Part 1: The Inheritance

I learned of the death of my uncle, Darby Morton Hanswatter, by letter from the law firm of Bindle and Snipe. A certain Mr. Felix Bindle, LLB, wrote advising me that I was the only living heir of the deceased, and would I kindly respond so that they might effect the reading of the will and proceed with probate of the estate. I was shocked and surprised that I had been named in his will, but I supposed it was a case of being the last one standing.

My name is Oswald Charles Hanswatter. My friends call me "Ozzie" or sometimes just "Oz." I am forty-one years old and once again a bachelor. It would appear that whatever inheritance would fall to me from my uncle's estate would end with me since my ex-wife and I had no children.

It set me to thinking. I wondered what the old man could possibly have that would enhance my life. He never appeared to have much money and he lived in such modest circumstances that it was unlikely he had squirreled some substantial nest-egg away in secret.

I too lived modestly. I was the county assessor for Tinsley County, Idaho. As such, I was one of the most misunderstood people in town. It was my department that determined just how much property tax landowners should be responsible for each year. Default, and the county would seize property to resolve the tax liability. I had a number of other responsibilities, chief of which was to cover my boss's ass, Revenue Commissioner Milo Selwind. It was a job that neither boosted one's ego nor made one popular in your own community.

I believe I am a rational, methodical type personality. Perhaps boring to some, but it helps me keep perspective with what's going on around me. I don't tend to over-react in a crisis. Then again, my job seldom presents crisis situations.

My personality was, I believe, the principal reason for my renewed bachelorhood. My wife ran off with a somewhat questionable land developer in the thought that he could provide her with a better, more exciting life. Perhaps he has. I have neither seen nor heard from her in four years. The divorce had been quickly finalized.

As is common with lawyers, you are expected to go to them rather than they come to you. The letter was quite specific that I should meet Mr. Bindle on his turf. It would mean almost a day's drive to Paramount, my uncle's hometown, and I certainly hoped it would be worth the time and expense. I telephoned the gentleman, and together we set a time for our meeting and the reading of the will. It was to be on the following Wednesday, five days hence.

Mr. Bindle offered to make a motel reservation for me, a service for which I am sure his firm would charge the estate. I agreed and spent the brief balance of the call trying to wheedle more information from the man about the inheritance. I got nothing for my efforts. I would just have to wait for the Wednesday meeting.

I hadn't been in Paramount since my teenage years and my arrival on Tuesday afternoon reminded me why. It was a lifeless little settlement, with nothing whatsoever to recommend it. There was no dominant industry, and thus there was nothing to support growth. It was just a place to live. It had the requisite grocery store, gas stations, hardware and building materials stores and two old-fashioned motels, one on each end of Main Street.

I checked into the Paramount Arms Motor Inn just before the supper hour. Despite the upscale name, the fifteen units were nondescript and quite dated -- the nightly rate of $29 reflecting that. I looked about the town for a likely restaurant, but found only a pair of small diners, one at each end of the street. I wouldn't be spending any extra hours in Paramount once the will had been read, that was certain.

I appeared at the front door of Bindle and Snipe promptly at nine the next morning as requested. I was greeted by a middle-aged woman with 1950's attire and a hairdo to match. I began to wonder if I had accidently stepped onto the set of some low-budget movie. She courteously showed me into a large, paneled office, and a tall, thin, balding man rose from his outsized leather chair and held out his hand.

"Mr. Hanswatter, I assume," he said in a deep, rumbling voice.

"Yes ... you must be Mr. Bindle," I replied.

"Yes indeed. Please have a seat, Mr. Hanswatter. I'd like to get this underway as quickly as possible. I have a very busy day ahead of me," he smiled without humor.

I sat down and we began. He handed me a copy of the will and we went through it line by line. I thought I might nod off if he didn't get to the point of the whole exercise soon. His voice had an almost hypnotic effect. I wondered if this was his principal tool in the courtroom; numbing the jury.

When he got to the meat of the issue, I nearly fainted dead away. My uncle's net worth was something on the order of thirty-seven million dollars. For a brief moment, I had a vision of me swimming in dollar bills, wondering what ridiculous excesses I could spend them on. That all came to a crashing halt when he read the next sentence. The man had left every last dime of it to charity; specifically shelters for the homeless in a variety of cities around the country.

I sank back in the chair. I had driven all the way from home to Paramount to listen to the unctuous blatherings of some lawyer playing this enormous prank at my expense. I was beginning to get angry.

"Mr. Bindle, do you mean to tell me I spent all this effort to come here to find out I am to receive nothing?" My voice was rising as I went along.

"No, no, of course not, my dear man! Nothing of the kind!" he exclaimed. "Your uncle has left you this letter and this small carton. Perhaps the letter will explain his actions more clearly. I can tell you that when he wrote this will some years ago, he thought it would be very controversial, but he assured me that it wasn't some cruel hoax being perpetrated on his heirs.

"He changed the will on the death of your mother, the only other remaining Hanswatter besides yourself. He was very serious about this, I can tell you as a certainty. He was sure you, of all people, would recognize the significance of this gift."

I looked at the tall, gaunt figure of Felix Bindle and saw nothing but clear-eyed sincerity. I was reasonably convinced that he was giving me the straight goods. I accepted the letter and the carton, shook his hand and left the office, not a little mystified at what had taken place.

Thirty-seven million dollars, dangled briefly in front of my nose and then snatched away in an instant. I wondered vaguely if I should contest the will. Even if I could pry loose only a few million, I would be set for life. A very happy and luxurious life at that.

When I returned to the motel, I sat down at the aging desk and carefully opened the letter. It was hand-written very nicely in ink with an old-fashioned script. I turned on the desk lamp and began to read.

I sat looking at the flowing penmanship of the old man. I was conscious of the curiosity he had now kindled in me. What had he left me in that small carton that might solve this puzzle? What puzzle? I reached for the carton and broke the seal on the top flap and peered inside. I reached inside with my fingers and extracted the contents.

I appeared to be an old transistor radio. It was housed in a pale blue plastic case with a small chrome aerial and a tacky fabric cover over what presumably was the speaker. The case was the shape of a medium sized pocket book and I guessed the radio's age to be at least forty years.

I was reasonably confident of its age because it had only an AM band on the simple rotary dial. Aside from a small volume control which probably included the on-off switch, it was as basic as it could be. I looked to see if it had any batteries installed, but on cursory inspection, I was unable to find any hatch or opening that would contain a power source. In addition, there was no AC cord or receptacle for a DC transformer. Was this the puzzle?

I looked at the device carefully, but could see nothing that indicated frequency numbers or a manufacturer's brand name. Perhaps it wasn't a radio. Perhaps it was some other type of receiver; short wave or CB or ... what? Only one way to find out. I turned the small black knob clockwise. Hearing a click, the sound of static was immediately forthcoming. I raised the aerial and turned the radio in several directions, but still heard nothing but static.

I began to turn the tuning dial slowly clockwise. When I had moved it only slightly, I could hear a voice. It was a man's voice. I turned the volume knob and the voice came clearly through the speaker.

"President Barnaby has signed the controversial housing bill that narrowly squeaked through Congress. The signing ceremony was held on the White House lawn in brilliant late winter sunshine in the presence of the Secretary of Urban Housing, Elijah Mellor and a host of advocates for low-cost urban shelter and homes. The landmark legislation will provide ten billion dollars per year for the next twenty years to fund construction of thousands of houses in the poorest sections of America's largest cities."

I set the radio on the desk in front of me, barely able to concentrate on that simple act. Who the hell was President Barnaby? What Urban Housing bill? Two hundred billion dollars dedicated to housing? This must be some kind of hoax ... or have I been living in a cave for the last few years?

"In other news, pitchers have begun reporting to the World Champion Washington Nationals at their new training facility in Sarasota, Florida. The defending champs are expected to field an equally strong lineup this year with the addition of free-agent veteran reliever Tom Lumpkin and perennial all-star, slugger Mort Sidle."

Now, this was getting crazy. I knew baseball like I knew my own family. I had never heard of "reliever Tom Lumpkin" or "slugger Mort Sidle." I'd heard of Sarah Sidle, but not Mort. Could I be that out of touch with my all-time favorite sport? No ... no way! And, on top of that, the Washington Nationals! Who are they trying to kid? The last I looked at the standings, they were over twenty games out of a wild-card, much less the division title.

Someone was playing a joke on me. I stopped to think for a moment. There was another issue that suddenly hit home. My meeting with Mr. Felix Bindle was held at nine in the morning on Wednesday, August 12, 2007. The housing bill was signed in "late winter" and the baseball report was about pitchers reporting for spring training — a mid-February event. I reached for the little black knob and turned the radio off.

I leaned back in the chair and stared at the little device. "What the hell was going on?" I asked myself for the fourth or fifth time. Was this the puzzle? It seemed like it, but what kind of a puzzle? Why did Uncle Darby think I was suited to solving this puzzle? I got up from the desk and walked around the motel room aimlessly as I tried to think what was going on.

It was a waste of time. My mind wouldn't comprehend what was happening with this "radio." It was talking about a fictional president, a fictional housing bill, and just as equally fictional, the World Champion Washington Nationals! I sat looking out the window of the dreary motel room and promptly made a decision. I carefully placed the little blue radio in its carton and prepared to leave for home.

I was packed and checked out within fifteen minutes and on the road toward Little River. I'm not absolutely sure why, but I had a sense of urgency about my return home. It felt important that I get there as quickly as possible. In the confines of my modest little bungalow I could dedicate myself to unraveling the puzzle of the powder-blue machine. As I drove, I began to plan my method for solving the unexplainable message the radio delivered.

I wondered if this radio may have been a source of Uncle Darby's wealth. In some way, he may have been able to use the device to make money ... a very large amount of money. Although there had been no outward signs of his financial wellbeing, the money was real enough and Bindle made no bones about the fact that the money and the radio were somehow tied to each other.

I arrived at my house just after ten that evening. I was weary from the long drive, but excited about solving the mystery of my inheritance. I dropped my bag in the bedroom closet and returned to the kitchen table where I had left the carton on my way through. I sat looking at it for a few minutes as I tried to organize my thoughts into a coherent plan of action.

My first decision was to investigate the radio more closely. What was its power source? How many stations would it receive? My hands shook slightly as I extracted the little plastic device from the carton. I turned it over and over, looking at all sides and edges. There was absolutely no sign of any opening for batteries or any other power source.

I went to my "junk drawer," took out a small magnifying glass, and revisited my examination of the case. It appeared to be seamless. I briefly thought of removing the tacky fabric cover over the speaker, then changed my mind. The last thing I wanted to do was to damage the little machine before I understood it.

I sat staring at it once more before I reached tentatively for the little black knob and turned it gently clockwise. Again, only the sound of static. I carefully moved the tuner dial clockwise and soon found a station. I turned up the volume.

"In local news, Saddlebrook County Zoning Chief, Carlton Shambles, was arrested this afternoon on charges of accepting bribes and breach of trust. Also arrested were local property developers Burk Dunkley and Martha Lashem. Both have been charged with offering bribes. An anonymous tip from a well-placed source led to police undercover operations, revealing the illegal activities. The trio will be arraigned on June 19^th in County Court."

I was in shock. My wife ... my ex-wife, Martha, was arrested with that scumbag she ran off with. But she was no more a property developer than I was German royalty. She was nothing more than a pincushion for Dunkley. This didn't make sense. Nothing coming out of that radio made sense. And, once again, the timing didn't make sense. It was August and they wouldn't be arraigned for ten months? And since when did that little shit Shambles get to be the head of Zoning? He's nothing more than a file clerk.

I had to get control of this somehow. I had a hunch what I might be hearing, but it was so bizarre, so preposterous, I couldn't get my head around it. I had to find a way to figure out what was going on with this radio. My thought was to revert to my original plan formulated on my way home. I would get one of my big legal pads and start writing down what I was hearing. Then, I would systematically tune the radio to various stations in sequence, noting what I heard as I went along.

I started with what I could remember from this morning's broadcasts, then the one I had just heard. I listed all the names and specifics I could remember on the pad. When I had written what I could recall, I sat looking at the pad and wondering what next? An idea that came to mind was to Google some of this and see if anything came up.

I took the pad into the office that I had created from my second bedroom. I sat in front of my computer screen for a couple of minutes with my mind wandering in twenty different directions. I had to start somewhere, so I began with typing in Elijah Mellor. It was the only complete name I could remember from the housing story.

It was a minor item on page three of the Google listings, but it caught my eye.

"Elijah Mellor tosses hat in ring," the headline read. "Elijah Mellor, well known local builder and philanthropist, has revealed he will stand for election to the State Senate in Sacramento. Mr. Mellor cited his desire to promote the concepts of urban renewal through low-cost housing and low-cost lending to first-time buyers."

The story went on to describe Mellor's activities and political leanings, although the story made it clear he would stand for election as an independent.

I leaned back in my chair. It fit. It was a perfect fit with the radio news story, but... ! I checked the date of the story and found it was published May 20, 2007, only three months ago. Not much time to launch a campaign and still have a chance to raise the funds necessary to get elected.

Little River, Idaho, was my hometown. I was born here and I suppose I'll likely live here for the rest of my days. There are 4,883 people living here at last count, almost one thousand of them property owners. I like this town and I like Idaho. If my wife hadn't run off with that greasy asshole Dunkley, I'd have a damn nice life.

Martha and I had been married just over ten years when she surprised me with her departure.

"Ozzie, I want you to know that I think you're a fine man and a caring husband, but I'm afraid that just isn't enough. I'm leaving you. I've found someone who can give me all the things that you are unable to. I'm sorry if this is hurtful, but I'll never be happy with this life the way it is. It just isn't exciting enough for me. I wish you well."

She said all this as she stood in the kitchen one morning, wearing her coat and holding two suitcases. She turned and left without saying another word. I was dumbfounded. She had never hinted that she was unhappy or unfulfilled in our marriage. It would be several days later that I discovered the truth.

Martha worked part time at a local real estate office and met Burk Dunkley when he was looking for some property for a small housing development. Burk was nothing if not self-confident and he gave Martha the impression that he was a substantial "wheeler-dealer" in the property world in southern Idaho and eastern Oregon. In fact, he was a small-time hustler with a reputation for shady land transactions, often featuring elderly widows.

Burk was a handsome man in his late forties, with wavy black hair and a big toothy smile. He wore expensive suits with flashy ties and drove a fancy car. In Martha's eyes he oozed success. She found out later that it was all an illusion. As the local saying goes: "Big car — big cigar — no gas!"

Since Martha had abandoned me, our divorce was uncontested and I was unburdened with either alimony or property settlement issues. If Martha had come back to me after discovering how hollow Burk was, I might have considered taking her back. After all, we're all entitled to one mistake. Instead, she decided to reform Burk. She would turn him from a small-timer into a big-timer.

I was lost for quite a few months. I got up in the morning, ate breakfast, made my lunch, went to work at the county office, came home, ate dinner, watched TV or read, and went to bed. I had no sense of purpose during that time. I was just filling the hours. During the spring and summer, I would often drive around looking for a baseball or softball game I could watch. I loved that game, and it was my only relief from the dreary passage of each day.

Finally, I began to realize that what had happened wasn't my fault, so why should I continue to languish in the morose wilderness I had created for myself? I decided I needed to change my life.

I started by taking some night-school classes on computer software applications. I had a good understanding of the basics to start with since all of my work and records were computerized. However, there were a number of interesting programs that I wasn't familiar with and the courses would be helpful. It would also be handing me something to do with my spare time.