Tax Collectors...and Other Sinners

BOOK TWO: WESTERN OHIO 1 Wednesday, May 10, 1972 The hill looked like a thousand others, brush-covered with a road running alongside its base, an unremarkable elevation of90 feet. Atop that hill a man, camouflaged by army greens and brown, lay among the bushes. The man, Wroth, had a rifle and a plan: He was going to kill a federal tax collector. Wroth ranged up the road through field glasses then checked his watch-any time now. He snugged the rifle against the ground and re-checked the scope. The .30-06 was sighted on a patch of blacktop 300 yards away. Again he checked the road and saw the Chrysler. He followed it until he was sure it was Slater, then laid the glasses aside and prepared to shoot. The Chrysler entered the fatal space. The big gun roared, the windshield exploded and the shooter waited for the car to swerve off the road and run into something. Then he would put in more rounds to make sure Slater was dead. But the car came on, passing the ambush. Cursing, Wroth scrambled to get the rifle around and got offtwo more shots before he focused on the gasoline tanker bearing down from the opposite direction. He sent a hail of lead at the oncoming semi, at its driver and then at its left front tire. The truck swerved and met the Chrysler head-on, smashed it back in the direction from which it came. The tanker jackknifed, the trailer coming all the way around against the car and tractor, forming a monstrous unit which slid along the pavement until it exploded. The fireball singed Wroth's hair and dropped pieces ofburning metal within 10 yards ofhim. But he stayed to watch, exhilarated by the inferno and what it was doing to Slater. When the killer heard the sirens he took a small metal tag from a pocket and dropped it on the ground among the spent rifle Tax Collectors and Other Sinners cartridges. Then he crawled into the trees on the back side ofthe hill and ran the mile to his Jeep. It took just seven minutes. Friday, April 13, 1973 Tax collector Ben Walters was thinking about paint-what color to put on the kitchen walls. Then his Ford fishtailed and almost sideswiped a van, which got his full attention back on the road. An April storm had put seven inches of snow on the ground and it was still snowing and blowing like crazy. The car slid again and Ben slowed to 25, beginning to wonder ifhe could make it to East Liberty, an unpretentious burg in northwestern Ohio. Coming out here today was dumb, he told himself. On the other hand, how often do I collect $246,000? It was the biggest case of his career and it might get him the next promotion. He entered the town 40 minutes later in a blinding snow squall and almost missed the city limit sign. The tax collector, a tall, balding man, hunched forward on the seat and peered through the ice on his windshield looking for the turnoff. His taxpayer, Kathleen Woods, lived in a crumbling frame mansion out on the high side of town. He found the road and her driveway, gunned the Ford and went in sideways, straightened out and made it around to the back ofthe house. The wind shook the car and Ben stayed in it long enough to button his coat, hoping she wouldn't keep him standing outside for long. It was 6:27pm, almost dark, and he was late for his appointment. He would be very late getting home, not that it mattered. It was Friday, no work tomorrow and nobody at home expecting him. Tomorrow he would paint and make points with his wife, Nancy, who was in Indianapolis with her mother for the weekend. Nancy had been after him for a year and a half to paint the kitchen. There was no doorbell. The collector knocked hard hoping Kathleen would hear him the first Tax Collectors and Other Sinners time. He knocked again, really hammering it. And again, the third try, when something hard hit the back of his head. Ben fell like a stone on the snow covered walkway and felt neither the impact nor the ether soaked rag jammed against his face. He came to slowly: on his back on a dirt floor, feet tied together, hands bound behind him, something rough around his neck. He was cold, God, he was cold. Someone had taken his coat. He could see the rough wood and rafters of a shed or barn. Ben turned his head and saw the electric lantern and the man in a ski-mask. The tax man groaned, still foggy but aware that he was in big trouble. Trembling from fear and cold he tried to speak. "What?" was the best he could do. The other man stood, holding a rope. He jerked it and Ben howled; now he knew what was around his neck. The masked figure did a pantomime, swept his right hand upward and pointed to a high horizontal beam. Three pulleys hung from the beam, side by side, and the rope ran through them. He pointed at the floor behind Ben's head, then lifted a second set of pulleys into view. The rope ran through these, also. He set the pulleys down, stretched his arms over his head and made the motions of pulling down on the rope. Terror swept Ben. He understood the plan.