Barry Jones' Cold Dinner. John Schlarbaum
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was to watch, photograph, and videotape drug deals going down as part of sting operations. After being sliced and diced by the leader of the Cuban Arms gang however, I was deemed “damaged street goods” by my superiors and was assigned truck duty full-time.
Not that I minded. The pay was the same.
Upon my forced retirement, I soon discovered the act of surveillance was suddenly a very stressful experience. I no longer had the luxury of working with eight or more other officers, all communicating with each other by radio. If I lose sight of my subject or the subject’s vehicle in traffic, there is no back up. I am now a one man operation consisting of a dark green van with tinted windows, a couple of cameras, one set of eyes and a large pair of binoculars from WWII which I’d bought at a pawn shop.
I dubbed today’s surveillance a “fact-finding” mission. I was here only to observe. No one would be followed. No one videotaped or photographed. Hopefully, no one would even notice the unfamiliar van parked at the end of their quiet little street. Duke Drive is one of four short streets that make up the decade old, forty lot Delta Haven subdivision, located at the south end of town. All of the two storey homes were fashioned on variations of six basic designs - with each appearing warm and friendly.
I could only imagine what evil (if any) lurked behind their front doors.
I arrived at six in the morning and drove past 15 Duke Drive, which was a brown bricked residence with a single car garage. Parked in the driveway was a white late model Monte Carlo. I pressed the record button on my mini-cassette player and noted the licence plate. As expected, there were no lights on within the dwelling. I then surveyed the houses directly beside and across from the Jones place. Again (not surprisingly) they were also dark.
I then set up position near a small park and began doing what I do best: minding other people’s business.
An hour later the first sign of activity was observed: the Kelsey Lake Free Press newspaper boy entered the subdivision on foot, placing papers in the screen doors of every third house or so - including the Jones door.
Soon after it was time for everyone and their brother it seemed, to take the family dog for a short walk down to the park. Luckily, due to the light yet constant rainfall, no one paid attention to my van.
I watched as they passed by, mentally evaluating each person. I knew instinctively which walkers were dog lovers and which were not, long before overhearing them praise (“That’s a good girl”) or scold (“Hurry up dog! I don’t have all day!”) their pets. (For the record, I am more of a cat person.) Regardless of their gender or age however, all the people without exception, were white. Just like when I was growing up, I thought sadly. After the dogs were safely back inside there was a lull in activity while breakfast was being served. Then the final stage of this tiny neighbourhood’s morning ritual took place: the mass exodus of residents from their comfy cosy homes in order to attend school or to go to work.
When this occurred I began to pay particularly close attention to the homes in the immediate vicinity of #15. With each car that was backed out onto Duke Drive, I noted the vehicle’s make, its licence plate, the number of occupants - and if possible - their ages.
I was disheartened to learn that the residents (and presumably homeowners) of #13 and #17 were young couples, both in their early 20’s. Due to their age, it was highly unlikely either twosome had been residing in the area in March 1990. I made a mental note to find out just who had been Barry Jones’ neighbours seven years earlier and where they were now.
I was encouraged though, to see the three houses across the street from the Jones’ residence (#12, #14, and #16) were occupied by couples in their late 40’s and 50’s. All potential eyewitnesses to Mr. J’s final known actions.
By 8:45 all activity ceased.
Incredibly, the only car left parked in the street’s many driveways was the white Monte Carlo. In fact, it was one of only a handful of houses which no one had exited to greet the new - yet still wet - morning. Didn’t Mrs. Jones have to go to work? Didn’t her two teenaged sons have classes to attend? It just didn’t feel right. That all three occupants were sick and housebound on the very morning I’d decided to start my investigation seemed too coincidental. I recalled a highly successful homicide detective repeatedly telling me to never believe in such a concept.
“Everything in this world happens for a reason,” he’d said sternly. “Everything. No ifs, ands, or buts.”
Had Wayne tipped the Jones off after milking the cows? Before milking the cows? During milking the cows? I felt it wasn’t in Wayne’s nature to do such a thing. (I was also pretty sure the cows had nothing to do with it either.)
Then in a moment of clarity unmatched in quite some time, my mind concocted the following equation: Wayne + Cow = Trudy.
“That bitch!” I yelled, not caring if anyone outside the van heard. She never could keep her trap shut! For several minutes, I continued to curse the former Miss Babich, calling her every derogatory name I could think of, as well as making up a few new ones.
Then something through the rain drenched front window caught my eye: movement at #15 Duke Drive.
They were moving fast. With the aid of my binoculars though, I was able to take a mental snapshot of all three of them as they ran to the Monte Carlo.
Cathy Jones pretty much fit Wayne’s description. She was about 5’1”, sported a very heavy build, and possessed a face that would scare rabid animals. Her eyes were severe looking - beady even. Her mouth was frozen in a permanent scowl and her unintentional waddle reminded me of a sumo wrestler. Then to add insult to injury, her eye shadow and heavy cheek blush appeared to have been applied to her large round face by a drunken clown.
Suddenly the thought of Wayne and Trudy Babich having sex wasn’t so bad. Compared to Cathy Jones, Trudy was centerfold material.
I forced my eyes off the human genetic accident that was Barry Jones’ wife and focused on the two boys.
Both were tall, slim and good looking young men. The blond haired one I assumed was 17 year old Matt, while the brown haired boy was his 15 year old brother Randy. From their profiles it was apparent they’d (thankfully) obtained Barry’s genes - an incalculable rich blessing if there ever was one.
In quick order they were all in the car, which Cathy then drove frantically out of view.
Although curious where they’d gone, I quietly remained in the back of the van and started writing out my notes. An hour later, I gently slid into the driver’s seat and casually drove out of the subdivision, hoping no one had noticed my unannounced visit.
At the first stop sign I hung a left and continued to drive out of town. For the next thirty minutes I followed the same route Barry Jones supposedly took everyday - except one - to get to his job in the City of Kelsey Lake. There he worked straight days as an office manager for the Master Paint Company, a mid-sized operation which manufactured paint for the local truck plant.
For me the trip was uneventful - as it had always been. I’d travelled this stretch of highway hundreds of times, either as a passenger in my parents’ many cars or as the operator of my first “previously enjoyed” vehicle when I was 17.
Not truly populous enough to be termed The Big City, to many residents of Delta and the surrounding villages, hamlets, and crossroads, Kelsey Lake was just that. A clean, wholesome family- friendly metropolis boasting 30,000 residents, it consisted of a dozen name brand fast-food franchises, a championship junior league hockey team, a six screen cineplex, and a shopping mall housing 75 stores. All the amenities of a sprawling city, without the crime. And all possible due to the Chevy plant on the outskirts of town.
When I’d left the area to pursue my misguided fantasies, Kelsey Lake was a vibrant place to visit. Driving through the downtown core today however, was like making the rounds of a ghost town. There were twice as many storefronts boarded up than open for business. The sidewalks which once were the pathways leading to your next shopping destination, now only lead to failed dreams and broken display windows.
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