume.

And what would that resume say?

She would tell you I’m the janitor, dishwasher, food taster, chef's pain in the ass, the life of the party, and partner.

And?

McNabb prodded, then remained silent, waiting for the answer.

Well, she’d probably tell you I was born sometime in the last century, or maybe the one before, in the hills of Harlan County, Eastern Kentucky, bootleg capital of the world. And, that my granddad had me bootlegging and hustling in the pool halls by the age of five.

And Tiny? What would his answer be?

I’d tell you I’m from Memphis, Tennessee, but I consider myself very much a ‘citizen of the world.’ I came to the University to get an education and play football, and in that order too. I played the field, graduated with some honors and never left. I’ve been roaming the town square and have been a fixture, or should I say, an icon of Pilot Point ever since. I’m a Scotch and Tequila aficionado. I’m addicted to NFL football, ethnic food and hot sauces of all degrees of heat. I put hot sauce on almost everything. And I’m constantly being told by my chef to ‘stay the hell out of her kitchen.’ That Dr. McNabb is me in a nutshell.

Fantastic condensed resume’ Tiny! What can you tell me about Pilot Point itself?

I overheard a small part of your conversation with Ariana, and I can’t say I can add much more, except maybe a little about the Aviation Program.

That would be most helpful, but how do you know about the Aviation Program?

I’m one of their graduates. That’s how. Surprised?

Tiny locked his eyes on McNabb’s with his eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer. McNabb instantly knew he needed to play it straight.

Frankly, yes.

Good answer Doc. Political Correctness is fine, but not when it interferes with the truth. Don’t see too many black folks driving airplanes today, do you? Just imagine how rare it was years ago when I came through.

Fair point Tiny. Was it hard?

At first, yeah. But all the bullshit ended when I started flying circles around the white folk. Sacking opposing quarterbacks on Saturday afternoons helped too. And because I stayed in Pilot Point, I stayed in touch with many of the folks in the program. I often encounter LeRoy Clipper and Don Votive, the Maintenance and Flight Departmental Chairs.

That’s interesting, and I do want your feedback and input regarding the Aviation Program. But right now, I have a bigger problem, trying to convince my wife to move to the area instead of moving to St. Louis, leaving me ultimately to commute. I’d rather hear a little more about the town and its relationship to the school.

That’s easy, but the history lesson probably won’t help solve your problem. It may make your dilemma harder, but here goes.

The rest of the evening centered on his version of Pilot Point, based on his years of being there. Tiny only stopped talking to take a sip of scotch, or, to order another drink. McNabb knew his best play was to remain still, listen well and just let the big man roll. Tiny ended his history lesson twenty-seven minutes later.

That’s tremendous Tiny, I thank you for the information.

I thought you wanted to know about the aviation program?

Tiny was more than willing to talk far beyond the restaurant closing time.

I do, I surely do, but I’m worn out from all your good food, drink and hospitality. Maybe we could pick up later?

Sure, Doc, not a problem, anytime. I ain’t hard to find.

McNabb bid his adieu to the two owners and returned to the hotel considerably richer in his knowledge of the area and the dynamics between the university and the town.

Time sometimes passed very slowly, especially when waiting for something good to happen, like a job offer, but not for McNabb. The offer he received the first week of October 2005 was an Associate Professorship, adequate curriculum development money, a small staff to assist and what he later discovered was a salary very near the top of the University’s pay scale. That offer was made two weeks after the Chancellor first heard his name and twenty-nine days after McNabb first heard about the possibility of a Professorship and the opportunity to develop a new transportation curriculum.

Five

Dr. Robert Wentworth McNabb, Associate Professor of Transportation Management, had just completed his first full semester of teaching. It’s the first week in May 2006. Although the remuneration and perquisites were, in his mind, paltry for the responsibility of the position, the academic freedom and leisure time were an unbeatable combination. More importantly, an Associate Professorship, as an entry position, was a coup in his eyes. A tenured Full Professorship was a few easy maneuvers away.

Even though his remuneration package from the University was generous in the extreme for them, it was paltry compared to his retirement package from the Cruise Line, his investments, his wife’s investments, their combined assets and a fair-sized pile of cash in several money market accounts. His cruise line benefits package, which he’d negotiated as fully vested upon hire, permits him, and his wife, to travel at their leisure for the rest of their lives. The cost to travel aboard a company ship, in premium cabins and suites at company rates, while not cheap, still occasionally made staying home seem expensive.

He recently received an invitation to lunch from his Dean, Dr. Irene Dumbaugh and the Department Chair of Aviation Management and Flight Program, Mr. Benjamin Clifford. He’d been invited ostensibly to discuss his performance. This performance review usually came after the first semester of teaching, or, after the completion of the probationary period.

This meeting posed no real threat to McNabb. But, academia was enough of a foreign operating environment that he occasionally felt like a square peg in a round hole. He knew he was a new hire, a purposeful injection of East Coast genes, and real world experience, into a rapidly stagnating gene pool. Almost all Professor's at the college received all their degrees from the University (Bachelors, Masters, and Doctorates). He’d had called it educational incest several times in departmental meetings when the subject to change became a topic.

Maybe this, his first semester, was going to be his swan song for opening his mouth too many times. He was incapable of not telling truth to power; he did not accept the notion that anyone had any power at all over his choices and decisions. But then again, the Chancellor, that friendly, kindly, almost blind Dick Johnson had seemed genuinely glad McNabb accepted the offer. So clearly, somebody in