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Det. Bernard “Old Stoneface” McCole

Richard Barnes

I don’t know if Det. McCole’s grave is one of those many who are unvisited, but I do know that he is one of the many who were faithful in their callings and who, though dead, still speak.

My uncle, Alfred L. Barnes, was murdered in the early hours of October 19, 1968. Later, in the afternoon, hunters found his body in a lonely forest clearing in Monroe County, PA. That night, our beloved Aunt Sarah had taken us to a concert in Miami — and you did not say “no” to Aunt Sarah. As usual, however, we were happy she had made us go and were in a joyful mood as we entered the house.

But we found our Uncle “Wichy” sitting next to the phone, weeping. He told Aunt Sarah that Pennsylvania police had called and insisted on speaking only to her. They would not tell Uncle Wichy what this was about, but he noticed that the number they asked her to call was Uncle Alfred’s number. He naturally assumed the news was not good.

And he was right.

Aunt Sarah sat next to the phone, dialed the number and did not wait long before Det. McCole answered. “What?” she said as she then listened. “But how can that be? … Yes, of course. I will come ….”

She hung up the phone, and remained seated for a while, her face in her hands. 

“Uncle Alfred has been murdered,” she told us with great simplicity and with no hysterics. Then she stood and walked to her bedroom, closing the door after her. 

The next few days were a whirlwind. Aunt Sarah with her daughter, Cousin Janis, flew up, met with authorities and also arranged for transport of the body to Miami for burial in the family cemetery. 

My father and Uncle Max flew up from Venezuela and so the three surviving siblings buried their brother. 

I suppose that what happened next will explain my eventual, obsessive desire to see this case solved: my father flew up to Bethlehem, PA, where my uncle lived and worked. I asked my father if I could accompany and he agreed. He was interviewed at length by Det. McCole. I remember the detective looking at me and then, turning to my father, “Would you ask your son to step outside? I need to discuss some sensitive matters with you.” 

Of course, I stepped outside and many years flew by before I learned what those “sensitive matters” were. More importantly, I could see that Det. McCole was concerned he not overstep the bounds between a stranger — himself — and a father-son relationship. He figured that some things were best handled by the father of a 14-year-old, as opposed to being addressed by an unknown person, regardless of rank.

In summary, McCole determined that my uncle had been shot as he sat in the driver’s seat of his Thunderbird by someone to the right rear of the car. He also determined that the shooter then pulled my uncle from the car while still alive. My uncle slumped to his knees and two more shots were fired downward into his skull.

My father and the detective corresponded well into the following year, during which time the investigation accumulated many man years of “gumshoe” work, having visited no less than 400 potential witnesses or people in the area who might have heard or known of something. It was exhaustive work, all dutifully and carefully documented.

And then, he died suddenly of a heart attack, not having solved the case. My father was in great shock, but was hopeful that McCole’s second in command would carry on the work with the same zeal. But about six months later, that detective also died. You could not make this up, but it is true.

The case went cold. 

And I, a pimply-faced kid would visit Bethlehem often and do my own follow ups, which of course were met with barely concealed contempt as I was dismissed from “grownups” work.

But one detective, even as he pushed me out the door, did say to me, “A murder case is never closed.” I grabbed onto that declaration and wielded it forcefully four decades later.

My own father was murdered in 1982 and I became a pest to the GBI, insisting that they were looking in the wrong places — which they were. When they finally listened, precious time had been lost; however, the murderer was found — over a thousand miles away. About thirteen years later he died suddenly of blood poisoning in prison.

In 2010 I again looked through old correspondence between my father and Det. McCole and decided to write persistently and methodically to the Pennsylvania State Police. After a few false starts, I established a relationship with Captain McAndrew and he assigned a young trooper to this cold case.

I was working in Saudi Arabia when I received the following email from Captain Mcandrew:

  HI Richard,

     Hope all is well in the Middle East.  The Monroe County District Attorney has in fact approved murder charges in your uncle’s case.  That essentially means we have an arrest warrant for an individual.  As I mentioned we will be flying to Texas next week in an effort to locate and arrest the individual.  I will keep you posted.

                                            Be Safe,

                                                         Tom

I replied that I too would be in Texas that following week. His reaction:

 The coincidence is unbelievable….as I mentioned, we will be flying into DFW that same day.  Our arrival is 9:40 AM.  We will attempt to make the arrest the following day (Thursday, October 17).  Is there a number I can reach you once we are in Texas?

The arrest was actually made on October 19, 2013, which added an even greater “coincidence” to this saga: that was 45 years to the day of my uncle’s murder.

This turned out to have been the oldest cold case in Pennsylvania history and one of the oldest in the United States.

During the trial, I was amazed at how Det. McCole’s work kept coming up again and again. He had been thorough and precise. His work was key to getting a conviction.

The murderer was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison without parole, according to 1968 Pennsylvania law. 

After the sentencing, one of the district attorney staff pulled me aside to tell me that the daughter of Det. McCole had been following the case and the trial with avid interest. “She said that her father was obsessed with the case; that he was determined to see your uncle’s case closed and the perpetrator brought to justice.”

“Well,” I replied, “Her father certainly did bring it to conclusion and justice.” 

He surely did. He is one to whom we owe the fact that “things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been,” because men and women like Det. McCole “lived faithfully a hidden life” even though he might be resting in an unvisited tomb.

Pennsylvania State Police Detective Bernard “Old Stoneface” McCole. He investigated my uncle’s October 19, 1968 murder.

Similar to the furniture where Uncle Wichy sat as we entered the house that night and where Aunt Sarah sat as she returned the call from the Pennsylvania state police.

Visiting my grandparents’ and related family tombs in Miami, FL. 

Christmas 2023

Richard Barnes

Lillie and I married in 1984 and that year we wrote our first annual Christmas letter. Our intent was to write one annually. We did so through our 2018 letter, marking 35 Christmases touching base with our friends and loved ones.

We’d like to resume our letters, not because you badly need to hear from us; but rather because we need to communicate with you.

The “big event” this year was my mother’s passing away from this earth and into glory with her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, Whose birth we celebrate this season. The events leading up to, and including, her death are very vivid in my mind and I suppose they will remain so for the rest of my life. We buried her in Fairburn, Georgia, next to her beloved husband, Charles, our father, who preceded her in death by 41 years. 

Life with father and mother seems like yesterday. I can still hear my father’s voice announcing his arrival from work or from a trip to the store. And I can hear my mother’s reply.

Memories can be a great joy, so long as one does not live in the past but rather uses the past as a stepping stone to advancing his calling in life. We do not worship our ancestors; rather we honor our parents and our elders — those who came before — because we know that unless we stand on their shoulders we will not do well in life. But, more critically, because God commands us to. To worship ancestors is to stagnate; to denigrate them is to destroy the future; to honor them is to progress and to help our children and grandchildren do so as well.

I am grateful for my parents and seldom do I live a day when I do not recall or act upon a gem of truth or a piece of advice given to me by them. I hope I will be half as profitable to my children and grandchildren as my father and mother were to me. I am also grateful for my birth in El Pao, Venezuela, and my childhood years there. I had good childhood friends and wonderful teachers whose wisdom persists despite the passing of the years. I am thankful for the privilege of having grown amongst Americans of different states and Latin Americans of different countries. Looking back, I can clearly see what an honor and benefit that was to me and to my own family.

Whenever I visited my father’s burial place, I would walk past Shingo’s grave. Shingo was a member or our small country church in Fairburn. The site always had flowers which I understood were placed by his sister who cared for the site for decades. In my last two or three visits to my father’s site earlier this year I noticed that Shingo’s tomb had no flowers. During my mother’s burial and for two visits afterwards, Shingo’s tomb remained bare. I can only suppose that his sister has either moved out of state or has passed away.

I know that over time, most graves will become unvisited. That thought saddens me and reminds me that most of us will not be long remembered after we leave this earth. It is good to know, however, that our Lord does remember and He will accompany us throughout our lives and as we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. And He will also raise us from our tombs on that Great Day to live eternally in a New Heaven and a New Earth.

That, too, is part of the great story of Christmas.

Two grandchildren, James and Ada, were born in March and January to Elizabeth and Tyler and to Charles and Essie, respectively. They have added to the rambunctious joys of family visits, along with their siblings and cousins, Grace, Ebenezer, Emily, and Beverly. And there are two more on the way: one to Esther and the other to Essie. 

This year marked my 70th birthday. My children gave me a great gift, the Folio Society edition of George Eliot’s great novel, Middlemarch, which I look forward to reading early next year. In closing this year’s letter, it is appropriate to quote from that work:

The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

Be faithful. 

Merry Christmas to you and yours, now and always. 

Taken on September 11, 2023, after my mother’s funeral. I was not feeling well and had no idea that my children had aligned behind us in birth order. Thank you, dear children. And beloved wife.

My parents’ graves in Fairburn, Georgia.

Childhood Friends

Richard Barnes

Friendships made in college have been known to last a lifetime and in many cases they issue into productive and highly successful partnerships or careers throughout life. Ditto as to many friendships made in high school. In my case, as an example, I’ve remained closer to several friends made in high school than those made in college.

Back in February of this year, I thoroughly enjoyed meeting with a friend I made in junior high. We were classmates from the 8th through the 10th grades and then I transferred out of state. But we remained close throughout the years since then and when we met for lunch it was as if we had said farewell “yesterday”. 

In the case of childhood friends, I wish I could say I’ve been able to stay in touch over the decades. I truly wish so. However, that was one of the negatives of living in El Pao; society was more transient than in, say, Kalamazoo, Michigan, for instance. My next door neighbor, with whom I had two or three fist fights, only to shake hands and be friends again, left when I was about 7 or so. I still remember him, but have no idea where he might be. I like to think he also remembers me with the same fondness.

The Carrasco’s were dear family friends. I was deeply saddened when they left El Pao for greener pastures in Maracay. They might as well have moved to the moon. I was about 6 or 7 and missed them for years. About 10 years later, we had a family trip wherein we drove from El Pao to Maracay — that was the trip I first drank coffee to enable me to stay awake in order to relieve my father driving. 

We had a wonderful time with the Carrasco’s that trip. Our love for one another was rekindled as we enjoyed the day together, visiting the Maracay Zoo and also the first national park in Venezuela, Parque Pittier, named after the famous Swiss naturalist, Henri François Pittier. Mr. Pittier was born in Switzerland but lived out most of his life in Venezuela, where he named over 30,000 varieties of plants and flowers. He lived to 92 years of age, dying in 1950 in Caracas, Venezuela, where he was interred.

I still remember the clouds or light fog and the dark, deep green as we hiked the park and climbed ever higher. The exercise was strenuous but the spectacular sights, the strong breezes, and the cool, moist weather made it all the more memorable and satisfying. I never returned although, over the years, I’d very much wanted to.

The Maracay Zoo was where my father took Aba, his pet jaguar in the early 50s. As with most wildlife, the jaguar tended to revert to form as time went by and although she never struck or bit my father, she did slash another employee in the arm — the employee had reached toward Aba’s plate as the animal was feeding. The wound was not serious, but it was enough to indicate it was time to dispose of Aba. After some inquiries my father learned that the Maracay Zoo had an excellent reputation and so he took her there. By the time we had visited, the jaguar had died and so we did not see her on our visit.

I still get a slight sinking feeling, reminiscent of the sense of loss I felt as we drove away from Maracay that year as our visit ended. “We’ll see them again,” my father — the eternal optimist — said. But we never did.

Childhood friends come to mind often, but especially during the Christmas season.

It was not unusual to see Jaguar as pets, such as Aba. The above jaguar was the first in the Maracay Zoo (Las Delicias) founded by Juan Vicente Gómez in his favorite city, Maracay.

Henri François Pittier (1857 – 1950). The great Swiss botanist, born and educated in Europe, labored in Costa Rica and in the United States from whence he was assigned in 1917 to a short-term project in Venezuela, then governed by Juan Vicente Gómez, who saw Pittier’s potencial for Venezuela and convinced him to stay on. Stay on he did, living and laboring in Venezuela until his death in 1950. He identified over 30,000 varieties of botanical specimens. Above sculpture is in the Henri Pittier National Park near Maracay.

Henri Pittier National Park

Henri Pittier National Park

My friends, Omaira and Jose Luis Carrasco with Doña (I unfortunately do not recall her name) – Circa 1958

As Christmas approaches, childhood friends come readily to mind.

Courteous Behavior

Richard Barnes

The photo below was taken in our home in El Pao, circa 1955. At the left, is my uncle, Alfred Barnes; to the right is Mr. John Tuohy, a dear friend to the very end. 

I do not remember the two gentlemen in the center.

The painting on the wall was held by my mother to the end of her days. It is one of the constants throughout my entire life. Whenever I think of El Pao, invariably that painting comes to my mind. It is of huts in Lake Maracaibo in the late 1940s or early 1950s.

The late Otto Scott used to say that the primary reason he enjoyed watching older movies was not so much the plot or the acting, although both might have been very good in a given picture. The primary reason was to be reminded of how folks used to behave; how they talked; how they dressed and how they exhibited courteous behaviors. 

Mr. Scott’s point was not that folks were necessarily “better” or “purer”; rather that they observed restrictions that are necessary for the proper functioning of a society. 

Courteous behavior is like motor oil in a finely tuned machine. If the oil runs out, the machinery will collapse.

As you observe the photo below, which was sent by a family friend to my sister, you will notice that the four gentlemen are dressed in coats and ties simply for a visit to a home in the mining camp in a jungle. You will also notice that they are well groomed. Based on my personal knowledge of my uncle and of Mr. Tuohy, I can tell you that they also carried on lively, knowledgeable, interesting, and — most importantly — respectful conversations.

Again, no one is saying these men were “good” — there is none good but God — or that they had no blemishes or dark spots. That is not the point. 

What I am saying is that the courtesy they learned at home and exhibited throughout their lives enabled society to proceed despite rough spots and sharp edges. 

As that courtesy and rules of manners have eroded, society also has eroded alongside.

What maintains such courtesy? Well, readers of this blog will know my position: Christianity is what produces such courtesy. Christianity gives us the law of God by which we live, and by which we agree to function. 

Last Sunday was the First of Advent. May we all enjoy this season and also ponder its significance.

Edward Winslow and His Friend, Massasoit

Richard Barnes

Much history concerning the New England Pilgrims is relatively unknown. This is unfortunate, especially given the flagrant tergiversations of American history by those whose mission is to teach our children to hate their country. 

This short post on this Thanksgiving Day, of 2023, will tell a little about Edward Winslow, who is inextricably bound not only with the Plymouth Colony but with the Wampanoag Chief, Massasoit. Although he was one of the signers of the Mayflower Compact, his name nevertheless remains relatively obscure.

Winslow was one of the best educated among the Pilgrims. He was the son of a prominent merchant in the salt industry in England; a Puritan as distinguished from a Pilgrim Separatist. However, in Holland, he became acquainted with William Brewster and Winslow himself joined the Pilgrim congregation which eventually sailed to the New World. 

Winslow’s education and temperament propelled him to eminence among both the Pilgrims and the Indians. He was chosen to greet Massasoit on the chief’s first visit to the Plymouth Colony. They became immediate friends and Winslow became the primary author of the Pilgrim-Wampanoag Peace Treaty that was signed on April 1, 1621. This was a notable accomplishment as the treaty remained in force for over 50 years, outlasting the lives of William Bradford, Winslow, and Massasoit. 

It is the only such treaty to have been honored throughout the lives of its signatories. “It established the longest-lasting and most equitable peace between natives and immigrants in the history of what would become the United States.” Put another way, in the face of bloody conflicts between other colonists and tribes, such as the Pequot War in Connecticut, the Pilgrims had no such conflicts. A most unusual and worthy feat for which we can be grateful to Edward Winslow and Massasoit.

Winslow wrote about the Plymouth colony that it was a community “not laid upon schism, division, or separation, but upon love, peace, and holiness; yea, such love and mutual care of the Church of Leyden for the spreading of the Gospel, the welfare of each other and their posterities to succeeding generations, is seldom found on earth.”

Winslow lived what he wrote.

In 1623 word reached the colony that Massasoit was very ill, near death. Winslow, accompanied by a Pilgrim and an Indian, immediately departed on a 40-mile journey, by foot, to his friend. He did what he could, including chicken soup. “There is a wonderful relation by Winslow about going to Massasoit’s home and making chicken broth for him,” a historian writes. “It’s very tender.”

Massasoit recovered and said, “Now I see the English are my friends and love me.” 

Winslow was also able to nurse back to health several other Indians who seemed to have been stricken with the same disease. As a result, Massasoit bound himself more firmly with the Pilgrims.

Winslow’s comments about the foundation of love undergirding Plymouth Colony were true. This love enabled tolerance towards those who did not subscribe to the Pilgrim tenets and, most importantly, towards the Indians whom they served and sought to help, even as they, the Pilgrims, had been helped.

Winslow proclaimed the success of the Pilgrims in England, earning the respect and admiration of Oliver Cromwell who assigned him to various diplomatic tasks, the last of which was Cromwell’s appointment of Winslow as governor of Jamaica.

However, the Lord had a different purpose. Edward Winslow took ill and died on the open seas, on his journey to Jamaica, in 1655.

Our early and colonial history is rich with truly remarkable men and women. It is critical to know that history and teach it to our children.

With that very brief background about one of the individuals on the Mayflower and his Indian friend, it is most appropriate to conclude with President Ronald Reagan’s last Thanksgiving Proclamation, given in 1988:

“In this year when we as a people enjoy the fruits of economic growth and international cooperation, let us take time both to remember the sacrifices that have made this harvest possible and the needs of those who do not fully partake of its benefits.

“The wonder of our agricultural abundance must be recalled as the work of farmers who, under the best and worst of conditions, give their all to raise food upon the land.

“The gratitude that fills our being must be tempered with compassion for the needy.

“The blessings that are ours must be understood as the gift of a loving God Whose greatest gift is healing.

“Let us join then, with the psalmist of old: O give thanks to the Lord, call on His name, Make known His deeds among the peoples!

“Sing to Him, sing praises to Him, Tell of all His wonderful works!

“Glory in His holy name; Let the hearts of those who seek the Lord rejoice!

“NOW, THEREFORE, I, RONALD REAGAN, President of the United States of America, do hereby proclaim Thursday, November 24, 1988, as a National Day of thanksgiving, and I call upon the citizens of this great Nation to gather together in homes and places of worship on that day of thanks to affirm by their prayers and their gratitude the many blessings God has bestowed upon us.”

Edward Winslow (1595-1655)

Massasoit (circa 1581-circa 1661)

Signing of the Mayflower Compact; Edward Winslow is standing at center, right hand on the table, left hand holding the ink bottle.

Pilgrim-Wampanoag Peace Treaty, April 1, 1621

President Ronald W. Reagan (1911-2004)