Ch19 - Sgt. Vince's neighborhood - Parolee-to-platers program produces some "remarkable results"

CHAPTER 19 SGT. VINCE’S NEIGHBORHOOD Fall 1980

Vince possessed a unique law enforcement background, having

been locked-up twice. His awards for military Purple Hearts totaled three, P-O-W medals only one fewer. Thus Vince had experienced the anguish associated with being incarcerated, the uncertainty surrounding confinement and the eventual joy of release.

Service as a police officer improved on soldier status, tough European campaigns across 1942-44. Raised in Kansas City’s little Italy, sometimes termed the North End, Vince played multiple sports across Kessler Park fields. His military background meriting a police academy slot, although one delayed three years from Army discharge, class of 1948. Following promotion to sergeant, Vince worked mainly midnights, frequently assigned to Central Patrol.

A few hundred yards south of Cliff Drive a cluster of elegant homes had been built near the 20th century’s beginnings.

Medically-related wealth curiously began there with erection of a

carriage house. Settling for carriage house living freed the larger building’s parlor for waiting room use, its library for service as an exam area and its dining room for surgical suite service. A large home thus became a privately-owned hospital, one a surgeon nurse couple offered to industrial patients. The risky nature of blue-collar work would assure them a steady supply of surgical candidates.

While Gladstone and Benton boulevard homeowners hadn’t petitioned city leaders to designate their neighborhoods as Tops, the term Bottoms took root in Preservation removed by fewer than eight hundred yards from the Beau Arts crowd. Curiously, America’s class system can originate in street addresses. Elegant avenues are generally afforded classy labels like Somerset or Sunset while plainer through-o-fares settle for simpler tags, Food Lane or even Asparagus Acres. Vince’s calls to modest Guinotte or Nicholson addresses were handled identically to those originating in Beau Arts mansions, his North Star did not flicker.

A mother suspicioned of shoplifting meat at Monteil’s would be questioned. If her purpose were that of feeding hungry children, Vince checked to see whether cheap hamburger or pricy steaks had been pilfered. Steaks generally meant a night in jail but the more believable hamburger account merited a police ride with donated meat. Snoops would have been too far removed to overhear Vince.

No more calls from Monteil’s – Capisce?

Unfettered decision-making applied to domestic roll-ups, such as when a prized Zippo lighter had been hurled out a window by a jealous wife. Vince waited for the yelling to abate and for them to return to bed. High-pitched screams, though, Vince didn’t knock, steel-toed boots cleared door hinges as readily as locksets.

Apprehending individuals engaged in illegal schemes didn’t have much effect, hardly the case for suicide calls, though. Vince rejected the odd successful suicide assertion, countering, This didn’t have to happen, invoking that same expression the night of Hound’s disappearance. What a lousy start-of-shift, taking a report from two women whose dog had been taken while they paid for takeaway food.

Opportunities to grow vegetables produced remarkable changes in most parolees. However, the Snoops observed one man tilling

soil past sundown, cultivating out-of-season, too. When Fr. Jacob had initially presented parolees with rototilled plots, Patch devised an alternate purpose, repurposing his as a stolen parts repository, anticipating an illicit Easter egg hunt. When others made light of his poor yields, Patch protested. My stuff will come up when it’s time.

Following the Columbus Day St. Francis raid, Patch enlarged tillage by adding an unattended compost pile removed by four sets of railroad tracks. With Proffit dispatched to Kingsville, Patch’s primary concern was being upstaged by a second thief.

Patch and Dog Man had first encountered one another on July’s fourth Sunday at 291-highway’s motorcycle swap meet. Patch learned how Dog Man had inherited a farm outside Blairstown, Missouri. Not much inclined toward physical work, he had repurposed the acreage as an unlicensed Animal Sports Center, one hosting fight-to-the-death contests alternatively victimizing dogs or roosters. The evil nature of animal fighting was magnified by cash purses that attracted unruly crowds originating in out-of-the-way places.

Aware animal cruelty charges could translate into serious jail time, Dog Man welcomed alternate activities. Helping Patch fence stolen parts must have qualified. Conversely, Patch reasoned Dog Man’s familiarity with felons, con-men and scam-artists could enlarge a larcenous daisy chain.

On Thursday preceding 1980’s last swap, Patch phoned Dog Man, sarcastically confirming his parts crop was ready, requesting Dog Man help him haul the parts to the swap meet. Sunday morning Patch fumed when Dog Man arrived late, accompanied by three caged, panting dogs. But the two trespassed without incident, unearthing Patch’s shiny Harley parts which they loaded behind the cages.

If Vince had merely noted the shiny, soil-clad parts, he might have given them a pass. But why would a dog breeder haul his charges through a rail yard on a Sunday morning? And why was a gaunt family pet caged beside two Staffordshire pit bull terriers? Viewing the Henry County truck loaded with caged dogs and shiny motorcycle parts, Vince activated the light bar.

The dialogue began calmly, reasonable questions posed by Vince, unlikely replies from Dog Man and Patch. Inquiring if the dogs were pets, Vince found Dog Man’s answer uninformative, deceptive really. After radioing-in their licenses, the dispatcher indicated both possessed outstanding arrest warrants. Confident in Sunday morning arrest skills, Vince handcuffed and seated both on a nearby curb.

The dispatcher indicated Arnie Patchet had graduated to receiving stolen property, alteration of VIN numbers and buying liquor for minors. Dog Man matched Patch in the stolen property and VIN categories but raised him with animal cruelty charges.

Vince’ wife sent him to the job with an ice water thermos, one he used to water three appreciative dogs. Patch lowered his eyes as Vince ear tickled the Staffordshire terriers but Dog Man stared straight ahead.

Having never understood the Harold’s dognapping sequence, Vince briefly entertained a you-don’t-suppose thought, wondering if these two losers figured in that. One hundred yards north, concealed within a complicated set of understory woods, lay the object of Vince’ concern.

Distinguishing Hound’s outline there would have required binoculars and patience. And unless the sun glanced at a specific angle, creating a glint across his eyes, the likelihood of seeing Hound witness his tormenters being taken to jail were remote. A dog never forgets a scent, bad or good.

With Patchet re-incarcerated, Morris Johnson, Jr was the only parolee still residing on the church grounds. The young AfricanAmerican male’s criminal justice issues could have been summarized using a single term, car problems. Grand theft auto jailtime complete, he investigated transportation alternatives beyond automobiles, shortly visiting K-L-W. Inside the bicycle store, Morris gaze fixed on the panoramic photo of Kern and Schultz at speed, one featuring multiple selling points. Certainly, Morris sensed race excitement and, yes, he noted the ebullience of the short-man’s exclamatory leap. But mainly he stared at the photo’s depiction of a snap-capped African-American man standing near the track’s rail.

As Kern approached, Morris took the conversational lead.

Mister, that’s you racing on that big lumber track, isn’t it!

Kern, normally a master of quickness, followed. It’s me, all right.

Think you might like to do that?

Perhaps appreciative of the older man’s interest, Morris posed a question. Yes, but what does it cost to become a bicycle racer?

Kern, the have a nice day dispatcher, searched for a more meaningful answer. A lifetime, devotion, hard work, more.

Staring at the photo Morris matched the facial characteristics of the smaller cyclist with those of his seventy-three-year-old companion. The shop guys later concurred that George and Morris connected, leading to speculation George was a Louis L’Amour devotee, too.

Following a review of Morris’ height and build, George climbed the sliding ladder to retrieve a full-on racing bicycle. And as if funding weren’t an issue, he provided a sales presentation suitable for an accountant, maybe even a dentist, describing the Fuji-theFinest’s lug features and high-end drivetrain. Handing it to Morris, George summarized. This is just what you need.

Morris straddled the bike, bearing down on the Finest’s handlebars, replicating the photo’s race postures. Handing the Finest back to the owner, Morris’ body language spoke volumes, variably chewing gum, none present, hands in-and-out of pockets, nothing being retrieved. Sensing the younger man’s discomfort, Kern intervened. What is your name again?

Morris, Morris Johnson, Jr. Well, Morris Johnson, Jr., I’ll make some phone calls in your behalf.

Why don’t you return here Monday and we’ll try to find a job for you here at K-L-W. So you don’t forget, here’s a wearable reminder. Rather magically George produced a flip-billed painter’s cap, one featuring Fuji on its bill and Finest scripted down both sides.

Later that day George initiated two phone calls, the first to Fr. Jacob, inquiring if Morris were, as he quipped, one of the good guys.

No need to violate the Seal, Father, publicly available information.

Voicing no reservations, Jacob cleared Morris’ first hurdle.

George shortly phoned Racer, requesting his friend show Morris

the ropes, amateur bicycle racing basics. Racer, I’m going to stake a new guy with a F-U-J-I Finest, maybe make him the next Major Taylor.

Softly, almost inaudibly, Kern thanked Racer without waiting for a reply. Matters had changed in an instant, actually with that Finest cap. For the first time in his adult life, someone believed in Morris Johnson, Jr. George Kern did.