The Peace Haven Murders

by M. Glenn Graves

  While I was in the midst of formulating my next move, there was a knock on the door to my expensive hospital room.

  “They don’t lock it,” I said.

  The door eased open and Uncle Walters entered my chamber of pain and horrors.

  “Perhaps you could have used my help after all. Not enough brawn?”

  “I was surprised.”

  “No doubt. Prognosis?”

  “Long life despite the cinder block.”

  “You might want to consult another doctor. Given your profession, a long life is certainly no walk in the park.”

  “He’s young and limited in knowledge of my involvement with crime.”

  “Tell me about the cinder block.”

  “Never saw it. I think I was blindsided. Could have been worse.”

  “Much, I dare say. I came by to see if you were going to live.”

  “You had doubts?”

  “I only had questions. I have never doubted your ability to survive the horrors of evil men and their dastardly deeds.”

  “Women, too. They can do dastardly things quite well.”

  “I am sure. I also came by to bid you farewell. I must return to Boston. One of my business ventures has encountered a snag and needs some attention. If you like, I can return in a day or so. I am sure that I can handle said snag forthwith.”

  “My, my. I envy the pace of your handling. I can’t ever recall solving anything forthwith.”

  “I contacted that dear, sweet lady from across the hallway of your apartment. She said that she would be happy to fed and walk Mr. Sam, your four-legged friend.”

  “Mrs. Murphy.”

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Murphy, of course. You will take care, dear Clancy. There are people who love you.” He kissed my forehead and then eased out of the room. “Call if you have need of my assistance.”

  I found my clothes in the closet, dressed and checked myself out without much hassle. I avoided the nurse’s station and used the stairs. Since I had no car keys, I called a cab and headed to my apartment where I felt a little safer.

  Sam was sleeping spread eagle on his back when I opened the door. He rolled over, wagged his tail, and then returned to his optimum sleeping position.

  “I read the hospital report and listened in on the police scanner. So, tell me, how are you?” Rogers generally stayed ahead of me on current events, except my health condition. There was no streaming CNN news bulletin across the internet for her to read on that. Every other piece of information available was at her disposal. Her unique computer skills, to turn a phrase, were rather daunting, to say the least. I suppose you could also say that Rogers was self-driven and self-motivated. Understated at best.

  “I’ll live this time,” I said.

  “And their weapon of choice to conk you?”

  “I believe a cinder block was chosen to conk me.”

  “I have no specifications on cinder blocks, but I can check.”

  “Don’t bother. It requires no license to use.”

  “But very effective.”

  “My head still hurts.”

  “But you are alive.”

  “Timing is everything. I was finally saved by the cops, I suspect.”

  “The cavalry arrives in the nick of time just like the movies.”

  “When do you have time to watch movies?”

  “When I’m not chasing down dead-ends for you. What else is there?”

  “I should have known. Have you dug up anything I can use on the Sizemore Corporation?”

  “Nothing that strikes me as useable or definitive.”

  “Give me what you have.”

  “It’s too much to tell. How about a printout?”

  “Print it. I’ll make some decent coffee while you work.”

  “Sounds all too familiar to me.”

  I ignored her snide remarks, or tried to usually. I wonder if all artificially intelligent computers possess a superiority complex. It might go with the program or the design. Hard to say, but since I knew of no others outside of what I imagined my standup, forthright, and otherwise blameless government might be producing or utilizing, I had nothing to compare Rogers to. I decided long ago just to live with her ego. She was, after all, the best silent research partner a detective could have, idiosyncrasies aside. I say silent loosely.

  I poured over twenty-plus pages of data on the Sizemore Corporation and picked up only tangential stuff while I consumed four cups of coffee. The most obvious thing was that this corporation was apparently not a front for some other shady businesses. As far as I could tell, they were legit. In fact, their bottom line was quite good over the past five years. With my shrewd detective skills I determined that they were probably not behind whatever it was that was happening at Peace Haven. Whatever that was. Somebody was doing something terribly wrong. I must have gotten close to whatever that wrongness was or else someone with a grudge from my past was gunning for me. Hold that thought.

  “I’m going back to Clancyville,” I said to Rogers when I finished reading the boring data sheets from the Sizemore Corporation.

  “You and the dog?”

  “Just Rosey and me.”

  “Oh. Him. I think he’s dangerous.”

  “Likely. But how do you mean that?”

  “Well, anyone that good looking, that intelligent, and that strong has to be dangerous in some sense.”

  “I’m glad you don’t talk to him.”

  “I’m always tempted. So much to say, so little time to say it.”

  “Line from a movie?”

  “Close proximity,” Rogers said.

  17

  Rosey insisted on driving if he had to go. No problem for me since he also insisted on taking the Jag. We were cruising down Highway 58 going west. It was a warm, slightly breezy fall day. The colors along the scenic highway were extraordinary. I looked in the rear view mirror to check on Sam. It was at that moment I remembered that I had left him with Rogers. Mrs. Phoebe Murphy, my apartment neighbor, readily agreed to check on him for his daily rounds of nourishment and take him for walks. I left him in good hands. Sam slept too much to get bored, but if perchance that might happen, Rogers could always be counted upon to engage him in conversation just to keep him alert. I missed him. I was pleased that my friend Rosey was with me, but I missed my dog.

  “Anderson didn’t tell you not to leave town?”

  “Not this time.”

  “I am sure he suspects you of something irregular.”

  “I confessed to shooting someone, but he doesn’t believe me.”

  “No blood, no body. Must be his suspicious nature.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  “Only because you are a woman of impeccable honesty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you lost your gun.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “You’ve never lost anything that I can remember. You’re very possessive. Especially with your guns.”

  “They’re important in my line of work.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “Besides, if they fall into the wrong hands, then I have more work to do.”

  “But the money keeps rolling in.”

  “It’s not about the money. Besides, no one is paying me for this case.”

  “I know. Makes me wonder how you will pay my expenses.”

  “Keep a tab. I’ll owe you.”

  “Like a bar.”

  “That’ll work. You want to know the little I know?”

  “All information helps,” he said.

  I filled Rosey in on what tidbits of nothing I had gleaned from my document reading earlier in the day. It was now mid afternoon and we were trying to arrive in Clancyville for a late supper with my mother. I called ahead to warn her of our arrival. She scared me when she sounded pleased that both of us were coming. My mother’s lack of enthusiasm over most issues in life was seldom understated. I honestly believe my mother could look the Grim Reaper in the face and have a
chat with him over the mechanics of his life’s work. Her coolness under adverse circumstances was legendary in Clancyville.

  “I forgot something important,” Rosey said somewhere around South Boston.

  “No backup fire power?”

  “Naw. The trunk is loaded for war. I forgot to tell you that the police found a body.”

  “My body?”

  “No, the other one.”

  “Barnok? The guy the police questioned and then released?”

  “The same.”

  “What condition?”

  “Dead.”

  “How so?”

  “Head shot. From the back. Hands tied behind him. Very clean.”

  “Where’d they find him?”

  “Virginia Beach. Some wooded area off of Highway 44.”

  “They take no prisoners, huh?”

  “And tolerate few mistakes.”

  “Like missing me?”

  “That could be one.”

  “You know I’m onto something here.”

  “Why do you think I’m riding along?”

  “Batman and Robin.”

  “Sometimes feels more like Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “We’re not robbing banks.”

  “But we shoot people.”

  “Yeah, and that bothers me. Got to be a better way to thwart our adversaries.”

  “We could use cinder blocks.”

  “You think that was them?”

  “I do.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Tell me again about the old woman you saw rooting around in the dumpster.”

  “Not much to tell. She had a shopping cart. She was standing on the cinder block so she could reach over into the dumpster to retrieve her treasures.”

  “Can you see her now?”

  “I have an image.”

  “Do you see her shopping cart?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is it in relation to her and the dumpster?”

  “Between the woman and me.”

  “What’s in the cart?”

  “I don’t know. Stuff. I think.”

  “Close your eyes and try to recall. You can see the cart. Is it full or half full or empty?”

  I closed my eyes. “It’s empty,” I said.

  “And the woman, what is she wearing?”

  “And old coat. Something on her head.”

  “She’s standing on the cinder block, leaning over into the dumpster. Right?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be a …”

  “What?”

  “She’s wearing black flats. Street people don’t wear black flats.”

  “Perhaps not, but they wear what they can find. Can you see into the dumpster?”

  I closed my eyes again in an effort to capture the image of the old woman behind the building leaning into the dumpster trying to retrieve the coat.

  “I see that it is partially full.”

  “Why is she standing on the cinder block? She short?”

  “About average, I’d say.”

  “But not your height.”

  “No. Shorter. Five feet … six, maybe.”

  “Is the dumpster on the ground or on some blocks?”

  “Ground.”

  “So the average height of a dumpster is close to five feet, maybe less. And she was average height…”

  “She was using the block for leverage, I think.”

  “Or to hide something from you inside the dumpster, something she could easily retrieve by the added height, thus providing her with a better angle.”

  “You’re thinking a gun?”

  “I am.”

  “Then why did she not shoot me? Why hit me with a cinder block?”

  “Maybe she had the gun hidden in the dumpster, and somehow the gun slipped down into the dumpster. If that happened, then she would have to use whatever was available. Things often happen fast as you know. Maybe she ran out of time. Tell me, did you hear the police siren?”

  “Guns came out the back door. I yelled for him to stop. He turned and raised his rifle. I shot him three times. Something hit my head and all went black. I woke up in the hospital.”

  “No siren, huh?”

  “I don’t remember a siren. How long did it take you to get to the back of the building once you heard the shots?”

  “Several minutes. I was in dialogue with Barnok.”

  “I’ll bet that was stimulating.”

  “You mean besides his mantra of ‘I ain’t sayin’ nutin’?”

  “Besides that.”

  “Somewhere in my interrogation of Barnok I heard the shots. So I dragged him along with me towards the back of the building. It took us a few minutes to get to where you were.”

  “So you saw nothing once you opened the back door?” I said.

  “It took a second or two to survey the back. I saw you and the policeman.”

  “What was the policeman doing?”

  “He was searching your clothing. Looking for identification? Son of a gun.”

  “What?” I said.

  “When he stood up, he had a gun in his hand. I naturally assumed it was his gun.”

  “Maybe it was.”

  “His gun was holstered. I can see it now. There was a gun in his hip holster and a gun in his hand.”

  “So why did Anderson ask me the whereabouts of my gun if the police had it?”

  “I’d say the police don’t have it.”

  “The policeman didn’t turn it in at the station? Maybe that policeman was not a policeman?”

  “What a great sleuth you are.”

  “Me and Holmes are tight.”

  “Correct grammar notwithstanding,” Rosey said.

  “So, if the policeman was not the real thing, and you turned Barnok over to him …” I began making some conclusions.

  “Hold on there. I didn’t turn Barnok over to that first cop. The second police cruiser arrived with Anderson and another detective, and I turned him over to them. The first policeman left shortly after the two detectives arrived.”

  “Left with my gun.”

  “Probably.”

  “And how do you think the street lady got away so fast?” I said. “Wait, I’ve got it. She probably hid in the police cruiser of the phony cop. You must’ve arrived just after she climbed into the car, and the phony cop only had enough time to retrieve my gun, talk to you to make himself look official, and then get outta Dodge.”

  “There you go, sleuthing again,” Rosey said.

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Very well, I must say. That is, when you are not made unconscious by cinder blocks.”

  “I need to call Anderson,” I said as I punched in the numbers of his cell phone from memory. “Did you talk with Anderson?” I said while I waited for Anderson to answer his phone.

  “He asked questions and I answered them. I was actually more focused on getting rid of Barnok and making sure that you were okay.”

  “I’m grateful for your ... Detective Anderson,” I said interrupting my intended remarks of appreciation to Rosey, “I have something to confess.”

  “Should I write this down and make it official?” Anderson said.

  “No, just listen. The policeman who was first on the scene was not a real cop.”

  “How would you know that? You were unconscious.”

  “True. But Rosey and I have been reconstructing the scene behind the apartment building, and a phony cop makes sense of my story to you.”

  “These are doubting ears, but I’m listening.”

  “The phony cop arrives, sees the dead man I shot, Guns Gilroy. The cop comes over to me, takes my gun. While he’s doing this, the street lady, the one with the shopping cart, hides inside of his cruiser because she hears your siren, and maybe she knows that Rosey is about to appear from inside the building.”

  “Dramatic.”

  “I do my best.”

  “And creative, too.”

  “Thank you. The details fit.”

&nb
sp; “To your story. But I’m looking for the truth. I’m not interested in covering up facts.”

  “And what would I be covering up? I told you already that I shot a man three times.”

  “Is this all you got?”

  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Plus a whole lot of stuff you don’t.”

  “But it all fits.”

  “I’m not into stories. I want facts.”

  “Okay. Don’t believe me. But here’s the truth – someone took my gun after I shot a man three times. I was nearly killed in the process of defending myself.”

  “So you say.”

  I was not happy with Anderson’s attitude toward my conjectures.

  “Did you learn anything from Barnok while you still had him in custody?”

  “Whataya think?”

  “Do you think I killed him after you let him go?”

  “That would have been harder to do. You were still in the hospital.”

  “So you believe me?”

  “Some. Just not all.”

  He clicked off his phone before I could end with tasty sarcasm.

  “The man’s an imbecile.”

  “Because he doesn’t believe your storyline?”

  “That, plus … other things. Give me time, I’ll think of something.”

  “It’s a good story.”

  “You don’t believe me either?”

  “Of course I do. But then, I’m your friend. I would believe you even if you were lying to me.”

  18

  “Joe Pearson died this morning,” my mother said in a rather flat tone as we sat around drinking coffee after supper. Besides being a former Navy S.E.A.L., an excellent marksman, tall and handsome, Rosey could cook. He prepared a great vegetable medley that went well with his baked chicken and rice dish. The bottle of Pinot Grigio we bought in Emporia went well with his feast.

  “He ran the gas station downtown,” I added for Rosey’s benefit. “He wasn’t very old, was he?”

  “Sixty-nine,” Rachel said.

  “That’s fairly young. Bad health?” Rosey inquired.

  “Peace Haven,” my mother said with a slight attitude.

  “Mom, you can’t suspect everyone who dies in that facility to be a murder victim.”

  “It smells funny.”

  I looked at Rosey for some help in persuading my mother that she was going too far. He raised his eyebrows without saying a word.