CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Nightmare On Maple Street"
The cops were big. They were city cops, unknown to Beadles. Beadles opened the front door. The lead cop handed Beadles a folded warrant.
"Mr. Beadles, I'm Officer Whitaker of the Creighton Police Department. We have a warrant to search your home for artifacts believed to be taken from a collection owned by the university."
Beadle's face looked like counter-rotating gears. "Are you serious?"
"We're very serious, Mr. Beadles. If you'll please step aside."
Beadles looked at their uncompromising faces and stepped back. They all looked like linebackers. Betty appeared in the hallway wearing a terrycloth robe.
"What is it?"
Lars started to cry.
"These gentlemen have a warrant. They think I've stolen artifacts from the university."
"That's ridiculous!" Betty snapped, whirling and heading toward their son. One cop moved as if to stop her but Whitaker put a hand on his arm. A lady cop appeared. Her tag said Gonzalez.
"Officer," Whitaker said, "follow Mrs. Beadles and keep her company."
Like she was going to take the baby and run. Beadles watched in horror as the fat-hipped lady cop walked down the corridor, her black service shoes echoing on the hardwood floor. Soon Betty reappeared holding a fussy Lars accompanied by Officer Gonzalez.
"Do I have the right to know who's accused me of theft?" Beadles said with a self-righteous stain.
"The document was generated by a credible but confidential source," Whitaker said. "We're only following the judge's orders."
A cop went to the basement stairs and turned on the light. Drawing a flashlight he descended followed by a fourth cop who had come in the door. Beadles felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. It wasn't possible. How could they know? The moisture fled from his mouth as he listened to the cops opening drawers and moving boxes.
"This is ridiculous," Betty hissed. Lars kept up a low level sob. "Do you mind if I put my child back to bed?"
Whitaker nodded at Gonzalez. "Please accompany Mrs. Beadles."
They disappeared down the hall leaving only Beadles and Whitaker.
"This is somebody's idea of a malicious prank," Beadles said.
"Sir," the cop said, "do you have any firearms in the house?"
Beadles goggled. "What? What is this, a fishing exhibition? No, I don't have any firearms in the house!"
There was a grunt from below. Minutes later the two cops emerged, the one in front toting a cardboard box. He set the box on the floor between Beadles and Whitaker and shined his flashlight in it. The interior contained an Anasazi pot, six inches tall by seven wide, decorated with the characteristic squiggle of the Azuma. Beadles had never seen it before. It easily could have come from the collection. He hadn't even started to catalog and had only looked at a small portion.
"I've never seen that before!" he protested.
Whitaker drew his cuffs. "Sir, you're under arrest for theft. Please turn around."
In a stupor Beadles turned his back. He felt the cold steel of the cuffs clamp around his wrists. Like some stupid nightmare.
"Sir I am advising you of your Miranda Rights. Anything you say can and will be used against you. You are entitled to have a lawyer present during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, the court will provide one. Do you understand these rights?"
"Yes. Yes, goddamn it! Betty! Call Mel Berenson! Tell him what's happening!"
Betty ran down the hall sans Lars, terrycloth robe flapping. She looked at her handcuffed husband. "Oh no. Oh no. There's got to be some mistake."
"Betty! Did you hear what I said? Call Mel! Get him out of bed! Have him meet me down at the fucking jail! Where are you taking me?"
"Steubenville Justice Center on 10th St. I doubt a judge will be available to grant your bail at this hour. The earliest that could happen would be nine Monday morning."
Betty watched in shock and disbelief as the cops took Beadles, one at each elbow, led him down the stairs and put him in the back of one of the cruisers.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Betty said.
"Ma'am," Officer Gonzalez said coming up behind her. "There's no call for that kind of language."
***