The Audobon Caper

By Roy Murry

The Audubon Caper is a fast-paced story. There are so many things going on in this creative non-fiction tale. One of the greatest things about this book is that it's based on a true story. I kept thinking about that as I read, noting that definitely truth can be stranger than fiction. Murry's writing lets us really get to know him. He's frequently very open about his thoughts and feelings throughout the tale, something I really enjoyed. We see him get caught up in drugs, booze, and sex, very fitting for the `60s/`70s scene--yet he graduates from college and accomplishes a lot, such as surviving Vietnam and a number of other military feats.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy Murry
• Release date: Apr 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201850593

Book preview

Thank You to:

My Mother’s Italian Family in Lowell, Massachusetts for their support.

My friends in the Dominican Republic, especially Lia Jimenez for typing the first draft of this novel in 1999.

Jackie Diamond Hyman, author, professor, for teaching me how to develop a character.

Kathryn Johnson, author, professor, for her critical read, edit, and guidance.

The U.S. Marshals.

Home Sweet Home Fall, 1977

The warm, mosquito-biting night seemed to last forever. My innocent angel lay next to me. Holding her bronze naked body, made me feel like a sexual king. It had seemed hard for her to control her emotions while we made love that night. I had blessed her with a resident visa and a marriage contract that allowed her to live in the United States of America. She had overwhelmed me with kisses in return, as she had every night since we’d arrived here in a suburb of San Antonio, Texas, home of the Alamo.

After our love making, I couldn’t sleep, although I felt pleasantly weak from the physical exertion. My lovely wife from the Dominican Republic, sleeping next to me, had no idea what her not-so-loving husband was involved in. She thought, as others did, that I was a government agent. Which branch? Didn’t matter. Doing what? She never asked. She had her own secret agenda.

Maybe it was the language barrier. Unable to speak English, she could not, or would not, ask me the right question, even if she had dared to question a government agent. And so she remained in the dark about who the man she’d married really was.

However, Maria was afraid for her unborn child and herself. And it showed in the way she clung to me all through the night, after hearing I was going on a one- to two-week business trip in the morning. She would be alone in a strange country, where she was just becoming accustomed to the magical security of having electricity and water flowing twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year. It was still a wonder to her, how easy life had been made for her after she arrived in America, a land far from perfect but much more perfect than her native land. In that land, to have lights on at night, was a Godsend. Twenty-four-hour cable television was another matter. She watched it ten hours a day. Probably twenty while I was away.

After slipping out of bed early, taking a shower, and packing my carry-on bag, I moved to the living room for a cup of coffee laced with brandy.

It was eight o’clock when the U. S. Marshals arrived. One of them lightly knocked on my apartment door, which opened to the screened front porch of my Witness Protection abode. It was Sandy, a hulk in a gray suit, always. He filled the doorway as he entered the living room. He was as strong as a bull and just as heavy, but he looked around fifty-five years old. I’d thought U.S. Marshals were supposed to be young and built for speed. Sandy was not. But he fulfilled his physical responsibilities and spoke with authority.

Good morning, Sandy. I saluted him.

He walked past me to the coffeepot, knowing the apartment, followed by Joan. She was the marshal assigned to keep Maria happy, while I was away from home. They poured their hot coffee into Christmas mugs Maria had bought in town. Sitting down at the kitchen table, which had become their office away from the office, they set up their spaces with paper work, preparing for the usual day’s business.

How are you today, Roy? Sandy asked but didn’t wait for an answer. Ready to hit the road?

I waved hello to Joan. Give me a few minutes while I wake Maria and say good-bye, I said, my voice somber. I removed myself from the kitchen into the bedroom, and my sleeping beauty. I gently touched my lady, and she awoke from her dreams with a smile.

Good morning, my love, are you going? she asked in Spanish. Her eyes sparkled as I kissed the lips I had been enjoying, without remorse, through all my lies.

I replied in bad Spanish, Yes, Mami, I am going now.

She looked sad then panic flashed in her dark eyes. I stroked her hair, but it wasn’t enough. So, I kissed her again on the lips.

I’ll be back soon, in two weeks or less, I promised.

But that didn’t stop the tears, and I had no way of helping her.

"Por favor, don’t go. Por favor!"

I shook my head. I had no choice in the matter, and could not explain quickly or correctly in Spanish.

Sorry, Mami, this is my last trip for the United States Government. No, don’t cry. I turned to yell into the living room in desperation, Sandy, help me out in here? Please explain again to Maria.

My Spanish was getting better, but I didn’t know if she understood completely. I MUST GO. Someone in my position no longer ruled his own life. I dragged myself into the living room, crying inside, while Sandy took my place in the bedroom.

He returned a few minutes later with my pregnant wife, who came over to me with tears in her eyes and a broken heart. She gave me a long departing kiss that would stay with me for the loathsome ride to Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport.

Don’t worry, my love, I’ll be back soon. And your new friend Joan will be here until I come back.

I could still feel the softness of her warm body and her wet lips as we made our way out the door and to the waiting basic-black government car. I asked, Sandy, what did you say to Maria to calm her down?

David, another U.S. Marshal assigned to make my life pleasant and safe, for as long as they could keep me alive, opened the rear door for me. I climbed in.

Sandy said, I just told her everything would be fine, Roy. You’ll be back soon. You’re lucky she doesn’t know what’s really going on, or she’d be on a plane south tomorrow. As ordered, he was keeping my secret from her until after the trip to court.

I winced. Was he right? Would she run? Well, Joan will take care of her while we’re gone. Sandy nodded in agreement. I was more at ease, knowing Joan was a professional—as good at being a bodyguard as soothing Maria’s panic attack. And, if anything did happen to me on this trip, the government would take care of Maria and the baby.

And after these last few weeks of being on the run? It seemed everyone but me in Texas spoke Spanish. At least Maria could get around town alone, because of the Tex/Mex flavor of San Antonio.

Well, enough of that, I thought, leaving the safety of my wife and child in the hands of U.S. Marshal Joan. Let’s get down to business.

The trip from San Antonio to Dallas/Fort Worth was uneventful. There was little conversation from my travel companions, who talked to each other about sporting events. I was not yet interested in their Texas teams. I thought about Maria and the home I’d left behind; and the kisses I hoped would be waiting for me when I returned.

At twenty-nine, I was now responsible for two living individuals: One beautiful permanently golden tanned lady and another boy child living within his liquid sanctuary. If all went well, I’d return with the message for both of them: We are free at last! No more bodyguards following us around, monitoring our lives. Until now they had been an unpleasant, but necessary, part of life.

In the back seat, I drifted into a daydream state, remembering the way Maria had satisfied my every sexual need. How long she would stay with me would depend on how I performed my legal duties, which provided our present high standard of living. The Witness Protection Program was footing our expenses, which included a fund for the baby’s birth at Nix Hospital. Maria’s doctor’s office was there. The baby would be born on Davy Crockett Avenue in downtown San Antonio.

That same Federal Justice Department program already had funded our lives for the last few months. The rent on our poolside condominium was paid up for the next year. Our car was pre-leased for a year from another fund. Maria did very well with the cash given us to set up a classic Texas home. She even was able to send money to her mother, with savings from her purchases. So far I had let that go. This later would become a constant pressure on our marriage. Sadly, Maria was showing signs of being manipulative and materialistic, milking me for cash because of my secrecy.

But the apartment became our home and Maria did an excellent job, with Joan and another apartment complex friend, acquiring the furniture and accessories needed to make our place comfortable. Mixed with those comforts and Dominican food, I began to gain substantial weight, as did Maria. She gained from the pregnancy, and I gained from too much food and scotch, which I always kept close by.

Maria didn’t complain much about the drinking. She must have sensed I was under deep strain. It would come to an end, after the trips ended. Then she’d know everything.

My daydream subsided as we approached the airport. We were handled through the check-in process at the first-class window.

First Class, Sandy. What a refreshing surprise, I stated, as I received my welcome Dewars on the rocks from the stewardess. What’s our first stop? I knew that while traveling covertly with the government there was never a direct route to the courthouse. This was our second court appointment trip. The first one had been to meet the grand jury, which decided a second trip would be in order for a trial.

We are visiting Atlanta, Georgia for some home-made fried chicken. Then we go on to Miami, for Cuban black bean soup, via two different airlines. Just enjoy your drinks, snacks, and down time, Roy. Sandy, my adjacent seat holder, communicated in food talk. Call me when it’s time for the real food. Order me a steak! He was in control, so I did as I was told.

Where is David? I asked, the coldness of the ice in my glass garbling my words. David was a more friendly type. He gave me conversation along with the drinks.

He’ll be up front on the next leg. Give me a break, so I can get some shuteye. OK? I was up late, putting the final touches on this little trip, so we can get there in one piece. He gave me a look. And don’t go anywhere, except to the bathroom. Understand?

No problema, me amigo! I’ll just drink myself to sleep. I shut my mouth for other than liquid consumption. Well trained was I. I played with the magazines, enjoying the latest news clips and the photos of the beautiful people. But in the back of my mind, I couldn’t stop thinking about the people, very dangerous people, who wanted me dead.

Approximately thirty minutes into the flight, and a few minutes before our airline gourmet food was served, I woke my flying partner from his snooze. He wasn’t too happy at first, but seeing his plate of steak, a baked potato and a green salad—that helped. A cabernet sauvignon was offered and accepted by both of us.

Morrell, how are you doing? Holding up? were the first postnap words Sandy offered, making awkward conversation.

Okay, under the circumstances. I wish we could get this over with fast, I said.

All in good time. I received no comforting words of wisdom from someone who had been on many such trips. We ate our lunch in silence. Sandy was not one for many words when it came to his package. That was me. In his eyes I was a criminal no matter what the details of the trial case were. I could only hope he’d be a man of action, if ever it became necessary.

Eating and drinking quickly, Sandy adjusted his soft white pillow. He returned to his sleeping position, closed his eyes then wiped his wet two-inch brown handlebar mustache with a napkin, before stating, Wake me up when they give landing instructions. It was a military order.

Yes sir, mi Capitan, I answered.

He opened his intense blue eyes and looked at me with a half smile, Try to get some sleep, Roy. It’s a long trip to where we’re going. And slow down on the free booze.

I didn’t take his advice. I was on a trip that was going to change my life forever and was into serious solitary drinking. Ordering another Scotch after the wine, I lay back in my plush cream leather seat, thinking of Maria, baby boy, and Home Sweet Home.

Friends Meet at College

The Doctor Dewar’s Scotch whiskey plus the red wine and heavy airline food were doing their work on my drowsy mind, moving my mind back in time.

Boy did I ever look good in that Green Beret! I remembered well the confidence and strength of mind I once had. Had I re-enlisted, everything would have turned out differently. At fifty-five, I could have retired a colonel. Only West Pointers got to a higher rank, without pull. Forget that, Roy. Ancient history. You didn’t re-enlist.

Nevertheless, I did look real good. I remembered coming back from Nam in January, 1971 to attend college. I had the world on a tight string. The U.S. Army wanted me to bootstrap through college doing reserve duty, with a commission waiting for me upon graduation. In addition, John D. Harrison at the FBI sought my services. Your Air America operational skills are always needed at the FBI or CIA, he noted, trying to recruit me, even as I was enrolling in college, for work on and off campus. We were in Government insurgent times.

However, their Nixon political bag did not appeal to me, I declined the clandestine work. Getting an education was why I was at Bentley College. Leaving my options open, I told Harrison to look me up after graduation. I thought, maybe, the political climate might change, once the Vietnam War was over.

But what really bothered me were the bags of dirty tricks employed by that group of elite lawyer-directed James Bond types. Like Bond in the spy movies, based on books written by Ian Fleming, they performed various everyday government functions that were kept from the eyes of Joe Public and the United States Congress. Tricks many of us used in Nam. I didn’t want to get involved in any more deceit. I’d had my fill in Nam, working with the Agency, as a 5th Special Forces’ Green Beret. Why would I want to continue and work for them now?

Those operations, using the most up-to-date equipment, experimentally driven, produced information on anti-governmental organizations. Any organization was anti-government in my college days, ’71 through ’74. Nixon’s covert band ultimately brought down his anti-government programs.

None, of that, was for me. All I wanted was to be left alone in my studies, so I could become an accountant. I’d left the cloak and dagger stuff behind me in Nha Trang, Vietnam; I needed peace and a new life. However, the government never lets you go after they’ve spent money on your intelligence education. To them, you are an asset, to be used at their convenience until the day you die, in their service.

As a new member of the intelligence sector I’d trained at J.F.K Psychological Warfare Center and advance intelligence schools. I specialized in covert operations, with historic experience in field intelligence gathering. I’d won the Bronze Star for outstanding achievements in that field, was still on their list of ‘Potential Operatives.’ Numbers control an asset who wants to rid himself of control by the government’s intelligence sector. Aided by a Social Security card, driver’s license, telephone, credit cards, and someday maybe an implant—you can always be found.

On the plane, I mumbled in my drunken half-sleep, Life’s going to change for me after this trip. No more adventures with others pulling the strings. Peace and quiet, that’s what I wanted now, just as I had at Bentley.

Then Francis Forrest van Zandt, better known as Forrest, walked into my life.

He and I were sitting at the dining table with the veteran elite. They were a group of Vietnam veterans who ate with each other daily. Their only conversations were about the war. We all had our opinions. Mine was to drop it. Give Vietnam back to the Vietnamese, and let them kill each other. My schoolmates disagreed. They wanted to defend the south from the Northern Red Communist intruders,

These intellectuals, with whom I was dining, had been grunts in Nam. A grunt fights and dies, but doesn’t know what he is dying for except for his country. Many lost their lives without understanding why. Others got back home alive and were attending college in ’71.

Only Forest, not even a veteran, agreed with me and shared my basic beliefs.

One grunt was quick to jump in and challenge my position, fire in his eyes and words. He was looking for a way to use his education to lift him out of a controlled life. He was