The Cantor Dimension

by Delarose, Sharon

  Detective Gorman ran a check on Ellen and Jimmy. Their records were clean. He decided to follow through on Ellen's claim that she'd grown up with Pat. That meant they'd probably gone to school together. He made a note to check on that. "School records," he scribbled on his notepad.

  He emailed scans of the photographs of Pat as a child and as an adult to the main computer lab. If there were a missing girl anywhere in the United States that matched the photographs, the NCIC computer would know it. Maybe Ellen and Jimmy had picked up a hitchhiker and killed her. He doubted that were the case or they wouldn't have been so free with the photographs. Still, he'd wanted to be sure and cover all the angles.

  He sent the original photographs to the lab to check for authenticity. He frowned. Maybe he'd better run a check on Mr. Phillips and his wife. You never knew with people sometimes. Maybe Mr. Phillips did have a daughter, an illegitimate one, who had just now come forward to claim her birthright. Maybe Mr. Phillips had murdered Pat when she threatened to go public as his daughter. These things did happen. It was a strange world out there. What had Ellen said Pat's mother's name was? He thumbed through his notes. Ah yes, Norma. He added another note to his list, "Check high school records: Fred Phillips, Norma."

  He sat back in his chair to reflect on the different people involved in the case. In his eyes they were all suspects. He smiled. He was looking forward to cracking this case wide open. Criminals always thought they'd covered their tracks completely and planned their schemes flawlessly. Usually they were wrong. The main reason so many were still on the loose was that there just weren't enough cops to go after them all. There wasn't much more he could do until the lab results came back. The photographs were the key. He'd wait until he got the results before pulling Jimmy in for questioning.

  The next morning a manila envelope was waiting on Detective Gorman's desk when he arrived at the precinct. The lab results for the Phillip's photographs! He tore at the envelope and pulled out the report. The photographs fell out onto his desk. He quickly scanned the report. The lab tests had shown conclusively that the photographs were genuine and that the child Pat and the adult Pat were one and the same. He raised an eyebrow. Mr. Phillips obviously had something to hide. A long-term affair most likely, which produced an illegitimate daughter, who was now missing.

  It made sense. Since his wife Jeanne couldn't bear children he'd found a more fertile place to plant his seed, though Detective Gorman couldn't figure why he hadn't chosen a more attractive solution. Someone with Mr. Phillips' looks and money could have had his pick of women. Some people were hard to figure. Undoubtedly a man with Mr. Phillips' background and breeding would want someone to carry on his bloodline, however illegitimately, creating a potential scandal for himself and his wife. In his case, the scandal would be twofold for choosing so poorly. Pat probably wanted public acknowledgement from her father. Perhaps Mr. Phillips wanted the truth known, too. The only person who would want the skeleton to remain hidden away would be Jeanne Phillips, his wife. He moved her name to the top of the suspect list.

  Detective Gorman sent one of the clerks to investigate Ellen's schoolmates as well as Mr. Phillips'. He leaned back and gazed at the ceiling, hands clasped behind his head. These cases could get sticky when one of the parties involved was wealthy. These rich bastards would stop at nothing to hide their indiscretions... or their crimes. Their fancy lawyers could cut a poor cop to ribbons on the witness stand making him look like a blundering idiot. He hoped it wouldn't come to that.

  Two days later he had a copy of the school records in his hands. He was perplexed. He had called Ellen to verify that she and Pat had gone to school together. They had, but there was no Patricia Phillips listed in the school records. He'd even gotten a copy of the class pictures, none of which included a girl that resembled the photographs.

  Mr. Phillips' school records proved equally useless. There had been no one named Norma at his high school and no matching photograph. Mr. Phillips had been married to Jeanne since his early twenties and she had borne no children. Detective Gorman's search for the Volkswagen had been fruitless as well. He decided it was time to question Jimmy. He was overwhelmed with theories but he had no solid leads. He'd reached a dead end unless... he studied the class pictures from Ellen's school. It was a long shot but did Ellen have any class pictures that included Pat? He called her at work.

  "Ellen, this is Detective Gorman."

  "Hi, have you found anything?"

  "No, not yet, but I'm working on it. I was wondering, do you have any class pictures or yearbooks that include Pat?"

  "Yes! I'd forgotten! I don't keep them with my photo albums but yes, I'm sure I do."

  "Could you dig them out for me? I'd like to come by and look at them. I could meet you at your apartment at 5:30."

  Detective Gorman was anxious. He needed some sort of lead, something to prove that Pat existed.

  "Sure. I'll have them ready only you better make it 6:30. By the time I get home and dig through the closet for them..."

  Detective Gorman winced. He'd expected to be reclining at home with a hot toddy long before then. He hated working overtime especially around the holidays. "Okay, 6:30 it is."

  At 6:30 on the dot Detective Gorman was sitting on Ellen's sofa mesmerized by the class pictures she'd handed him. They were absolutely identical to the ones he had on his desk except that Ellen's included Pat and his didn't.

  "May I take these?" he asked quietly.

  "Well, okay, but I will get all my pictures back, right?"

  "Yes, of course. Thank you, Miss Beamon."

  It just didn't make sense. So far, the only concrete proof he had of Pat's existence were Ellen's photographs '96 photographs which had an uncanny "rightness" to them. It was time to question Jimmy.

  Table of Contents

  * * *

  Utica, Illinois

  As Chief Hunsinger didn't know where the Cromwell boy was staying he decided to pay a visit to the Darnell's just to see what he could learn. After all, he'd promised Lieutenant Cromwell he'd keep an eye on the boy and besides, impromptu visits often yielded interesting tidbits of information.

  The Darnell farm was surrounded by a hand-hewn log fence. He pulled up to the gate and as he got out to open it, an inhospitable Debbie appeared. She wore faded Levi's and a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Chief Hunsinger wondered at the grit of farmer's families in their shirtsleeves on the coldest of winter days. Debbie made no move to open the gate.

  "Don't bother, Chief. It is Chief, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Chief Hunsinger smiled, a friendly greeting on his lips.

  "Well Chief, what rumor are you chasing after this time? Or have you actually discovered hard evidence for a change?" Debbie's cold stare could have frozen lava in its track.

  "Come on, Miss Debbie. We stopped trying to solve that case a long time ago. I'm not here about your grandfather."

  "Good because he's not here anyway." Debbie turned to leave.

  "Wait! Wait a moment, please."

  She raised an eyebrow questioningly, arms folded across her chest. "Well?"

  "Well, I, um..."

  "That's what I thought. Look Chief Hunsinger, the only time the law ever bothered with us Darnell's was to badger Grandpa Doug or to harass my brother Nick. You're not welcome here, Chief. Unless you have a warrant or you're here to arrest someone, please leave."

  "Miss Debbie..."

  "My grandfather is dead. Can't you just leave it alone?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

  "I'll bet you're sorry. Your prime suspect number one is finally out of your reach. Even if he did it and got away with it, your case is closed now."

  "Debbie look, I'm gonna level with you. Yes, I think your grandfather killed Billy Starnes. He threatened to kill Billy and everyone heard him. Two weeks later Billy was dead. Even Emily suspected Doug and that's why they say she lost it. Only hard evidence pointing in another direction will make me change my mind about it but that
's not why I'm here. I came here to make peace with you and to let bygones be bygones. I've got nothing against you all."

  "Maybe we don't want to make peace, Chief."

  "Times are changing, Debbie. Crime is on the rise and you never know when you might need us. Look at all the burglaries that have taken place in the last few years. A regular rash of them, you might say."

  "Need you?" Debbie laughed. She let out a long, low whistle and several mean looking Dobermans came running. They stopped obediently at her feet waiting for her next order. "Sit!" Debbie ordered. The dogs sat in unison. "Now Chief, it's real simple. If the dogs don't get 'em, this will." Debbie lifted a shotgun that had been leaning against her leg. "See Chief, us Darnell's, we don't need you."

  "Okay, okay, I get the hint. You might change your mind someday but for now we'll leave it alone. I won't bother you again unless as you say, I've got hard evidence or I've come to arrest someone, and just so you understand Debbie, I'm not looking for evidence any more. I've got too many current cases to be worrying over something that happened nearly a half a century ago."

  "Good. I'm glad we understand each other." With that, Debbie turned and walked away, her long, straw blond hair flying in the breeze and seven Dobermans following closely at her heels.

  Chief Hunsinger offered up a silent apology to Lieutenant Cromwell. At least he'd tried. The next stop on his list was the Baker place. Chief Hunsinger had finally succeeded in locating a relative who may have heard of Ann Weissmuller. Thelma Baker was an ancient crone who shared a hovel in Lostant with a flock of chickens. She didn't have a telephone so he'd had to drive out to her shack in person. Thelma was Ann's aunt.

  A narrow dirt road passed through a thicket of trees. It was barely wide enough for a vehicle to maneuver. It had originally been a horse trail. The trees finally opened out into a small clearing where a split-rail log fence was all that stood between the shack and the surrounding woods.

  In the center of the clearing stood Thelma's place. Weatherworn boards barely shielded the tiny structure from the harsh, midwest winters. The shutters were closed giving the hovel an air of abandonment. Chickens squawked noisily around his feet in the hopes he'd throw them food. They were the only sign of life and they obviously associated people with feeding time.

  An old, bent woman came out of the hovel carrying a bucket, wearing a tattered black shawl which all but covered her fleshless face. She sounded like Granny Clampett when she spoke and he could imagine her chasing the chickens with a broom.

  "Marigold, you quit yer squawking, you old fussbudget!" she scolded. "Come on, Aster, come on over here. And Petunia! You ought to be ashamed o'yourself, bothering that man!"

  She reached into the bucket and scattered some grain on the ground. The clucking stopped instantly as the chickens dove for the seed. She put the bucket down and faced Chief Hunsinger, her black eyes keen in spite of her years.

  "Now who are you and whaddya want out here?"

  "Thelma Baker?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  "Mrs. Baker, I'm Police Chief Hunsinger from Utica. I'm trying to locate Ann Weissmuller. Her maiden name was Ansley."

  "What fer?"

  "Her son is missing and it appears that she is missing as well. No one in the family seems to have heard of her." He noticed the incongruity of his own statement and winced.

  Thelma paused, concentrating. Her face softened. "Ann. Yes, I remember Ann. She was my sister's girl in a manner of speaking. My sister Alice had been married for about two years and was pregnant with child. They had one daughter named Mary and were hoping for a son.

  "Alice believed she was carrying a girl and was planning to name the girl-child Ann, but Alice was shot by a burglar and she and her unborn baby Ann was killed. The girl-child never got to be born. Ann ain't missing, Chief. She lived her life up in heaven and I expect I'll be joining her soon."

  "What happened to your sister's husband Luke Ansley? Is he still around?"

  "Luke? Why I have no idea. He was a mess after Alice's killin'. He kept in touch for awhile but the memories was just too much for him. I heard he moved away somewhere down south."

  "You never kept in touch to see your niece Mary?"

  "Naw. I ain't much on kids and Luke was desperate to get away from the bad memories so I let them go peaceful-like."

  "Do you have any idea where? What state?"

  "No, I never asked. A man's got a right to his privacy."

  "Yes, well thank you Mrs. Baker. You've been a big help."

  Chief Hunsinger drove back through the thicket of trees toward the main road. He stopped at the mailbox to think. It appeared that the only Ann Ansley ever to have existed was the baby conceived by Luke and Alice Ansley - the baby that had never been born and who therefore could not be Eric's mother.

  His search for Ann had produced one dead end after another. He let out a long, frustrated sigh. His reprieve at Thelma Baker's mailbox wasn't accomplishing anything so he turned onto the main road and headed for the next stop on his list, wondering as he drove how Thelma Baker collected her mail.

  It was easily a mile from her mailbox to the hovel she called home. He shrugged and headed toward the Starnes' farm. It was his day to be out on the road. He enjoyed getting out of the stuffy office and breathing in a bit of fresh air so he often took care of these things in person rather than sending one of his officers. They didn't mind as it gave them more time to sit back at places like the diner Ed Stokes frequented.

  There'd been reports of strange lights bobbing in the windows of the Starnes' farm. Several neighbors had called to report the lights and one neighbor had even spotted a dark figure lurking about. Chief Hunsinger suspected that the Starnes' farm was the perfect hangout for teenagers experimenting with their first cigarette, their first bottle of whiskey, their first joint - or boys needing a place to take their girls without fear of interruption. It was the perfect teenage hideout.

  Chief Hunsinger pulled up to the front door and grabbed his flashlight. If teenagers were hanging out in there they'd leave evidence: cigarette butts, matches, condoms, beer bottles, whiskey bottles, roach clips. Even the absence of cobwebs would prove that someone had been moving around inside.

  The Chief had gotten a late start that day, not leaving the precinct until early afternoon. First he'd gone to the Darnell farm and then to Lostant to talk to Thelma Baker. Twilight was descending rapidly as he approached the front of the farmhouse. He wiggled the doorknob and as expected, it was locked. He aimed the flashlight through a crack between two boards over one of the windows. It was pitch black inside. A cold chill touched his spine and he shivered.

  "Damn, it gets dark way too early this time of year," he muttered. He circled the farmhouse looking for a more inviting window. There wasn't one. The back of the house was more menacing than the front. The witch-trees stood sentry at the back door, shielding it from the view of the neighboring farmhouses - he could see no one and no one could see him.

  The witch-trees were black and twisted and like a coven of witches, there were exactly thirteen of them. A neighbor had once set out to cut one of them down so that there wouldn't be thirteen but there'd been an accident with his chain saw and he'd lost three fingers. No one went near the witch-trees after that.

  Chief Hunsinger cautiously approached the back wall of the house. He found a narrow door which was barely tall enough for a man to walk through. The door was nailed shut. At his touch, a shower of paint chips skittered loudly onto the cement step. To the left of the door was a small shed that had been added onto the house - a rotted out building that bespoke of rats and whoopings and fiddleback spiders. The paint had peeled off long ago allowing the exposed wood to deteriorate until a man could grab a piece of siding and pull it off with his bare hands without even the aid of a crowbar.

  The door hung at a lopsided angle, held in place by the lower hinge. Chief Hunsinger peered into the dark recesses visible near the upper hinge, shining his flashlight through the wide gap.
Two glowing yellow orbs peered back in answer. The orbs leapt straight for the gap and Chief Hunsinger's face. He jumped back and nearly lost his footing. A black cat came sailing through the opening and bounded off into the witch-trees.

  "Holy shit!" he swore, watching the cat's hind end disappear into a clump of weeds at the base of a tree. He mopped his brow which was bathed in sweat. His hand was shaking badly. The Starnes' farm carried such an air of malevolence that it didn't need any ghosts to keep the townsfolk away. Police Chief Hunsinger walked briskly back to his car, locked all the doors, and returned to the precinct.

  The dingy office seemed almost cheerful after his bout with Debbie Darnell and the eerie presence of the Starnes' farm. Relaxation rolled over him in waves. Sitting safely in his office, the Starnes' farm with its witch-trees seemed almost a distant memory and he wondered why he'd let his imagination get the better of him. He grinned at his own frantic escape from a bunch of lousy trees. It was a moment he didn't intend to share with a soul.

  He needed to find Ann Weissmuller which had become almost more important to him than finding Eric. With this in mind he called Bob Weissmuller.

  "Mr. Weissmuller? Chief Hunsinger again. Say, what were your wife's parent's names?"

  "Ann's parents? Why, Luke and Alice Ansley, of course! Everybody knows that."

  "Do you know where I can find them?"

  "Well Luke passed on a couple years ago and is buried next to his folks. Died peaceful in his sleep, he did. Alice sold the farm and went back east to stay with her own people."

  "Did Luke ever live down south?"

  "Down south? Naw, Luke was a good man. He'd have never left his kinfolk to run after the city lights."