The Amulet

 

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For as long as I could remember, he wore it around his neck.

It was a weird piece of flat dull metal that looked like it was torn out of something bigger. Hanging off a silver chain. About the size of a quarter.

I remember it flopping out of his open shirt when he’d lean over my bed to kiss me good night when I was a little boy.

My early childhood years were most a blur – but those strange etchings and gouges on Dad’s strange necklace haunt me even now, sixty years later.

Wedge-like cuneiform symbols they were, mysterious tidings – like you’d see on those tablets out of some dig in Mesopotamia that C.W. Ceram wrote about in Gods, Graves & Scholars. Or – better yet – Erich Von Daniken in Chariots of the Gods. I later convinced myself it was Klingon. Was Dad a shaman or a wizard?

But to the little boy in that bed, the object was cool – and the greatest guy in the world always wore it around his neck. Like Samson’s hair, it kept him strong.

Then he was killed. Thanksgiving Day, November 27, 1952.

Run down like a dog in the Bell Labs parking lot, the company where he worked all those late night hours. Some car they’d never found slammed into him and threw his body forty feet. The New Providence, NJ, Police Dept. (the accident happened on the New Providence side of the huge Bell Labs facility, not the Berkeley Heights, NJ side) did an investigation. They got nowhere – and close their file six months later.

I had a Union County cop buddy of mine call it up on an old, archived “microfiche” system last year – yeah, some cops still do favors for each other, but it’s not nearly as cozy as it was years ago – and was surprised how superficial the so-called “investigation” really was. Granted, I’m looking at the file six decades later with eyes jaundiced by a career in law enforcement (I’m a Berkeley Heights Detective) but, Sweet Jesus, what a shit job! Even for the “old days”.

First off, nobody interviewed the Bell Labs Chief of Security. His reports are there, all right – big as life – but nobody actually sat him down and questioned him like cops would routinely do now. They took his reports at face value and incorporated them into their conclusion that the accident was a ” Hit and Run”. I know Bell Labs has a large parking lot – the Bell Labs facility sits on hundreds of acres of pristine, rolling hills on the Watchung Mountain ridge – but they had hundreds of workers back then and somebody must’ve seen something.

No roster of night-shift employees (after all, Dad was run down in the parking lot around 3:00AM) was reviewed and no scientists, with “restricted” clearances like my Dad or without, were questioned.

My father, Dr. John Kovacs, was an electrical engineer and physicist. Degrees from Rensselaer Polytechnic and a doctorate from Massachusetts Institute of Technology hung on our living room wall in Berkeley Heights. I recall a myriad of funny little badges with “US Department of Defense” and his picture on them. Now we call them Security Clearances.

Back in the fifties – the era of the “Red” scare – we were sure he was doing important work to keep us from being nuked by the Commies. I thought it was all real cloak-and-dagger stuff . And cool. Dad was some kind of top secret rocket scientist creating robots and death-ray guns deep in the bowels of Bell Labs. The fact he couldn’t even discuss with us his work made it even more compelling. What he did was taboo and verboten.

Before she died, however, Mom said he had been acting “different”. I was too small – and enamoured of him – to notice the day to day funk she said he’d slipped into before the accident. But I do remember him sitting at our formica kitchen table some times with a bottle in front of him. The bottle had a neat clipper ship on a yellow label. Is that why I drink Cutty Sark today? Becaue he did?

I could stand a pull on a glass of Cutty right now.

I’ve been virtually chained to this Goddamn computer keyboard since dawn – and it’s now 7:00PM. Friggin’ Fed bastards in their dopey suits and white shirts won’t even let me take a piss unattended. And at my age I piss a lot. Do they think I’m gonna’ commit suicide by flushing my head down a freekin’ commode? They want my “Statement”. My explantion of why I was wearing “military contraband of national security interest” around my neck.

And the worst of it is – they’ve taken it. The only thing my Dad left me is gone. The Amulet was part of the reason why he was killed. They were only interested in shutting him up. Why? Bell Labs Patents US-1116848A and US334648A. That’s why.

The Transistor.

The little miracle that paved the way for hand-held radios, Sony Walkmans, personal computers, Integrated Circuits – and, ultimately, microchips. Literally, our whole technological world. But there are those that believe Bell Labs didn’t invent it – they stole it. And in the early fifties that would’ve been a secret worth killing for.

But nobody’s gonna’ believe the ravings of a local police detective from Berkeley Heights, NJ. They’d call him crazy. Burnt out from searching for the Dad he never knew. In a way, they’d be right. Here goes.

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It was a beautiful Fall day in the Watchung Mountains. Sunlight blazing, gold leaves strewn everywhere and a crisp chill. Early October, 1995. I was heading up Plainfield Avenue in Berkeley Heights, NJ, to serve a Criminal Arrest Warrant on a Chiropractor for Spousal Abuse. With his history he was looking at significant time behind bars. This time I was cuffing him and taking him in.

I’d barely pulled into the Doctor’s driveway when I got a radio call to respond to a “411” at Columbia Elementary School, around the block. My gut sank. “411” meant auto fatality. A “411” call at 3:00PM on a school day is never a good sign. Kids getting out for the day….running….not watching where they’re going…. I hit the lights and the claxon siren so I could get everybody the Hell outta’ my way.

When I got there investigation revealed that a five year old black girl had been hit by a King’s tractor trailor truck on its way to the store across town on Springfield Avenue. The driver, an Hispanic male, was beside himself. He was shaking so uncontrollably that EMS had him strapped onto a gurney and had an oxygen mask strapped on his face. Turn’s out the poor guy’s own little girl had died a year before of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome in her crib.

I had to back-burner the Chiropractor Warrant job and proceed to the decedent’s residence to break the bad news. No one on the scene knew how to reach the little girl’s mother or father.

Headquarters Dispatch had reached out to the girl’s mother by accessing school records and I proceeded to the address they reported – a small, well-kept cape across from the Berkeley Heights train station. Had a white picket fence and all. An old man – presumeably the girl’s Grandfather, met me at the door and showed me into the living room to wait. Grandpa offered me some coffee, but I politely declined. My stomach was sour enough and I wasn’t in the mood for any more caffeine.

“I’m Bill Shocklee….” The old man extended his hand, already having sized up the enormity of what was about to happen. He was a credit to his generation. Stoic. Rock solid.

As expected, a firm handshake followed. “Detective Tod Kovacs…” I said, as somber as I felt. “Good to meet you, Sir…..”

After an extremely long ten minutes an obviously distraught young women burst into the house – straight into the arms of a waiting Grandpa – and yelled in my direction “Where’s Kera?????? Tears were streaming down her eyes and her hands gestured in spasmotic lurches as the older gentleman held onto her.

“I’m Detective Kovacs, ma’am – I’m so sorry………..”

The next hour was Hell. Pure and simple. Telling a parent that their little girl was just killed was a part of Police work that you never got used to. The shootings, rapes and drug busts were scarring enough – but kids. When kids were killed – from violence or accidents- it was an emotional gut-shot to most cops. You could feel another little piece of your soul own being chipped off and flushed down the toilet. Cops were supposed to help. To make things better. To save people from these things happening to them. The helplessness that cops felt at these times was palpable. It literally drove us to drink.

There was no consoling this women. I took down as many facts for my report as I could under the circumstances and offered to come back at a later time to finish. Her name was Sharon – and Kera’s father was “gone”. They lived with her father, “Granpa” William Emmett Shocklee.

I watched as the old man led her up the stairs to her room, his bear-like arms anchoring her like Hercules. He slowly guided her wobbly feet from step to step, lifting her to each new level until they disappeared from view. I coud hear her wailing and heaving up above us. Bill Shocklee came down after a few minutes.

“Thank you, Detective” He said. I appreciate your kindness”.

He cocked his head and led me to their kitchen. It was old, but immaculate. He reached into a cabinet pulled out a fifth of Jack Daniel’s.

“You look like you could use a taste….”

As much as I did need a taste – I politely declined. I watched him pour some Jack into a juice glass and knock it back.

“Damn it all…….” He muttered. “Life sure kicks your balls in, don’ it, Detective?”

“Yes, Sir.” I replied. It certainly does…..I’m so sorry for your trouble”.

As the kindly old man was showing me out, a framed black and white photo caught my eye. It must’ve been old Bill Shocklee in his salad days, buff and polished, standing proudly next to a late 40’s Ford V8 Coupe – just like my dad drove. Shocklee was wearing a guard’s uniform and in the background was the main entrance security bunker on the driveway of Bell Labs in New Providence, NJ.

“Nice ride I remarked. “My Dad had one – ’49, right? A V8 “flathead” right off the assembly line….”

“That’s right” Mr. Shocklee said, visibly gratified by the memory.

“She was brandy-new then; drove her up all the way from Decatur, Georgia when I first came to ‘Jersey. Spent all my savings from the Army – I served in World War Two….don’t make cars like that no more”. He picked up the photo to savor the good times it showed.

“That’s Bell Labs there, isn’t it?” I asked, feigning a perplexed look. “You were a guard there or something?”

“Oh, yeah!” The old man said, nodding his head in the affirmative and warming to the subject.

“I was on Ma’ Bell’s teat for well nigh four decades – an’ good years they were……Raised my little girl, built this here house…put food on the table through some bad years. Had a wife, Missy…..but she died young, poor thing….Can’t complain’. Life’s been good here – far better than I could’ve hoped for in Decatur, Georgia!”

“My Dad used to work at Bell Labs – back in the early fifties” I offered in an intentionally distracted way. “He died back in ’52”.

“Do tell?!” Shocklee responded, eyebrows raising up and moist eyes brightening a bit.

“Back in those days, it was a real time! We had comins’ and goins’ all the time – all those military types and gray cars all hours of the day and night. I still recall the rumors and the gossip – I was always bein’ moved around the complex, guardin’ this room with big steel doors or that crate of Army machines. Watchin’ all those Air Force guys with them briefcases handcuffed to their wrists, ‘ya know…….Lotsa’ weird sounds and humming noises all the time. People there on the payroll one day – then, Pfft!! Gone the next! All them big shots…….”

Bill Shocklee was rubbing his chin, staring at the black and white picture of his old car. His trip down memory lane seemed, for at least a merciful moment, to take the edge off the gruesome business we were in the midst of.

“You know……” He said, looking into my eyes. His genuineness and sincerity was heart-warming. Cops noticed stuff like that.

“I used to always be gettin’ all kinds of paperwork in the inter-office pipeline from that other fellow…..that big scientist that got all them Nobel awards….you know!! That Transistor guy!!…William Shockley!!! That was his name!!!! …..I’d just look through the envelope and hand it all off to ole’ Doc’ Brattain…….he was the nicest man in the whole place, ole’ Brattain was!!!”

“You knew Brattain…….and William Shockley? William Shockley and Walter Brattain??? The guys who – with John Bardeen – were awarded the Nobel Prize for the Transistor Patent?”

“Hell, yeah!!!” Bill Shocklee aswered, nodding his head up and down.

“I got more of that Shockley’s paperwork than he did!!!”

I couldn’t resist pushing it. I guess the Detective in me grabbed on and didn’t let go.

“Well, now…….” I said, sounding impressed. I was intentionally stroking his ego and nodding my head in genuine admiration.

Here I was talking to an elderly black man who actually knew my father’s bosses, three of the most influential physicists of the twentieth century. Call it cop’s intuitiion or gut instinct, I couldn’t stop.

“You knew the Dr. Shockley??? That’s just amazing….”:

“Whoa there, Son!!!” The old man half-snickered through a slightly conspiratorial grimace.

“I didn’t have no tea and crumpets with Shockley – I doubt no black man would’ve shared his table back then…..He was all high and mighty……but I did read his mail a bit. And mighty interesting it was, too!!!” At his last comment he emphasized those conspiratorial eyes he was giving me, inviting me back for more.

“How so?” I asked, as innocent as I could sound.

“Well – for one thing – Doc Shockley was Army through and through – not Ma’ Bell…” The old man said.

“Oh, I know all ’bout the hoopla they says that him an’ Doc’ Bardeen and Doc Brattain invented that Transistor thing at Bell Labs….But he was always gettin’ letters and packages – looked like inside skinny – from where they made them Atom Bombs during the War…….Los Alamos.……it was. From there, an’ Wright Field in Ohio.

Shockley would get crates and packages of stuff – junk, really – pieces of wierd metals with scratches all over ’em from Wright Field, Ohio and that Los Alamos place. Looked like garbage, truth be told. And orders – real military orders! Some papers had all kinds of codes, symbols and odd writing on ’em.

Looked like tracks chickens would make on the farm dirt down in Georgia…..there was all kinds of arrows pointing to the symbols and scientific words written next to them in longhand. Like they was tellin’ him things……..an’ he never spent a lotta’ time in the lab!! No, sireee…. He jes’ strut about – barkin’ orders at underlings and buried hisself in journal books he’d hand back to the Army guys….

He was a preema donna, Shockley was! Thought his wind didn’t smell…. Old big-heffer Shockley actually stopped at the guard shack and thanked me once for “Protecting Military Secrets” he said!!!! ‘Course, that was right before Harry Truman hisself visited, real-hush-hush one night…..right here in Jersey!”

“Harry Truman???” I asked incredulously. “The President?”

“The Man himself??”

“Yesssirree” Shocklee replied, now brimming with that special pride that old people exude when they’re describing a historical event they witnessed to somebody much younger.

“I even recalls the date: September 14, 1948” He continued. “The President was in a Packard Limousine – black – with US Army staff cars front and rear. He lowered his back window at the security gate and waved hello to me and Jeff Cody, who was on duty that night. Time was 10:30PM on the dot. His limo left exactly two hours later…I presume he was in it. The window curtains was closed when they left. You OK, boy?”

I was staring off into space once I heard the words “Harry Truman”. It was so weird, knowing my Dad was probably there that night, in a room with President Harry Truman.

“You sure of that date?” I asked him, shaking my head to clear my mind.

“Hell, yeah!” He said, his head bobbing in emphasis. “Sure’s I’m standing here!!! How does a man forget when he was waved at by the President!! I knows it like I knows my own birthday – why, it’s in my log book, right here!!!”

Bill Shockley was pointing to a beat-up old, leather-bound journal on the shelf he kept the picture of his old Ford. At first, I thought it was a Bible.

“I sneaked it out when I retired. I figgered, what the Hell – why can’t I have some kinda’ diary about how I spent my life?”

“Like I told you, my Dad worked at Bell Labs and was killed in a hit and run in the parking lot in ’52…….” I explained. “I guess all your memories brought me back a spell…..”

“Hit and run, eh?” Shocklee asked, scratching his chin stubble. “I’m sorry……, Son, they was accidents happenin’ all through those years…….from about ’50 to ’55. Lotta’ strange things goin’ on…..

A bunch o’ people at the Labs died from work accidents and such… But then they was dyin from stuff nobody ever heard of before, too….folks gettin’ sick and keelin’ right over! Bell Labs couldn’t investigate ’em – we always had to call the Army brass – then deal with the MPs. The local Police guys – from New Providence and Berkeley Heights – just tagged along at those military guys’ feet…like puppies. Yup…..the Army was callin’ shots ’round that time, fo’ sure. When they’d say jump everybody would ask how high. And nobody – I mean nobody – asked questions. Even the scientists. Wasn’t healthy – get my meanin? The work was good payin’. We all just kept our mouths shut. Guess we was all worried ’bout the Communists…..an’ scared out of our wits”.

Again, my cop gut started to nag me. Something he said stuck in my craw.

“Mr. Shocklee, may I borrow your journal for a few days?” I asked as respectfully as possible. After all, it obviously meant a lot to him.

“Sure, Son” He said – and then winked. “Just don’t drop no Spaghetti sauce on it”.

I thanked him and left. An archivist at Berkeley Heights Police Department copied the whole thing for me – I claimed it was “evidence” related to the little girl’s death that brought me to the Shocklee residence in the first place. A little white lie.

I returned it the next day with a thank you note and a fresh fifth of Jack Daniel’s Sour Mash Whiskey.

END OF PART ONE.

Jon Croft, Copyright 2021