Chapter 83 – Blood on the Tracks
Thursday evening June 19, 2008 – 5:15 PM
Frank Newlan took a deep pull off of a freshly rolled joint and he struggled to relax his mind as he sat stuck in traffic just outside the Middlesex Superior Courthouse after completing another long and arduous day sitting in the jury box of the John Breslin murder trial.
Disc one of the Bob Dylan and The Band CD “Before The Flood” had just played through to completion and Newlan craved for more as he hypnotically hit the eject button and swapped in the Dylan classic “Blood On The Tracks” while the traffic on either side of him slowly crawled along.
As was the case for many a hippie of Newlan’s generational era, rock & roll music had the power to alter his consciousness like no drug alone could ever hope to accomplish. But of course when you combined the Buddha-like qualities of Dylan’s nasally voice, along with the powerful reefer which was his poison of choice, the effect was doubly delirious, and so it’s no wonder that from the first notes of “Tangled Up In Blue” he literally felt himself being transformed from a bookish juror into some sort bionic soldier from another universe; he figuratively felt himself morphing into some sort of intrepid warrior who was being sent off on a perilous odyssey from which he might never return; he literally and figuratively felt himself mutating into some sort of hulking superhero, conjured up from a comic book of his youth.
And in his current state of mind, as he edged his way down the road until he had reached the merge onto the highway which would ostensibly lead him back to the comforts of his condo in Medford Massachusetts, his airborne cranium became lost in the clouds of a fantasyland where valiant heroes routinely face-off against treacherous villains and thieves.
The road was sneaking up on Newlan, little-by-little, and in his stupor, as he approached the on-ramp he suddenly straightened out the steering wheel of his car and inexplicably kept on rolling down the line, steadily veering away from the highway in the process. Oddly enough, he was traveling in more or less the opposite direction of his home base, for all intent and purpose headed off to parts unknown.
Perhaps Newlan was subconsciously apprehensive about going home. Perhaps the wanderlust which pervaded his soul from time to time was acting up again, or perhaps he simply needed to get something off his chest. But whatever the reason, Newlan’s beat-up old red Mercury was once again steering him down an unfamiliar road, as if it had a mind of its own and he was just a hijacked passenger, going along for the ride.
Newlan could feel the all too familiar, but entirely inevitable, lump in his throat beginning to swell as the eminent singer/songwriter blamed his long lost love’s departure on a “Simple Twist of Fate”, and as the haunting song came to a poignant end, he felt the warm sting of a single teardrop rolling down his cheek like a bead of sweat. However, rather than wiping away the salty droplet, he did nothing to stop it. Somehow this latest in a long line of emotional bloodlettings felt organic to him; like a tenet built up upon years of heartbreak; as natural as a drop of rain; as traditional as the perplexing running of the bulls.
By the time an outraged Dylan launched into the tale of the “Idiot Wind” Newlan became aware of the fact that he was also being whisked by the currents of lunacy in a southward direction when he passed a traffic sign pointing him towards Route 9 Newton.
“You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go” warbled Dylan on the next song, while at the same time Newlan came to the unavoidable realization that maybe he was running away from the pain which Marianne Plante had put him through all those years ago; and when Dylan segued into the blues-drenched “Meet Me In The Morning” Newlan was catapulted into the midst of an overpowering déjà vu experience.
It had been over two weeks since Newlan and his colleagues made their day-tripping bus ride over to the garage in Newton where Fred Miller’s life came to an abrupt end, and it suddenly dawned on him that he was retracing the exact same steps which the bus driver had taken on that surreal afternoon.
Newlan’s single teardrop turned into a torrent of despair as he sang along with Dylan to a personal favorite of his, “If You See Her, Say Hello”. And then his long and winding journey reached its ultimate apex when the well worn “Shelter from the Storm” came blaring out from his red Mercury’s stereo speakers and he found himself pulling into the dank, musty garage which had haunted his dreams on more than a few occasions in the past fourteen days.
The garage was practically empty at that hour of the evening so Newlan had his choice of parking spots, and he was drawn like a magnet to the very same spot where Sammy Fox was alleged to have strategically located his red Ford Taurus.
Newlan backed into the parking spot just as the mysterious red car had done; the same red car that had been observed to be parked within the crumbling walls of this very garage on multiple occasions during the days leading up to, and finally culminating in, Fred Miller’s murder; the same red car that had never been positively identified, no matter how DA Lyons tried to spin it.
Newlan leaned back in his bucket seat and stared out into the eerie darkness of the garage as the last song on the CD “Buckets of Rain” came to a melancholy end, while at the same time he also came to an uneasy understanding of his own mortality; he came to an awkward appreciation of his own existentiality; he came to an unsettled awareness of his own finality.
Newlan wriggled out of his car and he robotically decided to stroll around the perimeter of the neighborhood while he unknowingly reflected on the day’s events. In his subliminal mind, it was a bad day for the defense. In his imperceptible mind, the plethora of telephone calls and the supporting evidence linking Breslin to those calls was very damaging, if not downright incriminating. In his inaudible mind, John Breslin had some explaining to do.
“They even had evidence of Fox’s cell phone bouncing off the tower on top of the building where Fred Miller worked,” muttered Newlan to himself as he gazed up at the roof of the Barron Insurance Agency building where the cell phone tower stared back down at him like some sort of haunted totem pole.
As he crooked his neck towards the sky, Newlan could clearly see the large antenna sticking up menacingly over the top of the dilapidated office building. Up until now, he had never really noticed that office buildings were being used to house cell phone towers, and he contemplated the Vegas odds of Fox’s cell phone transmission connecting to Breslin’s phone right off the very tower he was now scrutinizing as if it were some sort of historical landmark.
On the other hand, Newlan was familiar with the location of the VA hospital where Fox’s knee replacement operation had been performed, and he reckoned that it wasn’t all that far from the Barron Insurance building.
“Could Fox have been just passing through this area inadvertently, on his way to an appointment at the hospital, when he made that call…or was he really on some sort of reconnaissance mission, reporting his findings back to Breslin as the prosecution intimated at?” pondered Newlan out loud as the bone-chilling possibilities played out in his mind.
However, as Newlan tallied up his scorecard as it currently stood, he wondered to himself; was the covert telephone call activity, along with everything else that the prosecution had presented up until this point in the case, sufficient evidence to convict Breslin? Amazingly enough, in Newlan’s mind, the answer was still “no.” In his mind, the possibility still existed that someone else killed Fred Miller and it was all an unfortunate coincidence for Breslin, just as Sammy the Fox had theorized to Detective Sasso.
Of course, on the other hand, Newlan wasn’t so utterly naïve as to think Breslin was completely innocent. He fully understood the distinction between innocent and guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. He realized there was a strong possibility that the murder went down just as the prosecution had painted the bloody picture. He realized that Breslin could very well have been involved, knee-deep, in the death of Fred Miller, and somewhere buried within his heart-of-hearts he realized
that Breslin probably was guilty. But his overriding concern was whether the prosecution had proved its case beyond a reasonable doubt…and once again Newlan’s answer to that question was still an unequivocal “No” with a capital “N”.
It was becoming abundantly clear to Newlan that he was subconsciously treating the lack of any indisputable physical evidence as the microdot-sized loophole with which to exculpate Breslin, while conversely, most of his colleagues were viewing the preponderance of circumstantial evidence as the catalyst with which to put Breslin behind bars for the rest of his life.
Newlan lost track of the number of times he walked around the block, wandering aimlessly up and down the side streets and winding his way back past the Barron Insurance Agency building, desperately attempting to sort out the problems of his own little world, as well as the issues of a bigger world that stood just beyond his reach.
Crippled with consternation, by the time Newlan decided to head back to his car it was twilight, and the garage was completely empty, and as he set forth into the teeth of the darkened structure, his conscience continued to weigh out the facts of the Breslin case until his head hurt.
“But if Breslin didn’t do, it then who did? I know the defense isn’t compelled to prove that someone else did it, but it wouldn’t hurt if they offered up a few theories of their own,” insisted Newlan as he thought back to Gleason’s opening statement where he claimed that the government’s case was “a theory, just a theory”.
Newlan ambled up to the exact spot where Fred Miller had been shot down, and he scoured his surroundings like a TV detective looking for the slightest of clues. As he twisted himself around in a plodding circle, he wondered how a heavyset man with a pronounced limp could have snuck up on Miller and then made a frantic getaway without anyone ever seeing him. He could almost feel Miller’s presence penetrating his soul as he whispered an urgent plea; “come on Freddie, tell me what the hell really happened that morning.”
Newlan strained to channel his self-perceived psychic tendencies, which triggered a brainstorm of activity in his cranium that left him tingling with a heightened sense of awareness. He inhaled the cool night air, and with it, he could practically taste Fred Miller’s spirit, entering into his inner-being. He took another deep breath, and suddenly, there it was again; the same scent of blood that he had experienced when the jurors made their supervised visit to the garage on that rainy day two weeks ago. The strange odor seemed to have a mesmerizing effect on him, and before he knew what hit him, his head began spinning uncontrollably and panic set into his heart.
Newlan stumbled his way back towards his car and he fumbled for his keys in the darkness. His radar told him that someone or something was watching him, and when push came to shove, he really wasn’t in the mood to find out who or what it was.
Newlan’s problems appeared to be rapidly multiplying by the second, for now, not only could he smell blood, not only could he sense the presence of an unearthly apparition, but he could also hear footsteps; footsteps aimed in his direction; footsteps steadily making their way towards his location in the garage.
With his heart beating so fast that it felt as if it was going to explode in his chest, not only could Newlan hear footsteps, but suddenly he could also see the form of a shadow emerging from behind one of the rickety support beams. He could see the form of a man carrying a suddenly illuminated flashlight in his left hand.
And as if to compound his nightmarish problem, as the silent figure drew closer, not only could Newlan see a flashlight in its left hand, but he could also see a gun in its right hand; a shining metal gun, as clear as the nose on his face.
Newlan’s knees grew weak and he practically fainted as he wondered whether he might be coming face to face with Fred Miller’s real killer after all.
“Don’t move,” commanded a husky voice and as the burly body that went along with the voice came into focus, Newlan could see that it was the silhouette of a Newton Police officer; a rookie Newton cop by the name of George Haley who just happened to be on foot patrol in the area when he noticed what he suspected to be a suspicious-looking character loitering in the garage.
“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Haley in a gruff tone. And although he may have come across as badass cop, although he may has sounded tough, his knees were shaking almost as badly as Newlan’s were, and he might have actually been more spooked than Newlan was, if that was even physically possible.
Newlan’s mind was a whirlwind of motion; he knew full well that he had better think of something quick, and like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he came up with an excuse which just may have saved him from a major hassle with the Newton Police, the State Police, and most frightening of all, the no-nonsense Judge Gershwin.
Newlan’s photographic memory instantly recalled that one of the early witnesses in the Breslin trial was a dentist by the name of Dr. Barnett, whose office was located in the Barron Insurance Agency building, and since the glowering cop certainly wasn’t going to afford him the opportunity to scheme up anything better, he stammered, “I’m sorry if I startled you officer, but I just came from Doctor Barnett’s office. I cracked a crown on what I thought was a pitted prune, and she was nice enough to fit me in for an after-hours appointment since it was kind of an emergency. My tooth was killing me.”
Haley was vaguely aware of a Dr. Barnett’s name stenciled into one of the windows of the nearby office building and so he dropped his guard, inch-by-inch, and then his gun. But he scolded Newlan nonetheless.
“Well you almost gave me a heart attack…stumbling around the garage in the dark like that,” grumbled the strapping cop.
“My mistake, but I can explain. I think the laughing gas is still wearing off. You see, I have this phobia about dentists, and I have to get knocked out cold every time I need to have the least bit of work done on my teeth,” disclosed Newlan who didn’t even have to resort to making up this portion of his tall tale since he truly did have an irrational fear of the dentist’s chair.
“Well don’t you know that someone was murdered in this garage a couple of years ago? Shot down dead…so it’s not exactly an ideal place to be acting suspiciously,” scolded Haley.
“No officer I wasn’t aware of that,” fibbed Newlan who of course wasn’t about to tell the foolish cop that he was a sitting juror on the trial of the very murder he was referring to.
“Are you alright to drive?” asked the concerned Haley who by now was showing his softer side.
“Yes officer,” replied Newlan, and Haley quickly reverted back to form, shouting, “alright then, go on and get the hell outta here.”
And wouldn’t you know it, just as Newlan pulled out of the garage Haley received a call on his two-way radio from none other than fellow Newton Police Officer Ron Torrez.
“Haley, where the Hell are you?” came Torrez’s voice crackling through the static.
“I’m inside the garage next to 435 Comm. Ave…just chased out some shady-looking dude with long stringy hair, ten-four,” replied Haley.
“I’ll be right over,” exclaimed Torrez and within seconds his police car, with its blue lights flashing, came screeching to a stop in front of the garage where Haley was now standing.
“Who the hell was this guy?” asked Torrez.
“I don’t know… but his story checked out. He had an emergency visit with Doctor Barnett so I let him go,” replied Haley.
“You mean you didn’t even get his name…his license…registration…nothing?” wondered a perplexed Torrez.
“No, should I have?” sheepishly replied Haley.
“It’s no big deal, but just out of curiosity, what kind of car was he driving?” wondered Torrez.
“I don’t know…but it was a beat-up old shit-box. I think it was a Ford, or maybe a Mercury,” answered Haley.
“You gotta be shittin’ me. What color was it?” demanded Torrez.
“It was red,” replied
Haley in a matter-of-fact tone. But matter-of-fact or not, based on past history, Torrez didn’t like what he was hearing, and when he and Haley took a walk over to the Barron Insurance office building, he was even more disturbed by the situation when they found all the doors locked up tight and not a light to be seen in Dr. Barnett’s office.
When the two relatively green cops returned to the precinct, Torrez dissected the circumstances of the red car sighting with his superiors, Sergeant Frank Alden and Lieutenant Lou Bowen until he was blue in the face. However, after much consideration, Bowden considered it a dead issue.
“Besides, we already cracked the Miller murder a long time ago, so it’s gotta just be a coincidence and I don’t wanna hear another fuckin’ word about it…case closed…is that clear?” forcefully concluded Bowden…and although Torrez reluctantly agreed, he wasn’t so sure.
In any event, regardless of what the impressionable Newton cop thought, by the time his boss had made his final pronouncement, Frank Newlan was halfway to Medford, and there was little chance of Officer Torrez, or anyone else for that matter, tracking him down, even if they wanted to.
“Holy crap…if Judge Gershwin ever found out that the Newton cops discovered me wandering around that garage, seemingly investigating the case, she would have handed me my head on a silver platter. Man, you can’t make this shit up,” whispered Newlan as he shook his head in disbelief.
The Dylan CD was into its third rotation as Newlan pulled into his own parking garage, and with his head swimming in an ocean of confusion, he shut down the ignition just as the acclaimed lyricist once again blamed all of his troubles on…a simple twist of fate.