Coin - Logan Crosgrove
Case Number: PT 04/22/07/3012. Reporting Officer: Jay Seegert. Date of Report: 14 February 1956.
At about 1930 hrs. on 13 February 1956, Officer Seegert and his partner, Officer Mcnaulty, were patrolling the NJ Turnpike when they saw a Black 1950 Ford model
Henry J with NY registered plate JH90-23 speeding down the highway. Seegert was suspicious, so he called 11-54 and started pursuit with sirens. The suspect’s
car was not slowing down, so Seegert pulled up to the car on the adjacent lane, hoping Mcnaulty could communicate with the driver from the passenger side.
Upon reaching the position, however, the driver, according to Mcnaulty, looked extremely scared and, in some knee-jerk reaction, rammed the side of the police
car. No injuries were sustained by Seegert or Mcnaulty, but they had to slow down to prevent spinning out. Responding without thinking, Mcnaulty pulled out his
service pistol and shot out the suspect’s back right tire. As a result, the suspect’s car veered off the shoulder of theroad and rolled into the ditch. When Mcnaulty
and Seegert approached the vehicle, they found the suspect dead. In the car was the suspect’s coat and wallet—containing his driver’s license, another picture of
himself in a village, $9.78 in cash, and a single golden coin. After radioing for backup, going through procedure, and returning to the station, we found a theft
report was just filed by a Mr. Thomas Thurston, for the gold coin we found. So far, the stolen property has been put in police custody. No information except the
name of the driver has been found from the wreck. Databases are being searched for the car’s VIN number and the suspect’s license number. End of report.
Officer Seegert typed the last words yawning. The early morning start on his shift was rocky at best, hardly getting any sleep from last night’s events. Plus, he just
never liked Thursdays. Seegert was about to get up from his seat when the Sergeant walked in. “Finished that report, Seegert?” “Yes sir,” Seegert responds,
handing him the paper, “Gonna look at it now, sir?” “Yes I am, Seegert. The press are demanding to know why we blocked the I-95 outta the city and I got to tell
them something.” “Ah, yeah” Seegert mumbled, “And how about that VIN and license information?” “Haven’t heard from NYPD yet. Should be getting it later today
though.” Sergeant was about to leave, when Seegert uneasily brings forth a question. “Sergeant...? How's Mcnaulty doing?” “Well...” Sergeant begins to say, trying
to throw the right words together, “He’ll be fine. You know how it is: the first time the kid did something so...Well anyways, how was he to know that the car would
spin out and the driver would die? He didn’t. I promise you, when he’s back from his leave, he’ll feel right again”. Seegert nodded in agreement, and the Sergeant
left for the coffee machine. Seegert returned to work, finishing the coffee he got for himself earlier. In his head, he wasn’t so at ease. “What was the deal with that
guy?” He asked himself.
● ● ●
Giacomo Santore was deeply in trouble. He didn’t have enough money to pay for rent; hesaw the eviction letter in the mail. He needed his neighbor to read it, but
once he heard, he knew he had until tomorrow to either gather his things or find the money he needed. Giacomo came over from Italy barely a year prior. He was
living a better life than back home, in the war- ravaged land, but it was barely better. Far from the richness of his boss Pratson’s, owner of the Pratson’s Polishing
Co. He worked as an assistant, though janitor would describe his rank better. He didn’t get paid well for it, only enough for rent, the necessities, and savings. That
was until one night, when he threw a birthday party at his house and invited the entire apartment floor. But not all the guests were to be trusted. One of them
sneaked into his room where he kept his box of money (Giacomo did not trust banks, not since the ones in his country collapsed in the recession) and stole it. For
two weeks Giacomo tried to find his money box and regain his losses, but it was no use. The landlord said he couldn’t provide an extension, so Giacomo was
stuck in his situation. Then on Wednesday night, about 6:00, he was tasked with closing up shop when another guy came in. He was handsome, with a fancy suit
and young eyes beneath his doo’d up hair. “Hello sir” said the guy, quick and classy, “I’m Thomas Thurston Jr, yes, son of The Thomas Thurston. I have come in for
a quick job, if not an overnight job, my coin collection needs some more freshness, and I have blessed your people with the job”. Giacomo was disgusted by his
smarminess and condescending attitude, but kept his mouth shut. ThomasThurston Jr then pulled out a jewelry case and put it on the table. Giacomo looked in
it and found many weird coins from around the world, all somewhat grimy and bland looking. “they’re not looking too hot”, Thurston Jr. said, “that’s why I want
them polished asap”. Before Giacomo could say anything, Pratson walked into the room. Just heading out for the day, back to his rich home and family. “Well,
what do we have here, Jack?”
“You must be Pratson, Thurston’s the name. I was just saying to your guy here that I want my coins cleaned. They cost a pretty penny, and I want them to be
sparkling like new, you know?”
“Oh of course,” Pratson responded in his usual undesirable tone “Well, that shouldn’t be too hard, Jack, why don’t you go to the back and take care of that stuff for
Mr. Thurston here, then he can come for the coins tomorrow”.
“Sounds great” replies Thurston as if Giacomo couldn’t disagree, he couldn’t with his current situation but that’s beside the point. Before anything else could be
said, Thurston and Pratson left, leaving Giacomo with the coins and the responsibility of closing up. Giacomo brought the coins into the back room and scrubbed
them each down with the three polishing solutions. The smelly and hard work was halfway done until a coin came out of nowhere and caught Giacomo’s eye like
nothing before. It was a smaller coin, like a USA nickel or dime, but it was differently printed and wasgolden under the light. Giacomo couldn’t believe it; he was
holding a golden coin. Then, two thoughts came to Giacomo’s mind: “Mio Dio, se quello che ha detto Thurston è vero, allora questa moneta deve valere molto” and
“Tutte queste monete sono state spese nel lusso, mentre ioho bisogno di soldi. Cosa c'è di così sbagliato nel fatto che Thurston perda solo una moneta?” Before
thinking and stopping himself, Giacomo took the coin and slipped it in his wallet. Then he finished putting the polish on the rest of the coins and really made
them look like a heap a missing coin could be somewhere in. Then he rushed to close up the shop and got in his car. While driving away, Giacomo started
thinking, “This coin will be found missing eventually, it will be reported, and the police will start searching for it. I will have to pawn this coin to get the money, but
if I pawn it anywhere in the city, then I will be quickly identified, and it’ll be the end for me. I can’t be on the run either; I can’t afford it even with the coin. I’ll go as
far as I can overnight, I’ll go to Jersey. There should be a pawn shop there for me to use. Then I’ll be back in the city, and it will take too long for them to find me.”
Giacomo stopped suddenly in his tracks; the excitement wore off and reality hit him like a hammer on hot iron. “I stole and the police will find me, I stole, and the
police will find me, I stole, and the police will find me...” Giacomo was frozen in his car seat, unable to do anything but drive away from the scene, unable to even
think about anything except what he just did. Giacomo had to stop at a traffic light. There were many people walking by, including a beat cop turning the left
corner. Giacomo was petrified, oblivious to the people being oblivious to him. A full minute was passing, and Giacomo could only move his eyes to see the cop
stop at the building’s wall next to his to take a smoke. Giacomo’s mind was racing, “That cop’s not like the other bystanders, he’s able to look straight at me
through the window if he looks up. He would be able to see my face, the fear in my eyes, all ample cause to go up to my car door and kno-”. The light turned green,
and Giacomo raced away. Who knows how many lights he passed, or how many were red at the time, Giacomo zoomed all the way to the highway exit and
merged in. It was a nearly empty road, barely one car passing every few minutes at 60 mph. Giacomo was unsure whether or not to breathe now, he still had to
hock the coin, and he still had to find a pawnbroker before tomorrow.
● ● ●
At the NYPD station, Lieutenant Miller walked out of his office to the sounds of yelling in the waiting room. He goes over to the commotion: an old man yelling at
the officer at the desk with a well-dressed younger man standing near him, his head hanging low. “What’s the trouble here,” shouts Miller, finally quieting the
chaos of the room. “Finally, a competent policeman who can help,” says the old man, “I am Thomas Thurston Sr, and my son here thought he could snatch my
precious coin collection.” Thurston Jr speaks up, barely looking like he mustered the guts to do so; “I just took them to the polishers, they needed a clean”. “You
were gonna pawn them after!” “Well, you cut off my allowance!” “YOU CRASHED MY MERCEDES!!” “Enough!” Shouts Miller, “Now if we can ease our blood
pressures, what does this have to do with the police?” Thurston Sr continued after some deep breaths, “Well, I caught my son walking with this guy Pratson—of
‘Pratson’s Polishing’, you know—while I was driving back from work. I open my window to hear Jr. saying he’s making my coins look convincingly expensive to the
nearest pawnbroker he can find, so obviously I scold him and demand my coins back. We all drove to the polisher’s, and Pratson let us in. But when he showed us
my coins, I looked through them, and found my PRIZED, MOST EXPENSIVE GOLD COIN WAS MISSING!!”
● ● ●
Giacomo was driving down I-95 at top speed. The redlining gear raised Giacomo’s tension like a horror movie glissando, an unfit distraction to his ever-racing
thoughts. “What am I gonna do, what can I do! Where’s the exit?! I need to stop! Only thing I can think of is getting off and collecting myself...Okay, no- What was
that? It’s a police siren, a police car’s coming from behind. Do they know? I can’t let them catch me. Come on, drive faster. God, why won’t they let up? Oh no,
they’re catching up, they’re moving to the other lane. Maybe they’re just trying to pass me. NO, they stopped speeding up, they’re right next to me. The window
just opened, what are they doing? Are they gonna shoot at me? Do they think I’m dangerous?? I gotta stop them. I got to push them away someho- wait, what
happened? The police car spun out. In the mirror, their car is dented. I must’ve hit them with my car, I wasn’t even thinking. My god, now I’m really in trouble. But
maybe they don’t know enough, maybe my car’s too vague for them to find me. Maybe-” BANG, POP! “What was that? Why am I veering? I’m going off the road!
Lord help me!” “AAAAAAGH!”
● ● ●
On Thursday morn of ‘56, I saw the chief recall
Those officers of their police just made a righteous call.
They found a speeding car go by, and you know what they said?
“Hey bud, go shoot that car right there and turn it on its head.”
They found that driver passed away, along with some gold piece,
And oh, what a face they must’ve had to find the guy’s a thief.
But NYPD comes along and gives a new idea.
The gold piece was from some rich guy, whose kid was not so dear.
The young man thought that he could take the gold coin for some cash,
Only to find what happens when you take before you ask.
I learned the culprit’s name, and to his home I went,
And there I met his landlord, an I-talian gent,
Who said the man in question, was behind on his rent.
So here I made a theory, a postulate, a guess,
That our dead man was neither bad, nor worth calling the best.
Who will think so complexly? Who is with me to join
In thinking life is more, than one side of a coin.
Jack Henson, New York Times reporter, finished investigating the Santore case, and was itching to put these words on his column. He knew, however, that his
boss would shoot down the idea for being too artsy and convoluted. He threw the draft in the trash and left for his lunch break.