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.