Shatter the Night

by Emily Littlejohn

  I summarized what I’d learned from my visit with Aimee Corn. Hearing it all again, watching the way the words fell on Chief Chavez, was disturbing. By the time I finished with a couple of suggestions on what to do next, his face was pale and his eyes haunted.

  “Gemma, we can’t close the whole town. What you’re talking about, mandatory curfews, officer patrols … we can’t go down that road based on a potential threat. For one, Mayor Cabot would never approve it. For two, can you imagine the fear that would create?”

  “Chief, we know this guy is going to strike again. We have less than five days to find him.”

  “Exactly.” Chavez nodded. “If you’re right, you’ve got about three and a half days, Gemma. Start with Josiah Black. I want to know everything about this son of a bitch, what happened to him before, during, and after his trial; his family; his friends. The case must have been a huge publicity generator. The story of the crimes, and the trial, likely sold thousands of newspapers all over the state. If we truly do have a copycat killer, he’s probably doing it for the fame, the attention.”

  I nodded, then added, “Or revenge.”

  “Look into the Black family, any living friends. If it’s revenge … why now? What’s changed in the last seventy years?”

  “Seventy years is a long time. From what Aimee told me, the family’s long dead. Whatever secrets they had, they took them to the grave. If someone is doing this for revenge, maybe it’s an outsider.”

  Before we left the backyard, the chief said, “You know this town, Gemma. You know that secrets never stay buried forever. Someone knows something.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  From Chief Chavez’s house, I headed to the public library. The unassuming redbrick building, built low to the ground, hid the fact that a cavernous basement held thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of archival materials. Most of it was in the process of being moved to the History Museum, where a second-story floor would offer better protection in case of flooding. But the museum was closed on Sundays, and I seemed to remember that they were starting with the older things first, so if there was material on Josiah Black, it should still be at the library.

  I entered the building as a Halloween-themed story time was letting out. Witches, ghosts, goblins, and unicorns, all of them no more than four feet tall, swarmed around my legs and then they were gone, moving to the next room. The library always did like to stretch out the holidays.

  At a reference desk in the middle of the first floor, I found the woman I was looking for. Her name was Tilly Jane Krinkle, and she was that most underappreciated of all superheroes: a reference librarian. She was nearly eighty years old, with bright orange hair, a penchant for red high-top sneakers, and a stuffed parrot that accompanied her when the mood struck.

  Most people in town simply called Tilly the Bird Lady.

  She looked up and harrumphed when she saw me. “When are you fools going to deputize me? I swear, every time I turn around, you all need me for something. Don’t you know I’m dying? Can’t you leave me in peace?”

  I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. She smelled of cinnamon and cloves and I guessed she hadn’t quit smoking, even with a terminal diagnosis of cancer. “You’re not dead yet, Tilly. I’m here about—”

  The Bird Lady cut me off before I could say anything more. “Josiah Black. I know.”

  “How the hell do you do that?” I was shocked and yet strangely, not surprised. The first time I’d met Tilly had been during the course of an investigation. I’d come here, to this exact spot, and been about to launch into a long explanation of what I needed when she’d done the same thing she’d done just now: known why I was there, and what I needed, seemingly before I even knew.

  A sly look in her eyes, Tilly shrugged. “I’ve been doing this job going on fifty years. Not much gets past me. I’ve got a mind like a steel trap and a memory like an elephant. After that young security guard was shot at the bank yesterday, an old feeling started scratching something fierce at the back of my mind.

  “And then it finally hit me early this morning.” Tilly gestured for me to follow her across the main reading room, to the locked door that I knew led down the steps to the shadowy basement. “Josiah Black’s crimes, and his subsequent trial, were sensational news in town, heck, even in the state. We have a great deal of stuff about him, some of which I’ve come across in town history books over the years.”

  She unlocked the door. The smell of dust and untouched papers and something else, mold or mildew, floated up the wide stairs and out the open door.

  It was the smell of old stories and long-buried secrets.

  I followed the librarian down the stairs and saw that she’d pulled a number of things together for me and left them at a long study table near the bottom of the stairs. I was grateful I wouldn’t have to wander through the labyrinthine aisles; the basement had lights tied to motion sensors, and if you dawdled or stopped, chances were good the lights would shut off behind you. I’d once been trapped down here in the dark with a killer; it was an experience I didn’t care to repeat.

  “Why didn’t you call me? Once you made the connection?” I asked.

  Tilly shrugged. “First off, I knew you or Trouble would come by soon. And second, I know what people in town call me. ‘Bird Lady.’ What kind of a name is that? They think I’m a kook, an odd duck. Insane. I’m nothing of the sort.”

  “I think you’re one of the sanest people I know, Tilly. Who’s ‘Trouble’?”

  “That handsome partner of yours with the dark hair and the sapphire eyes. In my day, if it looked like trouble and acted like trouble, it was trouble. Anyways, here’s what you need.” She motioned to the things she’d collected. “Most of this is articles from the Valley Voice. Also some memorabilia, such as Black’s report cards from elementary school, a baseball card collection he had, that sort of thing.”

  “How did the library end up with his personal effects?”

  Tilly grew sad. She said in a low voice, “After Black’s trial, his parents disowned him. They packed up all his belongings from his childhood and teen years and dumped them at the church for the rubbish sale. My predecessor was a wise woman; she went through all the boxes and took what she thought might be of interest to future generations. Isn’t that sad? A life reduced to tabloid headlines and some cardboard boxes.”

  “The whole thing is tragic.” I picked up the top box, opened it, and stared down at Black’s elementary school report cards. Young Josiah had been a good student, it seemed, in English and math … in Latin, not so much.

  Tilly sighed. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I should get back upstairs. Let me know when you’re done and I’ll get one of our aides to put all this stuff away. One of these days, you are all going to learn that you should just leave the past well enough alone. Why anyone would want to drag up these old hurts is beyond me.”

  It was beyond me, as well, but more important, none of this had been up to me. A vision of Caleb’s killer drifted before my eyes and then he was gone; like the comic book character Ghost Boy, our killer seemed impossible to grab hold of.

  Ghost Boy was responsible. He was the bad guy in all this.

  I sat at the table and read an article written by a reporter who had been attending Black’s trial since day one, quickly becoming fascinated with the norms of the late 1940s lifestyles that I was reading about. This particular article relayed testimony from Amelia Black. She recounted for the court the terrible dreams Josiah suffered from on a nightly basis and his obsessive habit of checking the locks on every door and window before turning in for the night. She spoke of his increased moodiness and alcohol use, the way he’d veer between indecision and impulsiveness. Amelia also shared his deep love and affection for her, his parents, and his hometown; the civic pride he took in raising the flag each morning on their front lawn and entertaining neighborhood children with handmade puppets.

  By the time I finished the article, I felt incredible sympathy for Josiah a
nd Amelia. He hadn’t asked to be sent off to a strange land where he was instructed to kill or be killed. And she hadn’t asked to live with the man who’d returned, a stranger in so many ways.

  It was clear from her testimony that Amelia herself was conflicted as to Josiah’s guilt. She couldn’t provide an alibi for his whereabouts at the times of any of the killings, though Josiah had insisted he was home with her. But she also couldn’t believe that her husband would hurt anyone in town.

  Amelia’s testimony was followed by that of a medical doctor called in from Denver who had not treated Josiah Black but was considered an expert on combat stress reaction. The doctor testified that it was his expert opinion that Josiah Black had returned from the war a changed man; that he suffered from psychological and behavioral concerns stemming from repeated exposure to extreme stress in combat situations. The doctor was sympathetic to the defense; he explained that there were methods and medicines available to treat veterans like Josiah Black.

  In response, the prosecution brought in witness after witness, all local Cedar Valley folks, who each swore up and down they’d seen Josiah at or near the scene of each crime. The first witness, the deputy police chief, testified he’d heard Josiah threaten one of the victims just a week prior to the first killing. The testimonies for the prosecution were each brutal and telling in their own way; it truly had been a mob mentality that had overtaken the town. They were out for blood and Josiah Black was in the water, defenseless, bleeding like a stuck pig.

  On rebuttal, the defense called a young man named Ives Farmington. Farmington had been classmates with Josiah Black, and in fact, the two had been stationed together in the Pacific. After the war, they’d both made their way home to Cedar Valley. Ironically, Farmington had joined the local police force and was one of Black’s arresting officers.

  But Farmington had not agreed with the evidence and, by the time of the trial, had himself nearly been ostracized from the force because of his dogged, fervent belief of Black’s innocence.

  Fascinated, I read on. The defense attorney was a man named Rogers, and he seemed to thrive on the courtroom drama.

  Farmington: The evidence that has placed Josiah Black in this courtroom is circumstantial, plain and simple.

  Rogers: Are you telling me that the prosecution’s claims of deceit and intrigue, spy skills picked up in the war, all of that is untrue?

  Farmington: Correct. Josiah Black is innocent of the charges.

  Rogers: Mr. Farmington, have you personally suffered as a result of this trial?

  Farmington: Yes, sir, I have. As of this morning, I resigned my position as a lieutenant with the Cedar Valley Police Force. My life has been threatened, my parents subjected to verbal abuse and late-night calls. I don’t have a friend left in this town and still … still I tell you, Josiah Black is innocent. I respect my former colleagues, my former chief. But sir, they’re wrong. They’re dead wrong. The evidence doesn’t match up. The timelines, they don’t work. And at the end of the day, I know Josiah Black. I know the horrors he saw during the war, because I saw them, too. I know the nightmares he greets every night, because I greet them, too. The things we live with, sir, they’re horrible. I wouldn’t wish war on anyone. Someone else did these terrible crimes.

  Rogers: Who, Mr. Farmington, who? Who murdered more than a dozen people in cold blood?

  Farmington: I can’t tell you that, sir. Not yet, at least. I need more time.

  I turned the page, only to find that Farmington’s testimony ended there. I wondered for a moment if pages were deliberately missing; if Ghost Boy had come before me and taken what I needed. Then I found another set of records and realized that no, Farmington never took the stand again. A few more testimonies and Black was convicted; things wrapped up fairly quickly.

  Too quickly.

  Though what I’d read had been brief, it had been damning. Rarely does someone in Farmington’s position risk their livelihood unless their conviction is so strong, their belief so powerful, that to not stand up and tell what they believe to be the truth would bring them to their knees in shame and ruin.

  I moved on to the stack of later articles, stopping at a clipping from a national paper from 1956. It was an op-ed piece, written by a young law student, laying out each and every mistake that Judge Montgomery and the prosecution had made during Black’s trial. The piece insisted that guilty or not, Josiah Black should be released from prison immediately and granted a new trial. The student was passionate, but was he right? He spoke of circumstantial evidence and a biased judge hell-bent on punishing someone, anyone, for the killings in his town.

  It was this piece that must have sparked another young lawyer’s interest, all those years later, to fight for Black’s release.

  I spent another few hours at the library and then had to leave. I couldn’t absorb any more pain, any more hurt. By the time I got home, my eyes were bleary, my head hurt, and I didn’t know what to believe anymore.

  Had Josiah Black killed more than a dozen people? Was he truly the monster that his former friends and family seemed to think he was?

  Or was he a scapegoat, an easy target? Was there some other killer lurking in the shadows, never seen, never caught?

  It was a chilling thought.

  Like the Gordon Dillahunt trial, there were cracks in the case: allegations of misconduct, inadequate defenses. I’d seen a news program recently about the Innocence Project, out of New York, and to date they’d exonerated more than three hundred people through DNA.

  Three hundred men and women, falsely imprisoned for years. They’d lost jobs, spouses, families, and friends along the way. And why? Because something went wrong, plain and simple. Had it been the same for Josiah Black? Was that why the Ghost Boy was now re-creating Black’s crimes, to avenge him?

  At home, I found the baby bathed and fed. She and Brody sat in the family room, playing with a couple of stuffed animals. Brody lifted a small orange lion and made an enormous roaring noise. Grace shrieked with laughter.

  I smiled. At least here, in my home, all remained well.

  That feeling of contentment lasted approximately until midnight, when Grace woke in her crib, crying softly and sweating. I went to her, took her temperature, gasped when I saw how high it was, and immediately woke Brody. He called a twenty-four-hour pharmacy advice line while I gave her Infants’ Tylenol and a cup of diluted apple juice and then paced, rocking her on my shoulder, between the family room and kitchen.

  I’d never felt her tiny body so warm.

  Brody hung up. “It may be an ear infection. Let’s see if the Tylenol reduces the fever; we can take her temperature again in an hour. Urgent care can see us first thing in the morning.”

  I felt Grace’s forehead; it was still burning up. “Not tonight?”

  “Honey, the only thing that’s open is the emergency room and that will be a significant co-pay for what in all likelihood will pass. Let’s monitor her for the next hour and if her fever hasn’t gone down, we’ll take her in.” Brody rubbed at his eyes. He always did take a while to wake from sleep.

  We were opposites in that way; it had been years since I had slept anywhere but on the edge of wakefulness.

  On my shoulder, Grace had fallen asleep.

  Crib? I mouthed to Brody. He thought a moment, then whispered back, “Chair?”

  I nodded and crept back upstairs to Grace’s room. At her rocking chair, I awkwardly tried to sink down without disturbing her, then pulled a thin blanket over us. Her breathing had become relaxed and deep, and after a while, I checked her forehead again. It was cooler, though still much warmer than normal, and I sighed a breath of relief.

  I couldn’t remember ever feeling so helpless.

  Even with the baby for the moment at rest, it was hard to get comfortable in the wooden chair. I thought about asking Brody to spell me, then decided it wasn’t worth risking waking Grace. As gently as I could, I shifted around in the chair until I’d gotten my legs up on the edge of a nearby bo
okshelf. Then I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.

  But the day had brought too much for sleep to come easy.

  We had two people dead. How many more would die before we found the answers we needed to bring Ghost Boy to justice?

  Chapter Eighteen

  After the restless night, I woke Monday morning with a crick in my neck and toes that were nearly frozen. The blanket I’d draped over us had slipped to the floor at some point. Thankfully, Grace seemed to have slept well and stayed warm, snuggled close to my body. When I took her temperature, it was lower than it had been, though still not back to normal. Brody met up with us in the kitchen and it was agreed that he’d take Grace to urgent care, then bring her back home to spend the day with Clementine.

  After they left, and before Clem showed up, I stood at the front window and tried to finish my coffee. A thick band of clouds filled the sky and the sun struggled to peek through. The horizon had taken on a greenish cast, as though the heavens themselves were ill.

  It was an ominous sky, one that spoke of strange and fearsome things to come, and I dumped the last third of my coffee in the sink, my stomach already clenching with nerves and anxiety.

  I spent a few minutes talking with Clementine after she arrived, explaining our plan for Grace and reviewing with her where all the infant medicine was kept in the master bath.

  “We’ll be fine. It’s probably just an ear infection. Kids get them all the time.” Our nanny pulled a bottle of blue nail polish from her bag and began to touch up her nails. “If her eustachian tube is blocked, fluid may have gotten trapped behind her middle ear. Has she been exposed to cigarette smoke lately?”

  “Of course not. And when did you get your medical degree?”

  Clementine burst out laughing. “Come on, don’t you watch television? Or pick up a health magazine every once in a while? There’s a whole world of knowledge out there, Gemma. It’s not just bad guys and dead bodies.”