Mercy Killing

by M. Glenn Graves

  “I have a contact or two at the bureau, but, say, you could call Starnes Carver, right?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “And a famous man once said the only thing we had to fear was fear itself. He didn’t know you, did he?”

  “I wasn’t around to be known then. Which means, that at the time, he may have been correct.”

  “You changed all that.”

  “My life is an open book.”

  “Right. So, tell me what your idea is.”

  I was dialing the number already, so I held up my hand to signal Rosey to wait a minute.

  “Starnes, this is Clancy …. Yep, still alive…. A few answers, but nothing to write home about…. Yeah, such is our lot…. I’ll get back to you on that one. I have a question. You happen to know a fellow named Sam Gunther?...Yeah, claims that. Can you substantiate that?...Good to hear....Hmph...impressive. I’ll pass that on to Rosey....Yeah, Mr. Skeptical. …. Oh, could you send me a photograph of Sam Gunther....Yeah, you know, for verification....That’s understandable. As of now, we have lots of time on our hands. Sure, you do the same.”

  “Now that was a smart thing for you to do.”

  “I thought so. We should get a photo from Starnes as soon as she finds one from her albums.”

  “Albums?”

  “Yeah. She’s an amateur photographer. Larger than necessary collection. She said she would send it along as soon as she could.”

  “In the meantime, I shall remain skeptical,” Rosey said.

  “You do that. Now, for the matters at hand, let’s go see John Boxley and make sure he has told us everything he could remember.”

  We were feeling considerably brazen on this Monday, so we parked Rosey’s big white truck in a regular parking spot in front of the Morning Glory Nursing Care Facility as if we had nothing to fear from anyone. Sam sat up to see where we had stopped, then lay back down when he noted the building. He sizes up locations quickly nowadays.

  There was no reason for us to hide since we had stopped by Maybelline’s to get a Reuben for Boxley. I added some fries per his last request to us. It was the least I could do for an informant.

  We found Boxley sitting alone in the lounge reading the Washington Post. He smiled when he saw us and waved us over to his corner of the room.

  “I was hoping you two would return.”

  “We had to check in with you to see if you had anything else you could remember to tell us,” I said as I sat down.

  “You remembered the Reuben and the fries. You’re a doll, you know that?”

  “If you were thirty years younger, I’d blush.”

  “If I was thirty years younger, girl, you’d need to blush. I’ve always cottoned to red-headed women. Say, are redheads as wild as I’ve heard?” He said and winked at me. He took a bite of his Reuben. I thought it was a little early for lunch.

  “Wilder. You wouldn’t believe my lifestyle.”

  He smiled as he chewed his sandwich. He was enjoying the bantering.

  Rosey walked over to the large picture window and looked out. It was the same flower garden view as Boxley enjoyed from his room, only bigger. He then walked back to the large opening to the lounge, looked both directions, then returned to us and stood next to me while Boxley talked.

  “Have you thought of anything else that would help us?” I said.

  “You mean about that Colby kid’s death and all, I suspect.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Don’t sir me. It makes me feel old. Messes with my imagination, too.”

  “Okay, Boxley. What else do you recall?”

  “This was a long time ago, girlie. But I recall that when my grandfather returned home that night, late...say, did I tell you that my family lived with them in that big house that is now the funeral home? I probably didn’t tell you that. Anyhow, we did. Four of us, my brother Jeffrey and me, my mother Ruth and my father Julian. We lived with them for many years so Jeff and I got to hear about my grandfather’s sordid exploits firsthand most of the time. Anyhow, what I recall is that night I was listening and overheard Dr. Cranebottom talking with my grandmother downstairs. I was upstairs in my room doing something, I can’t remember what. Not important anyway. They never suspected that their grandson liked to ease drop on their conversations, but, back then, there wasn’t much else to do that was exciting. My grandfather was not only a doctor for most of the town folk, he was the coroner as well. His stories added some spice to our otherwise dreary, small town lives. So when someone died, I got most of the juicy details when he came home and unwound by telling my grandmother stuff. I think my grandfather must have told my grandmother almost everything that happened to him.”

  He took another bite, chewed, and then swallowed.

  “Say, could I have some water to help wash down this great sandwich?”

  “How about a soft drink?” Rosey said.

  “Naw, that junk in the machine out there will kill you. Water will be just fine.”

  Rosey left us to find some water for Boxley.

  “You were saying…” I said.

  “Yeah, my grandfather told my grandmother just about everything, and he told her this more than once mind you...stories became legendary in our family...my mother, Ruth, was a lot like her father, Robert Cranebottom. She loved to talk and tell stories. Naturally, she told the stories that she had heard as a girl growing up in the old doctor’s house. Anyhow, as soon as my grandfather examined that Colby child carefully, pronounced him dead, the family came in and quickly ushered him out. He also said that one of the relatives stood in front of that door, like a guard, and kept anyone from going in who wasn’t invited. Imagine that. Stayed there until the undertaker arrived.”

  “That could be explained by grief or family pride. Families handle death in a variety of ways. I don’t think you can make much of that,” I said.

  Rosey returned with a bottle of water. Boxley nodded as if to say thanks.

  “Maybe, but only to a point. The funny thing was that little Colby’s parents, Joseph and Beth Anne, stayed in the room with the dead child.”

  “Still, that’s easily explained by grief or family traditions,” I said.

  “My grandfather’s story was that that family stayed in the room arguing and yelling at each other. Then, at some point, they brought the nanny into the room and they were yelling at her as well. I remember my grandfather saying that it was not a good scene at all. I seem to recall that he was uncomfortable with the whole situation.”

  Boxley was enjoying his Reuben and fries as well as telling us his story. I couldn’t tell whether he relished the sandwich or the story more. I did get the feeling that Boxley enjoyed relating this Cranebottom family gossip as much as he relished Reubens.

  “Did he ever tell your grandmother anything else?”

  “He felt sorry for Rosemary, the nanny. He said that she was a good woman, young and innocent in many ways, but a good person. My father thought that they mistreated her some in this matter, but he never said much to explain that. That wasn’t part of our family’s book of stories.”

  “Tell me how it is that you can remember such details of an incident that occurred so many years ago,” I said showing my skepticism.

  “Ah, that’s a good question. Detectives should be skeptics, right?’

  “I am one, right or not.”

  “Well, I think you could easily imagine that the stories my grandfather told my grandmother stayed in our family and became like a tradition. I could tell you stuff on just about every family that has ever lived in Riley Corners while my grandfather was the doctor and the coroner. As I said earlier, Robert liked to tell Josephine all the sordid details. My mother liked to recapitulate those stories as well. We grew up hearing about grandfather’s clients. It became a family tradition for me and my brother to share the stories of our grandfather’s exploits over and over. Stories became fixed in my mind.”

  “Stories ever leave the house?” I said.

  “You mean t
ravel around the community?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Never. Had a rule for storytelling, at least my mother did. If anything we ever talked about leaked out, she would have killed us. She threatened us with that many times. I believe she would have. No, the stories stayed inside that mansion. I guarantee you that the wall of that place could disclose some rather dark secrets about the lives of the good people in this town. If only we could get them to talk,” he grinned.

  “Are you aware of anyone ever formally accusing the nanny of anything regarding Colby’s death?”

  “I don’t think so. I heard rumors, gossip and the like. But there was never any charges brought against her. She stayed on, I seem to recall, and helped to raise Mary Elizabeth until Mary was a teenager or close to being a teenager. I suppose she had no further need of a nanny by then, so they let her go.”

  “So as far as you can remember, there was never any formal investigation into the death of Colby Johnson,” I said.

  “My grandfather said that what the police were doing was laughable in regards to the death of that child.”

  “What do you think he meant by that?”

  “Don’t know. I never heard him explain that to my grandmother or any of us. I wish I could tell you more so you could bring me another Reuben and some fries,” Boxley said and winked again at me.

  “Perhaps we need to keep our relationship on the up and up,” I said.

  “Are you two, you know, a couple?” he said as looked at both Rosey and me.

  “A couple of misfits,” I said, “but not a couple like you mean.”

  “Why not?”

  “Good friends, partners, co-workers. Been around each other, off and on, for years. Wouldn’t want marriage to ruin a good thing,” I said.

  Rosey was silent, but nodding.

  “Well,” Boxley said to me, “love and marriage don’t necessarily ruin a good thing...and it seems a waste that you don’t have a man in your life, you know, a lover, a mate. I sure wish I was thirty years younger.”

  He wasn’t drooling, but it probably would not have taken much to start that. There was a gleam in his eyes unless I had mistaken that for lust. I smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek. That was as far as I would go.

  “You’re a sweetie,” I said. “The next Reuben and fries will be on the house. No inside information will be called for.”

  “Obliged. Come back and see me before you return to Virginia for good.”

  “That’s a promise. And thanks for your help. Oh, here is my phone number. Call me if you think of anything that might help us.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You think Boxley knows something we don’t know,” Rosey said to me once we were outside the building.

  “I imagine Mr. Boxley knows plenty that we don’t know. What are you getting at?”

  “He seemed to think that we were headed back to Virginia in the near future.”

  “I don’t think he meant anything by saying that. Just a farewell remark.”

  “That old fox...I don’t trust him,” Rosey said.

  “You’re just jealous of his affections for me.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Pure, green-eyed jealousy.”

  25

  All three of us were sitting in the truck on a side street in Riley Corners pondering our next move. Detective work is delightfully boring unless you really love what you do. I happen to love what I do, but every now and then I have a reality check and conclude that a vast amount of my time is spent pondering what little I know in the midst of the vast amount of what I do not know. Pondering is something we detectives do a lot, even when bored or madly in love.

  “You ready to go home and admit that there is not sufficient data to prove that a murder actually took place?” Rosey said, breaking my pondering-trance.

  Sam yawned as if to agree with Rosey’s suggestion.

  “Not on your life, Bubba. While proof is scarce, I will admit, a significant part of me believes something happened and it’s only a matter of time before something breaks.”

  “Ever the optimist,” Rosey said.

  “More realist than optimist.”

  “These people have been hiding whatever they know for decades. Why is it you think that you can get them to open up and tell you anything?”

  “I have the ability to aggravate people to the point of desperation. That, in and of itself, is sometimes sufficient to encourage people to open up.”

  “Half of what you just confessed I will agree with.”

  “Tell me what you have learned from listening to all of these various people so far,” I said.

  “Colby Johnson was 13 months old when he died. He apparently died in his sleep, or when they found the body they assumed that he died in his sleep. Since 1933 was before the time of anyone diagnosing a child’s death as Sudden Infant Death, there was no way they could have moved in that direction. However, Rogers did tell us that the official report was that the child died of unknown causes.”

  “Rosemary told us that she found the baby. She also said that there were two things about that which made her suspicious. First, the baby had his head on a pillow. Second, the baby’s right index finger and thumb were dry which meant to her that he had not been sucking his fingers for a good while,” I offered.

  “Mary Carpenter told us she has had glimpses of seeing shoes, especially the tennis shoes worn by Rosemary from her hideout under the bed in the baby’s room.”

  “And she saw her mother’s shoes, the black high-top laced shoes.”

  “She didn’t tell us which pair of shoes she saw first,” Rosey said.

  “She may not know which pair of shoes she saw first,” I said.

  “But that would be significant.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So, all we have is a lady with some glimpses of the past and not very clear ones at that. Another lady, 99 years old, with a memory as clear as bell, can only attest to the fact that she did not kill that child while the rumors around the community were that she might have killed the child,” Rosey continued.

  “We also have Boxley’s story from his grandfather the doctor saying that Mary Carpenter’s mother and father were in the child’s room immediately after the child’s body was discovered arguing about something,” I added.

  “Didn’t Boxley also tell us that the parents had Rosemary in the room and that they were yelling at her as well?” Rosey said.

  “He did. So, we have a story forming and it at least raises some questions,” I concluded.

  “Perhaps we should add to this dubious mix the fact that there are folks in the community today who do not want us to dig into this affair. That could mean something as well.”

  “Could be, but it might simply reflect the fact that a family does not wish to air its dirty laundry in a small town. I would understand that. I wouldn’t want my dirty laundry to be exposed in either a large or small town,” I said.

  “You have dirty laundry?”

  “Several varieties, all manner of stuff soiled.”

  “So how about having someone killed just to protect a family’s reputation?” Rosey said.

  “Too much to swallow. I think someone does not want this tale to come out.”

  “You think it’s Roscoe, our good sheriff?” Rosey said.

  “That’s a guess, but only in light of my conversation with him several days back. He seemed to think that there was nothing to it, just the painful death of a small child.”

  “He could be hiding something,” Rosey said.

  “Crossed my mind more than once,” I said. “Okay, I have decided something.”

  “Good. What have you decided?”

  “I have decided that despite our dubious reputation in this community in some circles, I want to eat another Club Sandwich at Maybelline’s Sandwich Shop.”

  “Could be your last meal in Riley Corners,” Rosey said.

  “If it’s to be, it will be. We shall at least go out in style, you
know, before we return to Virginia for good,” I said.

  Rosey and I enjoyed our sandwiches at Maybelline’s place while Sam waited patiently for us to bring him a cheeseburger and some water. Rosey and I both had Clubs this time, and he had to agree that the lady knew how to make an exquisite variety of sandwiches.

  We ate our meal undisturbed by any negative community reaction. I kept thinking that the sheriff would walk through the door at any moment to ruin the moment. Ecstasy is so rare in my life anymore, that eating a good sandwich at a good restaurant qualifies. That’s pitiful.

  We lucked out. No sheriff. Good sandwich. Delightful moments spent in Maybelline’s. Life is good, but not all is right with the world. The detective work beckons.

  After Sam woofed down his cheeseburger and lapped his water on the backseat of the truck, we headed to Mary Carpenter’s to see if she had remembered any more images from that day long ago. There was a car parked in front of her house when we arrived.

  It was close to seven o’clock when Mary answered the door.

  “We’re not interrupting your supper are we?” I said trying to be friendly.

  “Oh, no. Come in. I have something to tell you.”

  She ushered us into the parlor. The room was becoming a familiar place for us to sit and talk. As we entered, Josh Ainsley stood and nodded in our direction.

  “We didn’t mean to interrupt you,” I said to both of them.

  “We were just talking about you folks,” Mary said, “when you knocked on the door. What a wonderful coincidence.”

  “How so?” I said.

  “I have decided that I need to help Mary come to terms with what happened to her family in the past, and that I will not permit anyone to threaten me and keep me from doing my job,” Josh said firmly.

  I wanted to shout out, Good for you, fellow, but I restrained myself. Once in a while I do show self-control.

  “This is a pleasant and welcomed surprise,” I said without much exuberance.

  “Mary and I have been talking and she’s trying to remember more of what happened.”

  “Come up with anything?” I said.

  “Some, but it’s a little confusing.”