Mercy Killing

by M. Glenn Graves

  Roscoe rolled his eyes. He had the look of a defeated man.

  It appeared that for the time being, I wouldn’t be arrested or escorted out of Riley Corners. Small win, but, a win is a win. I’ll take it.

  39

  “You may have to go back to school and get another degree,” Rosey said as we pulled into the driveway of B.C.’s guest cottage.

  “Anything specific in mind?”

  “Some kind of counselor, either a psychologist or maybe a psychiatrist. You could probe the inner workings of the mind like Freud.”

  “Psychiatry would take longer, but I’d make more money.”

  “Either one would net you more money than you’re likely to make on this case.”

  “You have any further advice for my future?”

  “Yeah. I think you should stick with being a private investigator and walk carefully around the subconscious of someone like Mary Carpenter.”

  “Word to the wise?” I said.

  “Be my advice.”

  “You think she has issues.”

  “Multiple.”

  “You think she really wants to know the truth?”

  “In some way, yes, I do. But there is a part of her that I believe has great fear over what may develop in all of this.”

  “That covered under the guilt she feels?”

  “Either that or she’s just being a good Baptist.”

  “What do you know about Baptists?”

  “My Uncle Joe was a good, strong Baptist. I was raised under his roof for several years.”

  “So how did you escape the guilt trip?”

  “Uncle Joe didn’t handle people that way. He told me to just tell the truth. He said it was easier than lying. He said telling truth didn’t require a good memory.”

  “I miss Joe.”

  “Me, too. More like a daddy than an uncle.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  B.C. Jenkins had two bedrooms in her guest cottage. I took one along with Sam. Rosey took the other. The next morning B.C. called to invite us to breakfast. We joined the three ladies a half an hour later.

  Azalea was finishing her light fare when we arrived. She had to work for both Cynthia and Mary on this particular day. She wouldn’t return home until late that night.

  “You enjoy working for those women?” I said as she was gulping down her coffee.

  “I suppose. It’s a good paying job, and the hours are decent. Beats unemployment or welfare.”

  “That it does,” Rosey said. “Ever thought about doing something other than domestic work?”

  “You think it’s not good enough?” she asked. There was a bite to her question.

  “Whatever you do, do well.”

  “And what is it you do, Mr. Washington? Second fiddle to this woman detective?” Azalea had some fight in her.

  “Watch your mouth, kid,” B.C. said. “These people are guests in our home. That’s no way to talk to guests.”

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Jenkins,” Rosey said. “I deserved it after my question about domestic work. I should have phrased it differently. I guess what I was driving at is would you like to come to Washington and work for me? You strike me as an underachiever.”

  “You mean D.C.?” Azalea said.

  “I mean D.C.”

  “What do you do in Washington?” she asked.

  “I do as little as possible in Washington, D.C. But that is where I have my offices and my Office Manager runs it for me. I’m gone most of the time.”

  “Helping Miss Evans here?”

  “She takes up a lot of my time, to be sure. But, we’re friends and there’s a lot of reciprocity between us.”

  “I’ve heard it called a lot of things, but never reciprocity,” Azalea said and laughed.

  “Child, you are over your head,” B.C. said. “I’d suggest that you pour yourself another cup of coffee and either drink it in silence or pour it over your head as an act of contrition. You need to wake up.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Rosey was having fun. He could see something worth developing in Azalea. Whatever it was it was worth a job offer. That was something.

  “What did he mean about reciprocity between us if he wasn’t talkin’ about sex?” she said to her mother.

  “What’s all this talk about sex?” Rosemary said as she slowly maneuvered into the chair next to me. “Good morning, children. I hope you rested.”

  “I did,” I said. “Thank you again for permitting us to stay here.”

  “Glad to have you. Nice to meet some decent folks from up north.”

  “Mama, I’ve got to go. Mr. Washington, if you were serious about a job, may we talk again soon? And I do apologize for any misunderstanding on my part,” Azalea sounded sincere.

  “Quite alright. You might want to file something that could serve you for a long time.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Friendship is stronger than any sexual relationship. If I had to choose one over the other, I would choose friendship.”

  “Interesting point. What if you could have both?”

  “Thank God every day, but keep your friendship in front of the sex.”

  “I think I’m blushing,” Rosemary said, “but I thought I’d better announce it ‘cause none of you could tell.”

  Azalea left the house amid great laughter. We enjoyed our breakfast with the two ladies and shared some stories about other adventures Rosey and I had survived together.

  “You gonna stay on and investigate some more?” Rosemary said.

  “As a matter of fact, we now have a green light from the high sheriff and police of Riley Corners.”

  “Nice to have friends in high places,” B.C. said.

  “You mean Roscoe or his cousin?” Rosemary said.

  “Well, it all helps, but I was referring to Roscoe the sheriff. It didn’t hurt any that Mary wanted us to keep on digging. And, by the way, I did meet your granddaughter’s other employer, Cynthia Tanner. She was helpful. So, I think those two women worked against the hard-nosed Tanner; and, well, we’re staying on and doing further excavations.”

  “I reckon you have more questions for me then,” Rosemary said.

  “I do,” I said.

  “Ask away. The coffee is kicking in and I feel alive and alert.”

  “Mama, you want some toast?” B.C. asked.

  “One piece would be fine, Bergamot. Thank you, child. Okay, Miss Detective, fire away. My baby’s got food coming to go with this hot java stuff.”

  “Last night you said that Mr. Johnson was abusive to his wife, Beth Anne,” I began.

  “Don’t make it sound so good. And that’s not what I said. I said he beat her, and that’s what I meant. Using that word abusive makes it sound all acceptable. And why you asking me again about this. I already told you that he beat her. We talked about that the first day you were here asking questions,” Rosemary said just before she swallowed some more coffee.

  “You have a good memory.”

  “Some things are hard to forget.”

  “Talk to me some more about Beth Anne. If I am correct and she did in fact kill her son, then I am wondering why she would direct such anger against Colby and not against her husband. Do you recall her ever saying anything to you that might offer a clue about what happened?”

  “You know that line from King Lear when the Fool says, ‘He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.’ It amazes me sometimes when I read Shakespeare and then think about people and things in my life. It’s a lot like reading the Bible.”

  “Careful, Rosemary. You could commit heresy right here before breakfast is over.”

  She laughed. “You gonna turn me in to the heresy police?”

  “Since I’m likely to be accused of similar crimes, it’s doubtful. Tell me the connection between the Fool’s line from King Lear and the Johnson family.”

  “My impression, Miss Clancy, is that Mr. Johnson, being the pa
triarchal parent that he was, loved that boy child more than he loved anyone else outside of himself. Maybe Beth Anne killed the child for revenge against her husband, or maybe she feared that the child would grow up to be just like the man she hated and feared. Perhaps she feared that one day she would awaken and Colby would despise her as much as Joseph did. She simply could not allow that to happen. It’s motive enough.”

  “Wow. So, you’re saying that she couldn’t trust in the boy’s love long term, ala William Shakespeare’s quotation?”

  “You ain’t half dumb, Miss Clancy.”

  “I have my moments.”

  “There’s this other thing though,” Rosemary said almost reluctantly.

  “What’s that?”

  “No one has said anything to you about Colby being sickly?”

  “Not a word.”

  “He had asthma really bad.”

  “That could have been the reason he stopped breathing,” I said.

  “True, but it also means that it wouldn’t take much effort to suffocate him. Make the job easier if he already had breathing issues.”

  “Why didn’t the doctor, Cranebottom,...why didn’t he tell the police this?”

  “He did, but only later,” she said.

  “Later?”

  “The police came around asking questions the next day or so, and Mrs. Johnson told them about the asthmatic condition. She sent them to Dr. Cranebottom for verification.”

  “And why is it you remember these details so clearly?” I said.

  “’Cause I'm the one who had to remind the good mother that her son had asthma,” Rosemary said.

  40

  Rosey and I were sitting in Room 34 of the Morning Glory Nursing Care Facility. It was after lunch. Boxley was sitting in his wheelchair with the greasy sandwich paper in his lap. He had finished his Reuben and was munching on his fries. Now and then we would swallow some of the iced tea we had brought him along with the other goodies from Maybelline’s.

  “You two are spoiling me,” he said. “Thanks for the grub. The food in this place is mostly crap. Once in a blue moon they have something edible, but they don’t make it a habit. I can swear to that. It’s a wonder I ain’t dead from poison.”

  “We have some more questions about Dr. Cranebottom.”

  “I thought we’d finished all that. I told you what I could remember.”

  “Did your grandfather keep any notes from his years of practicing medicine?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “What happened to his medical files when he stopped practicing?”

  “He died in his office. He never stopped being a doctor, at least that’s what my mother told us. He was still a doctor on the day he drew his last breath. Massive coronary or something like that. At least that was the tale through the years.”

  “And the stuff in his office?”

  “I don’t know …. wait a minute, I was in my twenties when the old man died. I don’t remember the year, but I do remember hearing my mother talk about the building that Cranebottom owned and worked out of. I think she closed it down and was talking about selling it.”

  “Did she sell it?”

  “Don’t remember that part. I was busy with my own life by then. Whatever my parents did, they did. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Is the building still standing?”

  “As far as I know. It’s on Main Street, downtown Riley Corners. You know, when a building stands in the same spot for years, after a while, you sort of take it for granted, stop paying attention to it. It’s there, but it’s not there. It’s of no importance.”

  I nodded at Rosey and we both stood. We moved towards the door to leave.

  “Hey, guys, thanks for the sandwich. Anytime you bring food, you’re as welcome as rain to come visit,” Boxley said and laughed. “And, I’m glad you guys are still alive. I heard about your run-in with Gunther. You just never know about people, do you?”

  I turned back to Boxley. He was now staring out of his window and smiling as if something amused him.

  “No, John, you just never know about folks,” I said.

  We parked in front of the police station on Main Street.

  “You think it is safe to go inside?” Rosey asked.

  “You don’t trust Roscoe yet?”

  “Just wondering, that’s all. Protecting my interests.”

  “Skeptic to the core.”

  “It’s how I stay alive.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’ll shoot us. Worst case, he will simply tell us to get out of town...again,” I said.

  “Think he would go back on his word from last evening?”

  “I’m a skeptic to the core.”

  “Peas in a pod, you and me.”

  “Just not the same shade of green,” Rosey said.

  “So we should just dodge him for another few days?”

  “Naw. I actually think he was on the level. Maybe he’s interested now that we have uncovered enough muck to peak his curiosity. All in the family, you know. Besides, Mary must still have some clout in this village. We be brave. Let’s go inside,” Rosey said.

  We entered the police station and stood in front of Mabel Shelton’s desk. This time she was not talking on the phone. She was shuffling papers and looked busy. We stood there for longer than we should have, so finally I spoke.

  “We’d like to see the Sheriff.”

  “Everybody wants to see the Sheriff,” Miss Personality said.

  “I don’t see a line,” I said.

  She looked up at me, then at Rosey, and then shifted her gaze behind us as if searching for the rest of the people waiting to see Sheriff Tanner.

  “Have a seat over there,” she motioned with her head towards a wooden bench under a larger window to the right of his desk. “I’ll see if he is busy.”

  “Tell him Clancy Evans ….”

  “I know who you are,” she snapped.

  I think she got up on the wrong side of the world earlier this morning, or maybe I just brought out the worst in folks.

  Slowly she stood from her power position, opened the sheriff’s office door without knocking, entered and closed the door behind her. We could hear her clearly through the paper thin walls of tempered glass and two by fours.

  “Those two prying detectives are back again. They said they want to see you.”

  I couldn’t make out clearly what Roscoe mumbled, but apparently he told her to show us in. She opened the door and gestured for us to enter with her left hand. She stood in the doorway as we entered. I smiled when I passed by.

  “I’m not a detective,” Rosey said as he passed her.

  “Oh, and what do you do, fetch her coffee and muffins?” Mabel said to Rosey.

  “Not a secretary either,” he said.

  “That’s enough, Mabel. You can go back to your work,” Roscoe said.

  Mabel closed his door harder than necessary.

  “Sorry about that,” the sheriff said to us.

  “She take sour pills by prescription?” I asked.

  Roscoe smiled. I hadn’t seen much of a smile before now. Nice to know that there was another side to his fierce personality.

  “Female version of Goofus,” he said.

  “Beg your pardon,” I said.

  “You ever read that Highlights magazine when you were a kid? Had two boys, Goofus and Gallant, polar opposites. Trying to teach us kids what was good behavior and what was bad. Maxine, her sister, turned into Gallant; and Mabel, she is definitely Goofus. Good worker, however. Just has some disposition issues.”

  “Maxine Shelton, church secretary for Reverend Ainsley?”

  “The same, her sister. They married brothers. Only difference is that Maxine swallowed sweetness and Mabel some sour.”

  “Some?” Rosey said.

  “Well, enough to give her that sunny disposition,” Roscoe said and chuckled to himself. “It helps sometimes when I bring in some suspects. She’s fearless. Now, Maxine, well, s
he couldn’t handle this job. She’s more suited for church work.”

  I started to argue the point as I recalled some of my past cases with the religious crowd. I let it pass. He had the right to be wrong.

  “We need your help,” I said.

  “Ask.”

  “You know anything about Dr. Cranebottom’s old office building?”

  “You mean where he used to have his medical practice?”

  “That would be the one.”

  “Sure. It’s right across the street, there,” he pointed through his window to the old building directly across from the police station.

  “Can we get inside?”

  “What for?”

  “See if Cranebottom left any medical records,” I said.

  “Not likely. I would think that the doctor who took over for him received all of those records.”

  “Likely enough, but could we check, just in case?” I said.

  “I would need to get permission from the owner of the building, but I suppose we could all go and have a look-see.”

  “Who owns the building?” Rosey asked Sheriff Tanner.

  “John Boxley,” he said.

  41

  Rosey and I had only a few minutes to overcome our shock and review our relationship with John Boxley. This occurred while Sheriff Tanner was on the phone with him gaining permission for us to have a look inside the old building where his grandfather practiced medicine.

  “Somebody’s been keeping the truth from us,” I said.

  “Lying, I’d say.”

  “Not out and out lying, but he certainly bent the truth enough to cause some misdirection.”

  “Misdirection,” Rosey repeated slowly. “That be a good word for what Boxley did as well as understated. Wonder what else he has misdirected?”

  Before I could move along that corridor of thinking, Sheriff Tanner hung up the phone, grabbed his official police hat, and motioned for us to follow him as he left the station.

  Years of dust, cobwebs, and small animal feces covered the old office of Dr. Robert B. Cranebottom after his medical practice ceased sometime in the 1950’s. Despite the layers of dirty life on top of everything, the office looked as if someone simply walked out one morning and never returned. No one returned to do anything. His office appeared to be abandoned completely from the day he died until now. Frozen in time.