Forty Five

2019

I am in my house in the room I call my office.  In a few days I will be meeting with Becca to review our next steps.  I take out the newspaper article I found at the airport in Las Vegas that started it all.  

Las Vegas Review-Journal  

A Half Century Later 

Still Searching for Jenny

Nevada Couple Renews Efforts to Find Daughter

It’s been forty-five years.  But they have not forgotten.  

“Not for one day” says Mary Smith. 

“Not for one day” echoes her husband, Walter.  

Forty-five years ago this June, the Smiths’ daughter disappeared.  

In June 1974, Jennifer Smith, a vivacious, bright, adventurous, seventeen-soon to be eighteen year-old, disappeared from her Elko, Nevada hometown just one week before her high school graduation. 

Smith left her home for school on Monday morning June 3rd.  She had an exam to take early in the day. She took the exam. Shortly after noon, she participated in a rehearsal for that Friday’s graduation ceremony. She left school after the rehearsal but did not return home.  She simply disappeared.

“Jenny was a good kid. A wonderful daughter.   A little wild at times, but she was a teenager. We got along as well as parents can be expected to get along with their teenage children.”

When the Smiths reported their daughter’s disappearance the local police did not respond immediately. June 3rd was not the first time Jennifer had left home.  The Smiths’ daughter had a penchant for adventure according to both Mary and Walter. 

“Jenny loved travelling and particularly liked riding on motorcycles. Much to our displeasure, and against our warnings, she hitch-hiked around the state and, in the summers, around the country.  We would admonish her, but she was a strong-willed kid.  She’d pick up and hitchhike here and there. Often by herself. Often without telling us she was going. 

“But this time it was at the end of high school. Graduation was Friday. One more week before high school was over and she would graduate.  And she leaves then?  It did not make sense. We spoke with the principal and some of her teachers. Jenny was not in any trouble.  As it turned out she passed the test she needed to take and was all set to graduate on Friday with her class.  How much could she have considered leaving home if she participated in the graduation rehearsal on Monday afternoon?”

Of course, the Smiths were worried, but their worst fears were alleviated because beginning on June 6th they started receiving postcards.

“We still did not understand why she left when she did, but we received postcards, telling us she was fine. Picture post cards from various places. Nothing on the cards but a few words. The cards would read ‘I’m fine.’  ‘Don’t worry.’ ‘Safe.’ ‘Got to do this.’ We must have received a dozen of these postmarked from various places. Cities in California, Arizona; Albuquerque, New Mexico; Grand Junction, Colorado; Nebraska, Kansas, Texas, Oklahoma, Iowa, Illinois, Pennsylvania, New York; all over. Nothing to the cards except a few words letting us know she was okay. Jenny was a good girl, considerate that way.”

The mailings continued for close to six weeks.  

“Still, we had no idea where she was, just that she had been in these places.  We spoke to the police who said there was not much they could do. There were runaways all over the country at that time. Probably still now. And besides, the police reminded us--more than once--that this was not the first time Jenny had left. So, we became resolved to the fact that she would come back when she was ready.  We have some kin in Oklahoma and Texas.  We pressed my sister in Oklahoma City, and she said they’d heard from Jenny but hadn’t seen her and did not know where she was.”

Jennifer Smith had no brothers or sisters and not many close friends in school.  Many of her classmates are no longer in Elko or even Nevada. Some are deceased. The Review-Journal was able to contact four 1974 graduates.  While they all knew of the 45-year-old incident, their memories of the details are understandably vague.  One person who asked not to be identified said, “Jenny hung by herself.  Was a bit of a loner.”

Then one day, the Smiths received the phone call that would distort their lives irreparably.

Looking for Kozak

“We were home one night in July.” Says Mary. “It was early evening, maybe around 6. Walter was out back starting the coals for a cookout. The phone rings and it is a collect call from Jenny.  I accept the charges of course. When I do, Jenny started talking rapid fire. She sounded panicky. Does not sound like Jenny at all. She was always so cool with a ‘nothing is going to happen wrong to me’ attitude. But this night she was frantic.  I said to her that I’d go get Dad so he could speak to her too, but she said with urgency that she had only a few seconds.

“She started blurting things out. She was whispering but the whispers sounded like desperate shouts. ‘Mom. I’m in trouble. Trouble. Get a hold of Kozak. Barbara’s friend. Kozak knows who this is. Barbara’s friend. Kozak. Kozak knows.’” 

Suddenly Mary Smith heard a screech and muffled scream. It sounded to her like her daughter had been yanked away. The phone banged on something, maybe the seat in an old phone booth or the counter you’d rest your coins on when placing a long-distance call.  Then it sounded like the phone was slammed into the receiver.

Mary Smith shouted for Walter who came running from the back.  Mary described the call to Walter.  They didn’t know any Kozak.  The Smiths called the police who came immediately to their Elko home.  The police wanted to know who the referenced Barbara person was. 

“The only Barbara we knew lived next door.  She was married to a creep of a husband, but she herself was nice.  The police went next door.  Barbara and the husband didn’t know any Kozak.”

The police dutifully investigated Jenny’s call. They searched for Kozak, but the search was fruitless. No person in Elko knew any individual named Kozak. 

Kozak, it turns out, is a very common Polish name.  Searching for Kozaks in large Polish communities throughout the country yielded nothing.  Barbara’s husband-- who had a criminal record for both burglary and domestic violence--was brought in for extensive interrogation. He insisted he knew no Kozak and there was nothing to suggest that the husband was lying or could be of help. 

Weeks and then months passed by. There were no more phone calls. No more post cards.  Jenny never returned.  Jennifer Smith’s body was never found.

“We took out ads in Nevada and California papers with what would have been Jennifer’s yearbook graduation picture in it.  No response to the notices in the newspaper. We learned the names of motorcycle publications and took ads out in them. Paid to have her yearbook photo in the ads. Nothing.” 

After two years the Smiths gave up. So did the police.  No one could find Jenny. No one could locate this Kozak.  The Smiths decided they needed to leave Elko and moved to Las Vegas, where they still reside, to try and forget about the incident. 

But they cannot.

As is the case with many octogenarians, Mary and Walter Smith are not tech savvy people. But they, of course, know of the internet and think maybe now with the internet and social media someone will be able to help them find Jenny.    

“We know it is unlikely.” Says Walter “It is forty-five years after all.  But we don’t know how many years we have left.  We are going to spend our energies to find our daughter. Or find out what the hell happened to her. We have promised ourselves that we will learn what happened before the 45th anniversary.”

Police Have Tried

The Review-Journal has contacted local, state and national police officials.  The answers to our queries have been uniform. There is not much that can be done in a case that is 45 years old. The graduation photo of Jenny Smith as a 17-year-old has limited value. Ms. Smith would be in her 60s now and is likely unrecognizable if she is indeed alive.  The chances are not good that additional information will surface. It does not help that Jenny’s last name is a common one.

The Smiths now look frail.  They both seem to have all their faculties, but they have trouble moving around. They bear more than the physical burdens, however. The Smiths lost their only child a half century ago and have lugged the weight of that tragedy on their backs ever since.

It is a terrible tragedy.   Anyone with information about the 1974 disappearance of Jennifer Smith please contact the Review-Journal.  

We all hope the Smiths can locate their daughter.

Forty Four

June 20, 1974

I am now 350 miles from home and am itchy to get there.  I get up at first light. I don’t wait for Mustache to get up and give me a ride east.  I am showered, brushed, dressed and on the road before 7. Unlike the night before, within ten minutes I am able to get a ride from the Etna exit. 

There are a number of stops and starts, but I arrive in Wheeling West Virginia by 10:07. I’ve written the time clearly in my log. It takes me an hour to get out of Wheeling but then only a little over an hour drive more before I’ve connected with I-79 North and find myself on the western outskirts of Pittsburgh.   

I am getting close. It’s not quite 1 pm when a tobacco chewing hot rodder picks me up on I-79. He’s got an easy dimpled smile and offers me some chew.  I decline but he takes no offense. Hot rod takes me north to Meadville, a city around 40 miles from Erie and wishes me the best. “You take care Kozak” he says.  I wait a while in Meadville and then get picked up by a trucker. He’s a young fellow, but he tells me that he always wanted to drive truck. Jackie is only going up to Erie, but he has a CB radio and, to do me a favor, Jackie gets on the horn every five minutes or so and barks out the same message.

“Hey how bout it. Hiker needs a ride to Buffalo. How bout it?

He gets no positive responses.  But he keeps trying.

“Hey how bout it. Hiker needs a ride to Buffalo. How bout it?

Jackie and I bid adieu in Erie. He tells me he tried and he had.  We shake hands. “Good luck Kozak” he says.  How many people have I met on this journey who wished me good luck. So many characters in my life’s play, exiting stage left and right wishing me well. Lurking there in the background of my every days.  Why there, over there, is Nelson holding his anti-union screed. And there’s Maurianne waving in an easy chair.  The four Mexicans who think I asked them for meatballs are smiling in a corner.  Jim is giggling, holding a Budweiser, urging his sister-in-law to play a risqué tape. Fred Mertz is parked on a folding chair shaking his head urging me not to sell chickens.  They are all in the background.  Sonuvabitch.

I am less than a hundred miles from Buffalo. It is not quite 3.

I score rides in quick succession as if the highways know that I want to get back and are helping me along.  A United States Marine takes me from a town east of Erie to Blasdell, New York. It is a ride of close to 80 miles. I now am only about fifteen miles from Buffalo. Minutes later I am picked up by an alumnus of the University of Brockport. He is driving to a reunion. Brockport is east of Buffalo. This fellow takes me all the way to my exit, 50 A.  

I am within a few miles now.  I stick out my thumb on a Buffalo main drag. Then, for the first time since Fruita, Colorado I am stopped by the state police.

“Where you going, fellow?”

“Coming back home. I’ve been hiking cross country.”

“Illegal to hike on these streets.”

This guy has to be kidding me. Should I tell him that I spent two days in plus 100-degree heat, that I got picked up by two madmen on consecutive days, that I ran into a charged wire fence. I’ve navigated over 5,000 miles in three weeks and he’s telling me I can’t hike these last few miles on a regular old street in Buffalo.

I tell him where I am going.  “Why not let me finish the trip off.” I ask.

“No can do.” He responds. “Tell you what I will do though. I’ll drive you myself to the corner of Wehrle and Kensington.  You can walk from there.”

Fine. “Thank you, officer.” I say.  So, my last ride in this cross-country journey is in a police cruiser. I sit in the back seat with a metal screen separating me from the front of the vehicle. The policeman drives the few miles to the junction of Wehrle and Kensington.  “Here you go.” He says as he turns to the backseat. He too wishes me luck.

I gather up my gear, exit the vehicle, and walk the remaining mile and a half to Becca’s apartment.

I knock on the door and ring the bell. She lives on the second floor of a two family.  She is home.  I hear her kerplunking down the stairs. Becca has a relieved smile for me when she sees me. We hug. There seems to be some reluctance.

We walk up the stairs and arrive at the top. Becca turns to the right into the bathroom.

“You need a bath, Z”

I’m home. It is a bit before 6 pm on June 20th 1974. Twenty-two days from when Becca kissed me on the entrance ramp to the New York State Thruway.  

Becca runs the water. I peel off my clothes, pile them to the side of the sink, and get in the tub. Becca sits on top of the toilet seat lid and listens to me regale her with stories from the trip. I leave out the dangerous parts.  Becca’s interested, but after a spell urges me to soap up.

 I finish washing and step out of the tub. Becca tosses me a bath towel. I use it and start drying off.  Becca grabs a hand towel and helps. When I am dry, she takes a look and smiles. She then pulls her shirt over her head, releases her bra, and removes her jeans. She makes sure to fold her clothes and put them on the toilet seat.  Then Becca takes my hand and the two of us walk our naked bodies to her bedroom. 

The next morning we enjoy another slow dance.  Becca then makes coffee for the both of us. I get out the map and log. I spread it all out on the kitchen table and tell her everything. Becca, go figure, finds a pad and starts making notes.

Forty Three

June 19, 1974

An excellent day of hiking might get me to Buffalo by sundown. I hope that will be the case, but I doubt it. Seven hundred miles would be a great day and I am not even on the interstate when I begin.

The Lincoln Lodge sits on US highway 150, a road that parallels I-74 to the south.  I stick my thumb out a few feet from the entrance to the Lodge. The first car that stops is going east on 150 for thirty miles. I consider not taking the ride and waiting to find a lift going North so I can access the superhighway. I decide to take the guaranteed 30 miles on 150. 

The driver drops me off in the town of Tilton, where I-74 and 150 intersect.  From Tilton I start and stop and start my way across the Indiana border toward Indianapolis.  It is around noon when I arrive on the eastern side of Indianapolis. There I can connect to I-70 and proceed east. Thanks to cocktail party Artie I have taken the scenic route to get here, essentially travelling two legs of a triangle. I likely would have been at this spot last night had I not heard the divorce monologue while sitting in Artie’s travelling cocktail lounge.

While I could connect with I-70 at this juncture I do not. Getting through the city was complicated. Several rides took this route or that.  When I emerged on the east side of the city, I was not on 70 but the parallel east west secondary road, United States highway 40.  This road, I learn later, has been called the highway of America as it travels nearly across the entire country from Utah to New Jersey. Highway of America or not, taking 40 instead of I-70 slows me down. The good news about taking the route is that it allowed me to meet my second very quirky character in as many days.

About ten miles east of Indianapolis a station wagon pulls over.  The back of the wagon lumbers ahead of me over the uneven shoulder. Lumber is the appropriate verb as extending beyond the caboose of the wagon is a cluster of wood. My driver later tells me that the pieces jutting out are dozens of 2 by 4s that he is hauling to a construction site.

The vehicle stops way to the right of the shoulder so that the driver can emerge without risking contact with oncoming traffic. And given this man’s girth he had to pull over as far as one could. Out from the station wagon a very large person appears.  He has to be every bit of six and a half feet.  That is height.  This tall man is also the owner of an enormous gut. High and wide with a mountain man’s long beard.  

He comes to greet me.  “Where you headed?”

I tell him.  “I can take you for a spell. I’ll be on the sonuvabitch 40 ‘til Richmond.” 

We shake hands.  “Name is Bunk” he says to me. “Every sonuvabitch calls me Bunk.”

“Kozak” I say.

“Kozak? Sonuvabitch. What kind of sonuvabitch name is Kozak?”

“Nickname.” I say.

“Nickname.” He repeats. “Sonuvabitch. Well come on in, Kozak, you ole sonuvabitch.”

I get in the car with Bunk. He is a very amiable fellow and a delight to ride with except that he uses the word sonuvabitch as an all-purpose adjective, noun, as well as expletive.  As if to illustrate, within a few moments of pulling back on the road, Bunk points to another vehicle. “That sonuvabitch Chevy thinks he owns the whole sonuvabitch highway. Sonuvabitch.” 

Bunk, I learn, is taking US 40 and not I-70 because of the sonuvabitch 2 by 4s sticking out the back of his sonuvabitch wagon.  The sonuvabitch two by fours are tied tight as a sonuvabitch but the sonuvabitch smokies will pull him the sonuvabitch over regardless. Sonuvabitch.

I start counting. He has said the word sonuvabitch fifty times in a ten-minute span. Bunk narrates the motoring. “Will you look at that sonuvabitch Pinto? Use your sonuvabitch signal,” he admonishes not intending for the driver of the Pinto to hear.  The chatter is benign and humorous but the repetitive sonuvabitches are close to insufferable. 

Bunk pokes around in his shirt pocket and can’t find the sonuvabitch directions to the sonuvabitch construction site. Sonuvabitch.  He tells me that the contractor is a decent sonuvabitch, but some of the sonuvabitch subcontractors can be a real sonuvabitch. Eventually he locates the directions. Bunk yanks a piece of the paper out of a side pocket of his size enormous jeans. He glances at it. “Here’s the sonuvabitch.” he says holding the note aloft.

We bounce along US 40 not going much more than 50 miles an hour at our speediest. Suddenly we hear rattling and then a loud crashing sound from the rear of the wagon. Bunk pulls over to the shoulder and stares at me eyeball to eyeball.

“Must be the sonuvabitch two by fours.” He says.

“Must be,” I say. What the hell else am I supposed to say?

Bunk hops out and trudges to the back of the car. He works with the lumber, then returns. As he nestles his wide load butt into the seat, he assures me that he tied “the sonuvabitches up tight. Those sonuvabitch 2 by 4s aren’t going nowhere now.” He shakes his head as if still puzzled at how the wood got loose in the first place. “Sonuvabitch,” he says in conclusion.

Bunk really is a good egg, but I don’t know how many more sonuvabitches I can take.  He tells me that he travels a lot and who knows when he will get to Buffalo.  He asks for my coordinates when he drops me off.  I really don’t have any coordinates. I’m staying with Becca until I begin my work in Pennsylvania at the end of the month. Becca will slaughter me if I give this guy her phone number.  I write the address of the apartment I’ll be at in the fall.  Bunk stares at the address, nods, and then apropos of nothing says, “Sonuvabitch”. We shake hands on the side of the road and Bunk exits stage left for the rest of my life. Sonuvabitch.  

Bunk has left me in a good spot. I am where the highway of America and I-70 connect and where Indiana and Ohio unite.  

I get one short ride into Ohio, and then get picked up by a fellow with an impressive mustache that must take quite a bit of time to get right. Mustache is going all the way to Columbus and beyond. He will be travelling over 100 miles. And we are on the interstate. This could be a very good ride. I am unlikely to make it to Buffalo today, but I might get close.

Mustache seems decent, and turns out to be, but about halfway through the ride he begins to talk about sex and I become guarded.  By the time we get to the west side of Columbus he has told me that he is bisexual and wonders if I might be. The man is no predator and while disappointed that I am not interested in engaging we continue through Columbus chatting amiably.   

We get through the city.  I am disheartened when he says he is ready to turn in for the night. It is not that late in the day though we did get lost a bit going through Columbus.  We could easily make it to West Virginia before dark, but mustache says he needs to turn in. We exit the highway in a town called Etna. There is a very run-down motel in Etna, rooms for less than 10 dollars a night. Mustache makes one more stab and asks if I want to share a room.  I tell him no. “Okay.” He said. “Thought you might be looking.”

“No problem.” I say.  

He nods.

When he gets off the road I return to the highway and attempt to make some more miles before I end the day. Nothing is doing for an hour. I go back to motel shabby, get a very spartan room for 9.99 a night, and spend my last night on the road. 9.99 brings me down to about twelve dollars left.  No problem. I’ll be in Buffalo tomorrow. Might even get there in time to get to the late Thursday night hours at the bank.  

Forty Two

June 2019

I am at a sports bar I frequent. I can barely pay attention to the Red Sox game on the screen.  Too much about the killing is coursing through my head, zigging and zagging helter-skelter. Thinking of one thing. Then another thought zooms in a different direction. Then another rocketing notion enters the highway from somewhere.  

After the Fireside in August 1974, I knew. I could tell myself ten times a day that it might have been a coincidence, but somewhere in my gut, I knew.  Becca says it might not have been him, but it has to be. I play back the time when he described his mo.  I’ve replayed it a dozen times since Las Vegas.  He’s blowing smoke out up into the air. 

“The first thing I do is I fuck them.”

I think he’s just blowing smoke.

After that night at the Fireside, I made calls to check if there had been any progress in the case.  Always met with a brick wall.  I looked in the newspapers for two months. Nothing. I even wrote a letter to the state attorney general asking if there had been anything new.  The attorney general, or whoever wrote the response, was so vague that I wondered if the office even had the case on its radar screen. 

Then I buried it all. 

If you bury something like that does what you bury morph into an infection that spreads and redirects your growth?  Even if you’ve buried it deep, and you yourself don’t even see it, do the sensors in your gut regularly acknowledge what’s been submerged. Is it inevitable that your evolution is altered, and you become an inferior iteration of who you could have been? And yet, you remain superficially unaware that you are less than you would have, could have, should have, been until you are whacked in the face with the truth. 

***

“Geez” a neighbor at the bar says to no one in particular. “That damn bat musta been made of particle board.”  

I look up at the screen to see what he is talking about.  A Red Sox player is walking to the dugout with half a bat in his hands. He goes to the rack and picks up another piece of lumber.  On the screen I see a replay of what occurred. A batter had swung at an inside pitch and the bat splintered in many pieces with the player holding only the bottom.   I see the batter with the vestiges of the bat in his hand.  My neighbor again says, “Particle Board” and laughs.

Particle Board. What if that is what happens?  

We start out with a sturdy foundation. Solid wood as our floorboards.  But then we do things that are reprehensible and irresponsible. Or we don’t do things that a responsible person should do.  Insidiously our solid floorboards transform. One plank at first. Then depending upon your level of irresponsibility more planks decompose. What we think is a sturdy foundation is subsequently composed of particle board. We wobble throughout our days and don’t know it. 

That was the case with the killer wasn’t it.  He no longer was who he could have been; he became an image in a funhouse mirror to all but himself.   Perched on foul, corroded, disintegrating floorboards that he’d bolted down himself, flaunting unconscionable behaviors that appeared to be right and righteous to someone unbalanced.

“After that, I slice the damn thing out. ”

We all have some planks of particle board.  The question is to what extent have we been teetering on rickety platforms.  And how industriously will we work to identify and rebuild what prior negligence has corrupted.

“Then I take all her clothes. All her clothes. I dump the body where it won’t be found. You deposit a body right, and after a while you would not be able to recognize your own mother.”

He blows smoke in the air and smiles at me.

He’s just blowing smoke, I think.

“I make sure to keep a souvenir.”

I am going to get this guy.   Replace particle board.  Restore my foundation.  

Forty One

 

June 18, 1974-Emporia Kansas.

It is about 1100 miles from Emporia to Buffalo. Eleven hundred to go. I’ve traveled over 1500 miles since I left the campus of UCLA three days ago.  A wild ride for most of that way.

My best days so far have been 700 miles. I’ve had two of them. Nelson on day one, and Maurianne who took me from Salt Lake City to Pacifica.  It’s not impossible for me to be home in two days if I get lucky.

I don’t get lucky.  My day is not like the Needles and Gallup nightmares when I had to wait forever to get a lift.  I am able to get many rides on this day.  They just don’t go for long distances.

It is about 730 am when John the Savior drops me off in Emporia on a ramp for I-35, a highway that heads northeast.   Four rides later, around 1030, I am at the junction of interstates 35 and 70 not far from Kansas City, Kansas. From this spot I plan to take I-70 east for a very long time.  Somewhere south of Pittsburgh, I-70 meets I-79 north and at that point I will take 79 north. That junction is over 800 miles from where I stand in Kansas City.   

 

I get rides that take me across the Missouri river travelling from Kansas City, Kansas to Kansas City, Missouri.  Shortly thereafter I am picked up by what must be my 7th or 8th ride of the morning.  We travel east and almost immediately I can see, looming impressively, both stadiums where the professional football and baseball teams play their games. The stadiums sit side by side to the southeast of the intersection of 70 and I-435. It is quite a sight to see these large venues from the highway.  

Will, the driver at this juncture, has about twenty years on me. A little bit on the round side but looks like he could have been an athlete in his day.  When I remark on the majestic looking stadiums, I learn that he is a big sports fan.  We chat about the fortunes of his hometown teams. Will claims to have been at the very first Superbowl game in January of 1967. The Kansas City Chiefs played in that game. They lost, but as Will quickly tells me, they were down by only four points at the half. He then adds that the Chiefs returned to the Superbowl three years later and demolished the Vikings.    I remember both games and he is delighted that he can converse with a knowledgeable fan.  Will tells me that he was at the stadiums today because near the complex there is also a multipurpose gym to which he belongs.  He had travelled to the facility to play racquetball with a buddy who, alas, did not show up.  

I mention to Will that I play.  I see him hesitate.  I think he is considering inviting me to take his no-show buddy’s spot.   He doesn’t, and that is likely a good thing. I might have been tempted.  I’d enjoy a workout but want to end this voyage already.  I’ve been on the road for nearly three weeks. It is time.  

There are dozens of exits in Missouri along I 70 and I must have visited twenty percent of them. I am getting in and out of cars throughout the whole state.  In Columbia about midway through Missouri, I stand on a ramp when a gust picks up while my thumb is out. The hat I’ve worn the entire trip when enduring high heat, the hat that I soaked in Needles and Gallup and felt it dry like a bone in an hour on two consecutive days, the hat that has saved me from sunstroke—lifts off my head in Columbia.  It’s as if my hat was saying, “Enough of this already.  I’m ready to rest on a hook in one place.”  I can’t snatch it before it flies like a kite the width of the ramp and descends into a deep valley, beneath the highway itself.  Goodbye hat. Fortunately, today is nowhere near Needles hot, so I am fine without the lid.  And besides, today I do not stay outside very long as I’m hopping in and out of vehicles almost continuously.

It’s about 4pm when I get through St. Louis and arrive in Illinois. It is there, on the other side of the Mississippi, when I get one of the coolest rides of this journey. A thirty something accountant picks me up in a Corvette. He has the top down and we fly along 70. It’s tough to hear him what with the noise from the road, but this guy is Mr. Happy talking about his car and how fast it goes and how much fun he has driving it. “Of course, the upkeep”, he says, “Forget about it.” And at one point despite the apparent pleasure he derives from the vehicle, the accountant shook his head and blurted some unsolicited advice “Don’t buy a Corvette, Kozak. Money drain.”  I’d enjoyed the ride and had commented appreciatively but had given no indication that I was in the market. His counsel reminded me of the Fred Mertz looking chicken farmer outside of Needles who, without any inquiry on my part, advised me not to go into the chicken business.  This thirty something accountant looked nothing like Mertz, but he reminded me of the sad chicken farmer when he said that I should not buy a Corvette that I had not considered purchasing.

Corvette dropped me off a few exits west of Effingham, Illinois. It was now close to 5:30. June 18th is one of the longest days of the year.  I figure I have a good three hours more of hiking available before it gets dark.  In three hours there was a good shot I could make it to Terre Haute, and a decent chance I could get all the way to Indianapolis.  There was even a real outside possibility with a great lift that I might make it to Dayton Ohio-700 miles from Emporia.  Dayton would be unlikely, but even Terre Haute 500 miles from Emporia would make it a good, if long and serial, day of driving. 

None of this was to be because of one of the more quirky rides I experienced on the cross country journey.  I was a few exits and maybe 15 miles away from Effingham when a fellow in a long snazzy Buick stopped.  

***

The Buick pulls over to the shoulder of the ramp.  I trot up to the passenger side and the driver buzzes down the window. “Where ya going.” He says.  I tell him. He waves his hand toward his face. In another context it would look like he’s hot and trying to cool off.  “Come on in.  Going that way myself. Not as far as Terre Haute but close to the border. Come on in.”

I hear a button pop when the driver releases the lock on the Buick. It has all the fancy gizmos that are standard for vehicles now. I begin to enter. The driver keeps speaking. “Where I’ll drop you off is close to the Indiana line. You’ll have no trouble getting a ride from there.”  

“Great” I say. I get myself settled, extend my hand and say “Kozak”   

We shake hands. I get a good look at him. This fellow has the watery eyes of a man who has had a drink in his day. When he says “Artie, call me Artie” as we shake, the words are not quite slurred but blend in a bit. 

“Watch the bucket” says Artie.

I look around.  I am surprised and amused by what I see. In the console between Artie and me is a highball glass with an ice cube or two and what appears to be an adult beverage.  There is actually a cherry in the glass.  Next to the glass is a pint bottle of whiskey of some sort.  The bucket I was asked to watch out for contains ice.

“Want a drink?” says Artie. “There’s another glass in the glove.”

I tell him no thanks. I feel like quipping, “No thanks. I’m not driving” but resist. While I would prefer a perfectly sober driver, the guy does not seem sloshed and he is taking me close to the Indiana border to an exit that he said was a good spot for another lift.

Artie drives up the ramp. As he merges onto the highway he begins to converse with me as if he is resuming a conversation that we had been having for some time. I’ve known Artie for all of 45 seconds, one-minute tops.  He is talking about his wife.

“She wants a divorce. My wife. My wife wants a divorce.  No good reason.” He says the last three words while taking a glance at me then returns his eyes to the road. 

“No good reason, that’s as far as I’m concerned. She has, if you ask her, she has reasons. But they’re not, if you ask me, good reasons.”

Artie pauses to take a sip of his drink with a cherry in it.  He replaces the glass and then, with the dexterity of someone who has done this maneuver before, unscrews the cap on the whiskey bottle, pours some more in his glass, and replaces the cap.  All with one hand.

“Sure you don’t want a drink?”  This guy is acting like we are in his screened in porch during cocktail hour.

“Nah. That’s okay.”

Artie shrugs.  “She thinks I am messing around. She thinks I’ve BEEN messing around.  I’m not messing around.  Not once.” He holds up a finger so that I get the point. “Not once.” He pauses for a spell.  “I’m not talking about before we were married. Then, you know, I was single, and what’s wrong with that. Right?” he looks at me.

“Right.” I say. “Sure.”

Artie nods.  He speaks on for a spell while I look at the map. We are coming to a junction where I-70 continues east, and another interstate, I-57, goes north.  Artie is talking more about his wife’s confounding decision to seek a divorce. I see him put his signal on indicating he is going to exit.  Maybe he has to hit the head with all the liquid consumption. But we have only been driving about 15 minutes.

Artie exits, but does not get off the interstate. What he does is follow a long ramp and merge onto interstate 57 heading north toward Champaign Urbana.

“I thought you were going toward Terre Haute?” I say.

He waves at me. “I am. This is the way.” He takes a sip. “So when she says she wants to have a divorce, I say why. Reasonable question right.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I mean she has it pretty good with me, if you know what I mean. Big house.  She has her own car, that I paid for. Give her a large, I mean large, budget for clothes which—I’ll tell you Kozak—she has no trouble spending. She has it good. So, I ask her why she wants a divorce. What does she say at first? What does she say at first? At first, she says, ‘Because.’ That’s it ‘Because’” Artie snickers before he takes another swig.  He’s got an ice cube in his mouth. “What kind of answer is ‘because.’”

“Uh Artie, are you sure you’re going the right way here.”

“Yeah, yeah” he waves me off. “I’ve been living here my whole life.”

We are not going the right way. We are on I-57 heading north.

“I’m looking at the map, Artie, it looks like we are going north.”

“Hey Kozak. I know where I am going.  I’ve lived here since I was a teenager.” I try to show him the map. He waves me away.  “We’re going right.”

I think maybe he has a way of circumnavigating I 70 to get around a regular spot where traffic jams up, but as I look at the map there is not a whole lot in Illinois on 70 between where we were and the Indiana border for there to be traffic such that there would be a jam.

Artie proceeds to speak on the subject of his marriage. “So I say, Reasonable right. ‘Because why.’ Give me a reason, don’t just say ‘because’. Right?” he looks at me. 

“Sure” I say without a whole lot of enthusiasm because we are driving in the wrong direction, and I would like to get to Buffalo sooner than later.

Artie continues. “Right. So I say ‘because why’ and she says, ’I don’t know.’  First ‘because’ then ‘I don’t know’. Two great reasons.”

“Artie, we are on 57 north.”

“Don’t be a pain in the ass Kozak.  I know where we are going. You’ll be in Indiana before you know it.”

Again, I look on the map to be sure. I am sure. The only good news is that eventually I will have to go north to get to Buffalo, but it looks like the next east west road north of 70 will just take me to Indianapolis anyway just like I’d get to it on 70.   But it’s no use. Artie is sure. Maybe Artie here will talk about his marital woes for hours. I-57 goes all the way to Chicago.  Then I’d just take 90 east.  

What the hell, I think, at least he is not asking me to rob a gas station. I made pretty good time today anyway, I’ll go with the flow and take a side trip. 

I’ll play. “So what did she say then? After you asked her to give a good reason. Did she give you any good reason besides I don’t know and because?”

“Well, not for a while. But eventually she spills and says it’s because I’ve been messing around. Now I have not. Not once” again he puts his finger in the air. “Not once since we’ve been married have I done anything with anybody.” He pulls the cherry out of the glass and plucks it in his mouth. He says “Not once” again. Artie chews on the cherry and then the stem.  He pulls the stem from his mouth and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m not counting before I was married.”

“Sure. Can’t count before you were married.”

“Damn right. But she does. She does.” Artie sighs. “Who knows? Maybe she just wants out.”

“But she’s got it good” I say.

“Damn right she’s got it good.”

We are now a good thirty miles out of our way. Artie continues to speak about his marriage.  He is petering out some when I hear him yelp:

 “Arcola. Arcola. How the hell did we get to Arcola?”

We have just passed a sign for Arcola, Illinois. I can see on the map that Arcola is a town off of I-57 equidistant between Champaign and Effingham.

“Arcola” he says again. “How the hell…How the hell…Look, I gotta turn around Kozak. That’s all I need is to be late tonight.”

Artie gets off at the Arcola exit and deposits me on the ramp to 57 North. 

“Good talking to you.” He says when I get out.

“Just great” I say. I don’t think he got the sarcasm.

I decide I am going to go north on 57 and connect with I-74 east. The University of Illinois is thereabouts.  If I can’t get a ride east from 74 right away, maybe I can find a place to sleep at the university.  I muse that I could be in Indiana now if I had not run into that goof.  I smile anyway. What a character.

It does not take me long to get to near where I-57 is close to I-74.  I am deposited not quite near the university on what turns out to be my final ride of the day.  I find myself on a secondary road, route 150 east, a road south of 74.  There is still light left, but I am not on an interstate. I consider calling it a day.  I notice that there are several motels on 150. A number with signs advertising very inexpensive rates. Maybe I should just check in to a motel. My deliberations end when it starts to pour.  I am without my hat and am getting soaked.  I see a motel called the Lincoln Lodge.  It is cheap.  11.99 a night. I check my wet body into the Lincoln Lodge, watch tv and crash in Champaign Urbana for the night. I’ve traveled about 500 miles today.  More than 700 left until I get back to Buffalo.

Forty

 

2019

It is two days after my meeting with LoMack.  The matter is consuming me. I have to make this right or I will forever be wrong.  I cannot bring her back, but I can bring some closure to the parents, some retribution to the perp, and some comfort for me. I’ve made a tentative list of next steps and I am going through them at home when the phone rings. It’s LoMack.

“I found it.” He says to me.  “You wouldn’t believe how many boxes of nostalgia I had to go through.”

“You found it. Great. That’s great.” I snort a laugh.  “In a box of nostalgia. Nostalgia.”

“Did you know I won the sixth grade 100 yard dash on field day.”

“Somehow that news passed me by.  Probably not in the paper.”

“Nah. The Globe missed it. Covering the Red Sox or something. Also, got a leadership commendation for being a safety crossing guard.”

“You’re the cat’s pajamas, LoMack.  What did you find out?”

“You still haven’t told me why you are so interested in this ancient history.”

“I can’t get into it. Sorry. Maybe in a few weeks. I hope then.”

“Seems a bit strange is all.”  

“I know it must.” I say.  “Thank you for the effort.”

“It took me forever, but it was a nice trip down memory lane.  Maybe I am not such a stiff after all.  Some sweet reminders.”

“Find a note from the woman who called you, The Killer?” I said.

“I can’t believe I told you that. No, as a matter of fact, I did not find any note from her. When she dumped me she must have made a phone call. No tangible vestige of our encounter.  But I did see a card from another girlfriend.  Nice to read.”

“Glad to hear it.  Great. What did you find out about the maniac.”?

“Right. Tim.  Here’s what I know. His last name was--well still is I assume--Kowalski.  Kind of a common Polish name.  The car was registered to him in San Diego.”  LoMack starts to read the address.

“Do me a favor, LoMack, put the details in an e-mail.”   

“Sure, that makes more sense.”

“Good. Thanks.” I say.

“There’s one more thing Kozak.”

“What?”

“When I unearthed the registration, I saw that I had scribbled something in pencil on the registration itself.”

“What? What’d you write?”

“Well, at first, I couldn’t figure out what it was, but then I remembered what I did.”

“Okay. What did you do?’

“There are two phone numbers on the registration. And I couldn’t figure out who I would have called.  Then I remembered.”

“Get there LoMack.”

“Alright, Alright. I remembered that I thought that not having the registration would be a problem for the maniac if he got stopped—and since he was driving recklessly, he would likely get stopped. But there was no guarantee he would get stopped. So, it might not be a big deal my taking the registration.  He would, sure, notice it eventually, but then could just go get another registration.  A replacement. He’d figure he just lost the original, that’s all.  It might not be a big deal for him.”

“So.”

“So, I wanted it to be a big deal. I wanted him to pay for that insanity.”

“Alright, so. What’d you do?’

“Seeing the phone numbers that I’d written on the registration reminded me.”

“Come on, Lomack. Get there already.”

“Okay. Okay. Right.  What I did was I called the state police in Colorado, and then called the state police in Nebraska—the states on his likely route to Chicago. Those numbers on the registration were the state police numbers.”

“You called the state police? What for? What did you tell them?”

“I told them that I was hitch hiking in New Mexico and the driver who picked me up was going to Chicago.”

“Yeah so.” 

“And this driver going to Chicago, kept bragging that he’d stolen the car we were driving in.”

“Whoa.” I said. “You said what?”

“I told the cops that some guy who picked me up was driving a stolen car. Told them I was just doing my civic duty. Told them that I had taken down the thief’s license plate. Gave them the plate and make of the car.”

“Well done, LoMack..”

“Like to see the bastard’s kisser when he got pulled over for driving a stolen car and could not find the registration.”

“That’s a sweet image. Good job, LoMack.”

“Not bad for a guy who sells dishwashers.”

“Not bad at all” I say.  “Didn’t they ask you for your name?”

“They did, but I didn’t stay on the line.” Said LoMack.

“They couldn’t trace the call?”

“Nah” said LoMack. “I called from a pay phone. No cells then. This was 1974; they couldn’t trace a one-minute call from a phone booth. Now, 2019, you call the cops and burp, they know the names of your cousins.”

“You think of calling the other states on his route?”

“I called Colorado first. When I called Nebraska they said they already had the information about the stolen car. So I figured Colorado told everyone.”

“Good work. Thank you.” I said again. “If you were nearby I’d shake your hand. A hug, maybe.”

“Don’t push it. Seriously, thank you Kozack. Yesterday I felt real good for the first time in a while when I reconstructed it all. The guy was a lunatic.  It felt, I don’t know, liberating, medicinal even—sounds corny but it did--to recall that I did something that probably slowed that bastard down. You know what I mean?”

“I do.” I said. I did.

“I’ll send you the registration information.” LoMack said.  “Hey, why don’t I just scan the registration and send it to you as an attachment.”

“That would be better. You can do that?’

“Hey, you’re talking to a guy who won the sixth grade 100 yard dash on field day and won a leadership award. I can do more than sell refrigerators.  I’ll be in touch.”

I hang up with LoMack and call Becca at work.

“Rebecca Carey.” She said

“Very official sounding. ‘Rebecca Carey’” I mimicked.

“What’s up Z.”

“Tim. The one who backed up down the highway; the guy who wanted me to rob a gas station. His last name is Kowalski.  I’ll have some more information about him by tonight or tomorrow. I’ll e-mail it to you as soon as I receive it.”

“Ok.  I’ll get on it. I’m busy at work now, but I can probably get to it tomorrow night.”

“Of course, that’s fine.”

“Z.”

“Yeah.”

“There are a number of suspects who are out.”

“You don’t say.”

“We’ll talk.” 

“I told you, Becca, I know who did this.”

“We’ll talk.”

Thirty Nine

July 17, 1974 6am

Now what.

Mike has driven away.   

I turn around to face the building-the lone edifice in this rest area. Again, I check to see if the building is anything more than a men’s and women’s relief station.  It’s not.  I do notice a coke machine near the back wall of the building. No pay phone, though. No inside area of any sort besides what houses the sinks and toilets.  No gas pumps.

I survey the parking spaces. There are two campers and a car with an attached U-Haul trailer.  There seems to be some movement in one of the campers. Nothing is moving in the other two vehicles. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that the only people who will stop here are those who need to use a restroom or those who feel they need to call it a day and sleep.  Since it is just past 6 am, and since most people sleep at dark, I can’t imagine many or any drivers coming in to sleep now. And even if they did, they would be coming to sleep and therefore, not be going anywhere for a while.  

How many people will pull off in any given hour to use the restrooms? The highway itself does not have much traffic this Monday morning. Only a small percentage of the few numbers of drivers will need to pull over.  It is Monday, so I think it is possible some cleaning people might come at some point to take away rubbish and clean the toilets, but that would happen only once, maybe twice a day—and how far would they be going when they leave, and what is the likelihood that they are forbidden from picking up riders.  

This is not good.  It looks to be another very hot day and my chances of getting out of here are infinitesimal. There is nothing about tomorrow that would make my chances tomorrow any better.

There is something positive about the situation. And that is, whoever is stopping will get out of the vehicle and I can ask them, beg them, to take me somewhere, anywhere. It is tougher to reject someone when they are standing next to you.  Still, my options are limited.

The man in the one camper where there was movement, emerges and heads to the bathroom. I go right up to him and tell him of my situation and ask for a lift.  He responds to me like people do-- like I occasionally do--when approached by a panhandler.  He do-si-dos around me. He, a middle aged man, goes into the can, comes out and I implore again. We do the same dance.  He gets back into his vehicle and soon drives up the ramp that leads to the highway.

My guess is that it is a quarter of a mile from the lot to the interstate. But so what? The ramp is valueless since anyone going up it would have been someone I might have addressed in the spartan facility. Walking to the highway would also be valueless.  Hiking on an interstate in most states (though not Colorado I discovered earlier) is illegal. Besides it is very dangerous. Standing on the shoulder when cars are going 75 miles an hour, a hiker is a sitting duck for a driver who is shaking off drowsiness and drifts to the right.  

I consult the map hanging on the building. I can’t tell if the next exit is two or twenty-one miles away because I am not quite sure of where the rest area is. The “You are Here” marker on the map is written above two exits. Where “here” is could be one exit or the other.  But even if it is only two miles to the next exit, walking on the interstate for two miles is crazy dangerous.  And if I have to walk twenty one miles, forget it. I’d be roadkill before Tuesday. Perhaps if I started walking a cop would pick me up, but where would the cop take me? To the slammer? I must look like hell despite last night’s shower.  Ragged tee shirt and jeans, wild hair, each follicle looks as frightened as I am. I will not impress an officer of the law.  

A young man emerges from the car with the U-Haul. He looks like a possibility. Bearded, about my age, lumbering to the restroom with what appears to be a bag of toiletries.  I intercept him.

“Please. You’ve got to help me.  I was stranded here by a truck driver. He tried to molest me.”

The fellow puts up his hand like a traffic cop. “Can’t help you.” He says.

“Look” I say as he passes me by “just take me an exit or two, anywhere.”

“Can’t help you.” He says again and disappears into the restroom.  

I wait a few minutes outside when he goes in to use the facilities. I don’t want to follow him into the can, but I do.  He’s at the sink.

“Hey. I’m in trouble. Just take me anywhere. Anywhere on 40.”

“Not going on 40.” He says through a mouthful of toothpaste.  He spits. “Going on 54. Through the Texas and the Oklahoma panhandles. Besides” he stops again to run a washcloth over his face, “Besides I can’t pick anyone up.”

“Why not? I can scrunch up anywhere.”

“It’s not that. It’s not my car. I’m driving someone else’s car and stuff to Emporia.  I promised the owner I wouldn’t pick anyone up.  Look, sorry.”  He is nice about it. 

“Just one exit.” I don’t even like myself the way I am speaking. I don’t know if I would give me a lift.

“Sorry.”  he says through the washcloth.

I leave the restroom while he’s still doing his wake-up wash-up dance by the sink.  I think maybe I have a shot with this guy. There’s only one other vehicle in the lot. Who knows when the next highway rider will have to empty his bladder?  If I was driving, I’d want to wait until I found a place where I could get fuel or maybe a sandwich before I stopped. This guy with the beard may be my last shot for hours.  

The beard exits with a towel around his neck. I try one more time. “Buddy. I’m in a jam. Please just take me anywhere out of here. I got dumped here because I wouldn’t put out for a trucker.”

He sighs. “I told you the situation.” He looked at me and I sense he’s vacillating. “Let me think about it for a minute.”

There is hope.  “I’ll pay for gas.”

He waves off the gas offer.  “It’s not that. I told you, I promised the guy who’s paying me that I would be the only one in the car.” 

“Just get me out of here.”

"Okay." he says after a moment.  "I'll drive you a little ways but when we get out of Oklahoma and as soon as we cross into Kansas, I have to let you out."

I am beyond effusive when I thank him.  We walk to the car. He clears out room in the front seat. I get in.

Before I am buckled up, he says again: “Really as soon as we get into Kansas.”

“No problem” I say genuinely.

***

Once in the car, I look at my map and see that route 54 goes from Tucumcari on a northeast diagonal toward Kansas. It is not an interstate. A two-lane highway for the most part with an occasional passing lane. The road will take us through what appears to be desolate areas of New Mexico and then more desolate areas through the Texas panhandle, and not much more life through the Oklahoma panhandle.  The first town in Kansas that we will come to is a hamlet called Liberal.  That’s an oxymoron I think, Liberal, Kansas.  I wonder how often the locals have tried to change the name of the burg. 

Liberal looks to be about a 3 ½ hour ride from where we are, and it is yet another 4 ½ hours to  Emporia.  Liberal might be tough to get out of, but it beats baking in the rest stop in Tucumari. I feel an enormous sense of relief.

The ride through New Mexico and Texas is as desolate as the map suggested it would be.  Does anyone live in this part of the country? Dry and deserted.  I don’t see much at all in the way of civilization along the way.  There’s the town of Logan in New Mexico and then a tiny burg called Nara Visa before we enter Texas.  For the nearly 100 miles between Nara Visa and the Texas Oklahoma border there is just about nothing.

John is the antidote to Mike and Tim.  Quiet, soft spoken when he does speak and thus far considerate. We drive easily together.  His one admonishment was that I thanked him one too many times for the lift. He said something like it’s enough.  After the first half hour of conversation, we settle into silence.  

I start playing back the night with Mike. I determine to warn the police and construct letters in my head based on information that I wrote on the phone book.  I still doubt that Mike is a killer even with his last words etched into my head.  But he is dangerous. He might try to molest another hiker.  I run through an interrogation session I’d have with state troopers once they receive my letter.

We’ve driven for about three hours when we reach the Oklahoma panhandle. We arrive at a hamlet on the border of Texas and Oklahoma called, appropriately, Texhoma. There we stop at a diner.  When we enter the diner we exit 1974 and walk right into 1934.  This place has to be a movie set from the Grapes of Wrath. Fly paper hanging from the ceilings.  Lame fans trying to address the heat.  An old Confederate flag tacked onto a wall-a wall that could not have been painted anything close to recently. A woman tending the grill looks half dead. Customers at the counter wearing ten-gallon hats could be one dimensional stick figures for all we can tell. Not much chatter.

“Do you believe this place?” Says John.

“I’m not sure. Is Roosevelt still president?”

“Franklin?” says John.

I point to a picture of Nixon near the menu that is nailed above the grill. “They’re up date.”

“I wouldn’t bring up Watergate.” Says John.

After lunch we leave the Dust Bowl diner and continue on 54 into Kansas.  We are close to Liberal and I figure that I might have to soon get out. John drives right through town. As if he can read my mind he says, 

“It’s okay, Kozak. Let’s see how it goes.”

It went well. We got into playing car games and spent at least an hour or two on a game he called Sherlock Holmes.  You each identify a famous character and keep the name to yourself. Then you alternate asking yes or no questions trying to ascertain who the opponent’s character is. Whoever correctly guesses first wins. 

By the time we were a couple of hours into Kansas we were chummy, laughing, and had devised a few other car games to play.  At one point John confided that it had made the day long trip go better having my company. I told him, once again, that I would be forevermore, grateful.  He told me he would be dropping the U-Haul off at Emporia State College. Then he would be phoning friends of his who lived on a farm outside of Emporia. They were coming to pick him up.  He said there was plenty of room at the farmhouse if I wanted to stay there.  God bless this godsend. Maybe I was due this lift given my last two days. 

Once we got to a town called Pratt, we left 54 and took a similar road, route 61, northeast until we hit route 50 in Hutchinson. Then it was east and northeast on 50 all the way to Emporia.  A sign as we entered the town welcomed us to “Friendly Emporia.”  It felt that way to me. We followed the signs to the campus.  John found a phone booth and told me he had to make a couple of calls.  Half an hour later he’d exchanged the U-Haul and his buddies from the farm had come to get us.   

We washed up when we got to the farm and then rode with his friends to a pool hall where we had beer and hamburgers.  I ate my burger and shot pool feeling better than I had in a long time. We got back to the farm and I had my choice of couches.  Had to share one with a friendly cat, but that was a square deal as far as I was concerned.

The next morning John drove me to the ramp for I-35 toward Kansas City.  Of all the people on this journey, John stands out as the most decent. Could have been because I was so needy when he came along.  We drove together for nine hours on back roads. It would be the third longest lift I would have on this trip.    I wish I had retained his last name and coordinates. But I did not. I waved goodbye at the highway and John the Savior, exited from my life.  But I will never forget him.

For better or worse, my night with Mike became a faded memory.   Thoughts of writing a letter of warning surfaced infrequently.