By Wayne William Cipriano
We went to Springfield last week, which is a pretty big deal for homebodies such as we are. We prepared an itinerary, loaded up what we needed for the trip, and took off commenting every mile on the beauty of the roadway’s extravagant vegetation (in the middle of July!), the courteous drivers, the heat of the day so well dispelled by the fabulous air conditioner of our mighty 1991 Toyota.
We pretty much talked over everything either of us noted during the drive to such an extent that we did not even think about tuning into Rush on the car’s radio.
As we drove past Ozark and Nixa approaching Springfield on Route 65 we noticed a dense concentration of blinking blue lights a mile ahead on the side of the highway.
Everyone else noticed it too, and soon all the traffic, which usually blows by us as we stick compulsively to the posted speed limit, was tooling along with us as we all rubbernecked to see what was the big deal.
Earlier that drive, one of our conversations covered the escape of that Guzman drug-lord guy from an “escape proof” prison in Mexico. A mile-long tunnel right up to the prison yard? Lights, ventilation, even air conditioning in the tunnel? Tracks laid for a motorcycle-like device to zip the escapee to freedom through that tunnel? Tracks??? And, the “suspicion” that prison officials may have been complicit. Just goes to show what well-financed engineering can do once a mind is set to a task.
That conversation led to another about the two guys who sweet-talked a guard or two to provide hand tools, power tools, electrical extension cords and outlets to power them so the two criminals could hammer, drill, and bash their way out of a prison, this time in our country.
Again, determination and money overriding razor wire, concrete and steel.
Anyway, as we closed on the blue-blinking vehicular grouping at a very sedate speed, we saw a large conglomeration of seven police cars of various sizes representing several jurisdictions, many officers milling about and all surrounding what appeared to be a white delivery-type van with all its doors wide open.
Could this be a stolen truck captured by the cooperation of various law-enforcement agencies? Perhaps a large drug bust complete with kingpins? Or attempted escapees from somewhere, recaptured or at least run to ground by this large collection of officers and their cars?
“What,” asked I, in amazement, “could possible be responsible for such a plethora of police?”
“Doughnuts,” said Rosalie.