Tax Collectors...And Other Sinners

By Wayne Vinson

Thirteen year old Bobby Bain is helpful, friendly, well-loved by all. Bobby also has a dark side. He lures his girlfriend into the blackness of an abandoned coal mine, rapes her and then maneuvers her into the open mouth of a deep elevator shaft-down, down to her death. Months later Bobby watches Internal Revenue agents sell his father's machine shop for back taxes. And then he finds his father dying at the end of a rope, a suicide. Bobby swears vengeance-he will kill federal tax collectors.

Years pass and Bobby embarks on his mission. He kills two IRS agents and others in spectacular ways, leaving no clues to his identity. Federal and local lawmen join forces and get on the killer's trail. The action rages across Ohio to the abandoned coal mine where young Bobby did his first killing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456734275

Wayne Vinson

Tax Collectors and Other Sinners is an Internal Revenue action novel. Writing it required a thorough knowledge of IRS, which Vinson acquired in 33 years as a federal tax collector and supervisor. Vinson was motivated to write Tax Collectors by his love of mystery novels and by an interest in the impact of hard IRS actions on taxpayers. The author and wife Mary live on an old hill farm near Minerva, Ohio.

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Contents

BOOK ONE: EASTERN OHIO

1

Thursday, May 24, 1956

2

Wednesday, August 8, 1956

BOOK TWO: WESTERN OHIO

1

Wednesday, May 10, 1972

2

Friday, April 13, 1973

3

Tuesday, April 17

4

Summer, 1973

5

Monday, July 9

6

7

8

Friday, the 13th

9

10

July 21-—August 7

11

Wednesday —August 8

12

13

Thursday

14

Friday

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

Saturday — California

22

23

Sunday – Stub and Fannie Taylor

24

25

BOOK THREE:

THE SIEGE AT THE MINE

1

Monday, August 20

2

3

Tuesday — Saturday, August 21 — 25

4

BOOK FOUR: ENDINGS

1

2

BOOK ONE: EASTERN OHIO

1

Thursday, May 24, 1956

Thirteen year old Bobby Bain straddled his bike at the edge of the garden and watched his neighbor, Willard, examine a tomato plant. The boy asked, What’re you doing?

Lookin’ fer a tomato worm. See this branch? No leaves on it. Tomato worm ate ’em. Now I gotta find the worm...there he is.

Willard, a grandfatherly fellow in his early sixties, broke off a small piece of plant and held it up to Bobby. A green worm, three inches long and thick as a man’s finger, clung to the branch.

"He’s camouflaged. Whoa—he’s got a horn, too. Do they stick you?"

Naw. Willard laid the worm on the ground and stomped hard.

Bobby said, "Yuuuck," and changed the subject. Can I borrow your tire pump?

Sure. Tomorrow’s the last day of school, huh?

Yep.

They gonna have a picnic?

I guess so.

Think you passed?

"Willard—you know I did."

The old man chuckled. The pump’s in the garage. Put it back when you’re done. I gotta finish this before Sadie calls me in fer supper.

Bobby pumped up his tires and rode out Willard’s lane. At the road, he turned toward home and pedaled hard until he came to a thicket. He stopped and waited for a car to pass. When it was out of sight he lifted his bike over the fence and pushed it through a tangle of sassafras trees and wild grape vines, hard going until he got to a path. He followed it into a small clearing. Brenda Kellum, his 12 year old pal, was already there, sitting on a log. Bobby laid his bike over and sat by her.

She said, Why don’t you show me today?

I can’t. My dad promised to help me work on something. I’ll show you tomorrow.

"Come on, Bobby. At least tell me what it is."

"Well...what’ll you show me?"

"Just for telling me what it is? Nothing. Besides, I already showed you my thingy."

"Yeah, and you told and my dad whipped me. He really hurt me."

"Well, you hurt me when you stuck your finger in there."

I was just trying to get your pants down.

Which wasn’t true. Her panties had already been way down when he decided to see how far he could get his finger in. Now he waited for a cutting rebuttal which didn’t come. Encouraged, he slid his eyes down her dress. Did you wear any today?

She grinned. I’ll show you if you tell me what it is.

He considered. Okay. It’s a secret tunnel.

Phooey. Some dinky little tunnel. That’s nothing.

"Yes it is. It’s the biggest tunnel, probably in the world."

"Oh, sure." But she was impressed.

Bobby said, Now you gotta show me if you wore ’em.

Brenda took hold of the bottom of her dress, yanked it up to her waist and right back down in one lightening motion. Bobby got a split-second look at her panties.

Hey, that’s not fair.

Is, too. I wore ’em and I showed you.

"Well, I dare you not to wear any to school tomorrow. I double-dare you."

"Maybe I won’t...if you show me something really special."

It will be. I got it all figgered out. In the morning, we go on the bus like usual. I’ll stay at school and come home on the bus. But you sneak off early and come back through the woods. That way your mom won’t be able to give you something to do when you get off the bus.

Brenda thought it was brilliant. "Yeah. So then we meet here?"

No, not here. Under the shop in the old basement.

Ooooo...spooky.

Naw, just dark. But you can’t let anybody see you go in there. Stay in the woods until you’re in back of the barn. Then just go in the door. There ain’t any windows in back so nobody’ll see you. I’ll meet you in there.

Is that where the tunnel is?

I’ll show you tomorrow. You gotta promise you won’t ever tell anyone. Promise?

Brenda put her right hand behind her back and crossed her fingers. I promise.

Bobby jerked her arm around and saw the crossed fingers. He said, "I mean it, Brenda," and gave her a look so black it scared her.

She raised both hands up in his face, fingers spread wide, and said, I won’t ever tell anybody about your tunnel.

Okay, then. I gotta go. Dad’s probably waiting on me.

She gave him an impish smile. Bye, Bobby. See you tomorrow.

He said, Remember—no pants, and pushed his bike along the path toward the road.

An hour later Curt Bain and Bobby were in the welding shop—a converted barn—working on name tags. Curt had cut off a small piece of aluminum and was watching his son chisel Bobby on it. Finished, he held it up for inspection.

His dad said, Well, I can read it.

It’s not very good, Dad.

"You can make it better. Grind off the corners and file the edges. But you can’t improve the name much. What you should do is write the letters on first. Then you can change anything that doesn’t look good before you use the chisel."

Okay. Cut another one.

Curt cut several more blanks.

Bobby made one with Dad on it.

Curt said, Much better. Listen, I gotta go check on your mother. How about making one with Mom on it? She’d like that.

Curt left and Bobby finished several more tags: Mom, Willard and Sadie, and another Bobby. He made a Brenda and stuck it in his pocket. The Brenda tag was the best but he didn’t show it to his dad when Curt returned.

The next day went according to plan. In the morning the kids met with their teachers who passed out final report cards with those all important boxes checked promoted or failed. There were few failures and fewer surprises. Most of the flunkees already knew they’d be back in the same rooms in the fall.

The kids spent the rest of the morning in the school yard anticipating three months of freedom and burning off energy. They came in for lunch with ice cream and cake. After that it was play time until the buses came to take them home. Bobby saw Brenda from time to time—she was hard to miss in a bright yellow dress—but he stayed away from her. At some point she slipped away.

Bobby walked along the back of the barn to the door, stopped and looked behind him. The coast was clear. Inside, he closed the door, reached above it and took down a flashlight. He shined it around and spotted Brenda standing in a corner.

She said, "I’ve been here forever. And I’m scared of spiders."

I stopped at the shop and told dad I was going over to Willard’s, so he won’t wonder where I am while we’re in the tunnel.

Brenda was still pouting. "Well, where is it?"

Back there. He led her along the wall to some old farm equipment, handed her the light and got down on his hands and knees.

Shine it down here.

She put the light on the wall and saw nothing but an inch of space under the bottom board. "That’s the tunnel?"

Bobby said, "Huh—watch this. He put his hands under the board and pulled off a short section, making an entry a foot and a half high. In there."

"No way. My mom will kill me if I ruin this school dress."

Take it off.

"You wish."

You’re not gonna ruin your dress. You just have to get under the wall then you can stand up again.

Let’s see you do it.

Sure. It’s easy.

He went under, wriggling on his belly like a snake, half expecting she’d run giggling out of the barn and away. But she came through trying unsuccessfully to keep her dress off the dirt.

Grumpy, she said, This better be good. It’s cold in here.

You get used to it. Look down there. He aimed the light and she saw the mine tunnel stretching away into total darkness.

"Wow! That is scary."

But she went with him. Brenda Kellum liked to be scared.

The tunnel walls were rough-hewn coal. Everything was black and it seemed to eat the beam from the flashlight. They walked along avoiding scattered hunks of coal and stones.

Brenda said, The light ain’t going out, is it?

No way. I got new batteries.

They turned down a new tunnel and walked between rooms separated by walls of coal.

How much farther are we going?

You’re not gonna chicken out on me, are ya?

I’m just cold and tired of this.

So? Is this a really special place? Cause, if it is....

She knew what he was getting at. "Phooey. This ain’t special. An ol’ dirty tunnel...."

They came to a place where the tunnel widened, becoming a huge room. Pillars of coal had been left to support the ceiling. Bobby stopped and played the light around. There seemed no end to it.

Bobby...let’s go back.

Is this a really special place?

Okay. It’s special.

"Really special?" He turned the light off and stepped away from her.

Bobby? Where are you?

She heard only his footsteps going away and knew she’d never find her way out by herself. Brenda screamed into the dark, "It’s really special please come back."

Ten yards away the light came on and then he was by her, sliding his hand up between her legs.

"Bobeeee—-"

He got to her panties before she could push his arm away.

Hey, you weren’t supposed to wear any.

I didn’t, she lied, but Mom saw me and made me put ’em on.

I don’t care. You promised. You gotta take ’em off.

Welll...can we go back first?

"No, because you’ll run away. You have to do it now."

Oh all right. She raised her dress and pulled her pants part way down.

Bobby shined the light on her.

I can’t see anything. You gotta take ’em all the way off.

No. It’s too dirty in here. But I’ll let you feel it...if you stay on the outside. Promise?

Okay. But I still get to see it.

Get in back of me. Yeah, like that. Now give me your hand.

She spread her legs slightly and guided his fingers onto her. Just rub me....Oh, that’s nice.

Nice lasted only a minute or two. Then he threw her down and raped her.

Bobby slowed to let her catch up.

"Stop bawling, Brenda."

Brenda rubbed her eyes and smeared coal dust over her face. My thingy hurts...an’ you tore my dress.

Well, you kept kicking me. An’ you bit me on the arm.

She wailed, I couldn’t find my panties...an’ I only got three pairs....

They shuffled on down the tunnel.

The savage excitement had gone. Bobby stopped and waited for her. You ain’t gonna tell, are ya?

She snuffled and swallowed and managed not to cry. No.

Because, if you do.... My dad will beat me half to death. They might even put me in jail. And Mom...no tellin’ what she’d do.

I won’t tell, Brenda said, low.

Promise?

He put the light squarely on her. Fresh tears made dirty channels through the grime on her face. Her yellow dress, filthy and ripped, hung off-center. Jeez, they’re gonna know...no matter what she tells them.

She said, I promise.

Okay. It’s not too far now. I’ll hold your hand.

He leads her down a tunnel, stops and pulls her against him, puts his hand down there, gropes her through her dress.

She wails, "Noooo, Bobby."

Come on. We’re almost back. Let me feel it one more time.

He works her dress up and rams his hand between her thighs. She screams and backs away, pulling him along, yelling, "Let-go-of-meee...."

Then, he does.

She stumbles backward, recovers, turns and runs into empty space...falls through the terrible blackness of an open elevator shaft.

Fifteen feet from the shaft, Bobby listens. The scream stops, abruptly. He recovers his light, crawls to the shaft, pokes the light over and peers down. Can’t see her. Light’s not good enough. But she won’t tell anyone now. He pulls the Brenda name tag out of his pocket and tosses it over the edge. The silver metal glitters and spins away into darkness. Gone, like her.

The boy leaves the mine, sneaks home, cleans up, leaves again and spends the rest of the afternoon with Willard and Sadie. He eats supper with them and is still there when Mrs. Kellum comes by, asking if they’ve seen Brenda.

2

Wednesday, August 8, 1956

Curt Bain took a plate of food upstairs to Millie. At the table Bobby toyed with his food and waited for the angry sound of his mother’s voice. This evening there was only silence. His dad came down and they resumed supper. Curt had something on his mind.

Bobby, I have to meet someone at the shop. Be a good time for you to go over to Willard and Sadie’s.

Why?

It’s a man from the government. We have to talk about taxes.

Why can’t I go with you?

It’s pretty boring. And confidential. He won’t like it if someone else is there.

How ’bout if I stay out in the shop? When you’re done we can work on the engine.

Sorry, Bub. Be too late for that. But you can stay here...spend some time with your mom?

Curt looked at his son and Bobby looked away. He hadn’t even seen his mom lately, didn’t want to see her, ever. And he wasn’t going over to Willard and Sadie’s anymore. All they talked about was what happened to Brenda, where was Brenda.

I’ll take the dishes out, Dad. You go on.

Curt left. Three minutes later Bobby followed and slipped in the shop door. He was behind a work bench, hunkered down in the dark when the tax man came in. Bobby could hear them through an open window in the wall which separated the office from the shop. His dad was right. It was boring. Then their voices got louder.

The tax man said, If you don’t pay by the end of next week, I’ll have to close you down.

Just two more months.

Can’t do it. We’ve given you too much time already. I’ll be back a week from Friday. Have the money, Mr. Bain, or I’ll seize the shop.

"Please...."

Bobby had never heard his dad beg before.

The tax man left and the boy waited for Curt to come out of the office. When he didn’t, Bobby went in. His dad was sitting at his desk. He had a small, sad smile for his son.

How much of that did you hear?

Bobby sat down and looked at the floor. Just the last part.

Curt nodded. "Okay. I better tell you what’s going on. You know we made dump truck bodies for a company. They owed us a lot of money. Then they went out of business, so they couldn’t pay. Then I couldn’t pay our bills."

But why do you owe that guy who was here?

Because I made a bad mistake. I kept tax money that didn’t belong to us.

I don’t get it, Dad.

Well, when I pay Willard and the other men, I have to take tax out of their pay. I’m supposed to give it to the government. But I used the money for other bills so we could keep the shop going.

He said he is gonna seize our shop. What’s that mean?

It means he will take our tools and equipment and sell them if I don’t pay the tax.

But, Dad, if he sells the tools, how will you do the work?

Curt shook his head. I won’t be able to. We’ll have to close the shop.

Bobby digested this. Curt watched him, hoping he’d not make the connection: if the shop went, their home and farm would, too. But the boy was focused on the tax man.

"He’s mean. Why was he yelling at you?"

Well, maybe because I promised to pay him before and then I couldn’t. He’s just doing his job, Bobby. Mr. McCord is not a bad man.

Curt’s one chance to save his business was to refinance. If he could borrow $62,000 new money for IRS and $30,000 more for other nervous creditors, Bain Welding could survive. He gave it his best shot and failed. No bank would touch him. His recent re-payment record was spotty and the federal tax liens were the kiss of death.

On the appointed day Revenue Officer Jerry McCord and some other ROs came down from Youngstown and asked for the money. Curt didn’t have it. The revenuers set about doing what they do when it becomes necessary to seize a going business. They read Curt some legalese, gave him a document and moved through the shop making a list of virtually everything. They hung signs on the larger items which said, WARNING —GOVERNMENT SEIZURE.

Curt sent his employees home and watched a major part of his life go down the drain.

They came to the engine. Revenue Officer Tim Spears said, What’s this?

Ron Hamilton said, I guess that’s a seat. It looks like a little car.

"I never saw a kid’s car made of steel that thick. And no wheels?"

Ron shrugged. I don’t know. Let’s ask. He went and got Curt.

It was going to be a locomotive. Curt indicated the rounded front half of the engine. That’s the boiler.

Tim loved trains. He said, Wow! A real steam engine. Where were you gonna run it?

We got the rails out of an old coal mine. We planned to lay them from the shop around the house and back and make a few cars. Bobby’d have his train. He and I...it was our project.

The ROs looked at each other. Tim said, We won’t take it, Mr. Bain, since it’s your boy’s. Maybe you’ll finish it.

Curt gave him a look he’d remember for a long, long time and asked, How?

The tax collectors finished their inventory and gave Curt a copy. They installed their own locks on the doors so nobody could get in but them. Signs were posted warning of dire consequences should anyone interfere with the seized assets. Then they left. Bobby hid in the brush and mowed them down with an imaginary rifle as they drove out the lane.

IRS sold the Bain Welding assets on a bright September day. It was a big sale. Ninety four people registered to bid and many more came just to watch an IRS public auction. Seven revenue officers were there to assist Jerry McCord who did the auctioneering. Tim Spears, the RO who liked trains, wasn’t there. He’d stayed in Youngstown to work another case. His buddy Ron was there, recording bids.

Bobby stayed home from school and hung around watching McCord sell his dad’s equipment and supplies. The separate items went first, then the lots. Late in the afternoon they sold lot number five, a pile of assorted pieces of metal, one of which was the steam engine. It was an inadvertent error but Bobby knew only that his train was gone for good and Jerry McCord was the one who did it. The boy ran out of the shop, went back in the mine to his hideout and sat in the dark, brooding over Jerry McCord and lot number five.

Curt Bain spent the day of the sale in his home with his wife, Millie, who refused to be comforted. He stayed with her for most of the following week, a hellish time in which Millie blamed and berated him and the successful bidders dismantled Bain Welding and took it away.

On a rainy Saturday morning Curt asked Bobby to stay home with Millie. Just for a little while, Bub. I gotta run over to Salineville and get some things.

He drove the three miles to town and bought a rope. Back at the shop he went in and walked through, looking around where the machines had been, their former locations clearly outlined on the floor. Ghosts, he thought, all ghosts now….

Curt threw the rope over a high metal track and secured one end. He stood on a stool and made a slip knot at a certain height, loosened it and put the loop around his neck. Eyes closed, he forced thoughts of Bobby and Millie away and tried to picture the shop. It was fuzzy. Then he saw the men, heard the slam bang clangor of an operating machine shop. When the picture was bright and clear, Curt stepped off the stool.

At the house Bobby stood at a window waiting for his dad, dreading his mother’s querulous call from upstairs. When it came the boy put on a jacket and ran down the lane toward the empty shop. He was close when he saw his father’s car sitting where customers used to park. Bobby sprinted to the door. Inside, he flipped the light switch then remembered the electricity had been turned off. The shop was in semi-darkness.

He looked across the great bays where the work had been done and saw something taller than his father, something which moved and suddenly fell and seemed to thrash around. Goose pimples prickled out on him and he yelled, Dad?

No answer. Bobby moved cautiously toward the thing which was shaking violently. He got closer and saw it was his father and the rope. Screaming, the boy ran to his dad, wrapped his arms around and tried to lift him, straining against his father’s body, hearing horrible sounds from his father’s throat...feeling him die. Then he ran from the building shrieking vengeance into the rain.

BOOK TWO: WESTERN OHIO

1

Wednesday, May 10, 1972

The hill looked like a thousand others, brush-covered with a road running alongside its base, an unremarkable elevation of 90 feet. Atop that hill a man, camouflaged by army greens and brown, lay among the bushes. The man, Wroth, had a rifle and a plan: He was going to kill a federal tax collector.

Wroth ranged up the road through field glasses then checked his watch—any time now. He snugged the rifle against the ground and re-checked the scope. The .30-06 was sighted on a patch of blacktop 300 yards away. Again he checked the road and saw the Chrysler. He followed it until he was sure it was Slater, then laid the glasses aside and prepared to shoot.

The Chrysler entered the fatal space. The big gun roared, the windshield exploded and the shooter waited for the car to swerve off the road and run into something. Then he would put in more rounds to make sure Slater was dead. But the car came on, passing the ambush. Cursing, Wroth scrambled to get the rifle around and got off two more shots before he focused on the gasoline tanker bearing down from the opposite direction.

He sent a hail of lead at the oncoming semi, at its driver and then at its left front tire. The truck swerved and met the Chrysler head-on, smashed it back in the direction from which it came. The tanker jackknifed, the trailer coming all the way around against the car and tractor, forming a monstrous unit which slid along the pavement until it exploded.

The fireball singed Wroth’s hair and dropped pieces of burning metal within 10 yards of him. But he stayed to watch, exhilarated by the inferno and what it was doing to Slater. When the killer heard the sirens he took a small metal tag from a pocket and dropped it on the ground among the spent rifle cartridges. Then he crawled into the trees on the back side of the hill and ran the mile to his Jeep. It took just seven minutes.

2

Friday, April 13, 1973

Tax collector Ben Walters was thinking about paint—what color to put on the kitchen walls. Then his Ford fishtailed and almost sideswiped a van, which got his full attention back on the road. An April storm had put seven inches of snow on the ground and it was still snowing and blowing like crazy. The car slid again and Ben slowed to 25, beginning to wonder if he could make it to East Liberty, an unpretentious burg in northwestern Ohio. Coming out here today was dumb, he told himself. On the other hand, how often do I collect $246,000? It was the biggest case of his career and it might get him the next promotion.

He entered the town 40 minutes later in a blinding snow squall and almost missed the city limit sign. The tax collector, a tall, balding man, hunched forward on the seat and peered through the ice on his windshield looking for the turnoff. His taxpayer, Kathleen Woods, lived in a crumbling frame mansion out on the high side of town. He found the road and her driveway, gunned the Ford and went in sideways, straightened out and made it around to the back of the house. The wind shook the car and Ben stayed in it long enough to button his coat, hoping she wouldn’t keep him standing outside for long. It was 6:27pm, almost dark, and he was late for his appointment.

He would be very late getting home, not that it mattered. It was Friday, no work tomorrow and nobody at home expecting him. Tomorrow he would paint and make points with his wife, Nancy, who was in Indianapolis with her mother for the weekend. Nancy had been after him for a year and a half to paint the kitchen.

There was no doorbell. The collector knocked hard hoping Kathleen would hear him the first time. He knocked again, really hammering it. And again, the third try, when something hard hit the back of his head. Ben fell like a stone on the snow covered walkway and felt neither the impact nor the ether soaked rag jammed against his face.

He came to slowly: on his back on a dirt floor, feet tied together, hands bound behind him, something rough around his neck. He was cold, God, he was cold. Someone had taken his coat. He could see the rough wood and rafters of a shed or barn. Ben turned his head and saw the electric lantern and the man in a ski-mask.

The tax man groaned, still foggy but aware that he was in big trouble. Trembling from fear and cold he tried to speak. What? was the best he could do. The other man stood, holding a rope. He jerked it and Ben howled; now he knew what was around his neck.

The masked figure did a pantomime, swept his right hand upward and pointed to a high horizontal beam. Three pulleys hung from the beam, side by side, and the rope ran through them. He pointed at the floor behind Ben’s head, then lifted a second set of pulleys into view. The rope ran through these, also. He set the pulleys down, stretched his arms over his head and made the motions of pulling down on the rope. Terror swept Ben. He understood the plan.

He writhed on the floor testing the ropes which bound him. Semi-coherent, he slurred words through chattering teeth trying to say, What is this? I don’t even know who you are.

His captor stood mute, arms folded over his chest.

Ben tried again. "Who are you? Tell me what you want. Talk to me, please."

Wroth gave a bye-bye wave and went to the end of the rope. He pulled and the lower pulleys rose from the floor. Ben screamed until the rope cut him off. Eyes bulging, he was lifted by his neck to a standing position. The pulling stopped and he worked desperately to get his weight on his feet and off the rope so he could breathe. Wroth gave slack and Ben sucked in air.

Wroth pulled again, slowly forced Ben to rise up on his toes...a little higher...now a macabre ballet, struggling to reach the floor...still higher...his feet swung free. The long frame hung there a full minute; then Wroth let him down. Gasping and choking, his face purple, Revenue Officer Walters came back from the edge of suffocation.

Finished with the game, the masked man hauled on the rope until Ben’s feet were two feet off the floor. Then he stood on the rope and kept it tight. He took his mask off and watched Ben’s face.

Wroth smiled. You’re wondering why, aren’t you? Because my dad died like this.

He folded his arms over his chest and watched his captive die, kicking and pissing, silently screaming. When everything stopped, Wroth tied the end of the rope to a beam. He took a small metal tag out of his pocket, pinned it to Ben’s shirt and left him hanging.

Nobody missed Ben Walters until Nancy got home Sunday evening and she was not really concerned until she found two days’ mail in the box. Then she called people, none of whom could tell her anything. She tried Ben’s supervisor, Jerry McCord; no answer there. But he picked up the phone when she called 20 minutes later.

Jerry, thank God. Where is Ben?

Nancy? I haven’t seen him since Friday. What’s going on?

Oh Lord. I was gone all weekend. And he’s not here, his car’s not here, he never took the mail out of the box....Did he tell you anything, what he was gonna do yesterday or today?

Well, yeah. He said he was going to paint your kitchen, surprise you.

"I’m in the kitchen and it’s not painted. Did he say anything else?"

Hold on—let me think. She heard him exhale. Then he said, No, he never said anything about going anywhere. You say he never got the mail? How about Friday’s?

"No, neither day. And he always gets the mail."

So you think he hasn’t been home since Friday morning?

It sure looks like it.

Okay. There’s probably some good reason but I’ll make some calls. Maybe he said something to the other revenue officers. You’re gonna be at home, right?

Yes. Jerry, I was thinking of calling the police. You think I should?

I don’t know. Why don’t you wait until I get back to you, keep your line open. Ben will probably call or come driving in anytime now.

"Let it happen, please God."

McCord hung up, feeling some guilt about withholding information from Nancy Walters. He could have told her that Ben left the office late Friday in a raging snow storm on a 45 mile trip into hill country, give her something to really worry about...like Ben in a wrecked car in a gorge or creek somewhere. It sure as hell worried McCord. He dialed East Liberty information for the residence of Kathleen Woods. The operator was sorry but Kathleen Woods had an unlisted number.

"Damn." He’d have to go to the office. Maybe Ben had left Woods’ number there. McCord explained it to his wife and left.

It took eight minutes to drive the six miles from home to the Lima IRS office. Jerry had keys to the revenue officers’ desks. He opened Ben’s and went through his cases. No luck—Ben had taken the Woods file with him. Jerry sat in his office and called his secretary and several of his ROs. Nobody had information. It was 10:40pm, time to call Nancy.

Nance, this is Jerry. Any word?

No.

I haven’t got anything either. But Ben was going to do some work in Logan County last Friday and I know who the taxpayer is. I tried to call her to see if Ben got there but she’s unlisted. She’s out in the county so the sheriff would have jurisdiction. I think we should call him now, report Ben as missing and have the sheriff check with the taxpayer. You want me to make the call?

Please.

Okay. If you hear anything from Ben call the sheriff’s office in Bellefontaine, then call me. Hang in there. It’s probably gonna be okay.

Jerry McCord was on the phone with a deputy sheriff who sounded young and not overly concerned about the disappearance of an IRS employee.

Mr. McCord, have the Walters been having marital problems? Because that’s what we usually find in cases like this. The husband just takes off.

I’m sure they haven’t.

"All right, sir. There are just three of us on tonight and