Sam Riker P.I.

Sam Riker P.I

Case File #16 Merle Rose, A Missing Persons
Stephen M. Resar

Sam Riker P.I.
Case File #16 Merle Rose, A Missing Persons
Copyright © 2022 by Stephen M. Resar

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deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be
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To those who understand,
“Coffee. Dark-roast. Hot.”



Case File #16 Merle Rose, A Missing Persons

It was the afternoon of Wednesday, June 29th, 1909, and it was a cool
and unique day inside the Loop. The farmers delivered their mid-summer
harvest to the open-air Maxwell Street market, south of Roosevelt Road
and sprawling across Halsted Street. It was also the ninth birthday of
young Sam Aloysius Riker. The son of a tough young Chicago cop and
caring mother, a registered professional nurse, working long hours at
Mercy Hospital and Medical Center. The family wasn't rich or poor. They
got along, and Riker's name became well-known in the city.

Like most days, Sam wore knickers, high socks, and a heavily worn
pullover sweater on top of a collared shirt. Topping off the four-foot
three-inch-tall boy was his Herringbone woolen Gatsby hat. Soaking wet,
the kid weighed about sixty pounds.

The bustling crowds, the sounds, and the smells captivated Sam. The
sharp odor of garlic, ground horseradish, rotting fruit, aged cheese, and
the pungent aroma of the fishmonger's pickled goods filled the air. Tired
of being bumped around by the frenzy of people on the street, Sam
thought it was better to watch the activities from high atop a building on
Maxwell Street.

While taking in the sites, Sam spied a young girl, Margret Adams. He
almost didn't recognize her in the tattered clothes she was wearing. "Marg-
ret’s an uptown girl, and she’s many blocks from home,” Sam mused.
Some neighborhood kids called Margret “Kitty” because of the hissing
sound made when she is angry with someone. Still, Sam had never fol-
lowed the crowd and was more respectful. The two were acquainted dur-
ing some community functions because of his parents and her adoptive
parents, Doctor and Mrs. Elinor Baker. Doctor Baker also works at Mercy
Hospital and Medical Center as a doctor of ophthalmology.

Sam Riker P.I

Sam saw Margaret running and being chased by a merchant. She had
run-off with a handful of bright red chili peppers in a flash. Quickly out-
running the overweight merchant and leaving a trail of peppers for him
to follow. Sam watched as she upset a cluster of pigeons, scaring them
into flight before running around the first corner of the building. Sam
instinctively bolted across the rooftop for the rear fire escape.

He positioned himself by hanging from the last step, about six feet
from the ground. When Margaret came into view, he whistled. They each
held out their arms and grabbed hold. Sam swiftly swung her, pulling her
off her feet and onto the fire escape. The two scampered up the wobbly
metal stairway to the roof’s safety. The pair now watched shoulder to
shoulder, giggling as they saw the completely exhausted merchant finally
arrive, only to find that his pepper thief had vanished. There was an ap-
parent youthful attraction between the two as they gazed at each other.

Sam asked, “Margaret, why did you steal the peppers?”
“For the fun of it, it’s exciting. What are you doing up here on this
roof, Sam Riker?”
“I was just watching the crowd. Why are you dressed like that? I’ve
never seen you wearing anything so, so,” Margaret interrupted him, “So
en lambeaux,” Margaret acted out the words like a flamboyant actor on a
stage.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means tattered, you imbecile. It’s French.”
“I’m not an imbecile just because I don’t know French. So why are
you dressed like this?”
“Don’t you read The Smart Set? Silly boy. Alright, you’re not an im-
becile. Now kiss me, Sam Riker.”
Looking shocked by her advance, Sam replied, Why should I kiss
you?”
“Because I said so, and because you want to.”
“Suppose I don’t?”

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Stephen M. Resar

“Well,” Margaret mused, “Suppose your father found out that you
helped steal from a street vendor?”

“You wouldn’t!” Sam insisted.
“Wouldn’t I?”
“I’m not kissing you today, or ever. You’re acting purely sinister, Mar-
garet Baker. He stood up, arms crossed, and walked away.”
“You love me, Sam Riker; you know you do.”
“Be mindful of the things you love, Sam; accidents happen.” As Sam
made his way down the fire escape, Margaret leaned over the edge of the
building and shouted down to him, “Suppose your dog was to lose part
of his tail, or perhaps, one of those floppy ears.” Margaret’s laughter filled
the alleyway. Sam kept walking, never once looking back.
Margaret strode to view the crowd for herself. The view from above
opened another world of possibilities in her mind. “Sam will love me;
everyone will love me. I’ll see to it.”

***

The fifty-two-year-old retired Private Investigator, Sam Riker, sat
spellbound in his comfortable chair. The length of his contemplation was
measured by the long gray bow of ash that was once a cigarette. Across
the armrest was a piece of fine stationery. The same paper and dark mes-
sage as the others. Lost to his memories all morning long, Sam reminisced
on a very different time. His eyes focused out his apartment window, but
he didn’t see the window. Instead, his gaze took on a faraway look as he
remembered back and back even further.

He was a kid again, a skinny little scavenger, as they called the working
boys in those days. Evil too stirred, so disguised behind a mask of inno-
cence no one would suspect. An evil that never allowed Sam to be at rest.

His uncle Louis got him in; ten cents a day to creep and crawl between
the factory gears and belts to retrieve a lost tool or other things. Sam’s

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Sam Riker P.I

father forbade him from working in such conditions, but Sam had other
plans. Louis and Sam’s dad were worlds apart regarding jobs. His dad, a
Chicago cop, and Louis, a hard-nosed day laborer, worked at almost every
shipyard, factory, and mill in the four neighborhoods: South Chicago,
South Deering, the East Side, and Hegewisch. That summer, he managed
a foreman position at Wisconsin Steel in South Deering, and young Sam
agreed to spend some time with his uncle.

The scorching Chicago summer heat and humidity did not compare
to the temperature inside the mill. The men dealt with the heat, dirt,
stench, and noises so obtrusive that they had to shout even when near
one another. Dangers were everywhere inside with the moving machinery
and overhead cranes racing across as you stand beneath the iron ore, coal,
molten, and cold steel as they passed overhead. Accidents were frequent
and often severe. In those years’ anything holding up the work meant a
swift replacement, including complaints and injuries. Nothing is more im-
portant than keeping the operation moving. Nothing.

Sam’s vision penetrated the years, and the sights, smells, and sounds
from that time raced toward him, all recalled with startling perfection. The
explosion occurred at the top of a multi-tiered piece of machinery. An
intentional explosion. The blast threw Sam tumbling backward, trapping
his ankle inside a rat’s nest of discarded, heavy steel dies and plates. Blue
and amber-colored flames rose as flammable oil poured down. A curtain
of fire separated Sam from another scavenger boy. Unable to free himself,
young Sam shouted as loud as he could to the other boy, “Run, run
through the flames, they won’t hurt you if you run! Run fast, hurry, run.”
But the surrounding inferno terrified him. Trembling, the boy began to
inch backward. Sam tried to free himself to help when he heard the first
scream. The boy’s shirt became caught in the giant, grinding machine’s
gears. The screams continued until the relentless, meshing metal teeth si-
lenced the boy forever.

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Sam jerked in his chair and stared at the butt of the cigarette left at his
fingertips. “Damn.”

He hadn’t smoked the thing since becoming too distracted by the go-
ings-on inside his head. Technically quit years ago. Lighting a smoke up
now was just a bad habit. He squished the damn thing into the ashtray on
the table beside his chair and sighed. Something was coming and would
find its way to his doorstep.

The letter was almost word for word like the ones before. None were
delivered through the post office. They would simply appear. Sam picked
up the letter and stared at it. Perhaps now, sooner rather than later, the
Grim Reaper would catch up to him, having escaped certain death all
those years ago.

He crumpled up the letter with a grunt, tossed it aside, and stood from
his chair. He needed to prepare for whatever was coming. He would not
let himself be surprised.

After debating if he should light up another cigarette, Sam tucked the
pack back in his pants pocket and left his apartment. He headed down the
stairs to the basement, where he had a few things stacked in one of the
storage cages. Once unlocked, he stepped inside and pulled on the string.
The yellow, dim light from a single light bulb fell over stacks of cardboard
boxes and the few bits of random furniture. He shifted the boxes and
several old leather-bound trunks to the side until he reached the re-
nowned, old safe bearing Schwab Safe and Lock Company on the front.
He glanced over his shoulder to ensure he was alone and spun the dial.

The combination rattled through his mind as the dial clicked in the
basement: Left to 88, right to 65, left to 31, and a hard stop at exactly right
15.

The heavy door swung open with an annoying stridulous sound. Sam
stared for a long moment at the contents, his past that lay inside. Every
inch occupied. Soon, an old, tattered black leather address book surfaced.
Up top, Sam swept out several rolls of fifty-dollar bills into his waiting

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Sam Riker P.I

satchel. Followed by a small collection of gold and silver coins and a soft
velvet sack filled with clear and uncut diamonds. He smiled as he remem-
bered how he came to possess them. Various weapons also resided here,
but he wanted only one. Making a mental note to clean her, Sam removed
his baby, one of the twins, a Thompson submachine gun. He grinned as
he wrapped an old blanket around it, shut the safe, locked up the storage
cage, and returned to his apartment.

Sam set the satchel and the gun aside and removed the address book.
He found the number he needed as his hand found its way to a cigarette.
Sam dialed the number and waited.

After the third ring, a gruff male voice answered, “Lorenzo!”
“This is Riker,” Sam said.
“Riker, heh? Thought you was outta the game.”
Sam’s eyes found their way to the crumpled-up letter in the middle of
his floor. “Sometimes, the game finds a way to pull you back in. You can
appreciate that.”
“I do. What do you need from me?”
“Regular surveillance, ongoing and for the foreseeable future.”
Lorenzo whistled long and loud. “That’s gonna be a heavy envelope;
you got that kinda scratch, Riker?”
Sam reached into the satchel for the bills, counting in his head, “It’s
handled. Same place?”
“Yeah, and bring some cannolis.”
“Hey, Riker, why not hire one of your Hawkshaw friends?”
“Too much young blood out on the streets, everybody wanting to
make a name for themselves. They can’t be trusted.”
“Yeah, just like today’s family soldiers, they ain’t got no respect for
kicking things upstairs like they should be, on the record. Nice to see ya
back.”

***

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Stephen M. Resar

The sun came up, lighting the streets of a worn-out city that had seen
better days. Sam welcomed the brief warm front moving through as he
stared through the dingy, faded blinds of his third-floor walk-up. It was a
few days since he’d made the call to someone he knew back in the day. So
far, there’d been no news. He supposed that was a good thing. He brushed
his hands through his jet-black hair, noting the slight change in texture
near his temples where the hair had changed to gray. His lip twitched, but
he let his hands drop.

What should he expect after twenty-five years on the job? Twenty-
five years of dealing with the crap that no average person should have to
deal with. It’d been two years since he turned fifty and hung up his hat.
The same dark brown fedora hung next to a well-worn brown leather
jacket by the front door. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his gray
slacks, reaching for a cigarette. Bad habit. He seldom smoked these days.
Told himself he’d quit and kept the cigarettes around just in case.

He narrowed his green eyes to the city of Chicago. The noise, the
honking of horns, yelling of people. His lip twitched again, and he shut
the blinds, stalked through his darkened apartment, and back to his home
office. There wasn’t much to look at, a desk, a creaky wooden rolling
chair, boxes of old case files, and one photograph of him and a woman.
He pointedly ignored the picture and sat down. His business office was
professional, smoke-filled, and always with a bottle of Straight Scotch
Whiskey.

Sam closed his eyes and murmured, “Those were the days, God, I
miss them.”

Sam spun around, staring at the boxes, when a knock came at his door.
He frowned, not expecting company, and opened the desk drawer reach-
ing for his .38 snub-nosed revolver. The knock came again.

“Uncle Sam, you home?”

7