Secret Keepers and Skinny Shadows: Lee and Miranda (5 page)

“Okay folks,” one of the policemen said, “it’s time to move away. This is a crime scene. Go back to your homes please. Take the children inside. They shouldn’t see this. Make room for Detective Jones he’s coming down the alley.”

“Officer what do we have?” Jones asked. The officer moved behind the detective, grabbing the arm of the man following him.

“Hey buddy, you can’t come in here,” the officer said. Jones looked back to see what was going on.

“Oh, he’s okay, officer. He’s from the newspaper. He can come over here with me.”

The reporter smirked at the officer making his way over to stand beside Jones, with his pencil ready to write.

“Detective Jones, as you can see it looks like murder,” the patrolman said, as he looked from Jones, and back at the smirking reporter.

Jones stopped in front of the body, then he turned watching the residents drift back into their houses. Some of them were peeking out their windows continuing to watch what was going on. “It looks like the whole neighborhood was out here,” Jones said, while looking at the officer who was setting up the wooden saw horses around the scene.

“Detective Jones, we got them away from the body as soon as we arrived on the scene. We got here a few minutes before you did,” the officer said. He moved over in front of the barricades, turned his back to Jones and the reporter, telling the remaining stragglers, “go on now, head back to your homes.”

Jones could see the reporter from the corner of his eye. He was staring at the body while writing fast, probably describing what he was seeing.

As he glanced from the reporter to the body, Chief of Detectives Jones said, “I’ll say this—from the number of footprints around the body I think it took a lot of men to bring down this giant of a man.”

Jones saw the reporter staring at him as though waiting for more information.

Jones pulled his pipe from his coat pocket, put it in his mouth and clenched the stem between his teeth. Then he reached in the other pocket pulling out a pack of matches opening it he saw it was his last one. He tore it from the book, struck it on the striker patch, listened for the hiss, as he watched it break into a blaze. He put the fire to the bowl, sucking on the stem, each breath pulled the flame down into the bowl. He watched the white smoke swirl from the sides of his lips disappearing into the air. Breathing in the sweet smell Jones looked at the reporter and said, “Cherry tobacco is my favorite.” The reporter looked at him and nodded. After a couple of puffs Jones held the pipe between his fingers.

Jones said, “This is a gruesome sight.” The reporter nodded his head in agreement as he stared at the body.

Jones moved his eyes in a slow circle around the mangled body that lay sprawled in front of him almost covered by snow.

He pushed his hat back on his forehead, fifty-two-year-old Jones wanted to get through this month. He put in for his retirement last month. He hoped looking down at the body that it wouldn’t take long to solve this murder.

“This would have to happen to me,” Jones said looking over at the reporter. “I’ll be stuck on this case until it’s solved. And that might delay my retirement. Things like that always seem to happen to me.”

The reporter stared at the body. “Well, I’m sure of one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m sure this poor man didn’t want to be murdered.”

Jones stared back at him and paused before speaking. “I know what I said sounds cruel and hard-hearted, but I’ve been waiting a long time for this retirement. Oh, well, forget I said anything so stupid. We need to get back to the business of this murder.”

“I’m all for that,” the reporter said.

Jones took his hands off his hips and stuffed the now cold pipe into his pocket. He pulled a pair of white gloves from his coat putting them on. Jones didn’t like the cotton gloves. In cases like these the blood always leaked through onto his hands. He didn’t like touching dead bodies.

He leaned over the body and brushed away the snow, pulling the victim’s head back onto his neck to get a better look at his face. Jones stepped back a couple of feet, moving so fast he almost fell in the slippery snow.

“What the—?” Jones said, pausing for a minute, as he sucked the air. “What is that all over his face? It looks and smells like dried mustard, ketchup, and relish. The welt between his eyes looks like someone belted him with a blackjack.” He looked up at the reporter shaking his head.

Jones positioned the man’s head back on the right shoulder shuddering a bit as he let go of it. Wrapping his hand around the arm of the blood-soaked jacket, he pulled it out of the snow to examine the palm of the right hand.

“Look at that it’s covered with black powder burns and dozens of pinhead-sized holes.” Jones looked up at the reporter.

“It looks like someone used a bird shot pistol or rifle,” he said to the reporter. “They must have pulled a gun on him, in a defensive reaction he grabbed the end of the barrel with the palm of his hand as they pulled the trigger.”

Letting go of the blood soaked sleeve it dropped back into to its original spot. He grabbed the other one holding it up to examine the hand, it was clean except for some black and blue marks on the knuckles. “It looks like he put up a good fight,” Jones said as let it drop. He started to push the bloody snow around looking for clues, hoping to find a weapon. Wanting to find something that would make this case a quick easy solve. Pulling open the red and white checked jacket his eyes landed on what looked like a check sticking out of the victim’s shirt pocket. With careful precision he slid the paper out, for a few seconds he stood examining it.

“It looks like we know this man’s name,” Jones said to the reporter. “This is a Conn railroad pension check made out to Bertrand Wyatt Grayson, Appleton, New York. I guess robbery wasn’t a motive.” Jones glanced in the direction of the reporter as he dropped the check into the plastic bag the officer was holding open for him. “Label that evidence bag number one,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” the officer said, pulling out his marker.

Jones’s shifted his eyes trying not to look at the oozing neck as he pulled a worn, brown wallet from the other shirt pocket. He could hear the faint sounds of a crying baby coming from one of the houses behind him. He turned his head looking in the direction of the sound. Lights were on in all the homes. He could see white puffs coming from the tops of the chimney stacks, dissolving and filling the air with fireplace smoke. He turned back to the wallet.

“His expired driver’s license,” Jones said, “confirms he’s indeed Bertrand Wyatt Grayson. Let me see.” He paused as he fingered through the bill compartment. “Two dollars in the bill compartment, so I guess we can rule out robbery as a motive.” He was about to drop the wallet into the second bag when he noticed a small piece of paper pushed down in the corner of the bill compartment. He plucked it out and unfolded it. Without thinking, he read the phone number loud enough for the reporter to hear, “944-823-1415.” Jones glanced at the reporter shrugged, then dropped the wallet and paper into the waiting baggie.

Jones took a couple of steps back from the body. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” Jones said as he stood with his chin cradled in his right hand. With a wide-eyed steady gaze, he studied the body.

“What could Grayson have been involved in to die like this?” Jones said. “From my years of experience as a detective, I know people often hide the seedy side of their lives from their loved ones. My question is, what was Grayson hiding? Maybe the phone number will give me some answers.”

Jones looked up in time to see a man coming down the alley pulling a gurney.

“Oh, better move back,” Jones said as he took the reporter’s arm guiding him away from the body. “I see the coroner coming.”

“Good evening, Joe. Where’s Leslie?” Jones asked, as the coroner came to a stop in front of the body.

“What’s so good about it? Leslie called off tonight,” he said, shaking his head. “Of all nights for this to happen. They said he had to go out of town or something. I don’t remember.”

After completing his examination, Joe and the officer wrapped the body in a sheet and placed it on the gurney.

Jones looked up to see a Bridgetown fire truck pull up and stop at the end of the alley behind the waiting ambulance. He could hear the men talking.

“I’ll get the hose,” the tall fireman said as the two of them jumped out of the truck. The short one turned on the water and ran to catch up with the tall one dragging the hose toward the scene of the crime.

“I’ll help you,” he said, grabbing the hose. Just then the two firemen halted in their steps staring at the gurney as the coroner pushed it passed them to the waiting ambulance.

The tall one riveted his eyes on the blood spots leaking through the white sheet. Jones could see him shiver. They started down the alley again coming to a quick stop when they reached the spot where the body had been.

The short fireman sucked in his breathe. “Look at all that blood. It’s everywhere.” Jones approached the firemen just then.

“I want you men to wash away the snow from that spot,” Detective Jones said pointing. The firemen then turned the hose in that direction pulling the handle. The water rushed out, melting the snow down to the bare ground. Jones watched, hoping to find a knife, gun, or something useful.

“Look at that,” Jones said to the reporter, “not one single clue.”

“Thanks, for coming out, fellas,” Jones said. “I’m disappointed we didn’t find anything.” The firemen walked back to the truck, dragging the hose behind them.

“All that remains now,” Jones said to the reporter, “is finding someone who knows something. And what are the odds of that?”

The reporter shrugged.

Jones with the reporter by his side questioned the neighbors and people in the local bars.

When they were finished, Jones looked the reporter in the eyes and said, “I’m heading back to the office now to file my report.”

“Okay. I need to get back to the paper and write up my story so it’ll make the morning edition.” The reporter paused. “Jones, thanks for letting me get close to the scene. I know you didn’t have to.”

Jones nodded to the reporter as he walked away.

                              
CHAPTER 7

Bridgetown, New York, February 1962

L
ater that night on the outskirts of a town a few miles south of Bridgetown, a man pulled his truck to the side of the road, stopping in the middle of the hill. He put the gearshift into park but left the motor running. He glanced down the road, then checked his mirrors for headlights coming from behind. When the coast was clear, the driver slid out walking around the back of his Chevy he stopped at the guardrail, looked around in the dark, and then threw the gun over the hill. It landed with a clang in the rocks, weeds and brush on the creek bank below. He walked back around the truck through the exhaust fumes rolling from the tailpipe filling the night air, got in and drove off.

The headlines in the morning edition of the
Bridgetown Mirror
screamed in bold black print:

Retired Conn Railroad engineer murdered

The body of an Appleton man was found against the wooden fence in the alley at the rear of 30 Chestnut Avenue. Big Bert Grayson’s lifeless body was discovered by a group of teens on their way home from ice skating late last night.

Fifty-eight-year-old Grayson often frequented the local bars in Bridgetown at the south end. This area is known for its rough bars, loose women, and knockdown, drag-out, fights.

The investigators traced Mr. Grayson’s steps from a string of local bars to his last known location, Jim’s Diner, where he borrowed five dollars from someone. He met two men there and was last seen walking toward a dark sedan in the parking lot of the diner with these two unknown men.

Bertrand lived with his sister Elizabeth and was retired on disability from the railroad.

The family members at first thought robbery could be a motive until they learned he didn’t cash the disability check he had received that week. The police discovered it was still in his shirt pocket when they found his body. His brother Benson told the Mirror it wouldn’t have been easy to kill Bert, and that he was a popular guy around the bars because of his size and strength. Police are speculating that more than two men might be involved. If robbery wasn’t the motive, was it revenge or jealousy? Or a love spurned?

The police are leaving all angles open. Grayson was a patient at the State Mental Hospital. He was released three weeks ago.

The
Mirror
included a composite picture of one of the companions Bert Grayson was last seen with.

                   
CHAPTER 8

Present Day

L
ee carried Miranda’s letter into the kitchen, dropped it on the counter top, he took a seat on the bar stool, trying to decide if going to Miranda’s was the smart thing to do. He could also tell from reading the letter that she hadn’t changed much through the years.

He often thought Miranda never got married because there wasn’t a man alive who could live with her. 

At Joan’s funeral he didn’t spend much time with Miranda. He was anxious to lose himself in his work, trying to take his mind off his wife.

With his elbows resting on the black granite countertop and his legs straddling the stainless steel stool, he was soaking in the sun filtering down through the skylight warming his shoulders while at the same time soothing his beat up ego.

He dumped the remaining contents of the envelope onto the counter top spending a couple of hours reading the letters and newspaper clippings. He meditated on where the key might be and if Miranda was looking for it?

Three months after the murder, the police stopped investigating, claiming they had no new clues to go on. There was a composite picture of one of the men they say Bert left the diner with the night he was murdered.

Lee studied the picture, and was thinking about the letters, while twisting his hair with his finger, a habit he’d tried to break, but couldn’t.

His mind was all over the place. He recounted every detail of being fired and betrayed by his best friends, Sally and Ray.

The murder and what he had learned so far. The letters were intriguing to him, spiking his curiosity about the murder and Lillian. Then there was Joan.

Miranda was right; three years was long enough to mourn. He could never forget Joan; but it was time to move on with his life and begin to live again. He was growing lonely needing female companionship, even if it had to be Miranda.

He made a promise to himself, right there and then, today he would begin the next chapter of his life. As he was daydreaming, it dawned on him. These must have been the letters Joan gave him to read many years ago. Being the self-centered man he was, he handed them back, telling her he was too busy for such nonsense. Cringing at his own words he sat shaking his head in disgust as those thoughts stung his conscience, and how his words must have hurt Joan.

He made a vow that day, if it took the rest of his life he would investigate and solve the murder of Joan’s uncle. He also vowed to be there for others who might reach out to him, to help solve the unsolvable, and in some way in his guilt ridden mind he would also be making it up to Joan.

Maybe then the haunting and sleepless nights would leave him. He never thought of himself as a particularly brave man, but he would do what he had to do. Somewhere deep inside he would find the courage to face the threat of death, if that was what it took.

The scent of pine drifting in from the mountains traveled through the screen door, the roaring of boats moving in and out of the bay, mournful sounds of an occasional tug boat horn moaning in the distance, all reminding him why he loved this place so much. Joan had a fondness for this spot on the docks. She said it centered her.

Lee now wished he could go back into the past redoing that one thing if nothing else. And as it happens, destiny had put the letters in his hands for a second time. Now he’ll have the opportunity to wash his conscience clean.

He reached for his cell to call Miranda.

“Hi, Kid, how are you?”

“Scrappy as ever, Lee. When are you going to get off the Kid thing? I’m a little too old for that now. So are you coming soon?”

“I read the newspaper clippings and the letters. It all sounds interesting. Are you sure there’s enough room?”

“I’ll make room for you. This place is big enough for both of us.”

“Thanks . . . Kid. I have loose ends to tie up here before I can leave, so it’ll be a couple of weeks.”

“Okay Lee. I’ll look for you then. Bye.”

He made a trip to the bank to transfer money out of his savings and in his checking account to use as traveling money.

He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that something wasn’t right.

After reading the newspaper accounts and the letters again he was hooked on investigating this murder. He decided he would let Miranda tell him about Lillian.

One of his goals was to change his opinion about Miranda and forget the past. He’d work to see only the best side of her.

He never enjoyed the legwork that came with research. He only enjoyed putting the pieces together. Sally did most of the work, and without her computer skills he would have been fired long before this. Sure he traveled to dig out the hard to find information, but the bulk of the work was done by Sally on the computer.

He couldn’t figure out why he had the feeling someone was watching him.