There is a direct correlation between the amount of humidity in the atmosphere and the brightness of a full moon. On the night that Charlie Culpepper rescued Adriane Catherine Bascombe, the humidity was down to about 28 percent, providing me with a fabulously clear night from which to take pictures with a long lens.
The upshot of the case was this: the fourteen year old Ms. Bascombe was fooling around at the Hunt Valley Mall when she was grabbed by two hooligans: William Henry McDade and Anthony Xavier Carposi. They had recognized her as being a member of the local gentry and, as such, was an asset to be stolen and resold. Both Bad Billy and The X-Man were minor teenage hoods with minor teenage records, doing the sorts of things that bored, sociopathic Baltimore County kids do: joyride in stolen cars, shoplift consumer electronics, shake down kids for pocket money at the rec center. Both had been arrested a number of times before they could drive. Indeed, when they got their respective licenses, their adolescent brand of terrorism became as widespread as the amount of gas in their car.
I didn’t know that Bad Billy and The X-Man were the culprits in question on that crystal clear winter night. I didn’t find out that little tidbit until after Charlie had beaten them half to death with a mop handle and the local cops carted them away in an ambulance. I even remember thinking at the time that this solo rescue—Charles Matthew David Fitzgerald Culpepper the Fifth versus The Great Unknown—might turn out terribly. There was the distinct possibility that I would witness my best friend’s murder courtesy of his Nikon F1 and an outrageously high quality 600 millimeter lens. I remember racking the lens to try and find him, skulking through the long grass of that Wicomico County bog, only to have him pop up in the distance and, knowing I would be following his progress, flipping me off.
“What a way to end a 15 year friendship,” I thought. “He flips me off, then gets murdered in front of my very eyes. What a way to go.”
But that didn’t happen. This did:
Charlie was brought in the fray by an acquaintance from Law School, Dominic Linetta. One of Dominic’s clients was Harold Bascombe, of Bascombe Container Lines, the worldwide shipping magnate. Dominic recommended that Charlie be brought in to recover the girl in exchange for a piece of the reward. Mr. Bascombe didn’t want the police brought in until after the fact, fearing a repeat of the hamfisted approach executed by another branch of law enforcement down in Texas recently. So after an initial meeting, Charlie was brought in to monitor calls and hopefully trace where the bad guys were, then bring force to bear upon them.
Tracing the call was as simple as using Caller ID. He found the number, traced the address and, dressed for a covert operation, away we went to Maryland’s Eastern shore.
The house the pair had rented (using their real names) was a small white stucco bungalow situated in the center of a field surrounded by short pines and tall grass. In the brilliant moonlight, the white house just gleamed. It had a picture window which faced the street (and the carhood I was leaning across) where I could see clearly the young Ms. Bascombe, in a stage of undress, tied to a chair ala a Betty Page pin-up.
I had settled in for the confrontation when I saw Charlie do something that my editors still thank him for: he popped up out of the grass and mouthed to me “Come on and bring The Light of Day.” The Light of Day was Charlie’s pet name for his camera. He held up his right hand and spaced his thumb and forefinger about 2 inches apart, then clapped his left hand about five or six times in rapid succession. Then he sank down into the high grass.
“Hum,” I remember thinking, “short lens and a flash unit?” It might be dangerous but the payoff would be amazing. I quickly changed lenses and mounted a flash to his camera.
And away I went.
Charlie’s Corvair was parked next to the driveway entrance and about 300 feet from the house. I stumbled through the darkness and through the grass towards the house. Dry grass crunched under my feet and I thought I would give the whole thing away.
I didn’t.
Charles was crouched by the door on the side of the house where the young Ms. Bascombe was parked. His face was smeared with mud, apparently a recent development because it wasn’t that way getting out of the car.
“Where did you get mud?” I whispered.
“It’s a secret,” he replied. He smirked and pointed at a mop handle next to the door. “I think it’s time to kick ass, Norman. What do you think?” He nodded his head.
I paused to think why on earth he would ask such an idiotic rhetorical question and I could actually feel a blank expression crawling over my face for about a second. He didn’t disappoint.
Standing, he grabbed the mop handle and smiled a big cheesy grin.
“Take a picture, Norman. It’s showtime.”
I put the camera to my face and squeezed off a single shot. The motor drive whirred. Inside I heard some stirring. In the door’s window, one of those three panel kitchen deals, the curtain moved back to reveal Bad Billy, checking the scene to see what caused the flash.
Charlie kicked the door in.
Charlie followed through, leaving Bad Billy on his ass, a small dent in his forehead evident.
Charlie stepped into the room.
Turning, Charles addressed The X-Man.
Backhanding the mop handle, Charlie struck The X-Man in the face.
The mop handle followed through, collapsing The X-Man’s cheekbone.
Charlie shouted something at The X-Man, mop handle by his side.
Charlie tucked and began a standing somersault, mop handle partially extended.
The mop handle struck the lit but bare bulb in the overhead fixture, shattering it and sending sparks in every direction.
No ambient light other than the flash. Charles swung at Bad Billy, who stood slowly.
The mop handle struck Bad Billy in the back of the head, slightly depressing his skull.
Bad Billy crumpled.
Charlie planted both feet.
Charlie spindled on his right foot, cocking his left leg.
Charlie extended his left leg.
Rotational inertia brought Charlie’s left foot in contact with the right side of The X-Man’s face.
Charles followed through. The X-Man tumbled towards the wall.
Charles set.
Charles bowed to The X-Man.
Turning, Charlie bowed to Bad Billy.
“What do you think?”
“Pretty impressive, Charles. You’ve been working out again.”
“You journalists are geniuses. Masters of the obvious.”
“Who are you?” the young Ms. Bascombe screamed. In the excitement, I sort of forgot about her.
“Not to worry ma’am,” I said.
“We’re freelance policemen,” Charlie adds. “The old man hired us to bring you back. That we will do.” He picked her up, still in her chair, and placed her on his shoulder.
“You know, I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” He looked up at his passenger. “Are you hungry?”
“Untie me!” she demanded. “Put me down!”
“When we get outside,” he said. “Norman, I’m starving. I need to eat.”
His entire demeanor changed instantly. Gone was the warrior with the mud-caked face. In its sted was Charlie the Goofer, focused for the moment on dinner, presumably something to be consumed in the front seat of a car. I squeezed off another shot. Charlie started for the door. He continued to babble about food, at one point asking Ms. Bascombe if she thought the fish in fish sandwiches was “too square” and should be “more fish shaped.” Ms. Bascombe endured the bumpy ride back to Charlie’s car and complained with enthusiasm. He put the chair down and cut her bonds with a folding, wooden handled French pocket knife. She was cold and started shivering. Charlie got out his heavy black leather jacket from the car and put it around her. She started sobbing softly and buried her face in Charlie’s shoulder. I took one more picture, number twenty-three; with Charlie’s black leather jacket shining in the moonlight, his cammo gi slightly open. That’s the one that made the front page of the Sunday’s Sun. That’s the one the editors still thank me for.
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