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BEYOND RESTRAINT by Bob Castle In brief, the writ forbade Bart Hogan to:
 The restraining order had been filed before the papers of their divorce were processed. Francine knew the bastard was following her. Because she had little or no experience of a violent or demonic Bart, she deemed him a dumpy, harmless bag of bones. The phone calls in the middle of the night merely reinforced her impression of his low-breed cowardice. Then on Christmas outside her parents' home she had a flat tire and assumed it had been a slow leak. Three days later, in a belated Christmas card, Bart acknowledged responsibility for causing it. At the motel on New Year's Eve afternoon, she had informed Bill Dempsey what most disturbed her was that Bart had traveled over fifty miles to Wilmington, Delaware, to do this to her. Where had he suddenly gotten initiative after nineteen years of marriage? Besides, she was sure Bart didn't have a car. Had he hitchhiked there or taken the Amtrak train or a Trailways bus? Then she began crying. Bill asked what was wrong. "It just occurred to me. He hay have hidden himself in the trunk of the car." "Maybe you should contact the police." She was reluctant to do this because of the affair she was having with a married man. Only after all four of her tires were slashed outside of Sixtus IV basketball game a week later did Bart rise in her mind to little less than a mass murderer. Actually, Francine's profound maternal instinct for Teresa and Nicolas kicked in-she wanted to kill the shithead. When she returned from the police station, she wanted to call Bart and tell him herself, only he launched a pre-emptive strike by answering the phone and immediately telling her that he had seen Francine with her new boyfriend at an antique shop in New Hope before Christmas. "I was only following you. I didn't think it was going to lead to a rendezvous." "How could you?" "I bought a Pinto for five hundred dollars." "Wasn't your insurance dropped after the DWI?" "I didn't go to a car dealership." "I don't fucking care. I don't know why we're talking about this. I want you to stay out of my private life. I went to the police." "Who's the fella?" "Go to hell." "Does Teresa know him?" "Of course." "Liar. You wouldn't do that while we were still married." "It's only a matter of time. Teresa understands." Suddenly, he was crying. "We had such a good marriage," he sobbed. She had heard the crying before. The night she had locked him out of the house. He had just gambled away his entire paycheck at a casino in Atlantic City. The mortgage payment was three months overdue. Then he was bawling when she found out (two months after the fact) that he had been fired by the real estate agency. He hadn't sold a house in two years. His drinking increased. They didn't fight but had stopped talking. In a few fast months Francine was humiliated by the realization, belatedly confirmed by Bart's relatives, that she had married an asshole. The wife was always the last to know. "You can pull your life together," she said. "Then you'll have me back?" "It's too late." "Did your boyfriend tell you to call the cops?" "They aren't going to arrest you. I wanted them to know what you were up to. I will be getting a restraining order." "I'll never accept the fact that we'll never be together again. I don't want anyone else." "Not just from me but from the kids as well." "You can't keep me from them." "You haven't seen them in six months. You only care about yourself. Where have you been the last five years? You don't want to be known as the guy who was given the boot in the ass by his wife." "I'll never accept it." His voice was threatening, final, but he didn't hang up. That was typical of Bart. Impulsive but afraid to act. "Even the kids think you're an asshole," she said and the hung up. Francine often caught herself checking the street outside her house and in the rear- and side-view mirrors of her car for Bart's Pinto. The Hopewell Township police drew up a warrant for the arrest of Bart Hogan. It read in brief: Said recipient of this warrant has violated the conditions of the previous injunction, #76446, restraining him from any physical or telephone contact with the filer of the complaint nor allowing him to come within one hundred yards of the complainant. Such violation was constituted by the recipient's repeated ringing of the complainant's door bell, leaving phone messages on the answering machine, posting messages on the rear window of the complainant's car, and hanging around the entrance of the complainant's place of employment. The warrant was dated April 15, the same day Mrs. Hogan visited township police headquarters. Sergeant Pernell Loughlin filed the warrant while Sergeant Randall Fingers delivered it with the intent to arrest Mr. Hogan. Sergeant Fingers wrote the following report, with the collaboration of Sergeant Loughlin. Five times Sergeant Loughlin or I have visited the house of Mr. Bartram Hogan, 483 Lindbergh Drive. Each time there has been no answer. Entrances to the house, besides the front door, were locked. No forced entry was attempted. Signs of habitation were not visible. However, upon speaking to residents in the neighbor- hood, we learned that Mr. Hogan had been going and coming from the house both in the mornings and evenings between April 15 and April 22. Sergeant Loughlin was dispatched to Ewing Township to speak to Joshua Epstein, landlord of the Lindbergh Drive property, and Mr. Epstein confirmed that Mr. Hogan had sent in his April rent, a check for four hundred dollars. As far as the landlord knows, Mr. Hogan has been a good tenant, paid all bills, during the last six months. In the meantime, I tried to locate Mr. Hogan at his last place of employment, Compton's Café and Bar in Lambertville. The owner, Jason Dalrymple, reported that Mr. Hogan had been fired from his bartending job in the beginning of March for having stolen from the cash register on many occasions. I asked Mr. Dalrymple whether he would file a complaint against Mr. Hogan, which Dalrymple did on April 18, the day after we had spoken. However, Mr. Dalrymple could not give information as to Mr. Hogan's present employment, nor did other employees of Compton's know where Mr. Hogan worked. Another bartender, Ralph Fencik, suggested we stake out the casinos in Atlantic City, where he and Mr. Hogan frequently went prior to Mr. Hogan's firing. An addendum to the last paragraph included comments by the employees of Compton's. They were surprised Bart was wanted by the police and thought he was the one being harassed! One waitress remembered him talking to a lady, a divorcee, named Constance. On April 19, Mrs. Hogan filed another harassment complaint against her husband, whom she claimed was following her on a bicycle (his car had been repossessed on March 18-although he should not have been driving anyway, an outstanding DWI violation was still being held against him). This new complaint has been attached to the present warrant. We would suggest semi-continuous surveillance be started around 483 Lindbergh Drive, six hours daily, two hours each in the morning, afternoon, and evening, the specific hours to be worked out by the day's watch commander. Sergeant Loughlin has spoken to the IRS and Social Security Administration in order to track down Mr. Hogan's present employ- ment, if any. We will also continue to serve Mr. Hogan's warrant at times when there is no surveillance. Randall Fingers Sergeant Hopewell Township Police Recently, concurrent with a fit of sagging esteem, Geraldine received a phone call. "Who am I speaking to?" a man's voice cracked. "You called me," she said and hung up. The phone immediately rang again as if a re-dial button had been used. The same guy. "You are Mrs. Dempsey." "If you're trying to sell me something..." "No, no, don't hang up again." He paused. "I thought it was rather rude the way you just treated me." "Could you get to the point?' "You don't know me." "Obviously." "I have something important to tell you about your husband." "Do you know Bill? Is he all right?" "I never met him... wait, please. I don't know him personally, but he's playing an important role in my life." The guy sounded like a derelict. He wouldn't give his name. She had a finger on the pedal of the phone above the phone's mouthpiece ready to cut off the conversation. Waiting for the first obscene word. "This all sounds very vague," she said. "What are you trying to say?" "I'm trying to." He sounded flustered, maybe ready to hang up himself. Then he simply cried out. "Your husband's having an affair with my wife." A quick moment's silence, then she laughed. "This is not a laughing matter," he seemed near tears, a deep nasal snort upward reverberated through the telephone line. "Mrs. Dempsey, there's laws in this state regarding adultery." She composed herself. "So what?" She repressed an urge to tell this jerk that her husband didn't need the state's nor God's laws to tell him he did anything wrong. "There will certainly be a scandal at the school," he sounded uneasy. "He could lose his job. I believe Catholic schools have a moral turpitude clause." "The union threw that out years ago." Now she had him. "Just tell your husband I called." "I will not." "But. . . ." She hung up and waited for the phone to ring. Nothing. He never called back. The rest of the day she debated about telling Bill before deciding to keep it to herself. Her past worries about his fidelity, his mental and physical devotion to her, had been purely theoretical. The man's accusations of an affair had the effect of forcing her to see how ridiculous she had been to ever question Bill's loyalty. Worrying herself was a private game to sharpen her satisfaction and happiness with Bill as a husband and, probably, to keep the boredom of happiness from suffocating their relationship. The gun dealer was willing to lay before Bart twenty species of rifles and automatic weapons. He listened to the sales pitch to allay any suspicions. "I really need a good, long-range weapon. Maybe up to five hundred yards." "Duck?" "Excuse me." "You going after duck?" "Yes, yes. I'm sorry. I was admiring this." He put a hand on one rifle and had, in a split second, drawn the dealer away from a topic about which Bart knew nothing. He didn't want to make up any stories. Not that he was trying to hide anything. If his name had to be registered, he would give the correct name. He didn't expect to run and hide afterward. "Oh, you like light in the barrel, heavy in the stock. A very good choice." "I'll take it. How much?" "Three hundred and fifty dollars. And tax. You'll have to fill out some forms." "Of course, I expected that. No telling what kind of nuts..." "It's the law. Make sure you don't have a police record or violent crimes. There are plenty of nuts who haven't been arrested. Just the law." "Sure, sure." Bart filled out the three forms. The dealer turned behind the counter. "Are you getting the bullets?" Bart asked. "You'll get two cases, complimentary, when you pick up the gun." "I don't understand. I filled out the forms. I thought that was all I had to do." "Yes, but I have to send them to the State Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms Agency. I should be calling you a week to ten days." "I have to have the gun now." Bart tried to think. "I'm going hunting in two days." "Duck season doesn't begin until July." This was the reason he hadn't wanted to lie. Tripped up. He didn't know ducks from fucking bucks. "That's what my cousin Harry told me." "Maybe he's taking you to New York." Aha! A way out. "Didn't I say we were going up there?" "I guess you'll have to borrow a rifle." "I guess," Bart said, finishing the forms and cursing the gun dealer, who had wrecked a very good plan. [the letter below was received by the Trenton Times on May 6th]
I am a desperate person. I've nowhere to turn. Humiliated down the line. My wife and daughter have abandoned me because they think I'm a loser. My wife has been having an affair with a teacher from Sixtus VI High School. She's slapped a restraining order against me. The cops are on my tail. Because I've stopped paying child support. That's because I lost my job at Seven/Eleven because I couldn't cut Alpine Lace Swiss thin enough. I'm a mad man, pissed off. I want to pay everyone back who has made my life miserable. The presence of the Pope on Sixtus VI grounds will provide me with the opportunity I need to make a statement. How fitting to do the deed in the presence of the employers of the man who cuckolded me. The last straw: the guy's goddamn wife wouldn't believe me when I was telling her about her husband cheating on her. The Even-izer. [The editors of the newspaper contacted police, who advised not to print the letter. There was an investigation but the "Even-izer" was not apprehended. The threat was one of six thousand made against Pope John Paul II during his visit to the United States in 1984.] Shouldn't have sent the letter before buying the gun. Check. Should've bought the gun much earlier. Double check. Shouldn't have filled out the forms once he learned he couldn't take the rifle from the shop. Not so fast! He had to go through with the purchase, complete all the forms, not try to scratch out or disfigure his name on the paper. The dealer would have become suspicious. Shit. Double shit. Why did he send the letter to the newspaper? Connect the recent gun purchase with his quitting the Seven/Eleven. He would be heaved into the slammer for fifteen to twenty years and not have fired one round. At the Pope. At anybody. This would solidify his loser image to his wife and daughter. Couldn't have bought the gun earlier. Stupid. Double stupid. The plan hadn't come to mind until he saw an article about the Pope's visit to Sixtus High. What did he know about guns? Firing or buying one. He practiced his shooting at arcades on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City. He didn't even have an idea about the rifles' kickback when he fired for real. He wouldn't get the gun until the Pope was back in Rome. Maybe it was better this way. He had planned to turn himself in, but a crowd of pissed off Catholic might rip him to shreds first. Fuck that. But he had to do something. The goddamn letter. He had put them on the alert so that he would be captured. He was prepared to confess and plead guilty. If asked why he did it? Kill the Pope? No, you fool, read the fucking letter! Oh, it was the day he had cut two pounds of Alpine Lace Swiss too thick and the customer wouldn't take it. The Seven/Eleven manager mockingly asked: what do you want me to do, Bart, paste the slices back on the butt? Then he asked Bart to get his butt off the premises, with his wages docked for the price of two pounds of Swiss cheese. In an impulsive moment or hour, he sat down and planned his revenge on the world. All he knew, now, was that he had to think of something to do. [Entry in the 1985 edition of Il Fortitudinus] Reginald Williams III Activities: Intramurals I. II; Swimming Team I; Forensics I, II; World Affairs Club III; Suicide Cafe II, III, IV Career Goal: win the Pulitzer Prize for Journalism Most Memorable Event: At the end of my Junior year when the sniper shot at one of the classrooms and nearly killed Mr. Dempsey and a couple students. Reggie Williams wasn't the only senior of the class of '85 to list this episode as the most memorable event ever at Sixtus IV high school. It outranked tenfold any mention of a prom. It was incredible compared to past Il Fortitudinuses where most seniors listed things that had happened to them personally. For, like Reggie, few if any of the '85 class saw or heard the sniper fire on June 6, 1984. The juniors had heard later when they had been ordered outside that a student had been shot in the shoulder. Maybe the next day he found out she wasn't the intended victim. Her name? What did he or the others care, she was a sophomore and not very good looking. Reggie told his friends at NYU a few years later that the guy who had fired the shots (actually, it was one shot) had climbed a tree three hundred yards away, thirty feet beyond the parking lot where a patch of trees had been saved by a local environmental group in the 70s. They were promptly cut down June 7th. He fired his rifle but because of the recoil, he fell from his perch forty feet to the ground and was crippled for life (actually, on crutches for eight months). © Bob Castle « Home | Contributor Notes » |
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