Daddy's Gone a Hunting

15

When he drove into what had been the Connelly complex, Jack Worth was shocked at the amount of destruction. Even though it was a cold, damp day, a crowd of onlookers, kept at a distance by lines of yellow tape, were watching as firefighters continued to walk through the rubble, their heavy boots protecting them from the heat of the cluttered ruins. The hoses they were holding sent forceful gallons of water onto the smoldering pockets throughout the wreckage. Jack pushed his way to the front and caught the attention of a policeman who was on guard to keep anyone from slipping through the ropes. When Jack identified himself, he was taken to see one of the fire marshals, Frank Ramsey.

Ramsey did not waste his words. “I know we spoke to you at the hospital and I’d like to verify a few of the statements you made. How long have you been working here?”

“Over thirty years. I have an accounting degree from Pace University and was hired as an assistant bookkeeper.” Anticipating further questions, he explained, “Old Mr. Connelly was still alive then, but he died shortly after I started to work here. It was two years before the boating accident that took the lives of one of his sons and his daughter-in-law as well as four other passengers. By then, even though I was pretty young, I was head accountant.”

“When were you put in charge of the whole operation?”

“Five years ago. There was a big turnover then. The former plant manager retired. His name is Russ Link. He lives in Florida now. I can give you his address there. Over the past ten years our craftsmen have been retiring. Gus was the last to go, just as I took over, and quite frankly it had to be forced. He simply wasn’t capable of doing the work anymore.”

“Do you have an outside accounting firm?”

“Absolutely. They can verify that the business was going downhill.”

“Is the business insured?”

“Of course it is. There is a separate policy for the antiques.”

“How much is that policy?”

“Twenty million dollars.”

“Why weren’t the security cameras working?”

“As I told you, the company hasn’t been doing well lately. As a matter of fact, we’re losing money hand over fist.”

“You mean you couldn’t afford to fix the security cameras?”

Jack Worth had been sitting in a folding chair facing Marshal Ramsey in the back of a mobile police van. For a moment he broke the eye contact he had been making with Ramsey, then said, “Mr. Connelly was looking into several security systems, but didn’t want to commit to one of them yet. He said to hold off because he was expecting to sell the business as soon as he got the right offer for the land.”

“And, once again: Did you know that Kate Connelly was meeting the former employee, Gus Schmidt, here early this morning?”

“Absolutely not,” Jack said forcefully.

“Mr. Worth, we will be speaking to you at length again. Do you have a business card?”

Jack fished in the pocket of his trousers. “I’m sorry. I ran out without my wallet.” He hesitated and then added, “Which means I’m not carrying my driver’s license. I’d better not get stopped by a cop on my way home.”

Frank Ramsey did not respond to the attempted touch of levity. “Please leave your address and phone number or numbers with me. You’re not planning to leave the area, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” Now Jack Worth bristled. “You have to understand, all of this is overwhelmingly shocking to me. I’ve worked for this company for over thirty years. Gus Schmidt was my friend. I’ve watched Kate Connelly grow up. Now Gus is dead and Kate may not make it. How do you think I feel?”

“I am sure that you’re very upset.”

Jack Worth knew what the fire marshal was thinking. As plant manager, Jack should have insisted that the complex be protected by security cameras. And Ramsey was right. But wait till this guy gets a handle on Doug Connelly, he thought grimly. Ramsey might get some idea of the kind of boss I was dealing with.

A policeman was handing Jack a pad and pen. He scrawled his name, address, and cell phone number on the paper and handed it over to the cop and turned abruptly. They can’t charge me for not fixing equipment, he thought, as, hands in pockets, he made his way back to his car.

The curiosity seekers were beginning to disperse. The few burning embers were smaller and scattered.

Jack’s car was a three-year-old BMW. He had been planning to buy a new one, but that couldn’t happen now. He didn’t have a job and he’d have to be careful about appearances.

It wasn’t even one o’clock in the afternoon, but he felt as though it were midnight. He’d gone to bed late and then the phone call had come about the plant. Less than three hours’ sleep, he thought, as he drove toward his home in nearby Forest Hills. The traffic was heavy and he realized he had had nothing to eat since last night. When he got home, he’d fix something for himself and take a nap.

But a half hour later, when he was sitting at the breakfast counter in the kitchen his ex-wife had so lovingly planned fifteen years ago, a beer and ham-and-cheese sandwich in front of him, his phone rang. It was Gus Schmidt’s daughter, Gretchen, calling from Minneapolis. “I’m at the airport,” she said, her voice trembling. “Jack, you have got to promise me that when the police start digging into my father’s past, you will stand up for him and say you never believed he meant it when he said he’d like to blow up the plant.”

Jack reached for the beer as he promised with a fervent tone, “Gretchen, I will tell anyone who asks that Gus was a fine, good man who is the unfortunate victim of circumstances.”