Sorry for the rather brusque, matter-of-fact delivery of the news about Rich. I received enough email to understand that it was a bit of a shock for a lot of readers. Sorry about that.
Here are a few details about how I came upon the details of Rich’s fate.
Rich had a drawer in his desk at home in San Diego, that he’d always told Molly to open if he was “gone” for more than a couple weeks. In January, after he’d been gone for almost a month, Molly opened the drawer and pulled out two sealed 8.5 x 11 inch sized packets. One was for her, the other had my name on it. Molly sent me the envelope, which I opened as soon as I received it. There were some pictures of Rich and me, taken at different events we’d both been at, a personal note from Rich and another sealed envelope instructing me to call and ask for an attorney at a small law firm in Indianapolis. He said in the note that a certain attorney would ask for a code word, which was written on a small piece of paper also in the envelope.
I called the number provided, asked for the attorney, introducing myself when he came on the line. As the note said he would, he asked for the code word, which I clearly spoke. He then asked if I had a pencil and paper. When I said I did, he gave me a set of latitude and longitude coordinates, said the date “November 17th, 1962,” and then said “that is all the information I have for you.” He repeated the coordinates, then asked me to read them back to him, which I did. At that point, he thanked me, and said that his firm had discharged their obligation to the client and that as is stated in the original instructions, all the files in their possession would be destroyed. He then hung up.
In early April, I arranged things at work (I own my own surveying and cartography service in Dallas) and took one of my Jeeps north to Indiana. Rich and I had talked about Belton, especially in the past couple years since his adventure started, but I’d never been there. The location referenced in the geographical coordinates the attorney gave me were about four miles outside of Belton, and easy to find with the sophisticated GPS equipment I use in my work and travels.
It was a nice bit of real estate. Not far off a main highway, it was about two acres of trees, bordered on all sides by farmland. When I got close, it was clear where I was going. A gravel road ran past the mini forest, and I parked the Jeep and with my handheld GPS, a pack with some tools, a shovel and a metal-detector, walked into the woods. A few minutes in, and I saw what I was looking for, a concrete obelisk about 3 feet tall. I walked up and examined it closely. No writing was engraved on it at all, but the weather had obviously taken its toll. It had been here awhile.
I sat the pack and shovel on the ground and fired up the metal detector. It didn’t take long for it to register a hit – a fairly large return of metal a couple feet from the oblelisk. I turned the detector off, picked up the shovel and started digging. 20 minutes or so later, I hit the top of a large, metal ammo box, wrapped in a thick polyethylene sheet. A few more minutes, and I had it out of the ground. I pushed the dirt back into the hole, picked everything up and left without opening the ammo box. I wanted to be behind closed doors when I opened it.
45 minutes later, in my room in a basic, but nice motel in Rockville, I opened the ammo case and saw that it was filled with an eclectic collection of artifacts. There were a number of black moleskine notebooks, several traditional composition books, a dozen or so empty Pilot G2 gel pens (Rich’s favorites), five 45 rpm records, some newspaper clippings, and one entire Indianapolis Star from 1952. There was also some hardware, a couple watches, a Nikon digital camera sealed in its own bit of plastic, a small stick of some sort of silicon-like material, about the size of a thumb drive and one rather worn looking Apple iPhone. I held the leather-cased phone for a minute, pressed the buttons to no effect and then got up from the round table I was sitting at, crossed the room and dug into my backpack. Being a Blackberry user, I don’t have an iPhone, but I do have an iPod, and wondered if the plugs were compatible.
They were.
Plugging the iPhone in, after a few seconds, I couldn’t believe what I saw. The screen came to life with the picture of a red-colored battery. It was charging. Steve Jobs would be proud. The first iPhone to be working, or at least charging, after being dormant for over 75 years! There was also a note from Rich, with my name on the envelope. I can’t go into the specifics of the letter in the envelope, since it contained some financial instructions, but will share some of it here in the next few days.
I read and reread the letter, and then looked through the stuff in the ammo box again, making notes on a legal pad so I could understand the whole thing. About two hours later, I checked on the iPhone and saw that it was halfway charged. I disconnected it from the cable and saw that it appeared to be working. 3 bars! Amazing. Not wanting to startle Molly with a call from Rich’s phone, I called her using my Blackberry. She answered, saying “Hi Dan. What did you find?”
“A lot,” I answered. Call me back on Rich’s phone.
“Rich’s phone,” she said, more statement than question.
“Yes.”
We hung up without “good-bye” and I waited 2o seconds or so until the iPhone in my hand, Rich’s iPhone, vibrated and then rang, his ringtone a bit of a classical trumpet piece he’d always loved. I saw that it was Molly and pressed the green “answer’ button on the touchscreen. “Hi Molly.”
My heart broke as I heard her sobbing, unable to speak. I waited a couple minutes until she regained her composure and heard her say, “What happened to him?”
“He died in 1962, Molly.” I could hear her stifling a sob on the other end of the phone, and waited a few seconds before continuing. “But he’ll be back home for a couple days in July.”
“What? How?” She asked, suddenly hopeful.
“He buried a box of stuff that I’ll bring to you. He intended for me to find it, and there’s a letter than says just before he buried the box, he traveled to San Diego in July of 2009. The 17th and 18th. He’ll be there in the house in the morning about 7am on the 17th.”
“Thank God,” Molly replied, “but only for two days? Maybe he can figure out a way to stay!”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Keep in mind, Molly. He’ll be older. About 70. He’ll be coming from 1952.”
“Oh.” A pause, then “I don’t care. I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“Good girl,” I said. “Listen, I’m going to take care of some things here over the next couple days, and then head back to Dallas. I’ll be in touch, and I’m going to fly this box to you personally.”
“OK. Thanks, Dan,” Molly said.
“No problem. I’ll email you some more details,” I said. “Chin up. It’s all going to work out.”
“OK. Good-bye.” Molly hung up.
I smiled. I’d told her everything she knew, but not everything I knew.
More in a few days.
