(5-minute mystery) Microwaves on the Freeway?

[Politicalbeast]

Microwaves on the Freeway?


“Go ahead,” Connie Mount smiled indulgently at her husband and nodded at the CB radio, Frank was itching to turn up the volume and set the tuning a little finer. What they were hearing was too interesting to ignore.

“Do you want to drive?” she added, taking her hands off the steering wheel momentarily.

“No,” Frank replied, both hands on the CB dial. “Let me fiddle with this thing.”

Frank Mount had left the police force five years earlier, in body but not in spirit. When they had pulled onto the freeway a few seconds ago, on their way to a holiday weekend, the CB had already been set to the police band. But because the adjustment was incorrect, Frank and Connie had heard only intermittent bursts, excited chatter.

“…semi…microwaves…ten minutes…south…Road…”

On the repeat, however, they had heard it all.

“Smokey!” You got your ears on? This is dispatch at Byron Transport! I’ve got a hot load! Semi full of microwaves! Stole it right out of the yard ten minutes ago! Went south down Service Road! You getting this?”

Frank looked up at Connie. “That’s Mike Dunn. He’s calling right on air. That’s smart! It takes too long to phone. Whoever’s got that truck, once they’re on the freeway they’ll be mighty hard to find. Byron puts out over fifty semis all at once this time of the morning. There just isn’t enough patrol to check them all! We…I mean, they…uh, Patrol Center, that is – only has two black-and-whites in both directions anyway!”

“Yes, of course!” Connie was catching the excitement. “And Byron is entirely standardized,” she said. “The trucks all look exactly the same, don’t they?”

As though to prove her point a pair of identical trucks blasted their air horns at each other as they met in opposite directions. The southbound was immediately followed by two more.

“This is Two-Zero-One Patrol, Byron, I hear you.”

Frank relaxed a little. A patrol car had already picked up the call.

“I’m coming right up on the access of Service Road and the freeway. None of your rigs here right now!”

“Two-Zero-One, this is Patrol Center. Set a block. We’re sending help.”

Frank relaxed even further. “The roadblock will get there,” he said. “That was fast.”

“What if the truck turns off first?” Connie wanted to know.

“Not off Service,” Frank explained. “The only streets are residential – too small for a semi. They’d be trapped.”

Connie wasn’t satisfied. “But what about that alternate freeway access they put in last year, because of all the traffic jam-ups?”

Mike Dunn’s voice came tumbling in on top of hers like an echo. “Byron here. Are you blocking the alternate?”

“Patrol Center, Byron. You can’t get a semi through that underpass on the alternate.”

“Don’t be…” Mike Dunn’s transmission was lost in a burst of errant static.

“Is that right, Frank?” Connie was as completely involved now as her husband.

Frank seemed less certain than the voice at Patrol Center. “It’s supposed to be a cars-only design. Come to think of it, wasn’t it a Byron truck that tried it once and got halfway through before it stuck?”

Connie didn’t answer. She had pulled into the passing lane and was concentrating on a semitrailer just ahead. The big green-on-white letters proclaimed BYRON TRANSPORT CO. Almost in the same second, she and Frank understood.

“Wow! Clever!” Connie whispered.

“Don’t get too close. Just keep them in sight,” Frank said hurriedly. He reached for the CB and turned the switch to SEND. “I’ll try to raise Patrol Center.”



Why do Frank and Connie believe they have located the stolen truckload of microwaves?