“I remember them times just fine,” Puck put in. “What about ’em?”
“Do you recall the Christmas Break? Nineteen sixty-nine?”
“Christmas Break?” Puck frowned. “Yeah, sort of, it was big news at the — whoa, you mean it happened at this jail?”
“This very one. The Port Martin Jail, Nineteen Sixty-Nine Main Street. The jailbreak gave me the idea for the counterculture theme.”
“C’mon, I was two years old in ’sixty-nine,” Shea said. “What are you guys talking about?”
“I can probably show you faster than I can explain it, Mr. Shea,” Jacoby said briskly, stepping back into the elevator. “This way, please.
“The first floor was originally the sheriff’s department,” Sara explained, as they rode the rattletrap freight elevator down a floor. “The basement was the lockup, the second floor held the offices for city services, water department, county clerk, et cetera. The third floor” — she opened the safety gate as the elevator rumbled to a halt — “as you can see, was the county courtroom.”
They stepped out into an enormous open room, walnut-paneled walls and towering windows, hardwood floors glowing in the autumn light.
“The jury box was over there, the judge’s bench was backlit by that high window. Trials weren’t all that common so the furniture was all movable. It’s in storage now. City council meetings were held in this room, the city band rehearsed here on Tuesday nights....”
But Shea was only half listening. He and Puck were both drawn to the far side of the gallery, staring up at a massive display of photographs, artwork, and architectural drawings.
The wall held detailed sketches for the new jail, historic shots of Port Martin, but dominating the center of the array was an oversized blow-up of a snarling, wild-haired maniac brandishing an assault rifle.
“The nineteen sixties were violent times: war, riots, assassinations,” Jacoby recited. “Nineteen sixty-nine was the wildest year of all. The country was in complete turmoil, body bags coming home from Vietnam, student riots, bras burning, inner cities burning. Hippie kids with flowers in their hair smoking dope and cheerfully screwing each other in public, leaving their parents baffled and jealous—”
Shea nodded. “I know what the sixties were about. What’s all that got to do with your jail? And who’s the loony with the gun?”
“Red Max Novak,” Sara said, “the Weatherman. The most famous fugitive since John Dillinger.”
“Weatherman?” Shea echoed, puzzled. “A TV forecaster?”
“A revolutionary.” Puck snorted. “A Che Guevara wannabe. The Weathermen were student radicals. Power to the people, off the pigs, all that craziness. A bunch of wet-eared college punks running their mouths.”
“Red Max Novak did more than talk,” Sara said. “In October of ’sixty-nine, during the trial of the Chicago Eight, the Weathermen, SDS, and the Black Panthers all called for mass protests: the Days of Rage. College campuses across the country erupted in violence. Six hundred demonstrators rioted in Chicago, trashing shops and fighting with the police. In Detroit, a campus radical named Max Novak blew up the office of the draft board, then called the newspapers to claim credit for striking a blow against the system.
“Unfortunately, when the police searched through the rubble, they found a body. A night watchman was killed in the blast. And suddenly the student protestor was wanted for murder.”
“What happened?” Shea asked.
“Novak went underground. There was a furious manhunt, Max Novak’s face was all over the papers and on TV for months. A week before Christmas, he was arrested here in Port Martin, brought to this very building, and locked up in a basement cell. That’s his mug shot beside the poster,” she said, pointing out a photo of a defiant Max, giving the cameraman the finger.
“What was he doing here?” Shea asked.
“Hoping to steal a boat and try to make it across the big lake to Canada. But he apparently had friends here, because on Christmas Eve, persons unknown tunneled into the basement cellblock through the storm drain and broke him out.” She pointed at the next photo, an empty jail cell with an outline of the fickle finger spray-painted on the wall. Grim lawmen standing around a jagged hole in the floor, looking baffled and frustrated.
“Did they catch him again?” Shea asked.
“Not then, not ever,” Puck said sourly. “Every lawman in the north country went nuts looking for him.”
“He surfaced in Canada a few months later,” Sara said. “Held a news conference in Toronto to protest the killings at Kent State. That’s Red Max at the microphone,” she said, indicating a photo of a masked man. “He said he was recovering from plastic surgery, wouldn’t show his face.”
“How did they know it was actually him?” Shea asked.
“The FBI identified him by voiceprint. At the news conference, Max said he was sorry about killing the watchman, but American boys were dying every day in Vietnam and pigs serving The Man were fair game. He raised his fist, shouted ‘Power to the people!’ And disappeared into history.”
“And good riddance,” Puck growled.
“Quite a story,” Shea said, shooting his partner a dark look.
“It’s not just a story,” Sara said. “It’s the single most dramatic incident in Port Martin’s history and we mean to cash in on it. Red Max’s photo and the shot of that empty cell are counterculture icons now. The tunnel’s gone, of course; it was filled in immediately after the escape, but we plan to restore that entire scene, the cell — the tunnel, fickle finger, and all. The far end of the basement will be converted into a permanent diorama, with a slide show, a gift shop selling plastic assault rifles, hippie beads, candles, incense, afros, black-light posters, the works.”
“Whoa up!” Puck was staring at her in disbelief. “You’re going to remodel this place into a shrine? To a freakin’ murderer?”
“Max Novak is a historical figure now, Mr. Paquette,” Sara countered coolly, waving him to silence before he could interrupt. “In nineteen sixteen, Pancho Villa raided Columbus, New Mexico, killed two dozen people, and burned the town. Today, his statue in Tucson draws ten thousand visitors a year. Missouri has statues of Jesse James, Texas has Billy the Kid. Red Max Novak may be a wild-haired psycho to you, but he’s the closest thing to a celebrity Port Martin ever had, as famous as Jimmy Hoffa, and for the same reason. They both vanished without a trace.”
“But Novak’s only claim to fame was blasting some poor rent-a-cop to hell! The hippies weren’t all flower children, high on peace and love. Remember the Manson Family? They were busy in nineteen sixty-nine too, murdering folks. Why not put them in your shrine?”
“I take it you disapprove of our concept, Mr. Paquette?”
“How can I put this politely?” Puck said, glancing toward the ceiling. “I guess I can’t. I think the idea of glorifying a bozo like Max Novak is dumber than a box of rocks.”
“Excellent!” Sara said, clapping her hands, delighted. “Nothing sells like controversy. Even after all this time, people have powerful feelings about those days. Two city councilmen actually came to blows over it.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Nor was I. Still, I wouldn’t want to hire somebody whose sensibilities are offended by the job. Your outfit has an excellent reputation, Mr. Shea, but you’re not the only contractors on my list. Given your partner’s attitude, if you’d prefer to opt out, I’ll certainly understand.”
“Can you give us a minute, please?” Shea said quickly, wrapping an arm around Puck’s shoulders. “I’d like a word with my partner.”