Hidden Within: Nine Riveting Short Stories

By Craig Georgeff

Nine riveting stories filled with twists and turns that keep the reader enthralled and wanting to read another. Something ideal for that long flight or that evening read, each story offering actual settings and strangely familiar facts because they are based on actual events and criminal cases in the life of the author. Two accounts-"Respect" and "Liar, Liar"-closely chronicle criminal cases easily recognizable to those involved and setting forth the gritty realism of investigations and criminal trials and the resulting effects on those involved.

"Something Remembered" is a touching story of lost loves that bring forth the feelings that scar the human spirit, but that somehow makes us whole. "Hidden," "Alibi," "Mountain Man," and "A Coincidence" are intriguing stories that are wound into twisting plots that keep the reader guessing until the very conclusion. Each of these four stories incorporates actual occurrences and events, some recognizable to the public, and some known only to the few involved that brings suspense and intrigue to each in a unique way.

"The Widow" is a touching story based on lost love set in a dying town and in the bleakness of winter. The setting for each of these stories is in Northern Michigan where the events actually occurred and incorporated the authentic and hardy attitudes of those who inhabit the backwoods, villages, and towns in the great forests and around the deep lakes well north of Detroit or Grand Rapids. "African Doctor" is loosely based on events in Eastern Africa involving a dedicated doctor in a refugee camp and the CIA operative assigned to rescue her.

The distinct story line in each of these nine selections offers the reader a kaleidoscope of characters and plots that make this book appealing form cover to cover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781645845201

Book preview

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Hidden Within

Nine Riveting Short Stories

Craig Georgeff

Copyright © 2021 Craig Georgeff

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-64584-519-5 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64584-520-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Hidden

Respect

Liar, Liar

Something Remembered

Alibi

The Widow

Mountain Man

A Coincidence

African Doctor

Other Books by Craig Georgeff

Not All Angels Have Wings

"We Often Question—Issues That Should Never Separate Us From God"

Hidden

Bill Sofko sat with his back to the wall in the last booth next to the window. He had learned to do so a long time ago. And while he could see everyone in the café and the activity on Main Street, they could also see him. It was a trade-off, and that is why he wore the baseball cap, curved at the ends, to surround his face and not make the sunglasses he wore so suspicious. He was new to the area and made it a point not to become too familiar with any of the eateries that dotted each of the small towns on Michigan’s east shore running from Cheboygan down to Alpena. Why worry? he thought. No one knew Bill Sofko. No one was looking for Bill Sofko. And being almost a thousand miles away from where he had left his most recent identity, no one would recognize him as anything but Bill Sofko.

Bill Sofko was currently a marine and engine mechanic with a shop fifteen miles southeast of Cheboygan and northwest of Rogers City on Lake Huron just inside Hammond Bay. In Northeast Michigan, that was almost nowhere. But it was close enough to the Straits of Mackinac to be able to service the crowd of boats that plowed through the blue waters of northern Lake Huron and infested the numerous harbors that stretched up toward Mackinac Island then eastward through the Les Cheneaux Islands and finally Drummond Island.

He had been in Northeast Michigan for eleven months. During the previous summer, he had started to establish himself as a knowledgeable and reliable mechanic. Why wouldn’t he be since he had made it a passion to work on boats most of his life. Willing to travel and reasonable, he had started developing a clientele that previous summer and now, as a second summer approached, it would appear that he would have all the business he cared to have and more than he needed.

The waitress poured him a cup of coffee, and he ordered the three eggs, potatoes, bacon, and toast that would dwarf the large plate at the Sunrise Café on US 23 in the village of Sterns. US 23 is a Federal Highway that starts at the end of Ocean Street, just north of downtown Jacksonville, Florida, and snakes its way through the central part of the eastern United States until it ends in Mackinaw City at the top of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. In this part of Michigan, it was also Main Street to several of the small villages that straddle either side of the two-lane road. Out the front window, he had noticed the large Ford sedan with inappropriately numbered Texas license plates slowly pass in front of one of the two stores that stood on opposite sides of the small lane leading out to the big Lake. And after it had passed, made a U-turn farther down the street, and had now returned, his suspicions grew.

It had been another occupation in which he had developed such skills. It was Sunday, and both the stores were closed. The vehicle turned up the lane and parked behind Totten Brothers Tire Company its tail end just visible from where he sat. Two men exited and in that moment, he could accurately establish their height, weight, and identify them by not only how they looked but how they walked and what they were wearing. Heavier coats than necessary for this time of year, but it was cooler down by the lake, and as they walked down the lane, his suspicions subsided.

Before his breakfast arrived, he was again put on alert. The two men, one holding his arm close to the side of his heavier-than-needed coat, came back up the lane and attempted to inconspicuously turn away from their vehicle and duck behind the building opposite of where they had parked. Hartman’s Hardware was closed on Sundays. Hartman’s Hardware was a hardware but also sold handguns, shotguns, rifles, and ammunition. And he had already drawn an accurate conclusion.

He went over to the pay phone and dialed 911. He informed the dispatch operator that two men were attempting to break into the rear of Hartman’s Hardware in Sterns. He offered a brief but accurate description of the men and their vehicle, suggested that they might be armed, had the operator read back to him the information he had provided, and then simply hung up before she could ask for his identity. He returned to his table and waited for his breakfast.

A single Lake County Sheriff’s Deputy arrived five minutes later, simultaneous with the waitress setting down the food encumbered plate. The Deputy pulled up in front of the hardware, peered through the front windows, and then cautiously moved around toward the back while he used his fork to place the three eggs on top of the hash browns and smother them with black pepper. A single officer, young at that, and he decided not to spoil the perfect picture of the unbroken eggs sitting on top of well-done potatoes, got up, and left through the front door.

His .38-caliber revolver was already tucked snuggly inside his belt and jeans in the middle of his back. He crossed the street and walked down the side of the lane opposite the hardware. Not seeing anyone, he crossed to the back of the store and quietly approached the partially open door that had obviously been pried open with the object the one man had concealed under his coat. He peaked in and saw the interior of a back room and heard someone rummaging through the cases where the guns and ammo were stored. Silently, he crossed through the room and found a position where he could survey most of the showroom.

The Deputy sat in a chair seemingly dazed and now was restrained by his own handcuffs that had been run through the backrest of a chair. The two men had pried open two display cases and were interested more in the handguns than the long rifles and had started piles in two different boxes behind them. The Deputy stirred.

What are we going to do with him? the smaller of the two men asked.

The other man turned. Take him with us. Club him and dump him out in the country. Time he gets somewhere we’ll be long gone.

The officer’s 9mm Sig was tucked into the waistband of the taller man’s pants along with a holstered 38 that was on the man’s hip. His thick coat had become cumbersome and now lay on the counter. The small caliber pocket piece the Deputy probably carried was yet undiscovered, most probably being with the other man.

Bring the car around the back and closer to the door so we can load this stuff, the taller man ordered.

This is when he reacted, and he was astonishingly quick. He met the approaching man with a blow just under his left ear and on his neck, spun the stunned man around, and had his arm pinned up against his back in a chicken wing with his wrist in a position where it would easily snap. Simultaneously, he had drawn his weapon and leveled it at the taller man as he had turned.

You move. You die! The words brought both men to an uneasy attention.

Using the smaller man as cover, with his arm still ratcheted up in the middle of his upper back, he moved forward, pushed the man against the counter as he extracted the 9 mm from the belt of the other man in a single motion, tucked it in his waistband, and extracted the holstered 38. He ordered both men to their knees and facing away from him with their hands clasped behind their head and their feet crossed at the ankles. He located the Deputy’s small caliber pocket piece in the smaller man’s right-side pocket of his pants.

His commands were precise. Where are the handcuff keys?

The bigger man hesitated, and with a swift motion, Sofko grabbed the man’s clenched hands and ratcheted back on the thumb. Just before the thumb would snap, the man squealed out an answer. Right pants pocket, damn it, in the pocket.

Sofko did not hesitate, extracted the key, and shoved the man to the floor face down. You know the drill. Flinch, and you will never flinch again.

Moving over to the Deputy, he expertly unlocked the cuffs with one hand and allowed a moment for the Deputy to clear his head. You feel good enough to get up?

I’m fine, caught me by surprise when I came in the back. One of them must have seen me drive by the front.

He gave the Deputy back his service weapon and pocket piece then instinctively cuffed the larger man, used another set offered by the Deputy to cuff the other man, and had both men searched and laying face-down in the middle of the floor with absolutely no words ever being spoken.

You want me to help you get them in your car? he finally asked the Deputy. They took the men to the police vehicle and placed them on opposite sides of the back seat as he started back across the street.

The Deputy was on the radio asking for backup, fumbled with the radio’s microphone, and turned toward Sofko. Hey, where are you going? I need to get some information.

You’re welcome, he responded, with a backward wave of his hand. I have a damn good breakfast getting cold. He crossed the street and reentered the restaurant.

The potatoes had kept the eggs warm, and they ran into the hash browns as he broke them open with his fork. He downed the eggs and the accompanying four strips of bacon and added strawberry jelly to his whole wheat toast. Using the last piece of thick bread to wipe the plate almost dry, he was full and satisfied. He had completed the task of devouring the typical Northern Michigan breakfast, and his pulse had remained the same from when it had arrived and until he had finished. The accompanying event was routine because he had done it a thousand times.

Did you see what went on across the street? the busy waitress asked, not even knowing he was gone.

Nope. He ignored the second cup of coffee, heard the approaching sirens, left money to cover the meal and a plentiful tip, used the paper napkin to wipe off the handle of his coffee cup and his knife and then the fork, and started to leave. I don’t need this today, he thought, and anyway, he had an impatient boat owner waiting up in Presque Isle Harbor.

Hell, he spoke the word softly to himself while thinking why make it hard for them. He turned and placed his business card under his water glass, walked to the front door, and exited. He was pulling away in his truck as a County patrol car came past him on his left, and the single rooftop strobe of a State Police cruiser could be seen approaching from the south. Not too bad of a response time for this part of rural Michigan, he thought. But in New York, they would have been to him in less than two minutes

*****

Are you sure no one left the restaurant and went across the street? County Sheriff Dee Lawson asked the waitress again.

Look, sir, I mean, miss. She had trouble referencing the person in front of her since it was not that common that a female served as a County Sheriff. It was busy in here, big morning crowd on a Sunday. I have enough trouble keeping track of the orders, let alone what people do when they leave. She stooped over to wipe one of the tables clean. But as far as I know, no one left here to go over there, at least I don’t think so.

Male, maybe in his thirties, baseball cap, about six feet two, jeans and a dark T-shirt, and one of those stubble-like beards, maybe wearing sunglasses, she said because that is all her Deputy had been able to provide her and the fact, or was it a perception, that he had been some type of law enforcement officer, maybe military police, and that he drove off in a large blue pickup and that he carried a six-shot revolver, maybe a Colt.

But as she continued, the waitress responded, Yeah, the fellow over in the corner. He was sitting in the booth next to the window. That’s probably him. She looked up from the tray of dirty plates she was about to lift. He got up to use the telephone, I think, but I don’t think he left. She hesitated as if in thought. At least I don’t think so.

Do you know him? Lawson asked.

Comes in maybe once a week, likes that booth next to the window. Don’t know his name, but he is a good tipper. She looked up at Lawson. Good-looking too.

Lawson walked over to the table yet to be bused. There was an empty plate and full coffee cup, a ten-dollar bill, and two singles lying on top of a restaurant check, totaling just over seven dollars. Good tipper, she thought. And there under the water glass was a business card. All it had on it were the words Marine Service and Repair and a telephone number with local area code. No name, no business name, just the phrase and number.

Lawson pulled out her cell and dialed the number.

There was no answer, but a recorder picked up. I am currently unavailable, but check my messages daily. Please leave your name, number, and a short message at the sound of the beep.

She hung up without leaving a message.

She telephoned later that evening. He answered on the second ring.

Hi, do you do marine repairs? she inquired.

Sheriff Lawson, I thought you might call, he replied.

Her home telephone registered unknown, and she wondered how he recognized her. Have we met? she inquired.

No, he simply replied.

We have to talk, she stated.

When?

How about tomorrow at my office, say 10:00 a.m.?

I’ll be there. And with that, the line went dead.

She looked at the receiver in her hand. Hell, she thought, I didn’t even learn his name.

*****

The next morning, she walked briskly into the lobby of the Lake County Offices at quarter to ten and was told that there was someone waiting in the hall to see her. She opened the door and found a handsome man, maybe in his thirties, sitting on one of the benches opposite the County Clerk’s Office. The description her Deputy had given was accurate—six feet two, a closely groomed beard, wearing jeans with a set of sunglasses tucked into the neck of his T-shirt. A baseball cap with the English D above the rim and representative of Detroit’s baseball team sat on his knee.

How about stepping into my office, Mr.… She left the statement hanging, waiting for it to be filled in, fumbled for her keys, and opened the door to the small office assigned to the Lake County Sheriff, which encompassed four full-time Deputies, a staff of eight to run the county jail, and a part-time secretary/clerk.

Please be seated, she stated as she arranged some items on her desk. I really appreciated your assistance on Sunday, and Darrell does too. Seems like you arrived just in time.

No problem, and it’s Bill Sofko.

Finally, she thought, he had a name. Would you be willing to testify if necessary? Even though I think these knuckleheads will want to plea rather than face a trial.

Any priors? he asked.

The words in his response, as well as the actions described by her Deputy, had her convinced that he had been involved in law enforcement. A couple. We are still working through some aliases. She sat back in her chair and recognized that he was still standing. Have a seat. She waited till he had pulled up a chair and placed it closer to her desk. Just how did you know that there was a robbery?

As you describe them. Two knuckleheads pull up with obviously stolen out-of-state plates and secured with two new locknuts. They park across the street, both leave the car with heavier-than-necessary jackets, one having a bar or tire iron under his coat. They saunter down the lane, come back along the other side, and into a hardware selling guns and ammo. Seems kind of obvious, doesn’t it?

She considered what he had said. And the stolen plates, how could you determine that from where you sat?

Well, kinda, he responded. A rear Texas plate and the absence of a required front plate for a Texas vehicle and no inspection sticker in the front window told me all I needed to know. And after I passed the rear of the car, I noticed the new locknuts. If I remembered right, the Texas plates on that car consisted of two letters and four numbers, plates for a truck or vehicle, weighing over seven thousand pounds, not a passenger vehicle. Plus now I was sure there was no registration and yearly inspection sticker displayed in the front window as required by Texas law. And why would a Buick purchased at Harpers GMC in Lansing, Michigan, have Texas plates? Like you say, they are knuckleheads, but thinking you would be looking for a car with out-of-state tags while they just take them off and flip them in the weeds. Was a Michigan plate behind the Texas tag?

I never thought of that, she responded.

You mean the car originally being purchased in Lansing or a second license plate behind the Texas plate?

She had a puzzled expression on her face as she answered, No, none of what you just said, and there was a Michigan plate.

May I call you Bill? she asked.

Sure, Sheriff.

Why don’t we both be on a first name basis?

Then do you prefer Dee or Daphne?

She looked up at him with a startled expression. During her two terms as the elected Sheriff of Lake County, she had used the name Dee—Dee because her mother had saddled her with her grandmother’s name that better suited a cartoon character. Dee, that is what everyone called her, everyone, even her parents and siblings, even her grandmother.

He recognized that she was startled. In the market over in Rogers City last Tuesday when you handed the clerk your discount card, I noticed that the card had Dee on it, but your driver’s license had Daphne Lynn Dawson. He motioned with his hand. You laid your open wallet right there on the conveyor belt in front of me. Daphne Lynn Dawson, D-631-135-386-745.

You’re pretty observant, she stated.

When I want to be, he continued. Five feet eight, thirty-two years old, blue eyes. I even have your home address and know you have a cycle endorsement.

She was shaking her head.

Not married, in fact, never married and not seeing anyone right now. He smiled through what he was saying.

And how did you get that information? It is not on my license.

I asked the young lady out front. Small talk, you know, is sometimes the most revealing.

He got up as if to go. I have a boat to tend to over in Duncan Bay, seems like he went aground and sheared the channel pin on the shaft. So why don’t we continue this over dinner tonight. I know there is nothing on your calendar, so I’ll pick you up around six thirty.

And how do you know that I don’t have other plans?

He nodded his head toward the clerk in the lobby. She told me. He opened the door. I think the restaurant over in Presque Isle Harbor would be nice, and I already have your address, so how about six thirty?

She followed him out and almost unwillingly spilled out her answer, Okay, six thirty.

He left the building and got into the Ford diesel pickup and backed out of the parking lot of the Lake County Municipal Offices.

Dee turned to the clerk. Did you talk with Mr. Sofko this morning?

Oh, was that his name? the clerk responded. We had a nice long conversation while he was waiting. About the boating business, the level of the lake, how the tourist season will be this year, about Michigan State where the twins are in their senior year, and the Tigers. Quite an interesting young man.

She locked eyes with the clerk. Did he ask you any questions about me?

He may have. Yep, I think he may have. The clerk had an inquisitive expression on her face. Now that I think of it, he did. He asked me quite a bit about you.

*****

After dinner, they had spent the latter part of the evening walking among the docks lined with the seasonal boats that made Presque Isle Harbor a stopping place as they journeyed to the Straits, farther to the west into Lake Michigan or over to the Canadian side of Lake Huron. A couple on a Catalina 42 insisted that they join them for drinks since he had changed the internal water pump in a single day the previous season and saved their planned summer excursion to the North Channel. A beautiful sunset over the pines that lined the west side of the harbor, shortened by the arrival of some summertime mosquitoes, and the drive back to Sterns had them back in her driveway just before dark.

It had seemed that he had gleaned far more information about her than she was able to gain from him. You served in Iraq for almost four years. What did you do there? she asked.

I really don’t want to talk about it.

And your police experience? she inquired.

Like I said, eleven years with NYPD.

You don’t sound like a New Yorker.

I’m not. Born and raised in Detroit. He opened his hand and pointed to a spot just under his right thumb. As most Michiganians, he was equipped with a map of the state right at the end of his wrist.

She chuckled.

But my ex got a job with the United States Attorney’s Office in Manhattan, and I had to move. At least it saved the marriage for about eight years.

And what did you do with the NYPD?

Look, do we have to talk about this?

No, I guess not. She seemed dejected and started to open the car door. I have to be at work early tomorrow.

He met her at the front of the vehicle. When can I see you again?

She shrugged her shoulders as she started away.

Okay, three years in narcotics and eight in homicide. Left because I was getting too close to things, plus a failed marriage, and I had an opportunity to leave.

Thanks, it makes a difference you opening up to me.

She spoke as she returned to the front of his truck and stepped inside his arms. Saturday night, here. I’ll make you dinner. She pulled him close and tilted her head toward his. And just so you don’t forget. And with that, she offered a long and passionate kiss.

*****

On the following Saturday, the summer rain left them talking at the dinner table for almost an hour after the meal. They joined in manually doing the dishes rather than loading the dishwasher, he washing and her drying and putting away. Afterward they adjourned to an enclosed porch and watched a thunderstorm pass out over the great lake just over the bluff in the backyard. She poured a second glass of wine for each of them, handed him his glass, and then snuggled into the oversize chair next to him. He exhibited no resistance, and she found the warmth of his body against hers a comfort in the cooling of a Michigan night. The next half hour passed with small talk before she brought the subject back to work.

Would you like to offer your opinion on a couple of cold cases? she had her head on his chest when she asked.

What kind of cases?

Two homicides, a couple years ago. Well, one two years ago, and the other a year before that. She still had not moved her head from his chest. I really would value your opinion.

He reluctantly agreed, and she went on to describe the murder of two teenage girls with one body discovered in neighboring Presque Isle County. The bodies of the two girls were found dumped in desolate areas—one badly decomposed with the other being discovered only three or four days after being murdered. Autopsies had discovered that both girls had been strangled but not sexually molested. They were identified as a fifteen-year-old who had been missing from