Miracle Man (24 page)

As he gave possession of the infant over to Kimball, she looked intently at Alan as if she were trying to understand what he was all about. His eyes were swollen, red and tear-filled. He looked defeated and worn.

“It appears you took
good care of him. I hope the law takes that into account.” Kimball then began walking to the precinct door as she held the infant.

Running up to her, Officer Jackson, the cop who had arrested Alan, said, “Look, it’s important that you have the infant examined thoroughly. We’ll need to know anything that would help us find his parents or what hospital he was born in. We don’t know from where that crazy bum stole this baby, but we’ll find out.”

Kimball replied, “There’s nothing worse than kidnapping. And a newborn yet. It’s so horrible. The parents must be suffering so.”

“Would you believe that degenerate told us he found the kid in a dumpster?”

“In a dumpster?”

“Yeah, in a garbage bag inside a dumpster.”

Shaking her head wearily and looking down, Kimball murmured, “If that’s true, then God have mercy on all of us.”

As Kimball left the station house, ‘little fella’ was crying fiercely and struggling in her arms with all the strength that could be mustered by a two week old baby.

Jackson and one of the other cops pushed Alan over to the booking desk. The lieutenant behind the desk asked Jackson what the charges were.

Jackson responded, “Kidnapping and grand larceny.”

Alan was then led through the station house on the way to an interrogation room.
Look how they’re looking at me.
They think I’m barely human.

One of Alan’s interrogators was detective Joe Parsoni. He was 51 years old, 5’ 8” and 195 pounds with a bloated face and bulbous nose permanently reddened by a severe rosacea condition caused by chronic high blood pressure and excessive alcohol consumption. Parsoni had four more years to go before retiring at full pension. He hated every day at his job. After over two decades on the force, he had come to the conclusion that he had wasted his life surrounding himself with the “scum buckets of the universe”, as he described those suspected of committing crimes.

The other interrogator was detective Jack Warden, who had majored in psychology at John Jay Criminal College and had only recently received his detective’s badge. Tall and trim, with slicked down dark hair sharply parted on the left in the manner popular among movie stars in the 1940s, Warden’s almost classic good looks were marred by a badly pocked complexion. He was the fashion- plate of the office with his designer wire glasses, starched oxford shirts and three-piece suits. Warden had wanted to become a lawyer, but the financial pressures of having to care for two babies and a young wife who was more fertile than the Euphrates Delta, had led him to put his dreams on hold and join the police force so he could sign up to the city’s health insurance.

Detective Parsoni tried to goad Alan by putting his fat oily face two inches from Alan’s as he screamed at him, sputtering in his face and shaking Alan’s chair with both hands as he loomed over him like a grizzly bear.

“Look, you bum. Don’t bullshit me. You stole the kid so you could sell him. Admit it.” Parsoni stood back and rubbed his large hairy fists as he glared at Alan. “We’ll get it out of you sooner or later. You think you’re smart. You’re not. You’re a loser. Don’t waste my time. I got a family to go home to. You are nothing.”

After two hours of relentless grilling, Alan was done. He put it bluntly to Parsoni and Warden.

“I don’t have to answer any more questions. I told you—and I’ll tell you one final time. So type it up in your report. I found ‘little fella’ in a large black plastic garbage bag in a dumpster on 3rd and Avenue A about two weeks ago.” He then reached into his pocket.

Lunging on to Alan, Parsoni yelled, “He’s got a weapon,” and delivered three hard punches to Alan’s face in rapid succession with fists as large as catcher’s mits.

Warden bear-hugged Parsoni. “Stop it. You know he was frisked and run through the detector. Get a grip.” Warden pulled Parsoni off of Alan and backed him away.

Parsoni fumed, “Warden, get your head out of your ass.”

Alan’s eyes were closed as he turned his head from left to right a few times trying to ascertain if his neck still worked after the assault. He opened his eyes and spat some blood on to the floor. His lip was bleeding and so was his nose. Seeing this, Parsoni’s face lit up as he said, “Now we’re going to get somewhere with this lowlife.” Warden handed Alan a bunch of paper napkins and put a metal waste basket by his feet.

Alan looked straight at Warden. “As I was saying before I was interrupted by Cro Magnon over there—- I found ‘little fella’ in a dumpster on 3rd and Avenue A.” He then cautiously began to again reach into his pocket as he stared at Warden. Warden nodded permission. Alan pulled out a crumpled black plastic bag.

“This is the bag that the baby was in.”

Warden looked shocked as he took the bag from Alan. “This is it?”

“Yes that’s it. ‘Little fella’ was in that bag.”

Warden spread the bag out on the interrogation table, patting and smoothing it to its full size. He gazed at it as if he had never before seen a garbage bag. He then lifted it up, delicately opened it and looked inside. Then he neatly folded the bag and put it in a clear evidence bag which bore a label, “Exhibit A.”

“You’re not going to believe this crap?” Parsoni said to Warden. “A few more love taps and he’d being telling the truth instead of this fairy tale. Why don’t you go get a Coke and come back in five minutes while I make some progress here.”

Alan continued, “I could have left ‘little fella’ where I found him and then I wouldn’t be here now. But I wasn’t going to let him die. To me, he wasn’t a piece of trash like he was to whoever threw him out. And as for the stroller and the other baby stuff—- do you have any witnesses who saw anything stolen? I don’t think you do. So leave me alone and go write some parking tickets. And while you’re at it, get me one of those free lawyers.”

The veins on Parsoni’s temples were bulging. He spat into the wastebasket next to Alan’s feet and largely missed the basket so that most of his spit spattered on to Alan’s pants. He kicked the basket with so much force that it flew past the door and half way across the room, spilling its contents. Alan was removed and taken to a holding cell.

A few more days went by. Weeks went by.
What the hell was going on?
officer Jackson wondered.
There gotta be some heartbroken parents out there who just haven’t reported this yet because they’re still searching for themselves. Damn, this is a white baby. A perfect white baby. They’ll call. We’ll find ‘em. Just a few more days.

Jackson kept telling the head of his precinct, Captain Palmer, to let the case sit for awhile longer. “Give it time to breathe,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’ll tell that two-bit lawyer the court appointed for the bum to go screw himself.”

Jackson was sure that the aggrieved parents would come forward, claim #2764 and press charges against Alan Gottschalk for kidnapping. Jackson would then be the hero cop who rescued the adorable caucasian infant from a deranged hobo kidnapper, and reunited him with his loving parents. This would be the career watershed moment that he had been waiting for. It was all just around the corner.
The only thing I need is for these goddamn parents to show themselves and claim the kid, and then I’m set. I’m set,
he mused.

Dr. Drummond’s conclusion that the infant wasn’t born in a hospital or with the assistance of an experienced nurse or mid-wife, coupled with the absence of anyone claiming a lost or stolen infant, was making it look like the police officers had rushed to judgment. Alan’s court appointed lawyer was making noises about contacting the American Civil Liberties Union with false imprisonment, malicious prosecution, and civil rights claims.

Five weeks after Alan’s arrest, no one had claimed that their infant had been kidnapped or was missing. The coffin which contained the remnants of Officer Jackson’s dreams was hammered shut when DNA tests taken from hair and saliva samples that were found inside the garbage bag matched that of the infant. Captain Palmer called Officer Jackson into his office.

“Jackson, this case is a total fiasco and one of the worst embarrassments that this department has had in the last ten years. The commissioner called me today and he was fuming. The mayor is all over his ass.”

“Who would know? Who the hell would know that hobo was telling the truth? ” sputtered Jackson.

Palmer was not placated. “It’s your job to find the truth. And you blew it.”

His face red as a traffic light, Jackson looked like his blood pressure would blow the top of his head right off. He began to leave Palmer’s office.

“Wait, Jackson, I didn’t dismiss you. There’s more,” Palmer said. “As part of the settlement, which your Mr. Gottschalk, now represented by the American Civil Liberties Union, has made—- the mayor and the police commissioner will both issue a public apology to him to be delivered in person at Riverview Estates, and he’ll receive a six-figure settlement payment so he doesn’t sue the city.”

It was an election year and a litigation by the ACLU on behalf of a homeless person that would attract national attention was not the kind of publicity that the mayor
and city council wanted. And anyway, this was no ordinary homeless person. Alan Gottschalk was a hero. A full-blown American hero.

The media outlets had a story they could exploit relentlessly. It dominated the local newspapers, TV and radio stations for almost a week, and spread to national coverage. It was the subject of talk shows, special reports, blogging and editorials, all speculating as to what had led to #2764’s fate. Gottschalk was dubbed “HOBO HERO,” “THE GOLDEN TRAMP,” and “HOMELESS KNIGHT.” His photo, taken from old employee records at the now shuttered manufacturing plant where he had worked before the jobs were sent overseas, was plastered everywhere within twenty-four hours of the story’s breaking.

The apology ceremony which was to take place at Riverview Estates as part of the ACLU litigation settlement was re-jiggered by the mayor’s office into a political photo-op event for the Mayor, all members of the city council and the police commissioner. In preparation for the event, the city’s sanitation department showed up with an advance-crew to “spruce up” Riverview Estates so it wouldn’t look quite as shocking on television. The mayor had his speech writer prepare a long dissertation about the plight of the homeless and jobless and what his administration, after his re-election, would be doing to help the members of Riverview Estates and “all the other good people of this city who find themselves in need.”

Alan shuddered as he shook off the past. Bringing his cup to his lips, his trembling hand caused some coffee to spill on Bobby’s letter. He wiped it as carefully as if it were an ancient document and then gently blew it dry. Getting up slowly, Alan placed the letter back in its envelope and put it in his jacket pocket. He headed off to work in a daze.

38

A
s Bobby pushed the door open and walked out of the deli, the small brass bells hanging from the string over the door jingled loudly. He took a sip from his twenty-four ounce cup of coffee, the first of five he had every day. Bobby squinted from the brightness of the sun, which was intensified as it reflected off the remains of the prior week’s substantial snowfall. There was no wind and the temperature was just slightly below freezing, which made it a warm day for February in Boston. Bobby inhaled the crisp air deeply and smiled. He loved this kind of winter’s morning.

Walking toward Tufts, he saw a large crowd of people gathered in front of the main gates. This was a sight that had become all too familiar to him over the last few months. He put on his sunglasses and pulled down hard on the visor of his baseball cap.

Their overhead lights flashing, five police cars were askew in front of the main entrance to Tufts, and at least fifteen officers and a dozen campus security guards were trying to contain fifty or more demonstrators who were intent on blocking the campus entrance. A remote broadcasting truck from one of the local television stations was also on the scene. Some of the demonstrators were picketing with placards that said “Stop Austin Now” and “Let God Decide.” Others were waving signs and chanting, “Austin Will Bring His Wrath.” As Bobby weaved through the crowd, he looked like any other student trying to make his way to class. Having eschewed the media and avoided being photographed for years, no one outside of a small circle knew what he looked like. As a leaflet was thrust into his hand that was titled, “God Has A Plan,” Bobby noticed that someone had splattered the ornate wrought iron gates with red paint.