Chapter V -The Making of Mossberger

I knew Milton well; in fact, most of the guys on the Force had a better relationship with him than with their family members. It always began with the “orientation.” Upon being situated in a precinct, each officer was delivered a discrete invitation to dine with the doyen of New York’s elite. It always came in an unmarked envelope, sealed with a wax stamp displaying the infamous monogram: M M. Inside, it read:

 

Dear Mr. Huntley

I believe congratulations are in order! The Commander has informed me of your excellence, and I look forward to hosting you. Please arrive on the house grounds promptly at nine past noon, Sunday, the 8th. 

Sincerely,

M. M.

 

As I would come to learn, he relished the thought of creating suspense. But nothing matched his desire to entertain. Nearly twelve miles into the heart of Long Island, houses begin to double, even triple in size from their neighbors. Yet, the woods keep them secreted. Stretching far into the distant starlight, the dimly lit birches surround the lives of the lavish. Far along the Trumador Parkway, a wooden sign carrying the same distinguishable initials “M. M.” suddenly appears. Baring right into an empty clearing roughly 100 feet past the marker, each traveler is faced with complete and total darkness. Most scare themselves into turning back, but those who wait are showered by a quick flash of lamplights. Previously nestled in the salient arms of silence, visitors are startled by the piercing squeal of a hidden speakerphone. “Follow the light,” it says. Doing so leads each driver through another two miles of brush. Eventually, pillars dressed with decorative bulbs become visible, and a sigh of relief is often released. Slowly, visitors transition from the dark, dirt road onto a pristine cobblestone platform. Beyond this ensemble of rare rocks and lamp posts stands a castle with bright yellow light seeping from its round, stained-glass windows. Moving downward, streams of ivy scale the stone casing of the house. And attached to the front door of this magnificent palace of light are to handcrafted wooden handles in the shape of two cursive “M’s.”

 

Along with the sheer size of his house, there was much else to explore in and around Milton’s estate. Out front, a freshly-cut patch of land reserved for guest parking. Circling clockwise onto the west end of the mansion, an array of interconnected pools and fountains meet the eye. Wrapping around to the backyard is a vast clearing, with an outhouse perhaps twice the size of the standard home centered in the middle. Beyond this enormous plot is a private beach scoured with sand as white as the light bursting from the castle up above.

 

Many often wondered how Milton acquired such incredible wealth. Even more so, his choice of living in complete solitude puzzled anyone who knew him. The department has a loose record of Milton’s history, primarily that associated with his local interactions. Outside of the police force, he maintains only a select group of acquaintances, none of whom seem to deserve the title of “friend.” In fact, I would tend to classify each of them as nothing more than business associates. That being said, little is known about his upbringing. According to most, he emerged on the banking scene roughly thirty years prior to the onset of the depression. In addition, public findings indicate that Milton began constructing his palace around the same time. It’s said that he was an anomaly to the panic; with Roosevelt’s “Holiday” shutting down banks nationwide, he somehow manage to scrape buy without a healthy stream of income.

 

There are a lot of holes in Milton’s story, but it’s still relatively in tact, or so I believe.