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40 ARNIE IN TROUBLE
With Naugahyde bucket seats in front and back,
Everything's chrome, man, even my jack,
Step on the gas, she goes Waaaaahhhh-
I'll let you look,
But don't touch my custom machine
— The Beach Boys
Rudolph Junkins and Rick Mercer of the Pennsylvania State Police detective
division sat drinking coffee the following afternoon in a glum little office
with paint peeling from the walls. Outside, a depressing mixture of snow and
sleet was falling.
"I'm pretty sure this is going to be the weekend," Junkins said. "That Chrysler
has rolled every four or five weeks for the last eight months."
"Just understand that busting Darnell and whatever bee you've got in your
bonnet about that kid are two different things."
"They're both the same thing to me," Junkins replied. "The kid knows
something. If I get him rattled, I may find out what it is."
"You think he had an accomplice? Someone who used his car and killed
those kids while he was at the chess tourney?"
Junkins shook his head. "No, goddammit. The kid has got exactly one good
friend, and he's in the hospital. I don't know what I think, except that the car
was involved… and he was involved too."
Junkins put his Styrofoam coffee cup down and pointed at the man on the
other side of the desk.
"Once we get that place closed down, I want a six-pack of lab technicians to
go over it from stem to stern, inside and out. I want it up on a lift, I want it
checked for dents bumps, repaint… and for blood. That's what I really want,
Rick. Just one drop of blood."
"You don't like that kid much, do you?" Rick asked.
Junkins uttered a bewildered little laugh. "You know, the first time I kind of
did. I liked him and I felt sorry for him. I felt like maybe he was covering for
somebody else who had something on him. But this time I didn't like him at
all." He considered.
"And I didn't like that car, either. The- way he kept touching it every time I
thought I had him on the ropes. It was spooky."
Rick said, "As long as you remember that Darnell is the guy I've got to bust.
No one in Harrisburg has the slightest interest in your kid."
"I'll remember," Junkins said. He picked up his coffee again and looked at
Rick grimly. "Because he's a means to the end. I'm going to nail the person
who killed those kids if it's the last thing I ever do."
"It may not even go down this weekend," Rick said.
But it did.
Two plainclothes cops from Pennsylvania's State Felony Squad sat in the cab
of a four-year-old Datsun pickup on the morning of Saturday, December 16,
watching as Will Darnell's black Chrysler rolled out of the big door and into
the street. A light drizzle was failing; it was not quite cold enough to be sleet.
It was one of those misty days when it is impossible to tell where the
lowering clouds end and the actual mist begins. The Chrysler was quite
properly showing its parking lights. Arnie Cunningham was a safe driver.
One of the plainclothesmen lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth and spoke into
it. He just came out in Darnell's car. You guys stay on your toes."
They followed the Chrysler to I-76. When they saw Arnie get on the
eastbound ramp with its Harrisburg sign, they turned up the westbound ramp,
toward Ohio, and reported. They would get off I-76 one exit down the line
and return to their original position near Darnell's Garage.
"Okay Junkins voice came back let's make an omelette."
Twenty minutes later, as Arnie was cruising east at a sedate and legal 50,
three cops with all the right paperwork in hand knocked on the door of
William Upshaw, who lived in the very much upscale suburb of Sewickley.
Upshaw answered the door in his bathrobe. From behind came the cartoon
squawks of Saturday-morning TV.
"Who is it, honey?" his wife called from the kitchen.
Upshaw looked at the papers, which were court orders and felt that he might
faint. One ordered that all of Upshaw's tax records relating to Will Darnell
(an individual) and Will Darnell (a corporation) be impounded. These
papers bore the signature of the Pennsylvania Attorney General and a
Superior Court judge.
"Who is it, hon?" his wife asked again, and one of his kids came to look, all
big eyes.
Upshaw tried to speak and could raise only a dusty croak. It had come. He
had dreamed about it, and it had finally come, The house in Sewickley had
not protected him from it; the woman he kept at a safe distance in King of
Prussia had not protected him from it; it was here: he read it in the smooth
faces of these cops in their off-the-rack Anderson Little suits. Worst of all,
one of them was Federal—Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. He produced a
second ID, proclaiming him an agent of something called the Federal Drug
Control Task Force.
"Our information is that you keep an office in your home," the Federal cop
said. He looked—what? Twenty-six? Thirty? Had he ever had to worry
about what you were going to do when you had three kids and a wife who
liked nice things maybe a little too much? Bill Upshaw didn't think so. When
you had those things to think about, your face didn't stay that smooth. Your
face only stayed that smooth when you could indulge in the luxury of grand
thoughts—law and order, right and wrong, good guys and bad guys.
He opened his mouth to answer the Federal cop's question and produced only
another dusty croak.
"Is this information correct?" the Federal cop asked patiently.
"Yes," Bill Upshaw croaked.
"And another office at 100 Frankstown Road in Monroeville?"
"Yes."
"Hon, who is it?" Amber asked, and came into the hallway. She saw the three
men standing on the stoop and pulled the neck of her housecoat closed. The
cartoons blared.
Upshaw thought suddenly, almost with relief,
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