Sample Chapter

1.
Neil Kehler pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and squinted at his watch. Blurry. But it looked like past midnight. Past midnight on Friday. He should get home. Ruthie would be pissed. Shit! Nothing new in that. Lately she was always pissed. Neil swallowed the last dregs of his beer. All he’d wanted was a couple beers and a game of pool. A little sport. Nothing that had anything to do with how he felt about her. Hell, they’d been together since high school. Did she really think he was looking for someone else after all this time?
Despite the hour, the place was still packed as it always was on a Friday night. Raucous, too-loud voices droned in his head. Country music on the juke box added to the din. The floor vibrated beneath his feet. Clouds of tobacco smoke stung his eyes and the stench of spilled beer, nicotine and unwashed bodies cloyed in his nostrils.
Well, he might as well go home and face her wrath. The couple beers had turned to too many after Earl took his money again. Nothing new in that either. Bastard must be cheating. But nobody had caught him yet. And who would dare accuse the man anyway?
Neil placed his hands on the bar and pushed off from his stool. Better hit the john first. He knew he couldn’t make it all the way home without emptying his bladder. Neil staggered around to the hallway.
His shoulder bumped against the wall on one side and propelled him across to the other. Neil staggered on. Dark. Overhead light was out again and Vinnie was too damned cheap to replace the bulb. Well, he’d been back here often enough to find his way without light. The ammonia stench of the urinals was enough to guide him. He figured he was almost to the restrooms when another hurrying figure bumped against him, knocking him up against the wall. “Watch it, buddy!” Neil squawked. The other person kept on going without a word of apology.
Neil might have had another retort but the urgency of his need made that less impelling. Just ahead he saw the dim glow of the restroom lights through a crack in the doorway. Neil pushed on.
As he stepped up to the urinal Neil noticed, from the corner of his eye, someone sitting in one of the toilet stalls. Jeez. He liked privacy when tending to business and this guy didn’t even have sense enough to pull the stall door closed. Neil unzipped, flipped out his penis and breathed a sigh of release as his stream flowed. Aaah! He leaned forward, hands against the wall. “Needed that,” he said aloud. There was no response from the guy in the stall. Shit. Probably passed out.
Finished, he zipped up and moved over to the sink. As he turned on the faucet he glanced into the mirror. What the…? Oh, shit!
Neil staggered out into the hall. “Vinnie! Vinnie! Get your ass back here,” he screamed. The noise from the barroom drowned out his voice.

“In the John?”
“Yep. Shot dead while sittin’ on the pot,” Aaron Brubaker said.
Sticks Hetrick was just crawling into bed when he got the call. He was filling in for Brubaker who was down with the flu. Somehow the dispatcher on duty hadn’t got the word and contacted the chief.
“Where’d it happen?”
“Out at Vinnie’s.”
Hetrick grunted. Vinnie’s Bar was a dive out on the highway that should have been closed down long before. It was a blot on the community and its owner and his premises were no strangers to trouble.
“Who’s the victim?”
“Dunno. All I know is what Fred told me. Sorry about this Sticks. If it wasn’t for this bug…”
“No sweat. I volunteered, remember? Get some rest. Talk to you later.” It would have made no sense to be irritated with Brubaker. Hetrick, who had retired as chief, now served as a consultant to his less-experienced replacement. Filling in now gave him a taste of the old days and he was enjoying it—probably a lot more than Brubaker who just yesterday had given him a litany of the gruesome aspects of his illness.
Hetrick swung his feet out of bed, sat up and reached for his glasses. He wiped them clean with a Kleenex and put them on. Then he pulled himself erect, took off his pajamas and got back into his clothes.
Yeah. Just like the old days—getting called out of bed in the middle of the night to clean up some other person’s mess. Well, he’d asked for it, hadn’t he.
It wasn’t far from his house on Plum Street out to the highway junction where Vinnie’s Bar was located. As he pulled onto the gravel parking lot he saw two Swatara Creek cruisers and an ambulance with motors running and lights flashing pulled up close to the entrance. A scattering of other vehicles, including Vinnie Nungessor’s Lexus, were still in the lot. Not many for a Friday night. Hetrick anticipated a number of the regulars had taken off as soon as they were informed of the discovery. Nungessor’s customers included a number who might be suspect in whatever transgression arose.
Repressing the smile that thought prompted, Hetrick got out of his pickup, hitched up his trousers and entered the tavern.
Nungessor, leaning on the bar and nursing a mug of beer, glanced over as Sticks approached. “How long your guys gonna keep me shut down this time?” he asked.
A few customers, owners of the vehicles outside he surmised, lounged at tables back in the shadows. None of them spoke. Brent Taylor, a Swatara Creek officer standing watch over them, raised a hand in greeting. Hetrick nodded back.
“It’s past two Vin. Closing time anyway.”
“Yeah. I’m thinkin’ about tomorrow and the days after that. Youse closed me down for a week that time we had the stabbin’ here. And nobody died that time. Haint my fault some guy gets hisself shot.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Vinnie chugged his beer. “Can I go home?”
“Not yet. After I talk to my people. I might have some questions for you.”
“How ‘bout us?” a raspy voice Hetrick recognized, asked from the shadows.
“Might have questions for you too, Fingers.”
“Yeah. You usually do—even when I haint involved,” Earl Schurke responded. He earned his nickname long before because of his propensity for putting his digits where they didn’t belong.
“Christ. I already answered their questions,” Nungessor said. “It was Friday night. Busy like always. Noisy. Nobody heard nothin’, seen nothin’.”
“Somebody did,” Sticks said, strolling on by him and going down the hall to the restrooms.
Standing at the doorway he saw Fred Drumheiser talking to Arnie Templin, the coroner. “Hey, Chief,” Fred said, spying him. “We’re just about to haul him out. You wanna have a look first?”
Hetrick nodded and they made way for him to pass between them and into the restroom. The corpse had been zipped into a body bag. An EMT kneeling by the carrier unzipped the bag to let Hetrick have a look at the victim. Sticks leaned over, hands on his thighs. It was a young man, mid-twenties with straight, recently barbered hair. A plump face, smooth-shaven. There was a small hole ringed by powder burns between his closed eyes.
Hetrick stood straight and waved a hand for the tech to re-bag. “Anybody know him?”
Fred shook his head. “Not Vinnie’s usual clientele. Clean-cut, wearin’ a suit. None of the regulars would admit to having seen him before.”
“Any ID?”
“Wallet with a driver’s license, press card, couple credit cards and about sixty bucks in cash.”
“Press card?”
“Yeah. Name was Christopher Bachman. From down in Maryland.”
“Any idea what he was doing here?”
Fred shook his head. “Might have been a drug deal gone sour. Course he couldn’t have bought much with what he had on him.”
Hetrick turned to Templin. “Cause of death, Arnie?”
“I expect the bullet between his eyes. I’ll know better in the morning.”
“Found a casing on the floor,” Fred said. “Twenty-two short. Wouldn’t have made much noise and with the normal commotion out there don’t expect nobody would have heard it.”
“Who found him?”
“Neil Kehler. You know him?”
“Yeah. I think so. Lives over on Cherry, near Roger Steinbauer.”
“Right. That’s the guy. Have him coolin’ his heels out front with a couple other guys. None of them claim to know anything, though. Half the crowd was cleared out by the time I got here.”
“You came alone?”
Fred nodded. “Yeah. We’re short. Half our people are out with this damned flu or whatever it is. Harry’s at the station, Flora’s out on patrol. Harry sent Brent over here in case I needed him. Don’t even have a regular dispatcher tonight. One of those auxiliary police types fillin’ in.”
Sticks frowned. The auxiliary had been formed just this year by the township supervisors. To him it indicated a lack of confidence in their police force and not any effort to be helpful. Sure crime had increased here—just like everywhere. A factor of the times and the economy. The problem wasn’t an inefficient department but rather a lack of sufficient funding to provide manpower for increased patrols. Hetrick was a big believer in both foot and cruiser patrols as a means of curtailing crime.
“You about wrapped up back here?” he asked Fred.
“Yep.”
“Good. I’ll see what Kehler and the others have to say.”
A light had been turned on over the pool table and Earl Schurke was shooting a game with one of the other customers. Kehler and another man were watching. Fingers looked over his shoulder as Sticks came up. “Haint no gamblin’ going on,” he said. “Just passin’ time waitin’ on you.”
With a little chuckle, Sticks nodded. He knew pool hustling was one of Schurke’s sources of income. “Get to you shortly,” he said. “Mister Kehler.”
Kehler turned to face him. “Yeah?” Fully sober now, the tautness of his nerves revealed by the twitch of a muscle along one cheek.
“Need a word with you.”
“Hey,” Nungessor said, “what about me?”
“In good time.”
“Whadya want me to do, Chief?” Taylor asked.
“You can head on back, Brent. Harry might have other need for you. Let’s sit down over here Mister Kehler,” he said, indicating a nearby table. “You live out by Roger Steinbauer don’t you?” he asked as they pulled up chairs and sat.
“Right.”
“Work out at the chicken plant?”
“No. That is, my wife does. I’m a USDA inspector. The poultry plant is one of my sites.”
Schurke gave a coarse laugh. “Makes you really feel secure, don’t it—knowin’ a twerp like him is makin’ sure our food is safe.”
“Shut up, Earl. Mind your game before I have to bust you for interfering in an investigation.” Schurke laughed again, turned back and racked up the balls. Sticks wrinkled his nose. Even this far away and over the other powerful odor in the room he smelled the stench of the restrooms. “Now, Mister Kehler, why don’t you tell me how you came to find the body.”
Kehler squirmed. The seat squeaked under his weight. He ran a hand over his face, his eyes darting at Hetrick. “Think I could call my wife? She’s probably worried I haint home yet.”
“In a few minutes, sir. First…”
“I already told the other fellow. Don’t know what else I can add.”
“Humor me.”
Kehler was quiet a moment longer, the only sounds in the room the clinking of the pool cues, the ticking of a clock on the wall behind the bar and the hum of the coolers. Then, like rote, he reeled off his tale.
Sticks leaned toward him, listening intently, taking a few notes. At the end, he asked, “And you’re sure it was a man bumped into you?”
Kehler shrugged. “I don’t know. It was too dark to see but—based on the weight of the body struck me—I guess I assumed it must be a man. Could have been a woman. Can’t say for sure either way.”
“Thank you, Mister Kehler. I know where you live if we need to talk to you again.”
“I can go?”
“You’re free to go.” He swiveled in his chair. “Fingers.”
“Damn it, man,” Nungessor squealed, “when’s it to be my turn?”
“When I’m ready. Come on over here, Fingers.”
Hetrick made Vinnie wait until he’d talked to Schurke and the few others who had stayed on. None of them had anything worthwhile to add. None admitted to knowing the victim and all said they didn’t remember seeing him earlier in the evening. Most confirmed they had made a trip or two to the restroom but didn’t notice anything amiss. Schurke was certain the stall in question was empty the last time he’d visited which he thought might have been in the neighborhood of 11:45. “Can’t be sure about that, though,” he said. “You know how it is when you’ve had a few. Hell no, you probably don’t Sticks. Can’t remember I ever saw you enjoying a beer.”
Hetrick didn’t reply to that. He liked a beer now and again as much as any man. It was company he was particular about.
“Bout time you got to me,” Nungessor grumbled as he finally walked up to where the owner sat.
“I don’t suppose you have anything worthwhile to add.”
Vinnie scowled. “If I did, don’t know I’d be inclined to tell you.”
“That would not be wise.”
“Yeah. Well, truth is, I don’t know that I can tell you anything helpful.”
“So you didn’t know Christopher Bachman?”
“Who?”
“The victim.”
Nungessor shrugged. “Can’t expect me to know everybody that comes in here. I know my regulars. But this is a business. My doors are open to anybody wants to come in.”
“Even the police?”
Nungessor gave him a little smile. “Even the police. I got nothin’ to hide.”
Hetrick had his doubts about that but he let it slide. “You on your own here tonight?”
“Ronnie was helpin’ out as usual,” he said. Ronnie Huber was his barmaid and lived in an apartment above the tavern. “Complained of a headache. I let her go early.”
“How early?”
“I dunno. The place was busy. I wasn’t watchin’ the clock.”
“Make a guess.”
“Maybe ten-thirty, eleven.”
“We’ll have to talk to her, too.”
“Now?”
From the corner of his eye Hetrick saw Fred coming toward him, loaded down with his evidence case, camera and other paraphernalia. “All done back there, Sticks.”
“We’ll be on our way then.” His gaze swung back to Nungessor. “You can shut down now. Ronnie can be interviewed later. We’ll escort you out and you can lock up.”
“Hey! Can I open tomorrow?”
“We’ll let you know.”

Homage to the Library

Most writers would be inclined to agree the public library was one of the greatest ideas of all time.

My hometown didn’t have a library until 1953. It wasn’t that we were ignorant savages—there were school and church libraries and commercial lending libraries before that time.
Desire for a community library dates back to at least 1866 when an editorial in a local newspaper proclaimed: “A place that is lacking in facilities for gaining information can never hope to compete with other places whose influential people give their children and others the means of personal, intellectual culture. People may come here to make money, and stay for a few years; but we can never hope to have a solid, stable, attractive population unless there be opportunities for proper mental development.”

The writer of the editorial was not without a plan for meeting the goal, either. He suggested a three-story building be erected. The first floor would be rented for stores or offices, the second floor to house the library and the third would be a lecture hall. He thought rent of the stores would pay a good percentage of the library expenses and said occasional lectures by popular speakers would fund the rest. He felt a membership of 150 persons who contributed about $3 annually would keep up the supply of papers and periodicals and add some new books.

Unfortunately, his plan did not bear fruit. There was a fund drive for a library before World War II, but the war interfered with those plans. It took a major campaign headed by the local Woman’s Club and a number of other concerned citizens and organizations to realize the dream which finally resulted in the opening of the facility, which remains a vital factor in boosting the cultural and educational level of the community. It’s worth noting, women’s clubs were a chief proponent in the move to establish libraries in the U.S. after the Civil War. So, ladies, a tip of the hat to you.

Though we lacked a public library, my family had a good supply of books at home and the several independent bookstores which existed in the town at the time got a good share of my spending money.

Libraries are another of those good ideas we owe to the Greeks. And they weren’t even the first to have them. The concept existed in ancient China and the Central Library of Astan Quds Razavi in Mashhad, Iran, is more than six centuries old. The Francis Trigge Chained Library of Grantham, Lincolnshire, England, dates back to 1598 and is still in use.

Benjamin Franklin was responsible for the opening of the first in my home state in 1731—one of his best ideas, in my opinion. The Quebec Library, the first publicly funded in Canada, opened in 1779. But Mexico pre-dates both in claiming the first public library in the New World. Don Juan de Palafox y Mendoza, bishop of Puebla and Viceroy of New Spain, opened the Palafoxian library in 1646 when he expelled the Jesuits and confiscated their books. This library still exists and holds some of the oldest books in North and South America.

The point of all this is, of course, is recognition of National Library Week, April 11-17.
With the advantage of the Internet and having a large personal library, I don’t frequent my public library as often as I did in the past. But I’m eternally grateful for its existence and to those who maintain it and I believe the world would be a bleaker place without the public library. Truthfully I’ve probably spent more indoor time in libraries and book shops than anywhere else. And, if I have to be indoors, I can think of few places I’d rather be.

Wanna Kiss a Frog?

It seems there’s a day or month to celebrate everything under the sun. April is National Frog Month.

Some might ask why should we celebrate the frog? Well, to me, the frog is one of the most anticipated harbingers of spring. When I was a boy their singing from a nearby marsh announced the arrival of this cherished season. The marsh is gone now, paved over and sanitized. I miss that familiar herald and have to go elsewhere in search of it. Though more fond of birds, the noble Gilbert White among other naturalists had good things to say for the amphibian.

The back legs of a frog are a delicacy worthy of gratitude, and the source of an unflattering nickname for our French friends.

In many cultures the lowly frog is considered magic and symbolic of water and, therefore, life. The frog and lotus symbol is found all over Egypt and India. Frogs are also found frequently in the myths of the American Indian. If you care to go classical, consider Plutarch’s comment, “…though the boys throw stones at frogs in sport, yet the frogs do not die in sport but in earnest.”

The frog hasn’t fared so well in literature. There’s that repugnant reference in Macbeth and the sporting link in Twain’s tale. He comes off little better in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses” when the shepherds are turned to frogs for having taunted Latona.

Really though, there’s a serious reason for paying homage to the humble frog. Their numbers are declining and scientists are concerned not only for the welfare of the frog but for what it might mean to us and other creatures. The National Wildlife Federation is looking for volunteers for its Frogwatch USA program which seeks means of helping the frog survive. Check out the program here http://www.nwf.org/WildlifeWatch/

Homage to the Humble Pencil

Today is National Pencil Day.

Personally I think it’s an observance that should be international, maybe even a worldwide holiday.

Next to the gift of speech and the advent of reading what has been more important to the spread of ideas then the means to transcribe them? Though writers today are less apt to use a pencil, the humble instrument is still valued by artists, carpenters and craftsmen, not to mention children.

The original pencil was probably the stylus, a stick of metal used to scratch symbols on papyrus. Sometime in the early 16th century, a deposit of graphite was discovered in Cumbria, England, revolutionizing the instrument. Erroneously mistaken for a variety of lead, it was referred to as plumbago (Latin for lead ore). We still refer to the core of the pencil as lead.

Graphite was deemed so valuable ownership of the mines was taken over by the Crown and England held a monopoly on pencil making for a lengthy period. Nicholas Jacque Conte, a Frenchman, perfected the instrument in the form we know it today in 1795.

Americans imported pencils from Europe until after the Revolution. William Munroe, a cabinetmaker in Concord, Mass., is credited with the first American-made pencils in 1812. Henry David Thoreau, a more famous resident of Concord, later developed an improved pencil-making process, binding inferior graphite with clay. Joseph Dixon, another Massachusetts inventor, was the first to mass produce pencils in this country and Dixon pencils are still among the most popular.

Artists from Leonardo to Durer, from Rembrandt to masters in modern times, such as Eakins and Wyeth, have cherished the pencil. Just look at this selection by Rembrandt, http://images.google.com/images?hl=en&q=rembrandt+drawings&revid=2084579844&resnum=0&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=y4qvS_LfA4P98Aa7-eCiDw&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CBgQsAQwAA
Or these from Constable’s sketchbooks, http://www.vam.ac.uk/collections/paintings/galleries/display/constable/index.html as examples of what beauty can be created with a mere pencil.

As noted, the pencil isn’t the chief instrument of the writer today. But John Steinbeck is said to have used up 300 pencils in the writing of East of Eden. Hemingway also relied on the pencil for his first drafts and Nabokov was another advocate. There are still writers who start a story in longhand, feeling it’s more intimate; not so many as in the past, though; machines have spoiled most of us.

Still, I think it important we all recognize our debt to the pencil and pay homage at least once a year.

We're All Guilty

Today is the International Day of Remembrance of Slavery Victims and the Transatlantic Slave Trade and I have seen not a single reference to it in the media this morning.

The United Nations proclaimed March 25 as a day to annually honor the lives of those who died as a result of slavery or experienced the horrors of the slave trade. It is also an occasion to raise awareness about the dangers of racism and prejudice.

What’s that? Your ancestors didn’t have any slaves, you say. Doesn’t matter. You’re still guilty.

Slavery and the prejudice which feeds such abominable practices isn’t restricted to one race, ethnicity, culture or religion. There’s enough guilt to go around and we need once and for all to rid ourselves of the stupid opinion one human being is worth less than another on the basis of race, appearance, belief or whatever excuse we can find for separating us.

An estimated 17 million people were transported against their will and held in bondage between the 16th and 19th centuries. This violation of human rights was conducted and/or condoned by whites, blacks, Christians, Jews and Muslims (as well as agnostics and atheists).

Even the U.S. Constitution—seen as a model for documents ensuring tolerance and freedom for all—is tainted by provisions which comprised on the issue of slavery and the slave trade. Luther Martin, a delegate from Baltimore, labeled as absurd that the United States should permit states to continue “…the only branch of commerce which is unjustifiable in its nature and contrary to the rights of mankind.”

It’s economic and personal ramifications are still being felt today in countries which have abolished slavery. And, unfortunately, the practice has not been eradicated worldwide.

In his message for this year’s observance, U.N. Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon said, in part, “Slavery and slavery-like practices continue in many parts of the world. Slavery is mutating and re-emerging in modern forms, including debt bondage, the sale of children and the trafficking of women and girls for sex. Its roots lie in ignorance, intolerance and greed.”

Observing Genealogy Day

National Genealogy Day will be observed on Saturday. As one who has spent considerable time on genealogy I thought it appropriate to expend a few words on the subject here.

Since retiring from the newspaper business in 2000 I have been librarian of our county historical society where I assist people with genealogy and historical research. I was doing it on a personal basis long before that and took on this responsibility partly to share what I had learned, but also because I enjoy it.

Call it a hobby if you will, but it is one pursued by increasing numbers of people around the world. I like the solving of puzzles, the detective work necessary to tracking down that elusive ancestor and discovering why he did this instead of that. It can become an absorbing addiction.

Genealogy is best defined as the study of family history. There was a time when it was chiefly the pursuit of maiden women and doddering eccentrics who sought some glory for themselves in the achievements of their ancestors.

As Plutarch wisely put it many centuries ago, “It is indeed a desirable thing to be well descended, but the glory belongs to our ancestors.”

People now pursue genealogy for a variety of reasons. For some, like the Mormons, it is a necessary adjunct to their religion. Others are simply curious about the lives of their ancestors or need to confirm facts in order to join the Daughters of the American Revolution, Mayflower Society and similar groups. More recently, there has been an emphasis on inherited diseases and genetic influence.

In truth, we are the sum of what we inherit from our ancestors, though we make our own additions to the mix. I like to recall Edmund Burke’s comment, “People will not look forward to posterity who never look backward to their ancestors.”

Irish-American Heritage Month

March is Irish-American Heritage Month. In honor of the observance, I offer these notes:

Fleeing famine and brutal oppression, more than a million Irish refugees flocked to the U.S. between 1846-1855 in search of opportunity for a better life. It’s been estimated an amazing 44 percent of immigrants in that period were Irish.

They worked whatever jobs they could find and were routinely exploited. That exploitation was partially based on their poverty and willingness to accept whatever wages they could get. A more shocking element was religious bigotry. The majority of the immigrants were Roman Catholic and anti-Papist sentiments boiled up in tandem with economic concerns in this same period. Newspapers of the period are full of examples of anti-Catholic/Irish sentiment, including cartoons depicting them as savages and animals.

Many of the Irish found their way to Pennsylvania’s anthracite coal region where they encountered some of the worst exploitation and hatred. Wayne Broehl in his excellent The Molly Maguires says “All the past hatreds and slights came welling up again, and the mining patches were quickly divided, physically and socially, along ethnic lines. Soon the Irish turned to protective societies.”

Among these societies were the Molly Maguires, still controversial today with many refusing to believe the organization existed or was guilty of the alleged crimes. It's probable more atrocities were attributed to them than did exist. But the organization’s existence is documented and people do have a tendency to strike back at oppression.

In the 1870s, an expanding economic depression pitted mine owners and their laborers, particularly the Irish, in conflict over wages and working conditions. This situation spawned a wave of violence that was not limited to the Irish. The Molly Maguires became a scapegoat for those in authority.

It’s against this backdrop I’ve set my novel Watch The Hour in a fictional patch called Masonville. Why fictional and not an actual patch? Simply because the fictional setting did not limit me to a known set of circumstances. I was able to depict my characters and their actions in a historically-accurate setting but controlled by my imagination.

Benjamin Franklin Yeager is a coal company police officer. He does his best to follow orders while trying to be fair to the workers whose lot he sees as little different from his own. Despite his efforts at fairness, Yeager’s job makes him the enemy of the Irish. And that’s the crux of his troubles. For Ben is in love with an Irish girl.

The love interest is central to the story (I prefer to call it the Romeo and Juliet element). But, as one recent reviewer noted, “There are numerous other interesting characters and entertaining subplots that not only make Ben’s life and decisions more difficult, but create tragedy and sorrow for those already suffering under the oppression of an American feudal system meant to take advantage of the masses by the rich and powerful.”

That clearly spells out the early Irish experience and not just in the coal region.