![]() I imagine the moronic thugs figured if the boy lived in Palm Beach his parents must have a gazillion bucks. Wrong! The boy’s father, Maurice Franklin, was moderately well-to-do but a Croesus he was not. He owned a medium-sized pest control business and earned a steady annual profit, but nothing to justify a front-page article in The Wall Street Journal. His wife had died of cancer the previous year. His son, the kidnapped Timmy, was his only child. I knew these details because Maurice Franklin was a client of McNally & Son. When Timmy did not return from school, Franklin’s Haitian housekeeper called him at work. In turn he called Timmy’s school, his friends, and then, becoming increasingly worried, phoned the police and my father, Prescott McNally, sovereign of our law firm. The pater ordered me to liaise with the Palm Beach Police Department and keep him informed. I do not believe anyone was unduly concerned at that stage of the affair. Things took a more somber turn the following morning. Al Rogoff of the PBPD, which heartened me since Al is an old confrere and I trust his professional expertise. I knew he would attempt to trace Timmy’s movements after the boy left school, check hospitals, accident reports, and shelters for runaway children. Finally, I learned later, the FBI was informed about noon that a possible kidnapping might be in progress. I thought I better put in a personal appearance to show the McNally & Son flag, so to speak, and offer what help I could. ![]() I arrived at the Franklin home to find the Feds in command and I was allowed entry only after Sgt. Rogoff vouched for my bona fides.įBI techs were busily installing a variety of electronic devices. One would amplify all telephone conversations so everyone could hear clearly both sides of a phoned dialogue. A voice-activated deck would make a taped record of all calls. A third dingus was designed to trace the source of incoming calls within minutes, obviating the need of searching phone company logs. While this work was in progress I went over to a couch where our client, Maurice Franklin, was sitting upright, gripping his knees with white knuckles. I identified myself, expressed my sympathy and that of McNally & Son. I assured him we stood ready to offer whatever assistance we could. He was a bulky man, massive through the neck and shoulders, with an indoor complexion made paler by stress. I don’t care what happens to me afterward.” “If Timmy’s been kidnapped,” he said, his voice thick, “and I get to them, I’ll kill them. “But we don’t yet know for certain he has been kidnapped.” Franklin,” I said as soothingly as I could. “If a ransom demand is made, believe me, sufficient funds will be available.” “They’ll probably want a lot of money,” he went on, not listening to me. ![]() I was still trying to comfort him and the technicians were still at work wiring their black boxes when the telephone rang. There must have been a dozen men in the room at that time and I think we all froze and stared at the shrilling phone. The FBI special agent in charge beckoned to Maurice Franklin. “If it’s a ransom demand, keep them talking as long as possible. ![]() You want to see your kid alive again? Home and happy?” The amplifier had been connected and we all heard the ensuing conversation.īoston-accented masculine voice: “You Morry Franklin?” Our client nodded and staggered to his feet. ![]()
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