High Crimes Against The Crown

By Patrick DeVaney

Set in 1982, High Crimes Against the Crown chronicles the saga of Conor Caldemeyer. A former cop who left a small-town police force after a roadblock assignment gone awry. Conor heads to Ireland with his best friend, Alec, for a little R&R. There he meets Billi, a raven-haired Irish woman who reminds him of a love long gone but never forgott

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick DeVaney
• Release date: Nov 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781088002865

Book preview

Prologue

Should I ever have gone with Alec?

Should Custer have chased the Sioux scouting party over the ridge and onto the Little Big Horn?

Should Goliath have clanked out onto the plain at Elah to engage the kid who was standing in the middle of the field with a sling in his hand?

When someone first mentioned the Watergate Hotel to a higher up at the Nixon White House, was Sounds like a great idea the right response?

Then there was the guy who looked over the walls of Troy and said, Hey fellas, someone left us a horsey!

Maybe Napoleon can be excused for his decision to invade Russia – the land seemed ripe for the taking. But in light of the little Frenchman’s disastrous outcome, Hitler’s decision to repeat the process 129 years later looks like lunacy, doesn’t it?

Why is the list so unending? Because the folks making the decisions are flawed human beings with pasts… and weaknesses… and blind spots.

So, should I have ever gone with Alec? Absolutely not—worst damn mistake I ever made in my life.

But getting beat nearly to death tends to impair one’s judgment.

Part I:

My Life in Blue

Chapter 1

What’s your name, son?

Conor Caldemeyer, I said.

Let me guess, Conor Caldemeyer, you’ve always wanted to be a cop. Sergeant McMillan’s voice made a bullfrog sound melodious.

Yes, sir. It was a lie. Wearing a badge was a distant third on my What I Want To Do When I Grow Up list.

First on the list was baseball at Yankee Stadium—the next DiMaggio, or maybe they’d unretire number seven. I could continue Mantle’s legacy of brilliance, power, and the more-than-occasional party. But my dream crashed and burned the first time a high school opponent threw me a curve; I dove into the dugout before the ball broke over the center of the plate for strike three.

Next: romance. Robin Lackey had caught my eye in eighth grade, and I’d fixated on her and our blissful life for about six months. Too bad I wasn’t the only guy who could see, and as soon as the starting quarterback, Rocko—I swear that was his given name—Cifrese, whistled at her, my dreams of a cottage, a white picket fence, and passionate nights rivaling a Harold Robbins novel turned to ash. I wasn’t crushed. I would eventually find Gwendolyn.

And she would crush me.

Really? The sergeant seemed skeptical. No baseball aspirations or girlfriends?

What the hell? In for a penny…

No, sir. My life’s ambition has always been to be a law enforcement officer.

McMillan smirked. Son, you really need a life. Let me go get the Chief.

That’s how it started—my life in crime prevention and my life as a criminal.

§§

As far as the police thing went, my ultimate goal was to become a state trooper: cooler uniforms, faster cars, and those fabulous Smokey Bear hats paired with the mirrored sunglasses. Cops were tough-looking—troopers were badass.

At twenty-five, I took the county civil service test. Experience as a local officer would grease the skids into the trooper ranks. It wasn’t exactly the MIT entrance exam, so I was not surprised when I passed. Letters from three different departments quickly followed promising excitement, adventure, career advancement, and about thirty-two bucks a day. One of the offers was from Fort Henry, New York.

I had finished the questionnaire when McMillan ushered Chief Longo into the interrogation room. It was the Fort Henry Police Station. The place was small – they did not have HR facilities. I stood and saluted.

Jesus, Longo said. It’s not the Marines, son. Sit down.

My butt had barely touched the seat when he barked at me again. Not there. Sit over here. I can see your ferret face better.

Yes, sir.

McMillan looked over my answers, scowled, and handed the clipboard to the chief. Longo looked pissed off, which was odd because he had always been nice to me when he visited his father who lived next door. He’d always waved. He even turned on his siren for me and some buddies once.

Mr. Caldemeyer, he said. You ever smoked marijuana?

Sir?

Pot… Mary Jane… ganja… reefer. Good Lord, boy, I’m not speaking Chinese here. You like to get high?

No, sir.

Swear to Christ?

Absolutely, sir.

Take a polygraph?

Gladly, sir, I said.

The sergeant jumped into the scrum. Says here you are a member of a fraternal organization.

I am.

Did you swear any allegiance to this organization?

Yes, I did, I said.

That’s a problem, right?

I don’t see how.

The chief slammed his fist on the table. Don’t get smart, kid.

Yes, sir—I mean, no sir—I mean, I’m not trying to be smart, sir. I just don’t know how being a member of a social club presents a problem.

The chief leaned across the table. I’ve done three things in my adult life, he said. The smell of stale coffee and cigarettes on his breath was overwhelming. I’ve killed Japs in the South Pacific, I’ve made love to my wife at every possibility, and I’ve been a cop. Been one for thirty-three years. Started right where you are now, boy. At the bottom—lower than whale shit. Went from patrolman to sergeant, and eventually to chief. I’ve earned the respect of my men, the fine citizens of this town, and the endorsement of the Town Board. So don’t think you’re talking to an idiot here. I believe this organization could be a problem.

Could you explain, please?

Okay, hotshot. It’s a Friday night—two a.m. You get a call. There’s a fight at the Numb Nuts Social Club. You show up with your partner. You walk in, smack your billy club on the bar and say, ‘Knock it off! Police!’ Your buddy Lance stops midway through beating some guy who grabbed his girlfriend’s ass and says, ‘Oh hi, Charlton.’

Conor, sir, I said with a firm tone.

Who the hell cares, he said. ‘Oh hi, Conor.’ Then he recommences beating the crap out of the ass grabber with a pool cue because he knows old Coggins—

Conor, sir.

Correct me again and you’ll wish you hadn’t, he yelled.

I nodded.

…because he knows old… Co-nor—he spent a long time on my name—… won’t do shit because he made a pinky swear about being a loyal member of the Numb Nuts Clan. Right?

I took a moment. I didn’t want to seem too eager, but the scenario was so patently stupid it did not deserve a lot of thought.

No, sir, I said. That’s not how it would go. If there is a disturbance or a crime, my only responsibility is to uphold the law. Second, the club is back home—about sixty miles away. I’m never going to be summoned to a call there.

Oh. Well, that makes sense. Sergeant, next question please.

It says here you have previously used firearms. He pointed at the paper in front of him. Before being issued a badge, we have a mandatory firearms class. Our instructor, Officer Ralph Halpen, is one of the best in the state. He was a sniper in the Korean War and can shoot the nuts off a fly a half-mile away. You’ll need to be proficient in various weaponry. Will that be a problem?"

I don’t think so, sir.

You’re not some kind of Quaker or anything, are you? The Chief eyed me with suspicion.

Ah no, sir. Lapsed Catholic.

Good—just want to make sure you won’t have any problem blowing someone away if the situation warrants it.

Hope it never comes to that, Chief, I said.

Good man, he said. You like girls?

I don’t think you can ask me that, Chief. I took a chance.

One-hundred-percent, red-blooded, American skirt chaser, sir, I said. But never on duty.

A brief pause.

Uh oh.

Then a low chuckle.

Longo nodded to McMillan. He knows it doesn’t pay shit, right?

McMillan looked at me. Don’t say the pay doesn’t matter, kid. It always matters. You just know what it is, right?

Yes, sir.

Longo stood and lumbered to the door.

Okay, we’ll call you after the background check. Assuming you pass the polygraph, we’ll be good to go.

Chapter 2

I hung up the phone and turned to my mother.

I report in the morning, I said. They’re running a routine background check today. Assuming that goes well, by this time tomorrow I’ll be in training to be a cop.

Well, honey, Mom said, all they will find out about you is what a fine young man you are. I’ll wash your clothes so you can begin packing. Are you going to need any help finding a place to stay? I mean, you know… after the last time.

Talking about my living arrangement during my two years of college was too painful and Mom never acknowledged it. She was only trying to be helpful. The dear woman never wanted anything more than for me to be safe and happy. It’s almost all she ever said about my future. I used to mess with her about it.

Mom, Jacques Cousteau called and asked me to join a naked scuba diving expedition in the South Pacific.

As long as you are safe and happy, dear.

The background check was a waste of time. No one was going to say anything bad about me. I bet Wayne Gacy knew people who would swear he was a fun, loving guy who dresses up like a clown.

At that moment, all I cared about was the big night I had planned—a trip to Oktoberfest with my long-time buddy, Alec Mahony. Almost turned out to be my last hurrah. He picked me up at six. By eight, we were hovering over a lake and preparing to jump out of a helicopter.

We’d stopped at a friend’s for burgers and beer before heading to the festival. Most of the guys I’d played ball with were there. When I walked in, the unmistakable odor of marijuana filled the room.

Can’t be in here, I said. I gotta take a polygraph about drug use and there might be a blood test or something. Let’s go outside.

The air in the backyard smelled less like skunkweed and more like a McDonald’s. Newsreel Fitzpatrick – known for his ability to make easy grounders look impossible – wore a chef’s hat and an apron asking the age-old question, Hi Sailor, New in Town?

He had converted a 50-gallon drum to a grill and was cooking enough burgers to feed everyone on Bat Night at Yankee Stadium. I pulled a Killian’s Red from a cooler, and banged the cap off on the corner of a picnic table—my patented panty-dropper move; The guys were far more impressed than the ladies. I then stood with the guys while we reminisced about our 8-22 high school baseball team.

You know, Pete Sanchez said, I had a chance to try out for the Mets. Then they saw me try to field a ball up the middle. The scout said he’d seen better range on an oven.

Well, at least you had a good arm. I couldn’t throw a dead cat out of a window.

Here it comes, Alec said.

Stumpy Middleton, whose given name was Stumpy, said, I spent my entire career stretching triples into singles.

What the hell are you talking about, Stump? It was Wallander The Walrus Gibson. You couldn’t find first base with a map.

Stumpy was ready. But I found third base with your sister.

The crowd erupted as The Walrus graciously admitted defeat and accepted a beer as a peace offering.

Were we really that bad? I asked.

Hell, Conor, you hit .267 and had an arm like a bean-bag chair… and you were the star. We stunk!

The burgers were rare and juicy, and I’d had five beers before I realized it. Alec found me over by the desserts. Let’s go, man, don’t want to miss the red-hot polka contest, he said.

Sure, I attempted to say — it came out sfhuzz because I shoved an entire chocolate chip cookie in my mouth. I chewed. Let me grab something for the road.

I picked up a paper plate and loaded it with half-dozen desserts.

Damn Conor, you eat like a kid. By the time you’re forty you’ll be fat and toothless.

I had half a brownie in my mouth. Wadda wuh tu guuuue.

We made it to the Fairgrounds about the time things got crazy – meaning the accordion playing contest was in full swing. Guys and gals were wearing out Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight, Tarantella, The Mexican Hat Dance, and the crowd’s favorite, Lady of Spain.

I was in the middle of it, dancing with anyone who would take a twirl and singing at the top of my musically abandoned voice.

Alec put a fraternal arm on my shoulder. You okay, brother?

Groovy baby, I said. Just having a good time.

Can I ask you something?

Anything — only I don’t usually kiss on the first date.

He backed up a step. How many brownies did you eat?

Oh no, man, did I take the last one? I’m sorry, man. Let’s drive back and get one for you.

A wide smile broke across his face. Why don’t you just fly back over there and get us a handful?

My perception was a little off, but I could tell something was amiss. What’s going on, brother? I asked.

You took Eddie Nurblatt’s brownies, man.

That doesn’t make sense, man. Eddie doesn’t cook. Everyone knows that all Eddie does is…

I paused long enough for the two of us to finish the sentence together… sell weed.

The euphoria dissipated. Alec, I gotta take a polly wally doodle do tomorrow.

I think it’s a polygraph.

And they’re gonna axe me if I participate in recherachumal drug use.

Yep, that recherachumal question is gonna screw you sideways.

I didn’t mean to get stoned-d-done-done-doned.

Feels good though, don’t it?

Effin’ amazing. I paused for a moment of great existential contemplation. I got an idea, I said.

And that’s how we ended up in the helicopter.

Chapter 3

Whirlybird Atkins had been a fixture at every county fair and community wide event for as long as I could remember. No one knew his real first name and his legend grew every year. Most of it was bullshit, but he was our area’s answer to Chuck Yeager, so we never fact checked anything.

He was at least sixty-five, and looked closer to eighty. People had quit hiring Whirlybird a long time ago. He had the vision of a bowling ball and would not have heard a dynamite blast if he'd been sitting on it. He made money by showing up at carnivals and out-of-the-way county fairs, and dazzling people with his chopper. The man could flat out fly a ‘copter.

He owned a vintage Bell H-13 Sioux, made famous on television in M*A*S*H. He’d cram two passengers in the soap bubble canopy and fly them around the Fairgrounds for five bucks apiece. When asked how he made any money, he proudly announced he had not paid taxes since he’d gotten back from the Korean War.

Damn Army cost me my marriage. I figure I’ll start giving those bastards in Washington money as soon as I recoup my alimony.

In my altered state, I came up with a brilliant idea. Let’s fly back over to the party and make an entrance.

Alec shook his head. Whirlybird said, That’s extra twenty apiece. And ten more if I fly you back. I ain’t Allegheny Air, ya know.

Over Alec’s protests, I handed over forty bucks and Whirlybird fired up his machine. It coughed like an asthmatic, then sputtered to life.

She’ll take a good five minutes to warm up, Whirlybird said. You boys go get a beer and a dog and come back.

As he walked away, he yelled at us. Bring me one too.

Beer or dog?

Yes!

Alec turned a little pale. You think he should have a beer before he flies?

I laughed. You think this will be his first one today?

We each chugged a beer and slammed down a dog. We got two brews each for the road and one for Whirlybird, and we headed back to where the eggbeater was waiting.

Thanks, boys, Whirlybird said.

He pulled a penknife from his pocket and proceeded to shotgun the beer like a frat boy during pledge week. He wiped his mouth and pointed to our seats.

Let’s go.

Alec got in like a skittish thoroughbred balking at the starting gate. Once I pushed him inside, I jumped in and fastened my belt.

Whirlybird made a great show of toggling a lot of switches and adjusting his headset even though we knew he wasn’t in radio contact with anyone. He hit the gas or whatever ‘copter pilots do, worked the controls, and we rose into the air.

Gonna level off about a hundred feet, then take a spin around the lake before we head for your party. Might as well give you gents your money’s worth.

He banked so hard to the right I was sure I was going to fall out, but I didn’t care. The world was pleasant, hazy, and pastel. For reasons I have never understood, I began to sing Moon River at the top of my lungs.

I’m crossing you in style some daaaaaaay!

Whirlybird put us in a steep climb. I heard Alec screaming something about my mother as we rocketed skyward.

Wherever you’re going, I’m going your waaaaaaay!

We leveled off and flew in a long, sweeping circle. I threw back another beer. When Alec declined his, Whirlybird gladly took it.

Alright, boys, let’s go make an entrance, he said, which is the last thing I remember him saying before he uttered the words no passenger in any conveyance wants to hear.

Uh oh!

I wasn’t sure if we’d hit an air pocket, a speed bump, or an albatross, but the helicopter bucked up and down and began to shudder.

Alec’s voice was loud and shrill. What the fuck?

Not sure, Whirlybird said. Could be the fuel pump – the old girl gets a little finicky sometimes. We might have a bird stuck in the engine somewhere.

Everything suddenly became very black and white. We were about seventy-five feet above the surface of the lake and maybe a half-mile offshore.

Not gonna make it back, boys, Whirlybird said. Too much weight. Get ready to jump.

His voice was calm and even. He could have just as easier have said, "Run down to the store and get me a