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"FBI Interstate Interdiction", a fictional detective story, is the 20th (of 25) Inspector Joe Giralo novella that is included in the Kindle and Smashwords, Nook e-book, The FBI Inspector.
“FBI Interstate Interdiction”
On Monday afternoon, June 30, 2014 FBI Inspector Joe Giralo reserved the Golden Galleon Lounge at Hammonton, New Jersey’s Frog Rock Country Club for an important and hastily scheduled conference with his three loyal government agents: Salvatore Velardi, Arthur Orsi and Dan Blachford. Rocky Colasurdo, affable proprietor of the popular local golf course and also a close friend of “the Chief”, was gracious enough to arrange the private dining room meeting on short notice. As the four federal arrivals comfortably sat around a circular table, sipping hot coffee and munching on assorted Danish pastries, “the Boss” was monotonously describing what he was planning to do over the upcoming July 4th holiday weekend.
“I’m glad the four of us are taking much-needed week-long vacations,” the garrulous grim-faced supervisor firmly remarked. “I know that Gina is expecting…”
“Yes,” agreed Agent Velardi, inadvertently cutting-off his mentor’s declarative sentence. “It’s a pleasant relief not to have to worry about pursuing vile interstate drug traffickers, sly counterfeiters and wanton kidnappers all over the East Coast. Oh, sorry to interrupt you Boss. Where did you say you were going this weekend?”
“Well, now that the annual Red, White and Blueberry Festival has been another huge success,” Inspector Giralo evaluated and shared, “and yes indeed, I’m also happy that the Lions Club sold-out of our blueberry muffins, strudel and pies, so as I was saying, this weekend I intend to…”
“Boss,” impulsively chimed-in Agent Orsi, “I honestly think that Hammonton made a a colossal mistake having over ten thousand people attend this year’s Blueberry Festival while also having 1,200 industrious bikers race twice around the entire downtown district in the Atlantic City Triathlon Challenge. Bellevue Avenue looked like the Olympics, and traffic congestion all over town was an absolute pain-in-the-neck for hundreds of disenchanted motorists trying to attend the festival.”
“Art’s right!” Agent Dan Blachford contributed to the impromptu dialogue. “Could you imagine how much stamina the whole event required of the well-trained participants? First they had to swim over two miles across designated Atlantic City bay channels. Then the superb athletes had to compete in a 116 mile bike race, first zipping down the A.C. Expressway, then energetically pedaling twice around Hammonton’s perimeter and next venturing a full thirty miles back to the boardwalk; all of that exhausting physical endurance occurring before finally engaging in a grueling 25K plus run. Er, excuse me Boss,” Blachford politely apologized, “but what were you saying before all-too-neurotic Arty so rudely butted-in.”
“I was saying that I had rented a week’s stay in a terrific beach house at 16th and the boardwalk for the wife, daughters and me in Ocean City,” Chief Giralo divulged. “The nice place is located right where the boardwalk narrows on the south end, and the attractive home has a magnificent view of the ocean and beach from the second floor open-air front porch. Gina really loves it! And exactly what sort of 4th of July mischief are you preparing for Salvatore?”
“Well Guys,” Agent Velardi prefaced, “I’m taking Kathy and the kids to the House of Blues inside the Showboat Casino, and we’re going to see the Huey Lewis and the News Show. I was quite lucky to get decent seat tickets for one obvious reason,” the very capable G-man emphasized. “Some folks fear that Hurricane Arthur might veer west and skirt the Jersey Coast, causing Atlantic City to be suddenly evacuated, but the latest weather forecasts indicate that the first tropical storm of the summer season is fortunately heading several hundred miles out to sea.”
“I’ve read where the Showboat is closing its doors on August 31st,” Joe Giralo reliably informed his three listeners. “Counting the Atlantic Club and the Revel, that makes three boardwalk casinos going bankrupt and defunct in one year. There’s entirely too much competition in the local gambling industry with numerous casinos now open in Philly’, in Chester and in New York, not to mention the myriad of similar alternative venues thriving out in Las Vegas.”
After a moment of rare silence, Agent Orsi felt compelled to reveal his own family’s weekend plans. “Well Boss, Carol, the kids and I are traveling down to the other Ocean City, you know, Ocean City, Maryland. Last year we stayed at the Quality Inn at 17th and the Boardwalk, but this year we rented a three bedroom luxury condo’ in the newly constructed Belmont Towers, conveniently situated on Dorchester and the boards.”
“I’m glad that the weather bureau named the non-destructive imminent hurricane ‘Arthur’ after you,” Joe Giralo jested to Agent Orsi. “And what about you Dan? Are you driving up to Coney Island to rival champion Joey Chestnut in the Nathan’s famous hot dog eating’ contest. Last year the incredible guy swallowed-down forty-nine dogs and buns in a mere ten minutes. I understand the fella’ diligently practices all-year-long for the annual July 4th event!”
“No Boss,” Agent Blachford replied with a forced smile. “Unlike you three seashore enthusiasts, Bing and I are going to experience a cultural weekend. On Saturday morning my wife and I will be traveling into Philly’ and we’ll be touring the Art Museum. We haven’t been there in five years and want to see if they’ve added any new noteworthy exhibits.”
“Enough irrelevant discussion of your’ thoroughly predictable standard preliminary conversations!” Agent Velardi courageously protested to his wily superior. “What’s this special parley we’re engaged in all about? I hope it doesn’t interfere with me seeing Huey Lewis and the News! If I recall,” the worried balker indicated, “I once missed seeing Billy Joel perform at Boardwalk Hall because you had assigned me to a lonely swamp surveillance detail out in the vicinity of Ft. Dix!”
The unflappable Chief ignored his rambunctious agent’s diatribe and then slowly removed a commonplace school oak tag folder from his black briefcase and adroitly found four sheets of computer paper. Joe Giralo next distributed printed copies to his three curious underlings, who immediately scrutinized the unique subject matter with bewildered expressions evident upon their suddenly pallid, tense faces.
“Matt Riley down in DC headquarters informed me that this communication enigma had been intercepted by the CIA, assisted by the NSA. Let’s see what you three clever sleuths can derive from this most fascinating-but-baffling mathematical statement,” the Inspector imperatively suggested. “Quite frankly, I’m quite baffled by most of the characteristic elementary school arithmetic that, according to the Washington brass, has apparently originated from rather questionable and insidious sources. I’ll give you distinguished fellas’ a minute or so to keenly concentrate your collective minds on this rather peculiar new-found puzzle.”
The four seated men next methodically examined the following strange numbers and accompanying math’ functions very closely, their veteran psyches completely engrossed in their current endeavor.
“70 + 55 - 67 + 76 + 95 - 30 + 90 +55 - 41 + 10 + 5 - 101 + 20 + 75 - 29 + 30 + 45 - 75 + 66 + 395 - 50 - (2 x 347)”
“41-40-70”
“Notice that the seemingly indecipherable array is cunningly presented in sets of three numbers, in each case two additions preceding one prominent subtraction,” Chief Giralo related. “But like most fundamental operations involved in simple algebra,” the Boss boringly lectured, “one should first perform the function inside the parenthesis and then solve the remainder of the given problem.”
“But what do you suppose the 41-40-70 business at the bottom means?” Agent Velardi asked. “I see it as some sort of numerical quagmire.”
“That’s the easiest part Salvatore!” Chief Giralo confidently explained. “The six numbers you’ve just cited are similar to a closing signature, or indeed comparable to the word ending, or to the last phrase in a letter. If you reverse the six numbers from backward to forward,” the Boss haughtily instructed, “we then have 07/04/14, or the impending July 4th Independence Day! How coincidental can you get?”
“I feel like a victimized mouse trapped inside an incomprehensible maze!” Agent Orsi criticized his often-aloof mentor. “Where’s the nearest exit?”
“Now you’re making the three us feel totally stupid!” Agent Velardi stubbornly complained. “But I’ve just realized something fairly significant. If this is some sort of sinister malicious plot we’re now studying, we only have four days to correctly figure-out this devious mystery and to then swiftly act. There goes my highly anticipated Huey Lewis House of Blues concert, thrown completely out the open window!”
“Like Sal, I still feel grossly overwhelmed by all of this’ crazy math’ jargon!” Art Orsi assessed and spoke. “I hope that this frustrating grammar school arithmetic stuff doesn’t sabotage my Ocean City, Maryland family excursion!”
“I’m gonna’ need a calculator to be able to determine a correct answer to the rest of the formula,” Sal Velardi regretfully commented. “Math’ has always been my academic Achilles Heel. I had failed Algebra II and Trigonometry in high school and had to travel by Public Service bus twenty-three miles during two Julys from Hammonton to summer school at Audubon High.”
“I’m done the numbers in my head,” math’ wizard Dan Blachford boasted to his still-preoccupied colleagues, “and I find that this particular long set we’re evaluating is really pretty amazingly intriguing, I must say. The final tabulation is….”
Just then Frog Rock Country Club owner Rocky Colasurdo and Hammonton Police Lieutenant Kevin Friel briskly entered the Golden Galleon Lounge with flustered looks showing upon their anxious faces.
“Inspector Giralo!” Lieutenant Friel eagerly exclaimed. “Sorry to disturb your in-progress think tank! I was just casually patrolling the Frog Rock parking lot across Boyer Avenue when I observed a definite irregularity in your license plate I.D. Most New Jersey plates have a letter followed by two numbers, followed by three letters again; for example, B17-CRS.”
“Of all the unmitigated audacity! Do you mean that some brazen felons have nefariously removed my legitimate license plates in broad daylight and have wickedly substituted counterfeit ones in their place?” an infuriated Giralo gruffly interrogated the all-too-calm police officer.
“Not only that!” Rocky Colasurdo bluntly added. “All four of you Gentlemen now have the exact same plate number. Here it is. I’ve scribbled it down! 41-40-70!”
“Inspector!” Agent Velardi articulated and finally comprehended. “Instead of us being hot on the trail of vicious criminals, it appears that unscrupulous crooks and harmful thugs are doing expert reconnaissance on us!”
“I suspect that these unsavory individuals chasing us around are not simple mediocre crooks and thugs Salvatore!” Chief Giralo concluded and enunciated. “Here’s my gut instinct. I now believe we’re dealing with some very formidable and exceptionally dangerous terrorists here!”
*************
Early on Tuesday morning, July 1st, Inspector Joe Giralo phoned Agent Sal Velardi and requested that his principal disciple meet him for cups of java and a few muffins at Casciano Coffee Bar and Sweetery, 212 Bellevue Avenue, downtown Hammonton. The pair parked their wives’ automobiles near the curb, greeted one another at the front entrance, soon sat at the counter and mutually concurred that the July 4th day of reckoning was rapidly approaching, that the four sets of identical license plates were a deliberate attempt at intimidation, and that the extended mathematical problem provided to them by the CIA and NSA still remained mostly a “merciless prolific perplexity.”
“Linda, pour us several cups of steaming-fresh hot coffee,” Joe Giralo requested of the establishment’s cordial owner. “And while I have your attention, Salvatore and I could easily handle two scrumptious blueberry muffins each. I trust that they’re not left over from Sunday’s festival,” The Chief awkwardly joked. “Confidentially Linda, your fresh-baked muffins are a tad better than the swell ones the Lions Club sells at their popular tent concession.”
“I’m glad that your second statement clarified your first one,” Linda Casciano diplomatically answered. “To promote good business practice, I’ve always believed that sugar goes a lot farther than vinegar does when interacting in the realm of courteous public discourse.”
After the conscientious woman behind the counter stepped to the large metal urn to prepare two newly-brewed cups of coffee, Chief Giralo asked Agent Velardi what specific sound observations he had made in regard to the lengthy arithmetical riddle.
“Well Boss, Arty, Dan and I have intensively analyzed the weird numerical presentation at my place late last night and after laboriously adding, subtracting and multiplying, we all ascertained the exact same thing. I mean,” Agent Velardi genuinely qualified, “the additions, along with the corresponding subtractions all came-out to the number 694, but incredulously, the multiplication item in parenthesis, namely 347 x 2, also came-out to 694. Thus, the entire ridiculous problem cancelled itself out with the only feasible answer oddly being zero.”
“Don’t you fathom the underlying symbolism?” Inspector Giralo mildly reprimanded his colleague as Linda Casciano promptly brought the newly ordered coffees and muffins to the especially hungry G-men. “The final total reads zero because that figure is an intentional communique signaling to other crazy fanatics that the time period has expired for the dastardly culprits to soon pull their next terrorist act.”
“I conjecture that you know more about an ongoing sequence of events than I do,” Agent Velardi surmised and declared. “Why don’t you please fill-in for me the missing blanks before I recklessly speed over to Ancora State Hospital and adamantly insist to the on-duty psychiatrists that I’m beyond-the-pale paranoid along with being wholly delusional and mentally insane? Boss, you always make me feel like I’m hopelessly lost in the vast wilderness, participating in a chaotic-but-futile wild ostrich expedition!”
Inspector Giralo inhaled a deep breath and very meticulously revealed to his beleaguered law enforcement associate that in the last three months vital highway overpasses and key bridge infrastructures across the country have been systematically sabotaged in an inexplicable illogical succession, starting with St. Louis and Philadelphia in April, and next with Chicago and Atlanta in May, thus massively crippling and stifling major transportation hubs in already congested metropolitan regions.
“Yes, I’ve read about the Philly’ and Atlanta devastations in the papers,” Agent Velardi recollected and disclosed. “I now see where the idea of stealthy terrorism is distinctly connected in this secret FBI probe, possibly the home-grown domestic type too.”
“The latest demolition has happened in late June in downtown Dallas,” the Boss quietly uttered so that no other patrons seated inside the eatery could eavesdrop on their verbal exchange, “and Salvatore, there’s no telling where the next urban disaster will be heinously implemented. Frankly, I’m just about as stymied and as frustrated by these evil events as you are. All we know is that July 4th, 2014 has been specifically targeted without any urban I.D. given to successfully interpret the rather baffling equation.”
“Where do we go from here?” Agent Velardi candidly asked in a fully confused state of mind. “Truthfully Boss, I feel like I’m back in sweltering summer school at Audubon High.”
“Ah yes, the Camden County town named in honor of John James Audubon, the nineteenth century naturalist and nature lover,” pedantic Joe Giralo educationally related, much to his listener’s mounting disappointment. “Every time I visit the fantastic bird sanctuaries down in Stone Harbor and Avalon, I think of that renowned man’s many contributions to science and to environmental sensitivity. John James Audubon is often referred to as ‘the French Woodsman’, and the fellow also proved to be an excellent 1800s ornithologist who had carefully documented American birds and systematically listed their indigenous habitats. In fact Salvatore, while still on the topic,” Chief Giralo loquaciously pontificated, “I have a first cousin who happily lives in Audubon.”
“Forget this local geography trivia Chief! All I know is that I absolutely despise advanced math’ ever since I flunked Algebra II and Trigonometry,” Velardi very seriously lamented. “What’s next on our over-crowded agenda? And it better not conflict with this weekend’s Huey Lewis gig at the Showboat!”
“Tell Arty and Dan to meet you and me 7 p.m. tomorrow night at DiDonato’s Alley Bar and Grille,” Chief Giralo sternly directed. “Although we won’t have time for ten pins Salvatore, even though I realize that bowling is up your alley, I do believe I’ll have some more crucial information from DC headquarters that I surely maintain will positively both enlighten and illuminate you three amateur gumshoes!”
“That’s perfectly fine with me,” verified fully-motivated Agent Velardi. “Let’s capture these elusive felons and put the domestic terrorists inside the nearest prison where they can make fraudulent New Jersey license plates to their hearts’ content!”
*************
On Wednesday evening at 7 p.m. the four famished FBI men consumed delicious turkey club sandwiches and glasses of ice-cold beer at the Route 30 DiDonato’s Alley Bar and Grille. Inspector Giralo softly informed his three government detectives that he had earlier conferred with Steve DiDonato and learned that the bowling alley’s Party Room was not being used, despite the fact that area league keglers were utilizing all of the recreational facility’s twenty-six lanes.
The Chief had auspiciously brought along his’ personal slide projector and had planned on giving his three interested apostles a serious “Power Point Presentation” to be displayed upon the Party Room’s enormous white screen. As the well-focused Boss was setting-up and preparing his expensive equipment, Agent Velardi, as was his bad habit, unintentionally distracted his dedicated leader with some rather bothersome drivel.
“Inspector, why do the guys down at DC headquarters refer to the recently captured international drug smugglers as ‘the Moon Goons’? Even the snobbish Scotland Yard blokes who had collaborated on the arrests use the same derogatory terminology as the FBI does.”
The more than slightly irritated Chief glanced-up and next peevishly communicated that the drug smugglers had been captured wearing SCUBA gear and then the Boss further affirmed that the appropriate nomenclature “Moon Goons” had been imaginatively created because the Earth’s natural satellite constantly governs our planet’s ever-vacillating ocean and sea tides.
“When it’s on one side of the Earth, the moon’s gravitational pull causes high tides while the great tug in that direction affects low tides developing on our sphere’s opposite side,” the temporarily disgruntled Chief Inspector communicated. “The furtive Moon Goon SCUBA diving smugglers would swim their contraband underwater into various U.S. and U.K. ports during high tide, making it more difficult for the local authorities to detect their encroaching presence in deeper water. I must confess Salvatore,” the non-reluctant speaker proudly continued his informative litany, “Matt Riley and I had been instrumental in helping to solve the daunting international dilemma; that is, once we had mutually hypothesized the gravity of the situation, ha, ha, ha! Okay now Arty, we’re ready to roll. Dim the lights.”
In several moments time an obsolete 1950s map appeared projected upon the prodigious white screen. Much to the three seated agents’ consternation, the vociferous standing commentator described that the highway map featured the exact pattern of major U.S. roads during and immediately after World War II.
“Observe Gentlemen that the highways going from east to west and then north to south across the United States are configured lowest odd-numbered roadways to higher numbered odd-numbers. For example, Route 1, which still exists today, extends from Maine down to southern Florida.”
“I’ve traveled Route 1 quite frequently driving between Rutgers University in New Brunswick and the College of New Jersey in Trenton,” Agent Blachford stated. “I’m fairly familiar with that crowded traffic artery.”
“And Men,” Chief Giralo continued his monologue while using his chubby index finger as an improvised pointer, “notice that odd-numbered Route 11 meanders north to south between the Canadian Border in upper New York State and gradually heading way down yonder to New Orleans. And over here, observe that U.S. Route 17 parallels Route 1 and hugs the East Coast from Virginia to the lower Atlantic Dixie states, and next over here, Route 19 descends from the Great Lakes south in the direction of Florida. Please recognize that the odd-numbered U.S. highways are increasing in numerical sequence as our alert attention is directed westward.”
“I see now!” Sal Velardi mildly exclaimed into the room’s dark atmosphere. “Route 23 moves from north to south from Northern Michigan down to Jacksonville, Florida; and in like manner, the ascending odd-number cross-country progression continues all the way to the West Coast where finally U.S. 101 winds its way from Washington State down to San Diego in sunny California.”
“But Fearless Leader, why are we three agents being exposed to this bizarre, sophomoric history and highway geography lesson?” Art Orsi angrily blustered. “Although curiously logical, it all seems so rather mundane and nondescript.”
“You’ll understand my esoteric premise in around fifteen minutes,” the sage Power Point Presenter promised. “You Fellas’ need more discipline and self-control! Just kindly exhibit a trifle more courtesy and demonstrate some basic human patience.”
“Seeing and hearing no objections to his reasonable stipulations, Inspector Giralo then resumed his descriptive oratory. “Now Men, because the old north-south U.S. highways were numbered from 1 to 101 moving from east to west, when President Eisenhower later announced the Interstate Highway Program in the mid-1950s, the new numerical pattern was organized as the exact opposite of the previous one with….”
“With odd-numbered I-95 paralleling Route 1 in the east and I-5 coinciding with shadowing U.S. Route 101 on the West Coast,” Agent Blachford perceptively summarized. “I gotta’ admit that the entire schematic was pretty ingenious of President Dwight David Eisenhower! According to your second slide up on the screen Boss,” Dan Blachford accurately concluded, “the odd-number Interstates running north-to-south in between book ends I-95 and I-5 are I-81, I-75, I-55, I-35, I-25 through Wyoming, Colorado and New Mexico and finally, I-15 going through Boise, Idaho, Las Vegas, Nevada and southern California.”
Joe Giralo next changed the projected image to Slide #3, which aptly authenticated the north-south 1940s and 1950s major roads that had been identified in Slide #1. Everyone closely studied the enlarged second U.S. Highways map for several seconds.
“What does all of this’ incredibly pretentious lecture mean?” Agent Velardi vehemently uttered. “Boss, are you going to require that the three of us take an irrelevant exam’ in order to prove that we comprehend your rather immaterial geography facts?”
Chief Giralo stoically ignored his agent’s annoying petulance and pragmatically proceeded with his extraordinary oral report, enthusiastically showing his addled audience that during the 1940s and 1950s, principal even-numbered U.S. highways built east to west like U.S. 6 from Massachusetts to Northern California, U.S. 20 from Boston to Oregon and U.S. 60 from Virginia to Arizona were once recognized as major transcontinental thoroughfares.
“Holy guacamole!” Agent Orsi suddenly yelled. “I see on your third slide second ancient map that U.S. 30 starts in Atlantic City and winds-up in Oregon and that U.S. 40 also begins in Atlantic City but terminates in San Francisco. And now I also grasp that U.S. 50 originates in Ocean City, Maryland and traverses the country all the way out to Sacramento. But Boss, of what essential importance is this ongoing academic consultation?”
“Arty,” Chief Giralo placidly related to his impetuous subordinate, “let’s now advance to Slide #4. You’ve learned that the older 1950s even-numbered east-to-west highways are arranged lower numbers to the north and then higher numbers to the south. Now with the modern Interstate Highways running east to west, the opposite effect is established with the lower numbers to the south and the accompanying higher numbers to the north: for example, we have I-10 between Jacksonville and Los Angeles, I-20 from Mississippi to Texas, I-40 connecting Wilmington, North Carolina to Southern California, I-70 from Baltimore, Maryland to Utah, I-80 from Bergen County, New Jersey almost straight across the nation to San Francisco, and finally, I-90 from Boston heading out to Seattle, Washington.”
“And Chief, famous Route 66 had gone from Chicago westward to distant Santa Monica, California,” Dan Blachford comprehended from viewing the enlarged fourth slide screen image, “but that historic highway is only used in certain parts of the mid-west now. I had watched a recent TV special on Route 66, and I sometimes see old reruns of the TV series employing that disintegrating highway’s same name.”
“But truthfully Boss,” a now-vexed Agent Velardi bravely replied, “precisely how do these combined archaic and modern highway maps co-exist in assisting us mere mortals in solving the very hindering preposterous math’ brainteaser that had been anonymously sent to you’? Basically, besides having the self-confidence of a common buffoon, I now feel like I’m a chopped-down tree, totally stumped!”
“Relax your agitated ego Salvatore,” Inspector Giralo wisely advised. “Matt Riley and I are working assiduously on the problem at hand and we’re in the process of ambitiously exploring certain wild theories and assumptions. Although I’m not a betting man, I wager that in the final analysis, Adolph Hitler will give us the needed information that we were so lacking.”
After Inspector Joe Giralo nonchalantly turned-on the lights in the DiDonato’s Bowling Center’s spacious Party Room, Agents Velardi, Orsi and Blachford all featured disbelieving frowns masked upon their respective stunned countenances.
“Gentlemen, I hereby request your presence on Thursday evening at 8 o’clock sharp in the downstairs serving area of Café San Rocco on North Third Street,” Chief Giralo austerely commanded his somewhat-shocked comrades. “Forget for now my left field Fuehrer allusion! I predict that by Thursday night I’ll have even more dynamic puzzle pieces for you to digest, new revealing elements that will shine new light on this rather troublesome and irksome bugaboo arithmetic case.”
*************
On Thursday evening all four G-men descended the Café San Rocco’s back stairs and soon were sitting around a square table. Co-owner Dave Ruberton carried-down a large tray loaded with four cold beer drafts, baskets of French fried potatoes along with four deluxe giant hamburgers. After the taste-tempting food had been satisfactorily consumed, the empty plates and related mugs were gathered-up by a sweet blonde waitress and quickly taken upstairs, the assembled quartet finally got “down to brass tacks.”
“Well Salvatore,” Inspector Giralo commenced his anticipated exposition, “have you’, Arty and Dan skillfully decoded the mystical numerical problem yet?”
“Well Boss, we easily realized a definite relationship between specific items like 95 and I-95, like 5 and I-5, and like 66 and Route 66, but we failed to construct the various arithmetic factors into any discernible cohesive pattern.”
“Why you have my congratulations Men!” Joe Giralo answered with an element of cynicism exhibited in his tone of voice. “You’ve deftly made it to first base.”
“Now Boss,” Agent Velardi addressed in his own defense, “the nasty people over at the New Jersey Motor Vehicles Department have given me a hard time about obtaining new license plates for my car, so please don’t aggravate me any more with your ludicrous propensity for sarcasm. Please put together the pieces of the myriad math’ items so that I can sleep lightly for at least two precious hours tonight!”
“Okay Sal, you win this time!” responded Inspector Giralo, feigning a degree of aggravation. “Remember when I told you Fellas’ that the given numbers were presented in sets of three, two additions followed by a subsequent subtraction!”
After the three investigators nodded their heads in the affirmative, the sagacious Boss indicated that the first series 70 + 55 - 67 actually pertained to St. Louis where I-95, I-55 and U.S. 67 all converge. And then 76 + 95 - U.S. 30 concerned Philadelphia where all three new and old highways coincidentally enter the Quaker City metropolitan area. “And 90 + 55 - 41 relates to Chicago where I-90, I-55 and U.S. 41 all virtually intersect.”
“I get the big picture now!” loudly exclaimed Agent Orsi. “Bridges, overpasses and other valuable infrastructure have already been attacked in St. Louis, in Philly’ and in Chicago. So therefore, 10 + 5 - U.S. 101 involves the West coast city of….”
“Of Los Angeles where I-10, I-5 and scenic U.S. 101 generally rule most of that populous hub’s transportation,” Art Orsi theorized and verbally deducted. “And 20 + 75 - 29 must naturally equate with Atlanta because I-20, I-75 and U.S. 29 seem to rendezvous there. And also, 30 + 45 - 75 must mean Dallas, Texas where I-30, I-45 and U.S. 75 seem to meet. And obviously Boss,” Agent Orsi elaborated, “I-30 is nowhere near U.S. Route 30, which actually passes right through Hammonton.”
“Good detective work Men!” praised Chief Giralo. “You’re rapidly becoming sophisticated ‘roads scholars’. Now finally Guys, tell me the juxtaposition where the last three numerical factors representing I-66, I-395 and U.S. 50 actually collide?”
“Holy George W.!” shouted Sal Velardi. “They almost merge in downtown Washington D.C. And I-66 is nowhere near venerable-but-archaic U.S. Route 66. But Guys, all of the historic monuments and memorials, and even the White House and the Capitol Building, are in immediate jeopardy of being demolished on Friday, July 4th! But which one’?”
“Don’t worry one iota Salvatore!” confided Inspector Giralo. “Once Matt Riley and I had rationally solved the arithmetical conundrum, Colonel Bob Bauers and his elite Delta Force units were instantly dispatched to DC, and the villainous terrorists have been swiftly apprehended at two remote safe houses across the Potomac in Alexandria and a third haven in Rockville, Maryland.”
“And who was the main instigator, the evil brain behind the entire wicked skein of diabolical operations?” Art Orsi asked. “An al Qaeda affiliate who totally loathes American democracy?”
“No, not a radical Sunni but instead, a militant Shi’ite professor at the University of Tehran,” the Boss explained. “Dr. Farid Madani had recruited and structured together a comprehensive network of avid U.S. domestic terrorists. The home-grown fascists were a tight-knit conglomeration of indoctrinated Iranian college students situated in various college campuses spread throughout the United States.”
“But Boss,” Sal Velardi excitedly interrupted, “the month of Ramadan this year is slated for June 28th to July 28th. According to the Muslim religion, violence is not to occur between those sacred dates, so why is July 4th in Washington DC so vulnerable?”
“Because Sal, this demented math’ Professor Farid Madani has hired avowed home-grown atheists to conduct his diabolical acts of vile destruction here in America! The treacherous American-born non-Muslim traitors were actually plotting to explode the Smithsonian Natural History Museum to smithereens while the annual 4th of July patriotic celebration was being conducted on the nearby mall. But during his precise raid on the group’s safe houses,” Inspector Giralo added, “Colonel Bauers’ commando teams expertly confiscated plenty of dynamite.”
*************
“That’s really great news Boss!” volatile Sal Velardi exuberantly exclaimed. “Now I’ll get to see Huey Lewis and the News at the House of Blues, and Arty will be able to vacation down in Ocean City, Maryland, and Dan will venture into Philly’ with his wife and obtain some much-needed culture at the city’s classic art museum, and last-but-not-least, you’ll achieve hanging-out as an average civilian on the family-oriented Ocean City, New Jersey Boardwalk. But Chief, my inquisitive brain’s still in a quandary about this one rather disturbing detail. How did Adolph Hitler help you and Matt Riley brilliantly solve this extremely complicated Interstate Interdiction Case?”
Inspector Joe Giralo cleared his throat and then gracefully prattled to his still-stunned agents that on Wednesday morning he had been driving twelve miles west of Hammonton on U.S. Route 30 passing through the town of Berlin, about to enter West Berlin. Suddenly the crime-solving guru’s mind was hit with a very powerful inspiration when his ever-active cerebrum had also associated the words “Audubon” and “Autobahn”.
“I was driving Gina and my two daughters to the Echelon Mall over in Voorhees for them to purchase some beach apparel at Macy’s or Boscov’s,” Inspector Giralo related and then chuckled, “but then in a terrific cognitive flash the entire big-picture scenario marvelously registered and soon magically synchronized inside my aging head. During the U.S. Army’s stellar World War II march to Berlin, then General Dwight D. Eisenhower became fabulously impressed with the advanced design of the German Autobahn. Soon Hitler and his Nazi Air Force repeatedly bombed the superhighway to slow-down the on-a-mission U.S. military from reaching Berlin. So when Eisenhower became President, the newly elected Republican….”
“Proposed that the modernistic Interstate Highway System be built all across America, modeled of course after the state-of-the-art German Autobahn,” Agent Sal Velardi immediately realized and effectively articulated.
“What a spectacular bit of mental reasoning you had so instantaneously accomplished Boss, admirably relating the separate ideas of Audubon, Autobahn, Berlin, West Berlin, Dwight David Eisenhower and Adolph Hitler!” Agent Art Orsi wholeheartedly complimented Chief Giralo. “Sometimes I think you’re playing hard-ball in the same league as Einstein, Edison and Tesla!”
“And Sal,” Agent Dan Blachford chimed-in with a broad grin evident upon his rosy lips, “you’ll now undoubtedly get to visit the Showboat’s splendid rock and roll concert in the aftermath of this incredibly outstanding FBI adventure.”
Jay Dubya
Author of 49 books
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If it was a TV show, I would soon get tired of "the boss" and his uncanny ability to understand everything and then rub it into the numb skulls of his underlings.
Ron