The Body on the Roof

by Kevin Creager

  “Yes, everybody liked her.” Townsend slowly nodded. “Who would hit her? About anything?”

  “I agree. No one would want to hurt her.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s at the coroner’s office – in the back room of Dr. Ross’ practice. But she may be moved to the facilities in Oldstown, if Dr. Ross feels it’s warranted.”

  There was a silent moment as the three of them had run out of things to say and each spent time in their own thoughts.

  “Harry, give me a minute as I walk Chief Pierson out.” Johnson’s hand shook slightly as he took Pierson’s arm and led him to the outer reception area. “Jeff, please keep me informed on what’s happening. Grace was … very special to me. And, just so you know, though I’m positive he had absolutely nothing to do with it, Harry was out of town with a client last night. I am pretty sure of that. If you need to know the details, we can probably get them verified, but I know he wasn’t anywhere around here.”

  “Thanks, Mel. I am sorry for your loss too. At this time, we just don’t know anything about what happened. I’ll let you know.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The entire police department for Summerfield fit around the table in Conference Room A. Conference Room B was actually used for storage more than anything else, but calling it Room A instead of “the conference room” sounded more professional and gave the impression that there were other conference room options available for important meetings.

  Nobody needed to be reminded of the meeting and, for one of the few times that Pierson could recall, no one was late. He walked to what was usually considered the head of the table and faced his team.

  “You may, or may not know by now that Mrs. Mathison’s death does not appear to be accidental. At least according to Pete Ross, and we have no reason to question his findings. She was apparently struck on the head by a round object that doesn’t fit anything found on the roof, and her body, we are assuming at this point, was placed there possibly, probably after death. Nothing is certain yet, except that she is dead and it is suspicious, as Officer Reasoner originally asserted. Steph, I do owe you an apology. I should have dealt with this more seriously from the beginning.” He glanced at Reasoner, but her face showed nothing. Apparently, she was ready to go on to the next step.

  He turned to the full-wall chalkboard behind him, erased a message about last summer’s department picnic, hesitated a moment but left one about the upcoming downtown Halloween parade, and picked up a dusty piece of chalk. He wrote GRACE MATHISON at the top, then a left-hand column, WHAT IS KNOWN, with “on the roof”, “round object – left temple”, and “thunderstorm”, underneath.

  “I’ll add to this column as we gain information, and as I think about what’s important. But right now we don’t have much.

  “Speed, I want you to interview Harry Townsend and confirm where he was last night.” Pierson wrote another column with her name, then added more columns as he continued to talk. “Pops, you talk to the neighbors, see if they saw or heard anything, besides the storm last night. Also if they have seen or heard anything in the past that could give us any possible reason for Mrs. Mathison’s death. Bud, you look through the house, and around the grounds, particularly below where the body was.”

  Addams spoke up. “What am I looking for, chief? You and Steph went through the house this morning.”

  “We weren’t looking for a murder weapon, or at least a cause of death. I’ve talked to county forensics and made sure they know what we know. Maybe they have seen something or found something that makes sense, or need to go back again. I don’t know what specifically we’re looking for except that it is round, but I want you to also be looking for a reason – anything that seems to be out of place or could have led to a motive. Just a general impression at first.

  “We have a major investigation now. We’ve all been trained for it. We just haven’t been practicing it. We will figure this out. Hazy, you will coordinate from the office, and organize information by Crime Scene, Suspects, and Motives. We’ll figure out more as we get more. Any specific questions at this point?”

  Reasoner raised her hand.

  “Speed, you don’t have to raise your hand. You can just speak out.”

  “Chief, you mentioned suspects. Do we have any at this time? Anything come up from talking to Mel Johnson or Harry Townsend? You would think that, if anybody knew anything, it might be one of them.”

  Pierson shook his head. “No, not from our brief conversation last night – I was more informing than interrogating at that time. But that’s what we hope to develop from some of the interviewing you and Pops will be doing. I will talk to Mel Johnson. He was probably closer to Mrs. Mathison than anyone else. He and Harry. You’re right, if anybody knows any possible motives, it would likely be one of them.”

  He looked around the room. “Folks, at the beginning we’re going to be feeling our way through this. I get that, but this is a small town, and everybody knows everybody. We need to act professional and show them that we do know what we are doing. The townspeople will look to us for trust and guidance. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning at nine.” He drew a deep breath. “Okay, go to it.”

  Everybody filed out except for Hazlett.

  “Jeff.” When no one was around, she felt she could call him by his first name. Actually, she sometimes did it at other times too. Though only a few years older, she had been one of his babysitters when he was little. “Do you want me to rewrite what you have on the board? Your handwriting is still barely legible. In fact, it’s gotten worse as you’ve gotten older.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “I can read it. Most of it anyway. But you’re probably right. No one else can. Go ahead.”

  He left her to the job of cleaning up after him and headed to his office to come up with a list of questions for Mel Johnson. A list that wasn’t going to offend but still needed to get at why someone would want to hurt Grace Mathison and then put her body on the roof. In the pouring rain.

  CHAPTER 4

  George Peabody, with a gray moustache, graying hair and the beginning of a paunch all giving away his age, didn’t make any list. He was just going to talk, but mostly listen. That was what he was good at doing, asking a question then letting the other person ramble, and everybody on the street knew him well enough to at least say something.

  He made a rough visual circle in his head, starting to the left of the Mathison home, going up four houses (that was probably enough, maybe even just three), crossing the street, coming back past the house across from hers to the next intersection and finishing with the two houses between hers and the corner.

  No one objected to talking with him – everyone felt comfortable with Pops – and he got halfway through the interviews with the hospitable offers of two cookies, a glass of homemade cider, and a piece of peach pie, but no recognizably helpful information. Nobody had seen anything last night with the storm going on, nobody had heard anything, and nobody could think of any reason why anyone would want to hurt poor old Mrs. Mathison.

  Though Mrs. Mathison didn’t actually appear to be poor – financially or health-wise. Nobody thought she was wealthy, but she seemed to have enough money to be all right. Ralph Mathison, her husband, had been hit by a car two weeks after his retirement from a management position at the Hepco Paper Company, but he had left a nice pension, and she had her own retirement from teaching second grade for thirty-five years. Her health appeared to be good. She was known as a tough old bird who went on many bird-watching hikes as well as bicycling around town. And she wasn’t really that old – maybe in her early sixties, fit and wiry for her age.

  But no enemies. No reason for anybody to wish her any ill-will.

  Peabody raised his hand towar
d the bell on Hazel Bucholtz’s door, directly across the street from the Mathison home. Hazel was in her early eighties, at least, but had briefly been the principal with Grace Mathison at Kramer Elementary School.

  The door opened before he even found out if there was a working doorbell or not.

  “Yes, Officer Peabody? May I help you?”

  She had a cane and didn’t look as if she was afraid to use it. Peabody automatically took his hat off without even being aware of doing it. Mrs. Bucholtz had that effect on people.

  “I am sorry to disturb you this afternoon. I am here today in my role as a police officer, investigating last night. Ma’am, are you aware of what has happened across the street?”

  “I am aware of everything, young man. At least as far as you are concerned. And who wouldn’t have noticed the commotion across the street this morning? Noise and vehicles and people gathering and gawking. Excepting for the fact that Grace is dead, there hasn’t been this much excitement on this street since the Winkler’s sad attempt at swinging several years ago.”

  Peabody momentarily wondered now about Ginger Winkler offering him that pie.

  “Ma’am, we are asking the neighbors if they happened to have seen or heard anything last night. I know it was very noisy and dark with the storm, but there may have been something that caught your attention.”

  “You better come in, officer. It is not polite to discuss serious business on the front stoop.”

  She led him into her front room, which was bright and airy with the afternoon sun coming in the undraped window. Her rocking chair, instead of facing the television, was squarely in front of the window looking across the street.

  Peabody walked over to the window and found himself looking at the front of Mrs. Mathison’s house, full frontal view. He turned around and discovered Mrs. Bucholtz holding out a glass of lemonade. He had no idea when she had had time to leave the room to get it, nonetheless pour it.

  “Homemade?” he asked as he took it.

  “Heavens no. My lemon-squeezing days are well behind me. It is from a carton, Wiley’s Freshest, as I don’t even want to bother with mixing frozen anymore. I do hope that is adequate for you.”

  “Oh, yes.” He took a sip. “That’s fine. And thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “So, officer, please take a seat.” She pointed to the bright pink couch, and she turned the rocking chair around to face him before he could offer to help her with it. “You probably want to know if I was watching Grace’s house last night.

  “As you undoubtedly surmised from the position of my chair, I spend much of my day observing the neighborhood. Much more interesting than the afternoon game shows and those dreadful evening soap operas. For drama, they are incredibly boring, with their extraordinarily petty disagreements and obviously fictional crises. Real people would handle those situations so much better. Absolutely no class.” She shook her head.

  Pointing out the window, she continued. “I do know Mr. Huffman, the postman, spends much more time at Mrs. Winkler’s house than any other. Maybe it’s the pie. And the Jeffries’ dog, Reuben, is the one digging up the Wolscheimer’s woeful tomato plants.” She paused. “But that’s not why you are here. What did I see last night?” She rocked her chair closer to him. “There was a dreadful storm, you know. Visibility was very poor, but there were flashes of lightning. And in the flashes, I did see a car sitting in her driveway.”

  Peabody began to ask about the car, but never got the question out.

  “It appeared to be a gray four-door sedan. I’m afraid I can’t tell anymore what kind of automobile. They keep changing the styles. I never did see anyone get into or out of the car, just that the car was there.”

  “Any chance of a license plate?” Peabody was making notes in a small Summerfield Police Department notepad.

  “Officer, I am not that eagle-eyed in the pouring rain. All I could tell was that it was five characters and there was a large round sticker on the back window. If I had known that she was about to get murdered, I would have picked up my high-powered binoculars for a closer look.” She pointed to the stand next to the window, “but I wasn’t that prescient.” His face must have given away his confusion over the word. “Able to see the future.”

  “Well, thank you, ma’am. This is still pretty observant. Tell me, have you seen that car before?”

  “Not that I know of. There are other gray sedans that have been by, but that is not a vehicle that I have seen in Grace’s driveway before.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Ten thirty-three. I had just finished watching an episode of Washington Slept Here on my video player and was about to retire for the night.”

  Thank you again, Mrs. Bucholtz.” Peabody was about to tuck his notepad back in his vest pocket. “Is there anything else that you can think of?”

  “Not unless you are interested in the outrageous prices at the Peterson’s garage sale, or that the Hall boy, Tommy, was smoking in the back yard?” She watched him finish putting the pad away. “No? Then I believe our conversation is completed for the present.”

  Peabody finished the lemonade. Not bad for store-bought. He’d have to try that brand, “Wiley’s” did she say, the next time he went grocery shopping.

  He completed the rest of the street. He asked follow-up questions regarding the car, but besides a brownie at the Peterson’s, there was nothing worthwhile. Two of the houses had nobody home, but he suspected Mrs. Bucholtz had provided the only meaningful information – the gray sedan.

  CHAPTER 5

  Martin Addams stepped through the still unlocked back door of the Mathison home. They hadn’t put out the yellow police DO NOT DISTURB tape yet, but he had it in his trunk ready to go. He had noticed George Peabody’s car parked on the street next door and, in a way, envied him talking to people that were still alive. There was already a scent of death in the air of this house. At least it smelled that way to him.

  He put on a pair of gloves and pulled out the small notebook that they all carried, labeled Summerfield Police Department, Official Log, with Courtesy of Hepco Paper Company in small print at the bottom (the irony of Mrs. Mathison’s husband possibly designing these notebooks briefly crossed his mind), and noted the two glasses on the sink. He leaned over to sniff at them, but they had apparently been washed. The floor was now dry (Steph had mentioned the puddles of water, but they weren’t there any longer). No chairs pulled out, no indications of anything disturbed. It felt funny to open someone else’s cupboards; it was as if he was trespassing into her life, as if Grace Mathison had a right to her own secrets and he had no business knowing them. But a quick look turned up nothing unexpected. He didn’t want to disturb anything as the crime scene unit was going to be doing its own deeper inspection later.

  Crossing into the small living room, he stopped and let his eyes slowly flow across the room, getting a general sense of Mrs. Mathison’s presence and noting if there were any jarring notes, anything that didn’t seem to belong.

  She had collected a lot of miscellaneous knick-knacks. And maybe collected was the wrong word. Apparently, she just hadn’t gotten rid of anything that she had acquired through the years – trip souvenirs, gifts from students, presents from relatives who didn’t know what really to get her, so get her something cute. Ceramic animals, cups and mugs, foreign figurines, trophies.

  Addams paused at the corner display case. Trophies? Yes, there was a My Favorite Teacher one, but also a golf one and one for basketball. Maybe the golf one was hers or her husband’s, but basketball? He leaned in close and saw that it was for a church league, from two years ago. He hadn’t personally known Mrs. Mathison, just to greet in the grocery store, but he couldn’t picture her playing in a basketball league. He di
dn’t recall any older adult leagues. And he couldn’t imagine her coaching, or officiating, or having anything to do with basketball. He supposed it was possible, but it seemed odd to be that recent.

  He stepped back and looked around the room again. Now that he was looking for more details, on the mantelpiece was a plaque for salesman of the year from a local car dealer. Next to it, another trophy with a diver perched on top. Three small clocks in different sites. A wooden fish from a fishing tournament. This was more than miscellaneous. Not hoarding, but not pieces that should have come naturally to her – not gifts, not personal keepsakes. Not what you would expect to be personal to her anyway.

  As details were becoming clearer, he saw that several shelves were overcrowded, but a few were not. Objects were spaced evenly, but on two shelves there was obviously much less of them. It certainly was possible that something had been taken, but what? And why?

  He walked back through the kitchen and out the door. The county crime scene unit was now here again, getting ready to head up to the roof, while one was investigating the ground below the ladder and another below where her body had been on the roof. Two were studying the base of the walls, looking for anything out of the expected. Addams recognized one, a cousin of his.

  “Phil! Phil, can you come over here a minute?”

  Phil Culbertson looked up, saw who it was, and walked gingerly over, trying not to disturb what was left from what was now a crime scene.

  “Yeah, Bud. What can I do for you?”

  “I just came from inside. Don’t worry,” putting up his gloved hands. “I didn’t touch anything. Well, except for some cabinet knobs in the kitchen. I just wanted a quick look inside them.”

  Phil nodded. “We can probably live with that. So long as we know.”