Eulogy for a Mystery Man

Fred Harris lit up the world of everyone whose lives he touched, including mine and all the members of my family.

His many readers and fans religiously read his Daily Post columns on local government and finance, and considered them as kind of unofficial operations manuals for the conduct of most municipal governments in suburban Northern and Central New Jersey and enabled reporters, including me, to help area residents turn back years of gross overtaxation or lack of sufficient services and infrastructure.

Fred also co-founded the East Somerset Little League, spearheaded a number of community food banks, raised thousands for the families of cops and firefighters killed in the line of duty and became the moving force behind the Annual 10K Run for Knowledge that had raised over $100,000 in 10 years for scholarships to send underprivileged kids to charter schools.

That is why his untimely death at age 59 from a mysterious illness sent shockwaves through the community.

Of course, when Fred’s widow Charlene asked me to be the lead undertaker at his funeral and map out a community memorial I didn’t hesitate for even an instant.

In accordance with Fred’s final wishes the humble ceremony paid tribute to him as a good journalist who worked hard to make the lives of his neighbors better. He did not consider himself a hero and did not want eulogies from people who knew very little about him and only wanted to win praise for themselves with their phony remembrances.

I had carefully selected those he considered most significant in his life—his wife, his older son, Jon, and Daily Post executive editor Paul Columbine—to give the eulogies. Also, attendance at the funeral was limited to 100 people—barely enough to take up half of the seats in the large and ornate East Somerset Baptist Church.

In addition, the funeral service and viewing only took a total of two hours, followed by a small buffet lunch.

Of course, after the service, it was hard to hold back the multitudes of community mourners much longer. A line of about 20 cars followed the hearse to the Nightingale Memorial Park.

After the funeral the well-wishes conveyed to his family and friends at the Harris home lasted well into the evening. I didn’t return to my home until nearly 10 pm.

However, the strangest thing happened after I parked my car in the garage and walked toward my front door. A tall gentleman in a very expensive suit waited on my porch. I hadn’t seen any cars parked on my street, so I couldn’t figure out how he had arrived at my home.

“Can I help you?” I asked. “Please excuse me. I am still a little bit in shock. I just came from the funeral of one of my best friends.”

The stranger replied as he extended his hand, “My name is Richard Thompson. I am a representative of the Forsythe Commercial Real Estate Trust. I am afraid I have some startling news for you. The man buried in the Nightingale Memorial Park today was not Fred Harris. Fred Harris still is very much alive. He represents our company in commercial real estate sales in suburban Philadelphia.”

“That can’t be true. I’ve known Fred Harris for 20 years. We went to high school together in Bound Brook, New Jersey. Fred and I played on the Bound Brook varsity baseball team. His wife and my wife led the cheerleading squad for the team.”

“I understand,” Thompson said. “Fred Harris—the real Fred Harris—had some ‘complications,’ shall we say, a number of years ago with gambling debts. He didn’t do anything wrong. All caused by a misunderstanding. The less-than-savory people involved with those ‘complications,’ however, did not believe what Fred told them and they put out a contract on his

life. Fred contacted the FBI, and they helped him join the witness protection program. They relocated him out of the country and supplied him with a new identity. He became Harry Schaffer.

However, Harry (Fred Harris) had a number of ties to suburban Philadelphia and told the FBI he couldn’t stay hidden forever. Luckily, the people with the contract out on his life never caught up with him and the FBI believed they all died while he continued to evade them. So, the bureau made arrangements for him to return to the Philly area and take up life again under his old identity.”

I replied incredulously, “The Fred Harris I knew. That was the man his wife married. She knew him only as Fred Harris. How could she not know his real identity?”

“Actually, the wife of the man you knew as Fred Harris learned before they married that he had assumed another’s identity in order to throw the thugs off the trail of the real Fred Harris. Your friend really was Jared Kingston, one of the FBI agents assigned to the witness protection program.”

“And you, Mr. Thompson, how do you know so much about how the FBI operates and what goes on inside its supposedly top-secret witness protection program?”

“As you probably have determined by now, I have not revealed my true identity to you. I actually work for the FBI. I am special agent Rodman Percival and my assignment has been the reestablishment of Fred Harris in his new occupation and the continued confidential maintenance of his secret.

“A major part of my assignment is making sure that you hold everything I have told you in the strictest confidence. In the event that any living underworld figures associated with Fred’s old nemesis escaped our notice and they find out about his continuing existence we will know

where the leak came from and take every action at our disposal to plug that leak--if you get my drift."

“However, none of our investigations have uncovered the cause Jared Kingston’s mysterious death. Also, since we don’t believe it had anything to do with his connection to Fred Harris we don't see any reason to pursue it further--at least at this point.”