Here’s the headline for the story: Meet Caulfield’s junkman Chester Waters.
CAULFIELD — Chester “Chet” A. Waters IV knows how to turn trash into treasure at his aptly named Rough Waters Garage and Junkyard.
Waters’ junkyard is located on a neighbor-less road in the middle of nowhere in this small hilltown. But its remoteness doesn’t hinder customers from finding him.
Got a car not worth trading in or fixing? Waters will take it. Need an engine for a ’64 VW Beetle? He will likely have one to sell.
Waters began his junkyard after he got out of the Army. He enlisted after he graduated from high school.
“It was great to get out of this hell hole and see a bit of the world,” he said with a laugh.
Waters came home, looked around for a job and when he came up empty, started fixing cars and taking the ones nobody wanted. He still fixes cars at age 65, but he has his daughter, Annette Waters, to help out.
“My daughter’s a real solid mechanic,” he says. “She takes after me.”
Waters and his late wife, Gladys, raised three children, including two sons, Chester A. Waters V and Michael Waters. The couple lost a son when he was a baby. “That was a tough one,” he says.
“What do the boys do? One’s a principal for a school and the other’s a truck driver,” he says with a laugh. “I sees them when they want something fixed.”
Many towns won’t allow junkyards. But Waters says he started his business long before anyone started making rules about them, so it’s grandfathered.
Besides Waters owns about a hundred acres bordering state forestland he inherited from an uncle. He says his parents “were good people but they didn’t have a pot to piss in.”
With its long road frontage, the land gives him a buffer zone from potential neighbors who might want to build on Maple Ridge Road.
About 20 acres is dedicated to his junkyard, with the wrecks and abandoned vehicles filling three long rows. He says he has to work to keep trees from sprouting in the yard. He uses a gas-powered weed whacker to keep them from taking over.
“Pop likes a clean junkyard,” Annette Waters says.
The story continues. It’s a sizable piece. I’d say about a thousand words, which amounts to about twenty-five inches. Sorry, I can’t stop thinking like a journalist. For the rest of the story, the reporter interviews townspeople, both fans and foes of having such a large junkyard in their town. Chet takes the reporter out for a ride in his restored 1947 Ford, which he writes ran like a dream. A couple of photos accompany the story. Chet walks between the rows of junks in one. He hugs his daughter in another.
The next story is dated Jan. 17, which is the day after the fatal fire was discovered. I was right about the headline: Caulfield man dies in house fire. Yes, that about sums it up. I recognize the reporter’s byline. Sean Mooney was an intern at the Daily Star before the Bugle hired him. He was a solid reporter, but we didn’t have a full-time opening and the Bugle did.
Here’s his story.
CAULFIELD — A Caulfield man died when his house burned to the ground in an overnight fire discovered by his daughter Wednesday morning.
Officials are investigating the blaze that killed Chester “Chet” A. Waters IV, 69, who ran a junkyard and a vehicle repair shop on his Maple Ridge Road property located on one of the town’s back roads.
Caulfield Fire Chief Roger Dickerson said no one called in the blaze because of the home’s remote location and the time the fire apparently broke out. He said Annette Waters found her father’s body when she arrived to work in his garage.
“His daughter told us she spotted some smoke when she was driving up Maple Ridge,” Dickerson said. “Annette said she couldn’t believe it when she saw what was left of her father’s house. Then she found her father, who had managed to crawl from the house. She called 911 right away.”
Annette Waters, who remained on the scene while fire officials extinguished any burning sections, declined to comment.
Waters, a Caulfield native, ran Rough Waters Garage and Junkyard, where he repaired vehicles, collected junk cars and sold parts. To many, he was a colorful character in this town of 600 people.
According to the Caulfield Annual Town Report, Waters held two town positions, Fence Viewer and Surveyor of Wood and Bark.
At the Pit Stop, the town’s only gas station, Pete Woodrell, one of the owners, said Waters had been there Tuesday morning to fuel up his pickup.
“Chet was an okay guy although he could be a bit ornery,” Woodrell said. “That’s what I liked about him. You knew where you stood with Chet. It’s a rotten shame this happened.”
Lenora Ashley, a Caulfield resident who was getting gas at the Pit Stop, said Waters was “a proud man.” “You wouldn’t think so cause he ran a junkyard,” she said. “But it was how he made his living, that and fixing cars. He’ll be missed.”
Funeral services are pending.
Sean Mooney was still green when he was told to drive to the sticks and find somebody willing to talk with him, not such an easy feat when you don’t live in the hilltowns. People are suspicious. It was a cinch when I was the hilltown reporter for the Daily Star because I was a resident of Conwell. The firefighters even let me cross the fire line so I could get a closer look. I reported on what I could, and then I checked in with the busy chief to tell him I’d give him a call that night. It was a tactic that worked.
Here’s Chet’s obit, which was brief although not surprising, given people have to pay by the word for obits these days. A long time ago they were free, and I used to field angry phone calls from grieving people who complained the paper was making money off the dead.
Chester A. Waters IV, of Caulfield, died suddenly Jan. 15. He was the son of Chester A. Waters III and Anna (Pope) Waters. He was preceded in death by his parents; his wife, Dolores (Franklin) Waters; and a son, Lucas. He is survived by his daughter, Annette Waters; and sons, Chester A. Waters V, and Michael C. Waters (Lillian); and four grandchildren. Mr. Waters attended local schools. He was an Army veteran. He ran the Rough Waters Garage and Junkyard. His family has lived in Caulfield for six generations. A memorial service will be held Jan. 19, 10 a.m. at the Caulfield Congregational Church. Burial will be in the spring.
The last story about Chet was a brief follow-up, again by Sean Mooney. The headline was: Man’s death in fire ruled accidental.
CAULFIELD — The state fire marshal’s office has ruled the Jan. 15 blaze that killed Chester A. Waters, 69, was likely caused by the careless disposal of smoking materials.
Fire Marshal Phil Gallagher said considering how badly the home on Maple Ridge Road was destroyed, it was difficult to determine an exact cause, but he said Waters was a smoker. He may have passed out from drinking alcohol.
Due to the condition of the body, the state medical examiner said the exact cause of Waters’ death was unknown although severe burns and smoke inhalation were likely factors.
When contacted by phone, Annette Waters, the victim’s daughter, said she disagreed strongly with the ruling.
“Yeah, my father smoked and he drank, but I don’t believe for one minute it’s an accident. He’d never get that drunk,” she said. “I don’t think they took my father’s death seriously enough.”
She declined to comment further.
I print the stories for my mother. I’ve tried coaxing her to learn how to use the computer. She’s happy enough playing solitaire on her tablet, but no dice on anything more than that. Sam was the same way, but he wouldn’t even touch a tablet. I joked we had an agreement: he didn’t use my computer and I didn’t use his power tools. I believe I got the better end of the deal. I like having my fingers intact, thank you.
“Did you get a hold of Annette?” my mother asks right away in the kitchen.
“Sure did.”
“What’d she say?”
“ ‘Well, are you gonna help me?’ ” I laugh. “She’s a bit tough, but she’s glad someone believes her. We went over a few th
ings. I told her I wanted to visit her place, get a tour of the junkyard and the town. We need to go over every possible lead since I don’t know a soul in Caulfield. At least with Adela, I knew the family and had her father’s okay.”
“When are you going to see her?”
“Tomorrow. Wanna come?”
Tuesday’s usually the day I watch Sophie but not this week. My mother, the weather fan, already informed me no storms are in the forecast for the next couple of days although it’s supposed to be damn cold.
“I’ll think about it. Sounds like it could take hours. But I would like to see this junkyard.”
“Yeah, I hear it’s a whopper. Besides, I need your ears and eyes on Annette. You didn’t let me down with the last case. We make a good team.”
My mother smiles.
“That’s right, Isabel.”
At the Junkyard
My mother reads out loud the directions I wrote as I drive the next morning to Caulfield. I’m glad she decided to come. Along the way, we talk over what little we have on the case and more about family stuff. She mentions going home, which she still calls the town where she lived most of her life, to see my brother and his family for a week or so. My sisters live on the West Coast. The last time Ma left, just before Thanksgiving, I hooked up with Jack and had a whole lot of fun. That seems a long time ago although it isn’t.
My mother’s impression is that Caulfield is in the sticks. I agree. The town is heavily wooded, except for a few houses and mobile homes off the main road. There is the obligatory New England center: a town hall, highway garage, and a Congregational church, all named for Caulfield, no less. I don’t see any schools, but this being such a tiny town, I imagine the kids who live here are bused elsewhere. There isn’t a general store, but as the Bald Old Fart informed me, Caulfield does have a gas station with two pumps called the Pit Stop. The owners must be NASCAR fans, so I am anticipating real country folk. Ah, yes, I spot a doublewide mobile home behind.
The roads are clear to the pavement when we take a left onto Cutter Road, the second after the Pit Stop, then a right after two miles to Maple Ridge Road, which is snow-covered. Annette told me it’s a dirt road that rides a whole lot better in the winter when the snow fills in the ruts and potholes.
“You’ve got all-wheel drive on that Subaru,” she assured me over the phone yesterday. “You’ll do just fine.”
After 1.8 miles, my mother points toward a sign: ROUGH WATERS GARAGE AND JUNKYARD.
“That’s the place,” I say.
I drive through the gate, and as Annette told me over the phone, we wait in my car because her dogs will be loose. She has four, all mixed breeds but predominately German shepherd, which circle my Subaru and bark their heads off. These are junkyard dogs, loyal to their owner and suspicious of anyone else, including two women in a Subaru.
I gesture toward a cabin with weathered clapboards and beside it, a garage. Beyond them, junk cars stretch in three long rows over the snow.
“My, this is one huge junkyard,” Ma says. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
Annette walks from the garage and calls on her mutts to follow her to a pen. My mother and I venture out after she shuts its gate.
“Thanks for the warning,” I tell Annette.
“They’re just doing their job,” she says before greeting my mother.
“Did your father have dogs?” I ask.
“Uh-huh. Buster. He was one big son of a bitch, almost a pure German shepherd. Buster wasn’t here the morning I showed up after the fire. I thought it was strange, but I was only thinkin’ about Pop and the fire.” She squints as the sun coming through the bare trees washes over her face. “I found Buster a couple of days later when I walked the yard. He was dead. Somebody broke his neck.”
Whoa. She’s hitting us with new information, and we just got out of my car.
“Did you tell anybody about the dog?”
She spits on the dirty snow.
“Eh, the marshal said it had nothing to do with the fire. Cops, too. They thought my Pop could’ve done it cause the dog was sick or somethin’. They were wrong. Buster was just fine when I saw him the day before, and my Pop sure loved that mutt. He’d never put a dog down that way. He would’ve given him a single shot to his head. He would’ve brought Buster’s body into the woods cause the ground was too frozen to bury him.”
“That seems odd to me, too.”
Annette rubs her red hands together. She stamps her feet on the snow.
“You’re damn right about that.” She tips her head toward her house. “Let’s go inside. I’ve got some coffee. We can have that talk.”
“Ma, you go first. I’m right behind you.”
Annette’s house is basically one long room. To the left of the door is the kitchen area with an apartment-sized stove and fridge. The counter and shelves are unfinished wood. To the right is a built-in table with four chairs. A couch, woodstove, and a TV are on the other end beyond a steep set of stairs leading to the second floor, where presumably Annette sleeps. The woodwork is rustic but durable. This place won’t fall down, and it’s small enough that the woodstove does its job to keep the place warm. I should know. I learned all about that stuff from Sam, who was a carpenter, make that a damn good carpenter as it says on his grave’s headstone.
Annette has her back to us as she stoops to feed the stove a couple of logs from a pile nearby. She adjusts the damper then turns around.
“This is nice and cozy,” my mother tells her.
Annette nods.
“Built it myself,” she says. “Hey, how about that coffee?”
Another cup of caffeine is definitely going to put me over the edge, but I say yes. Ma does, too. It’s all part of the interview process, making the person being questioned feel as comfortable as possible.
I fish my phone from my purse and hold it aloft.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation? It’s just easier that way.”
“Go ahead,” Annette says from the kitchen area. “I don’t give a shit.”
Her coffee is better than the store’s but not as good as mine. I drink it anyway. It’s time to get down to business. I want more details about the day she found her father’s body.
“First off, do you have a photo of your father? I’ll take a picture of it with my phone and print it out at home. I have a wall in my office where I tack up photos, clues, maps, whatever I find. I did it with my last case.”
She reaches across the table for a manila envelope and pulls out a glossy photo. It’s the one taken of her and her father that accompanied the profile in the Berkshire Bugle. How fitting she is the one trying to find some justice for her father. Annette must have requested a copy. Or maybe the reporter, Sean Mooney, did it as a favor. I used to do things like that, giving a free photo or extra copies of the newspaper after a story appeared. It often helped when I made a cold call later about something else.
“Here you go,” she says.
I snap a shot and check the image on my phone to make sure it’s usable.
“I saw this photo online. It went with that story that was in the Berkshire Bugle about your father. The photographer took a very nice photo of you two. What else do you have for me?”
She reaches for two more envelopes.
“This one has copies of the reports from the medical examiner, fire chief, and the cops.” She slides the second toward me. “This one has copies of the business records for the previous year, so you can see who owed him money. You need anything more?”
“These will be very helpful, Annette. Let’s start our interview. Ready?” I fire up the memos app on my phone. “You told me the month or so before the fire your father showed you some drugs and money he found in the trunk of a junked car. Was the car a recent addition or had it been here a while?”
She frowns as she thinks.
“It was one of those Jap makes, a ’78 Toyota Corolla. I believe it came in a coupla weeks before he found the stuff in th
e trunk.”
“Could you find me the paperwork on that, too?”
She smiles at Ma and me.
“It’s in the second envelope. Lucky the papers were in the garage and not his house.”
“Smart thinking. Go ahead. Tell me more.”
Her head swings from side to side.
“Weird though. Pop usually checks each vehicle pretty thoroughly. He figured anythin’ he found inside was fair game. I guess he didn’t with this car. When he took out the spare, he saw somebody had cut the rubber to hide the drugs and money inside.”
“Interesting. What did the drugs look like?”
“There was a bag of pills and a block of some white powder. I don’t think it was baby powder.”
“Could be coke or meth.”
“Pop only found it cause he needed a tire for one of the cars he was fixin’ up to sell.”
“Where did the car come from?”
“Some used car lot in the valley. Pop dealt with ’em all the time. People would bring in pieces of junk as trade-ins, or the dealership bought cars cheap at an auction that turned out to be in worse shape than they thought.”
I nod. The drugs and money could have belonged to someone who once owned the car and doesn’t live in the hilltowns.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m gonna ask you a lot of questions today and probably more in the future as we try to solve this case.”
“Shit, go ahead. I’m glad somebody’s takin’ this serious.”
“Do you think someone could’ve snuck in here and stashed the drugs and money after the car was dropped off?”
“Not if Buster, Pop’s dog, would let ’em.”
“What if the dog knew the person?”
“That’s a possibility.”
I glance at my mother.
“Can you think of anybody who didn’t get along with your father?”
Annette snorts.
“My Pop wasn’t the easiest person to like. A lot of people in town would have nothin’ to do with him. He got into it with some. He did take a shine to a few of the women in town after Mom died. Nothing serious. Just some dirty old man flirtin’. He would’ve liked you and your mother.” She laughs. “I made that list like you asked. He and the guy who runs a junkyard in Fulton hated each other’s guts. He’s on it. Let me get it.”
Redneck's Revenge Page 5
