Good Grief, Benton Fraser!

by Paul E. Jamison

 

"Excuse me, sir, but could you move your crisply-starched Stetson so I could sit down?"

 

Constable Benton Fraser replied, "Certainly, sir – oh, hello, Ray!  I didn't know you'd be here!"

 

"Once in awhile I go to Court, Benny, when I get the urge.  Especially when I've got a police report that needs writing and I want to goof off a bit.  When I heard about what was on the agenda, I wondered if you might not be here yourself."  Ray Vecchio looked to the front of the courtroom.  "Is that the guy?"

 

"Yes, it is, Ray."  The man standing by the overhead projector wouldn't have stood out in a crowd.  He was middle-aged, wearing a conservative suit, a safe pair of glasses and the latest in bald-spot comb-overs.  "That's Stan Christmas."

 

On the overhead screen was what looked like an old photo of a World War I fighter pilot, caught in the act of climbing into his biplane. He was looking over his shoulder and smiling at the camera.  "And that, Ray, is his great-grandfather, William Christmas, a member of the Lafayette Escadrille."

 

Ray peered at the photo.  From what little he could see, there was a family resemblance.  "H'm.  Christmas.  Strange family name.  You sure it's authentic?"

 

"I've checked.  There are some listings in the phone book with that surname.  I see no reason why he would fake it."

 

"You're probably right.  Now what's this guy's beef again?"

 

"Well, the greatest flying ace of World War I was the German, Baron Manfred von Richtofen, better known as the 'Red Baron', who was credited with 80 kills.  It's widely believed that he was shot down in 1918 by Arthur Roy Brown, a Canadian pilot.  Now, Mr. Christmas here has come forth with evidence that it wasn't Brown who shot down the Red Baron after all, but an American fighter pilot.  His great-grandfather, in fact."

 

"Now isn't that a coincidence?"

 

"Quite a coincidence, Ray."

 

Mr. Christmas removed the photo transparency from the projector and put another in its place.  It showed a series of paragraphs, preceded by dates, written in crabby but legible longhand.  He stated in a clear voice, "Here is a copy of my great-granddfather's journal for the days in question.  I will read the relevant passages for those who can't see the screen:

 

"'April 21, 1918. Evening.  Quite a day.  Came across a mixup between some German and Canadian planes.  Our boys looked like having a tough time so decided to help.  Got onto this red German triplane.  Guy was a really good fighter but I soon had him and shot him down.  Turned in report to brass – may hear more about it tomorrow.

 

"'April 22 – Got quite a surprise.  Turned out my man was Red Baron! I shot down the Red Baron!  Am quite pleased with myself.  Hopefully will get credit. Won't that be something!'

 

"But now we come to the entry for the 24th, and the first of many frustrating setbacks:

 

"'April 24 – Disappointment.  Can't get confirmation of kill.  No witnesses.  Heard that Canadian is getting credit for death of Baron. That's the way it goes sometimes.  Glad that Red Baron taken care of, but credit would have been nice.'"

 

Ray leaned over and asked Fraser, "Where's this guy from?"

 

"New Jersey, Ray.  Newark, in fact."

 

"That's what I thought.  So why the Chicago court system?"

 

"I gather it wasn't his first choice.  He originally wanted to go to the World Court in The Hague, but he couldn't afford the plane fare and most banks don't accept an appeal to patriotism as collateral.  He tried the US Supreme Court next but they quit returning his calls. New Jersey – well, he apparently doesn't like to talk about the New Jersey court system.  At least not in any way that's repeatable. Basically he just went down the list and this is what was left."

 

"Huh. Interesting, in a sick sort of way.  Did the Dragon Lady send you here?"

 

"Yes, Ray.  Inspector Thatcher caught the story on last night's evening news, after the piece on the birth of a baby alpaca at the zoo.  She told me, and I quote, "What the Hell, Fraser.  Go and look into it.  It's not like there's anything else going on right now.'"

"You know, Benny, you do her voice very well."

 

At the projector, Mr. Christmas took the final slide off and faced the courtroom.  "And there you have it, ladies and gentleman.  Months of roadblocks, refusals, evasions.  Months that my ancestor, gentleman that he was, endured with no complaint and, finally, with reluctant acceptance.  Acceptance because he knew the Truth!

 

"And why the roadblocks, the refusals, the evasions?  I'll tell you why!"

 

"Right.  Here comes the "C" word."

 

"Because there was a CONSPIRACY against him!"

 

"Told ya."

 

"A conspiracy by no less than the Canadian government whose goal was personal GLORY!  Think of it, friends!  The man known as the Red Baron was the scourge of the air!  Think of the prestige that would come to the country that produced the young man who shot down this demon of the skies!  Canada knew what this meant, and their leaders had no qualms against any sort of deception necessary to gain this prestige for their own!  Bribery, extortion, smear campaigns – I don't know how they did it!  But I KNOW they did!!"

 

The judge spoke at this point.  "Mr. Christmas, your case is… is… it is.  May I ask what you expect to be done?"

 

Stan Christmas attained a certain dignity that felt like he'd picked it up somewhere – maybe at a garage sale – and replied, "Your Honor, I wish to clear my great-grandfather's name, and to see Truth be done. I have thought long and hard about this, and I will accept no less than the following: a prominent apology from the current Canadian government, perhaps in the form of funding for an appropriate monument, and an extensive correction of the official records.  There may be other forms of reparation that I will decide upon at a later time, but these points will do for now."

 

Christmas let out a deep sigh, and said, "It hasn't been easy, my friends.  The current Canadian government still wants to maintain the fiction, even after 75 years.  Oh, they have hounded me, I assure you. My mail has been intercepted, my telephone has been tapped.  They've kept an eye on me from the day I began the quest for the Truth.

 

"Why, they even have a spy in this very courtroom!  He abruptly turned and pointed.  "AND THERE HE IS!"

 

Everyone – there were still quite a few people – turned to look.  He was pointing right at Constable Fraser.

 

Ray looked at the red serge, the Stetson, the wolf dozing under the seat.  Oh yeah, he thought, Fraser blends right in.  I'd have never guessed him to be Canadian.

 

The judge, with a look usually associated with shipwreck survivors and life preservers, said, "Excuse me.  You're Constable Fraser, am I correct?"

 

Fraser stood up and replied, "Yes, Your Honor.  Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police –"

 

"Aha!  He admits it!"

 

"Mr. Christmas, please restrain yourself.  Are you representing the Canadian government in this case, Constable Fraser?"

 

"Technically, Your Honor, since I am a policeman in a foreign country, I suppose I do represent my government."

 

"Do you have anything to say in response to Mr. Christmas' allegations?"

 

"No, not at this time, Your Honor.  I would have to have time to discuss it with my superiors and perhaps to do some research of my own.  I can assure you that I would be as interested in discovering the truth as Mr. Christmas is, no matter what that truth may be."

 

"I understand, Constable, and I accept that.  I believe that you should be given sufficient time to pursue your own inquiries and defend your country.  Do you agree to this, Mr. Christmas?"

 

Christmas said nothing.  He just stared at the judge as if he'd spoken a foreign language.

 

"Mr. Christmas, we have to be fair; it's the basis of the American system of justice.  If you do not agree to this, I'll have to throw this case out.  Now, do you agree to allowing Constable Fraser time to prepare a defense."  Finally, Christmas pulled a face like a little boy faced with castor oil and abruptly nodded.

 

The judge said, "Very well.  Will two weeks be enough, Constable?"

 

"It should be, Your Honor."

 

"Two weeks it is.  In the meantime, Mr. Christmas, it might be productive for the court to examine your great-grandfather's diaries. Will you make them available to the court?"

 

Christmas didn't actually hem or haw, but that was the effect he achieved. "Well, Your Honor… the diaries are very, uh, fragile. They might fall apart if handled roughly. And they, they mean a lot to the family.  I wouldn't want something to, uh, happen to them.  Will very good copies do?  There's a Kinko's near where I live."

 

"No, Mr. Christmas, they will not do!  These claims you make are serious –"  Ray was impressed that he could say that with a straight face. "– and it's important to establish the authenticity of your evidence!  You must make those diaries available to the court!"

 

"Uh… I'll have to get them organized."

 

"I'll have someone get in touch with you then.  Is there anything else?  All right, then, this court is adjourned for two weeks."

 

As they left together, Fraser asked, "What do you think, Ray?"

 

"The guy's story is as phony as a frozen TV dinner; he wouldn't be so cagy about handing over those diaries otherwise.  You can see that, can't you?"

 

"I can't say one way or another, Ray."

 

"What – don't tell me you're gonna take this seriously, Benny?  Who shot down the Red Baron?  Who cares?  What does it matter now after all this time?"

 

"I take your point, Ray – it may not matter very much.  But I do consider the truth important, no matter how trivial.  I want to pursue this, not because the honor of Canada is at stake – I've ruffled some feathers in the government before – but because…"  Fraser paused for a few seconds.  "Darn it, Ray, now he's got me interested."

 

Ray nodded.  "I think I know what you mean.  Kind of like that last word in a crossword puzzle.  Okay, now you got a hobby.  Do you need any help?"

 

"Nothing I can think of right now; I can do better research on my own. I admit I'm surprised.  After you rightly pointed out how little importance this carries, why would you offer to help?"

 

"Would you believe for the honor of my country?  I can't believe I'm saying this, Benny, but that bozo in there made me ashamed to be an American for the first time in my life.  If that's what patriotism is coming to, I'm switching to Globalism as fast as I can fill out the paperwork.  And I meant what I said, Benny.  If I can help, let me know."

 

"Thank you kindly, Ray; it means a lot to me."

 

"You're welcome.  What's your first move?"

 

"A visit to the local library."

 

Inspector Thatcher readily agreed to Fraser's request to pursue his inquiries into the Red Baron controversy.  More precisely, she informed him that if he didn't start using his accumulated sick leave, there would be a reassessment of his benefits package.  She also hinted that he was looking a little peaked.  So Fraser started his research.

 

It's a sad commentary on modern times that the Christmas crusade for justice is the sort of story that the news media thrives on.  Within a day, all of Chicago's newspapers had run the photo of William Christmas climbing into his fighter plane.  And the local TV news programs always seemed to have something to say about it every night.

 

Ten days later, Fraser had accumulated dozens of history books on the Red Baron, fighter aces and the First World War in general.  They were piled all around his office.  At the moment he was perusing a book entitled Amusing Anecdotes From the War to End All Wars.  On his desk, William Christmas smiled up at him from the front page of the Tribune.

 

It was bad enough that Fraser had taken to paying attention to the newspapers.  Worse, he was watching more television.  Worst of all, he was now simply relying on it for background noise.  One of his neighbors had something wrong with the vertical hold on his portable, and Fraser had agreed to fix it in return for borrowing it for a few days.  It sat on one corner of his desk now, tuned in to the news. They were, of course, spending a few minutes on the Christmas story. They had just completed a brief man-in-the-street interview with a clean-cut young man ("Hey, like, what's this dude's problem with Red Baron, anyway? Yeah, frozen pizzas suck, but he could, like, order Domino's."), and now the anchorperson was saying, "Channel 27 News has obtained an exclusive interview with convicted terrorist Randal K. Bolt.  This is what he had to say about the Christmas controversy." This made Fraser sit up and take notice.

 

Yes, it was Bolt all right, black beret and attitude.  He smiled at the camera and said, "Well, I no longer represent the Fathers of the Confederacy, so I can make no official statement for the organization. But I can give you folks my personal opinion and it's this:  There is a certain person from New Jersey with a funny last name that needs to get a real life.  ‘Who shot down the Red Baron?’  I mean, come on! What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?  I believe this guy has problems, and if a right-wing kook like me says that, he must be seriously twisted!"

 

At this point, Fraser's office door opened, so he turned the set off. Ray walked into the room.  "When I came here today, I didn't expect to get hassled!  That new guy, Turnbull?  He almost didn't let me come up here!  And he followed me, too, watching me!"

 

"I'm sorry about that, Ray.  Turnbull is taking this a bit seriously."

 

"Well, I'll admit to some national guilt over this, but not that much!"  Ray looked at the stacks of books around the room.  "The City Library must really love you by now, Benny.  Nobody in Chicago checks out this many books.  You're giving them justification."

 

"Well, I think you're exaggerating a bit, Ray.  Although the person in charge of Interlibrary Loans has been in a very good mood lately."

 

"How's it been going?"

 

"I've essentially gotten nowhere, Ray.  There have been many words written about the death of the Red Baron, and there is some question about who really shot him down – most believe that it really was Arthur Brown, while others say it was the Australians, and someone has recently suggested the British.  But it's not exactly a burning topic among historians.  And there never has been a serious claim set forth for the Americans.  And oddly enough, I can find no mention of William Christmas anywhere, no matter how deeply I dig."

 

"Do you think that's significant?"

 

"I'm not sure.  Christmas has never claimed anything more for his great-grandfather than the single kill, and there were many pilots whose names never got into the history books.  But I just can't be sure.  All I can do is keep digging.  Were you able to find any books yourself?"

 

"Oh, I asked around, and I got several titles."  Ray started pointing at the stacks of books.  "Like that one – and that one – and that one – about the only thing I could turn up was a World War I airplane coloring book.  I didn't think it would be any help."

 

Fraser pulled a slim pamphlet from under the newspaper.  Ray nodded and said, "Yeah, that's the one."

 

Fraser sighed.  This impressed Ray; Fraser didn't sigh on his own behalf very often.  "I believe those diaries would help tremendously, but Mr. Christmas is still reluctant to turn them over. Now he's hinting that the DA's office might have been infiltrated by enemy agents.  But they're continuing to pressure him."

 

The office door opened and Turnbull stuck his head in and whispered, "Fraser, you've got another visitor, a Mister Brown.  He's one of them."

 

"'Them' who, Turnbull?"

 

"You know – them!"  He made painfully obvious gestures at Ray.

 

"Ah.  I see.  Well, show him in; I'll keep a close eye on him."

 

Mr. Brown turned out to be a very odd-looking individual, indeed.  He had the roundest head that Ray had ever seen.  He wasn't bald, but the pale, sparse hair just made his head look even rounder.  He held a large baseball cap in his hand, and he wore an orange short-sleeved shirt with a peculiar crooked stripe around the waist.

 

Fraser stood up and smiled.  "How do you do, Mr. Brown.  It's a pleasure to meet you!" They shook hands.  "I'm Constable Benton Fraser, and this is Ray Vecchio, a good friend of mine."

 

Mr. Brown said, "How do you do, Constable Fraser.  It's nice to meet you."  He turned to Ray and held out his hand.  "I'm very glad to meet you, too, sir."

 

As Ray shook his hand, he was already warming to this Brown guy.  No matter how odd he looked, he easily came across as one of the nicest people Ray had ever met, almost up there with Benny.

 

Fraser said, "Now then, Mr. Brown, what can we do for you?"

 

"Well, Constable, I think it's more of a case of what I can do for you.  I think I can help you with this fuss over the Red Baron.  I'm not related to Arthur Brown, by the way."

 

"Really?"  Ray and Fraser exchange glances.  "How might you do that?"

 

"Well, it's like this:  I've got a friend who's great-grandfather was a flying ace in World War I.  He even went after the Red Baron from time to time!  His name isn't important; he's been pretty much forgotten, and my friend wishes to remain anonymous anyway.  He has quite a lot of his great-grandfather's effects in his possession, and when we read about Christmas in the newspaper, my  friend remembered an old photograph he has.  It's a group photo of his great-grandfather with some other members of his flying squadron; they were posing in front of his Sopwith Camel.  My friend rummaged around in his attic and was able to lay his hands on it.  We both think that you'll be very interested in seeing this."  Mr. Brown held up a package. "This is it right here."

 

He took an old, weathered photograph out of the package and gently laid it on the desk.  Fraser took one look and said, "Hmmmm" in that way of his.

 

Ray looked over his shoulder.  Given its physical condition, the photo was excellent.  It showed five men, wearing the leather helmets and scarves of World War I pilots, standing in front of a biplane.  Kneeling in front were two men in grease-stained coveralls; obviously mechanics.  Ray said, "Nice photo of the plane.  Is that short guy in the middle your friend's great-grandfather?  He's one of the funniest–looking people I've ever seen!"

 

"That's as may be, Ray, but look at the mechanic on the left."

 

"Well, I'll be doggoned!  That's Great-Grandpappy Christmas!  Was he a mechanic, too?"  Then Ray looked at the newspaper.  "Ohh-ho! That's the exact same headshot as in the photo Christmas was waving around!"

 

"Well, we can't say that for sure unless we compare the two pictures carefully."  Fraser held the old photograph next to the newspaper.  He squinted at one, then at the other.  Finally he said, "No, you're right, Ray.  They're identical."

 

Ray grinned.  "That's it, then!  This Christmas bozo must've had his own copy of this picture, and he pasted his great-granddad's head over some other picture!  There's your evidence, Benny!"

 

"Perhaps, Ray.  Mr. Christmas may well accuse us of doctoring this photo.  I don't doubt it's authenticity, but an expert will most likely need to examine both photographs to determine which is real and which isn't.  Still, this throws a whole new light on things.  Mr. Brown, I can't thank you enough for coming forward with this."

 

"I most likely would have come to you anyway, Constable, but actually I got a little pressure at home.  My wife took one look at this and said to me, 'Chuck' – she calls me Chuck – 'People have called you wishy-washy all your life, but I know you're a good man.  It's your duty to use this photograph to help find the truth!  Take it to the mountie!'  So here I am.  And I'm very glad I can help you."

 

"Excellent.  May I keep this for a few days?  You can trust me with it, and I'll return it when I'm done."

 

"Sure, that's fine." Mr. Brown put his baseball cap on; as large as his head was, the cap was still too large for it.  "Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must be on my way.  I'm coaching a Little-League team, and we've got a big game today!"  He headed for the door.

 

Ray said, "I hope your team wins!"

 

Just before leaving, Mr. Brown smiled and replied, "Oh, I'm sure we will.  How can we lose when we're so sincere?"  And he left.

 

Fraser stood up.  "And you'll have to excuse me as well, Ray.  I need to see some folks about a photograph."

 

"I can imagine.  Anything else I can do?  Return some books for you, maybe?"

 

"That would be fine, Ray."  Fraser left as Ray picked up a pile of books.

 

Ray was at his desk at the Precinct four days later when he noticed a wolf coming toward him; he made the obvious deduction, given an open box of animal crackers nearby, and looked up.  Sure enough, a mountie was following the dog.  "Hey, Fraser.  How did it go?"

"The case was thrown out, Ray.  They're looking into charges against Mr. Christmas now; it's obvious that he faked it all."

 

Ray nodded.  "I figured it would come to that.  What tipped them off? Our photo?"

 

"that was tremendous help, Ray, but they also had evidence that was more compelling.  The DA's office finally got Mr. Christmas to hand over his great-grandfather's alleged diaries.  That was the clincher."

 

"How so?"

 

"They were written on official Buffy the Vampire Slayer stationery."

 

Now if this story was a work of fiction, Ray would have had a mouthful of some beverage – most likely coffee – when Fraser said this, and he would have proceeded to spray half of it over his desk and choke on the other half.  As it was, he got into a giggle-fit that left him a poor conversationalist for a few minutes.  When he was able to speak again, he said, "Man, I'm sorry I wasn't there to hear his reaction when they pointed this out!"

 

"You would have found it entertaining, Ray.  I would guess that he was on the verge of attempting to convince the court that Buffy the Vampire Slayer has been on television longer than they thought. Finally he broke down and admitted that Wal-Mart had a special on the stationery."

 

Ray merely had a hearty laugh over this.  He said, "Well, this case wasn't much on the cosmic scale of things, Benny, but Right wins again, and a win is a win."

 

"Indeed.  While I think of it, Ray, I returned the photograph to Mr. Brown, and it seems he'd already had several copies of it made before he came to us.  He gave me a couple, one for each of us.  I took the liberty of having yours matted and framed before I came here.  Here you go; I hope you like the frame style."

 

"Leave it to you to go to all that trouble, Benny."  Ray accepted the photograph and studied it.  "You know, this really is a nice picture. Whoever Mr. Brown's friend is, his Great-grandad had one spiffy Sopwith Camel. Pity about all the bullet holes."

 

"One of the hazards a fighter pilot faced, Ray."

 

"Yeah.  I'll say it again though, Benny – this guy is one of the funniest-looking people I've ever seen!  He has an incredibly big nose!"

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

For Sparky.

 

THE END

DISCLAIMER

 

This story is for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications Corp., CBS and CTV or any other copyright holders of "due South".