Chapter 23: SeaGuard Trucking, LLC

October 12th, 1995, 8:15 AM MST, Holiday Inn & Suites, Phoenix, AZ

The evening before was interesting to say the least; John was impressed with how efficiently his son had sorted wheat from chaff in the information relating to the train derailment. He had quickly concluded a number of things that even the trained investigators of the NTSB and FBI had missed. It wasn’t evidential; it was logical, and based on understanding the motives of human beings.

The derailment narrative being played out in the news by the FBI and the NTSB was leaning towards somebody intentionally derailing the Sunset Limited. This was based on the fact that the derailment was obviously intentional. They didn’t seem to be thinking realistically; they were thinking based on things like the 1993 World Trade Center bombing a couple of years ago and the Oklahoma City bombing earlier this year. Those targets made some sense as terrorism targets; the virtual tank-like construction of the train, low passenger count - especially with the delay - location of the train, and other such factors made it a terrible target for terrorism.

George had seen that instinctively and discarded it out of hand. Having ruled the obvious likely to be impossible, he had discarded all the nonsense, and picked up the actual real data, most of which the FBI didn’t even seem to be aware of. Removing the assumption that they didn’t derail the wrong train quickly lined up an entirely different narrative that made a lot of sense. Exactly what George concluded: An intended robbery of a high-value freight train gone wrong.

John got out of bed and quickly got dressed; he, like his son, was short of clothes, and nice slacks, a button-down shirt, and a tie was the best he could do. A suit and tie would have been better, but he didn’t include one in his go-bag. He then quickly walked down the hall to room 306, and knocked on the door.

“I’m indecent,” Jill replied from inside the room.

“Always,” John replied, “But are you dressed?”

“She’s almost dressed,” George replied, “Give us a second.”

A minute later, the door opened and both of them were at the door, and the three of them walked to the elevator, and went down to the hotel’s restaurant. They sat down to insanely bland Holiday Inn breakfast food.

“I think we talked out the wreck last night,” John said, “I’m going to call Billy at the SP to find out what was on Hot Shot 162, and if the cargo confirms all your suspicions, I’m going to go down to the police headquarters. I know a guy in the detectives department who will probably know who could pull off an operation like this.”

“Do you want to go with us to the hospital first, dad?” George asked, “I assume you want to meet our friends.”

“All in good time,” John said, “I want to make sure you aren’t embarking on a gigantic mess in the wrong direction.”

“Ok, John,” Jill said, “We’ll see you at the hospital later then.”

“See you later, dad,” George said.

“Love you guys, meet you at the hospital.”

John went back to his room, looked up a phone number in his little black book, and dialed a number.

“Bill Knight,” a voice answered, “Espee Logistics Office.”

“Hey Billy,” John said, “John Caldwell.”

“John,” Billy replied, “It sure has been a while. What can I do for you?”

“I’m sure you’ve already been asked for it,” John said, “But I need the manifest from a train, Hot-Shot 162, that was operating around Phoenix on October 9th.”

“That train?” Billy replied, “I know it; it got stuck for two days due to the wreck. I got a lot of trouble for not being able to reroute it quickly, there was some really high priority cargo on it. But nobody else has asked about it. I have the manifest right here.”

John was speechless for a moment. Nobody asked for it? They didn’t even entertain what we were thinking? They should trade their motto for Fuck-ups, Bozos, and Ignoramuses!

“Let’s imagine you were interested in robbing that train,” John said, “What would you be going for on that manifest?”

“There’s a computer mail-order operator in Phoenix,” Billy said, “They had 8 double piggy-back cars on that train, sixteen trailers, loaded with expensive electronics. I know because it was given extra insurance, and there was note for it on the manifest, like $20 million worth of insurance.”

“Yeah, I think you just put your finger on it.”

“Anything else?” Billy asked.

“Who knew about it? Anyone you would be worried about?”

“Mickey Mills, perhaps,” Billy said, “The old yard foreman, who got fired a few months ago, he was always asking about what was coming through.”

“Does he work anywhere?”

“Oh yeah,” Billy said, “He got a job as manager at a local truck firm.”

Jesus, this is easy as hell, the puzzle is just lining up! John thought to himself.

“What truck firm?”

“Oh, Sea-Guard Trucking.”

“Thanks, Billy,” John said, “You’ve been more help than you can know. Also, if the FBI comes asking about that train let me know, call me at home.”

“Sure thing, John,” Billy said, “Buh-bye.”

“Talk to you soon,” John said, hanging up.

Mickey Mills? Sea-Guard Trucking? George couldn’t be 100 percent right, could he?

John went down to the lobby, and up to the front desk, and rang the bell. The desk clerk came out looking surly, and asked, “Whaddaya want?”

“I’d like you to call me a cab.”

“Ok, you’re a cab.”

“Hahaha.”

“That all?”

“Yes,” John said, “Just call me a cab.”

“I already called you a cab, pal.”

“Son,” John said, “I am not in the mood for this bullshit. Do your job, or I am going to report you to the hotel’s manager.”

“I am the hotel’s manager.”

“That explains a great many things,” John said, “I’ve been interested in getting into the hotel business. Perhaps I can buy this hotel. It would need a new manger, though.”

“Huh?”

“Just call the fucking cab.”

As George and Jill were walking towards the front desk, Miguel and the Roberts kids exited the elevator.

“Want to share a cab to the hospital?” Jill asked.

“I doubt they’ll call us a cab,” Miguel said.

“Want to bet?” George laughed.

“$10 says you can’t, $20 says you’ll talk to him for more than 15 seconds.”

“You got yourself a bet, Miguel,” Jill said, and walked up to the front desk. She hammered out ‘Rule Britannia!’ on the front desk’s bell. The desk clerk came out and eyed her nervously.

“Eight people.”

“Yes, M’am,” he said, and then picked up the phone.

Miguel took out thirty dollars from his wallet and handed it to Jill. Once they were in the van, though, Miguel asked her a question:

“How did you do that?”

“I’m very convincing. Did you have trouble with him before?” Jill asked.

“He told me he didn’t call cabs for spics.”

“He told Josh he didn’t call cabs for Jews, either,” George said, “I told Jill if he does that again, we don’t have to be so nice.”

“I’m not going to be as nice as last time,” Jill said, “I only threatened to break his finger last time. Next time I’ll break his arm, and I ain’t gonna threaten first, either.”

“You can’t do that,” Jessica said, “Unless you buy me popcorn first.”

“Buy your own popcorn, girl,” Jill laughed.

They got to the hospital, and went up to the room. Jill and George kissed their greetings to Josh and Akilah, and Sharon’s kids kissed their greetings to Sharon.

“I called your father this morning,” Sharon told the kids, “He is coming to pick us up tomorrow night.”

Jill heard a bunch of heated discussion going on on the other side of the curtain, but she was trying to tune it out. The inner workings of the Roberts family was not her business. She kinda liked Jessica, but she was ... she was an innocent, in a lot of ways. She couldn’t save the whole world; her trying to remain uninvolved was her defense mechanism against her desire to fix every damned problem she came across. The truth was, neither she nor George were very good at executing that defense.

Jessica came around the curtain, “Jill can I talk to you privately?”

“Of course,” Jill said, and the two of them went down the hall to a family lounge.

“She called my fucking father, Jill,” Jessica said, “She doesn’t remember he tried to kill us. I don’t know what to do.”

“Why don’t you remind her that he tried to kill you?”

“I doubt she would believe me,” Jessica said, “She’s talking about him like she’s still totally in love with him.”

“Tell her that he raped you,” Jill said, “I’m sure that will change her mind.”

“What if she doesn’t believe me?”

“Jump off that bridge when you come to it,” Jill replied, “As George likes to say. There is no point to considering what might happen. Your mother is a good woman and she loves you. I think she’ll believe you, Jess, and if she doesn’t you can go to the police.”

“That’s funny,” Jessica said with no mirth at all, “My dad is a police officer.”

“Oh.”

“Is that the best you can do?” Jessica sighed, “Oh?”

“Lets start with telling your mom what your dad has done,” Jill said, “Both things. If that doesn’t work we can consider more strident solutions to your sexually pestiferous father.”

“Why do you talk like that?”

“I’m practically engaged to an 18 year old English major,” Jill said, “And I read a whole lot of old books. I’m sorry for that.”

“Don’t be,” Jessica said, “It just makes you seem cold and distant, when I need more warmth, I think.”

“You have some powerful friends, Jessica,” Jill said, giving her a hug, “It will all work out well in the end, ok?”

“Ok,” Jessica said, more doubtful than one would hope.

October 12th, 1995, 11 AM CT, David’s House, Malvern, Arkansas

Sargent David Roberts was absolutely over the moon. His stupid wife, that ugly old cow, had just been involved in a train wreck, and somehow, it had affected her memory. She didn’t remember their divorce, or any of that stuff. He was going to be able to get his kids back, even ... even Jessica! She was the true love of his life, after all. She was so sexy, and so ... she fought back. Her mother didn’t do that.

He had been trying for so long to get Jessica back. Sharon had taken her, hell, all of the kids away from him. That’s why his friend had tampered with her stupid old Checker. He was hoping he could kill her and then he’d get custody of his children again. He’d get to spend more time with Jessica, and in their bed. Jessica loved him, he knew it; if she didn’t she would have told on him.

Sharon, that bitch, she had let herself go. Maybe if she hadn’t let herself go, he wouldn’t have needed to go into his daughter’s bed. She had been so hot, once. Nice boobs, firm ass, perfect hourglass figure, lips to die for. She was a cheerleader, and a tiger in bed. But she put on weight; she was a bit soft and jiggly. She had wrinkles on her face. She was old, and fat, and she just wasn’t as good in bed anymore. And she always made him angry. So did his kids.

What was he supposed to do with them? Tell them good job for making him angry? No, they were misbehaving if they made him angry. He had to show them what they should do and should not do. His dad had used a leather belt on him; it was readily available to him. They needed to feel just how angry they made him. They shouldn’t be talking so much, or watching the TV so loud, or watching shows he didn’t like, or slurping when they ate.

He knew Sharon went easy on them in her house, and it made him angry. They needed a firm hand, they needed to be taught to mind. Growing up wasn’t supposed to be all about having fun and giggles, especially not when they were doing it loudly and annoying him. You are supposed to fear your parents; it said so in the Bible. You are supposed to honor them; his children didn’t honor him and they often didn’t fear him enough. They didn’t fear Sharon either, because she was too easy on them.

Once he had them back in his control, he could teach them to be the way they should be.

He packed some of his clothes into his bag, and threw it into his truck, a 1992 Ford F-350 Crew Cab with a lift kit and big tires, and the 7.3 liter International diesel, backed up to a 5-speed manual. It had extra chrome and he had someone paint flames on the hood of the otherwise black truck. He also had installed big chrome exhausts and he loved rolling coal in it. He also had a full set of air horns mounted on the roof.

He backed the thing out of his driveway, injecting it into traffic and forcing people to slam on their brakes. He was a cop; he could drive how he saw fit. What were they going to do? Call him on himself? He accelerated hard in first and second gears, spewing black smoke on the people who looked at him askance for his rude driving behavior. This was his town, damn it.

He soon found himself at the gas station where he filled his truck’s custom 50-gallon fuel tank with diesel. After merging onto I-30 going west, he plopped himself in the left lane, and proceeded going 65 mph, and letting the rest of traffic have to figure out their way around him. He liked having that power over people. Forcing people to act how he wanted them to act was his catnip, really. That was why he liked being a cop. He could force people to do whatever he wanted. That was how he got so many women outside the house.

He pulled them over, gave them a list of trumped up charges, and then offered to drop them in exchange for a date. He especially liked using that on the prettier spics. America was supposed to be for white people only. That was God’s will. If others came into his country, and his town, and taunted him, they got what they deserved. He could use his power wherever he wanted.

He was that way with Sharon, Jessica, and the rest of his kids. The only one he didn’t seem to have the ability to control was Jimmy. Jimmy had almost broken his arm last time he had showed up and tried to force Sharon to come back to him. That was why he had resorted to trying to kill her. This was too easy, though. The deer isn’t supposed to come up and look down the barrel of your shotgun.

October 12th, 1995, 10:30 AM MST, Police Headquarters, Phoenix, AZ

At the police station, John walked straight to the detective’s department, and to the desk of Giacobbe “Jack” DiAbbruzzo. Jack was the son of the former chief of the Santa Fe Railroad Police Department, Chief Ottaviano DiAbbruzzo, known by most as Otto Bruiser, although his son was more proud of his Italian heritage, or had more fun listening to people’s mispronunciations of his name. John suspected it was the latter.

In either case, John and Otto had been friends going way back, and knew his son since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. He got along with him very well way back when, and he was almost something of an honorary uncle to the boy. They were still somewhat friendly; certainly on each other’s Christmas card list.

“Jacobe Dee-Ah-broote-so,” John said, “long time no see.”

“John Caldwell,” Jack smiled, “You almost got my name right this time, I haven’t seen you since my old man’s funeral.”

“I know, we never get the chance to see each other for the right reasons, Jack,” John said, “And unfortunately this is another example of that. I need some help with a problem.”

“Anything for you, of course,” Jack said, “How can I help?”

“You have to keep this under your hat, of course.”

“Absolutely, mum’s the word, John,” Jack said, “You are practically family, you know.”

“I need to know who operates large scale crime operations around here, theft in particular.”

“There’s a few people that I suspect,” Jack replied, “Nobody that I can hang anything on. The people who actually manage to make that stuff work are usually very good at it. There was this robbery job, for example, where they created a detour off of a major road, forcing five Wal-Mart distribution trucks carrying shipping containers into a dead end. Then they blindfolded the drivers, moved the tractors down the road a bit, and moved the trailers out of there using their own trucks. Then they called from a payphone to let us know where the drivers were.”

“That’s brilliant,” John said, “They didn’t have to dispose of the tractors, the shipping containers would be scrap, and container frames are a dime a dozen. Was anyone hurt?”

“No,” Jack said, “That’s one of the reasons they are so low priority for me. I kinda know who is doing it, but I can’t prove it. But they go out of their way to avoid hurting anyone, so I have bigger fish to fry, like the drug cartel who has been killing anyone who thinks of snitching about them.”

“Off the record,” John said, “The person I am looking for likely operates a fleet of trucks, and he has to have someone working for him who was a railroad man.”

“What did they steal?”

“This time, nothing,” John said, “I suspect they were trying to steal a bunch of piggy back trailers off of a freight train by derailing it.”

“That might be up the alley of the guy I was thinking of, actually,” Jack said, “Was it meticulously planned and flawlessly executed?”

“The idea was brilliant in its conception,” John said, “The execution was a total screw up and they failed completely and utterly.”

“How did they fail?” Jack said.

“Two ways,” John replied, “The first was that they probably were responsible for derailing the Sunset Limited a few days ago.”

“You think they were responsible for that?” Jack replied, “The feds are convinced it was terrorists.”

“Because terrorists derail slow-moving, largely empty passenger trains, running three days late, on an infrastructuraly irrelevant freight line its operator is trying to abandon,” John said, “That happened to come on the line, by sheer coincidence, just ten minutes ahead of a freight train carrying $20 million worth of electronics on a bunch of piggyback cars.”