Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.
Author's Note: Another of the 'zine five epilogues, from season one. This episode first appeared in December of '83. Happy 25th anniversary, H&McC!
Epilogophilia: Just Another Round of That Old Song
The judge gets a call from a fellow inmate of Henry Willard, a guy he sentenced to 35 years in prison for an armored car robbery back in 1947. Willard is being set free after only 25 years. The three-quarters of a million in loot was never recovered, and the word is that Willard may be in trouble with people who want to get their hands on it.
Mark and the judge hunt up the bemused ex-con, save him from a kidnapping, and convince him that he can't use the money without landing back in prison for the last ten years of his sentence. Unfortunately, Willard's misplaced the money (and the armored car) in the changing LA infrastructure. Turns out he stowed it in an under-construction subway that was never completed.
In their effort to track down Willard's hiding place, the guys find evidence that Captain Joe Cagney, the officer who originally investigated the case, is also scouting out the possibilities. Cagney kidnaps Willard, but the judge and Mark get to Spot X first. When the Captain shows up, they succeed in evading and then capturing him, rescuing Willard yet again.
The $750,000 is returned to its rightful owners. Mark is delighted to hear that there is a $25,000 reward still being offered for the recovery, but after hearing Hardcastle explain that his share is going to Henry Willard, Mark eventually decides to sacrifice his part as well.
Epilogue—by L.M. Lewis
When Hardcastle found out what he'd done, he chuckled and said, "Guess you're just protecting your investment."
Mark mustered a little indignation. He hadn't been looking at it that way at all. It was just that Henry Willard was as much at sea out in the free world as any brand new fish that McC had ever landed in San Quentin.
"I think he was going to keep the money under his mattress, or maybe in a coffee can."
"So you talked him into it? Setting up a bank account?"
"Yup. Wasn't easy though."
Hardcastle nodded once thoughtfully. "Probably doesn't have much faith in bank security."
"Yeah, and I still might not've convinced him except that they wouldn't cash the check for him unless he deposited it in the bank. Lots of questions, too." Mark shook his head. "He's been out of circulation for a long time."
He kept his mouth shut about the rest, what it was like going from a place where there were no choices at all, back into a world where every damn thing had to be decided for yourself. And the account manager at the bank giving Henry Willard that cold look down his pointy nose when it had become clear why the man had no financial history whatsoever.
"So," Hardcastle interrupted the thought, "you didn't feel any pangs when he put the whole twenty-five grand into that account?"
Mark was surprised at how little he had to think about that one. He'd almost forgotten that he'd taken a pass on a chunk of that reward money. Of course being reminded of that was still annoying.
"A ping, maybe. Not a whole pang."
The judge chuckled again.
"No, really," Mark insisted; he didn't even think he was still trying to convince himself. "Willard doesn't have anybody. He's outlived all his family and lost track of all his friends. Well maybe there's a couple left in the joint, but he's still on parole; he can't even go visit them . . . and he's old."
He'd been contemplating a spot on the floor just in front of his feet. It took a moment for him to notice the silence and look up again.
Hardcastle's expression was somewhere in the vicinity of peeved but it took a moment more before he grunted, "Old, huh? There's only a couple years difference between him and me."
Mark figured he must've consulted Willard's record recently. "Well, old is kinda relative," he said appeasingly. "Henry is prison old, that's for sure." He shrugged. "It makes a person old. Two years for one, at least. It feels that long when you're in there." He shook his head. "I can't even imagine twenty-five years. And then, when you get out, everything's changed."
Hardcastle said nothing to dispute this. In fact, he said nothing at all except a rather philosophical, "Yeah, twenty-five years is a long time."
That was true, of course, and Mark supposed he'd have to settle for that. He could hardly expect to convince the man that two years left a disorienting gap. Things changed. People moved on.
"And, anyway," he finally said, "I'll need to borrow the truck tomorrow. I told him I'd take him over to the DMV so he can get a license." He looked up at Hardcastle again. "I hope he remembers how to drive."
"You really know how to ask for a favor, kiddo. Not willing to risk the Coyote, huh?"
"Not a chance."
"And the guy doesn't even have a car, what's he need with a driver's license?"
"It helps," Mark said with assurance. "It's I.D., and it'll make getting a job easier. He'll need a job." He ran his fingers back through his hair. "That twenty-five grand won't last forever. He's got no Social Security, you know."
"He never worked an honest job long enough to get it."
"He worked a few honest jobs, just none of them for people who bothered with much paperwork." McCormick sighed wearily. "Nobody thinks they're gonna wind up old and alone. And he said . . . he said maybe he'd be better off back inside. Three squares and you always know where you're going to sleep at night."
The judge's face took on a more worried cast. "You don't think he's gonna do something stupid, do ya? Hell, he's got twenty-five grand. That oughta keep him in beans and bacon and out of the rain for a while, anyway. Long enough to get his feet on the ground."
Mark smiled at the sudden note of concern. He thought it was divided about fifty-fifty—half for Henry and half for society at large. His smile drifted some. "Don't worry. I don't think he's a danger to anyone . . . well, maybe to himself, but I made him promise he'd call me if he got a notion to do anything like that. Besides, it's just the fear talking."
"Fear of what?"
McCormick frowned. The precise nature of it was hard to nail down. He finally settled on a word. "Agoraphobia, that's what they call it, right? Fear of the outside. It's scary at first. He'll get over it." There was a pause, then he continued. "And the fear of being alone. Of having been left behind. Everyone else has moved on."
"Not much you can do about that."
"Only takes one person, really. Someone who's still there for you. But God help you if you don't have that."
"Okay," Hardcastle let out a sigh. "And it's probably a good idea to have a back-up, just in case something happens to the one. But I think maybe it'd be easier if we just adopted a stray cat."