Traces of the Past

by Steve Laracy

  “Hello, Pard,” said Felicity. “How’s my favorite pooch.”

  Pard turned and looked at me with an expression that said he wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but he’d never seen it before. I recognized the expression since this is commonly how people look at me.

  “Milo,” said Sam, “I won’t be able to help you today since I have to babysit Skipper. I promised Mom I would watch him this morning if she would drive me over to Bell City this afternoon.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “Take the day off. What are you going to do in Bell City?”

  “I want to do a little research at the Bell City library. Mom’s having lunch with Dad while I’m at the library.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And by the way, I think you should stay away from Mr. Costello for now. No more tail jobs.”

  Sam agreed and then Skipper broke in. “Do you have a gun?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t, Skipper,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Mr. Costello says he has a gun,” Skipper said. “I asked him and he said yes and patted his jacket pocket.”

  “Well, he was just kidding,” I said, not with much certainty.

  “I don’t know. He looks like he would have a gun,” said Skipper as he and Sam ran out the door, followed by Pard.

  “Now I’m starting to worry,” said Felicity. “Maybe I should ask Mr. Costello to leave.”

  “I wouldn’t. He has done nothing, and he’ll be easier to keep an eye on if he stays here. Any chance I could get a look at his room?”

  “I don’t think so. I always protect the privacy of my guests. As you say, he hasn’t done anything.”

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “However,” Felicity continued, “this is the day I change the linens in the guest rooms. I guess it wouldn’t do any harm if you want to help.”

  “I’d be happy to,” I said, catching her meaning.

  We headed upstairs, and Felicity grabbed a feather duster and some fresh linens from the hall closet and handed them to me.

  Costello’s room was unlocked, which was evidenced by the fact that the door, like the doors on all the other rooms, didn’t have a lock. The room was the same as mine, homey without much furniture. The one extra feature in his room was a roll-top desk in one corner, with a matching chair.

  I helped Felicity change the sheets on the bed, and while she was dusting, I looked around.

  I found a leather briefcase under the bed, but this was locked. A battered suitcase in a corner of the room was also locked. Obviously, Costello was not a homebred Cordobian. Finding not much of interest in the rest of the room, I turned my attention to the desk. Some of the drawers had keyholes, but by now I was sure that no key existed. I was correct and an inspection of the drawers on the right side of the desk turned up nothing. The top left-hand drawer held a copy of yesterday’s Daily Racing Form. I inspected it and found, as Sam had, that Costello had circled horses to bet on for some of the races. Felicity looked over my shoulder as I inspected the racing form. The scent of her perfume made it difficult for me to concentrate.

  “He’s not much at picking the horses,” I said. “Some of his picks are real nags and don’t have a chance of placing. And who was he placing bets with on the phone?”

  “A better question is,” Felicity added, “where did he get a current copy of the racing form? It’s not the type of paper Phil sells at the general store. Maybe the horses circled are some sort of code.”

  “Interesting, but I doubt it. We’re getting a little carried away here.” I replaced the racing form in the drawer and opened the drawer underneath. This was also empty except for one item—an empty gun holster.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked Felicity.

  “Yes,” I responded.

  “What kind of gun would fit in there?”

  “Probably a .45,” I said, since I think I heard that caliber mentioned on a TV detective show. I had no idea, but my vanity required that I provide an answer.

  I replaced the holster and rolled up the top of the desk.

  The desk surface was empty as were all the various cubbyholes except one, which contained some receipts: one was for a plane ticket from Newark, New Jersey, to Las Vegas, and the other was a receipt from a car rental company in Las Vegas. Both listed his name as Carmine Costello with an address in Bayonne, New Jersey.

  “Well, at least Costello is his real name,” said Felicity.

  “Not necessarily,” I responded. “He could have used false identification for the plane and car. But the New Jersey address is interesting. That’s where Frank Blaine came from.”

  As we left Costello’s room, Felicity said, “Maybe you should confront him about the gun. You are the sheriff now.”

  “What for?” I responded. “That isn’t illegal if he has a permit. And he hasn’t broken any laws that we can prove. Better just keep our eyes on him.”

  Finding nothing else of interest, we continued to the other rooms, including mine, to change the rest of the linens. There was nothing of interest in any of these rooms, including mine.

  > CHAPTER 18

  TROTZ FLYING ACADEMY

  Deciding I better start earning my salary, assuming I was getting paid, I said good-bye to Felicity and walked over to the municipal building. Ben was not in his office and the rest of the building was empty, so I went to the sheriff’s office. It was the same size as the mayor’s office, with the main furnishings again being a desk and chair and accompanying visitor’s chairs.

  The one jail cell was in the back, and I was relieved to see there was a key to the cell—to my knowledge, the one and only key in the town of Cordoba—hanging next to the cell door.

  I examined the drawers to the desk and found only an old roadmap of the surrounding area, a few pencils, and a small notepad that had the name Harry’s Service Station printed on the top along with Harry’s Bell City address.

  On top of the desk was a small calendar made of cardboard, also from Harry’s Service Station, which would prove useful if a time machine appeared and transported me five years into the past.

  Finding nothing else interesting in the office, I turned my attention to the parachute lying in the corner, concentrating my inspection on the area that appeared to have been tampered with. To my untrained eye, it appeared that the harness may have been cut through, but it could have just been natural wear. Upon closer inspection, I noticed several small holes on both sides of the area where the harness was ripped.

  As I was deciding what to do next, I heard the front door open and Ben appeared in the doorway.

  “Hard at work, I see,” he said. “I stopped in to take care of some official business before heading over to the diner.”

  There was no need to ask what the official business was, since I saw a new comic book sticking out from his coat pocket.

  “Do you mind if I borrow your car again?” I asked. “I’d like to take a drive over to Bell City and see some people.” I was sure the sheriff’s job did not come with a police car.

  “Sure, go ahead,” said Ben.

  “Thanks. And maybe you can give me some directions. How do I get to the airport?”

  Ben grabbed the pad and a pencil from the desk and drew a crude map as he gave me the instructions.

  “How about the medical examiner?” I continued.

  “His office is in the hospital.” Ben ripped off the first page and drew another map.

  I asked Ben if he knew Annie Webster’s address.

  “I don’t, but I can get it for you,” Ben said, motioning for me to follow him to his office. He pulled a yellow phone directory from his desk drawer. The cover had Bell City—Cordoba—Chiquita printed in large letters on the front and looked to be about twenty pages thick.

  Ben copied the address to the Webster residence on a pad from his desk. His pad was also from Harry’s Service Station.

  I said good-bye to Ben and went back to the sheriff’s office. I grabbed the parachute, threw it in t
he trunk of Ben’s car, and headed to Bell City.

  About twenty minutes later I pulled into the parking lot of the Trotz Flying Academy, on the outskirts of Bell City. The Academy consisted of one hangar with a small office attached. A short, paved runway was positioned next to the hangar. Through the open door, I could see a single small, one-propeller plane. I assumed it was the one that dropped Billy at the fair.

  The sun was doing its usual job of frying everything in its path as I got out of the car and headed to the office, which was no cooler than the temperature outside. I wondered if folks in these parts were aware that a thing called air-conditioning had been invented.

  The office of the Trotz Flying Academy was similar in size and appearance to Hector Suarez’s office at the gas station, except for a lack of worms. The man sitting behind the desk was much older than Hector but had the same paucity of teeth. He had a few strands of wispy gray hair, and when he stood up, he had a slumped-over appearance.

  “Mr. Trotz?” I asked as I entered.

  “That’s me,” he responded. “Harold Trotz at your service, but everyone calls me Turkey, as in Turkey Trotz. Get it?”

  I assured him I did. “My name is Milo Forbes and I’m the sheriff in Cordoba.”

  “Didn’t know Cordoba had a sheriff,” Turkey interrupted.

  “It’s only temporary,” I said, keeping to myself that I would resign my position and be out of town as soon as my car was ready to go. “I’m investigating the Billy Webster accident.”

  “Terrible, terrible. Billy was a nice kid. Can’t figure out what might have gone wrong.”

  “Were you flying the plane?”

  “Yup. Not too many people around here can fly a plane. Jim Turner from over in Chiquita is the only person in the area besides me that has a pilot’s license.”

  I ignored the fact that the flying academy didn’t seem too successful. “Did you notice anything unusual or out of the ordinary about Billy yesterday?”

  “Nope. As a matter of fact, he was in a better mood than I’ve seen him in for a while. He’s had medical problems but said he was doing better.”

  “What type of problems?”

  “Cancer, I think, but he didn’t talk about it much. Lost his hair for a while. I figured it musta been that hemotherapy doin’ it.”

  “Did you inspect the parachute before Billy’s dive?”

  “Nope. That’s Billy’s job and he always checked it out thoroughly before jumping.”

  “Did anyone else have access to the parachute?”

  “It sits on a shelf over there, so anyone who was in the hangar would have access, but we don’t get many visitors out here. Jim Turner was in a few days ago to go for a spin.”

  “Anyone else in the last week?”

  “Only Chief Baker. He comes out just to harass me. Always threatens to close me down if I don’t vote for him. He came in to check out the plane before the flight to make sure it was safe; like he would know what he was looking at.”

  “Let me show you something.” I led Turkey out to the car, opened the trunk, and pointed out the rip in the harness.

  Turkey whistled. “Looks like this has been cut partway through. See, the edges of the rip are smooth till you get to the top and then it looks more like a tear.” He looked closer and pointed to the sides of the harness where the tear was located.

  “Look here,” he said. “There’s some tiny holes punched on both sides of the tear, and it looks like pieces of ripcord material stuck in one of the holes.”

  “What do you make of it?” I asked.

  “Don’t know, but it almost looks like someone cut the harness most of the way through, then tied it together loosely with some rip cord.”

  “What would that do?”

  “Don’t know. My guess would be the harness would hold together, but once Billy jumped, the force of the descent and Billy’s movements might cause the harness to rip the rest of the way.”

  “Would this cause the harness to fall away?”

  “Don’t know, but it might.”

  “One last question. I’m aware that you don’t know, but wouldn’t Billy have noticed this when he inspected the parachute?”

  “As you say, I don’t know, but it looks like the sort of thing Billy would notice, even though it was hidden under the buckle. Unless he was distracted or wasn’t thinking clearly. Which reminds me. Come with me.”

  I closed the trunk and followed Turkey back to his office. He reached in his desk, pulled out a hypodermic syringe, and placed it on the desk.

  “I found this in the back of the plane after the flight yesterday. I was going to give it to Chief Baker, but Billy was a good kid and I didn’t want his name mixed up with drugs. Besides, I halfway suspect Chief Baker planted it to incriminate Billy when he inspected my plane. There was no love lost between those two.”

  “Do you have a bag I can put this in?” I asked.

  “Only bag I got is my lunch bag, but you’re welcome to it.” He pulled a sandwich out of a small brown paper lunch bag and handed it to me. I lifted the syringe and placed it in the bag. At this point, I was worried more about my safety than evidence contamination since Turkey’s greasy fingerprints were noticeable on the syringe.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said as I headed back to the car, “and please don’t mention the needle or the parachute to anyone.”

  “You’re welcome, young man. My lips are sealed.” Turkey made an imaginary zipper movement across his lips. “I liked Billy. Hope you get to the bottom of this.”

  I was only hoping that my car was ready to go when I stopped at Harry’s later.

  > CHAPTER 19

  A TRIP TO THE HOSPITAL

  Bell City General Hospital is a three-story brick structure a block off the main road, which continued to be called Main Street.

  The medical examiner’s office was on the second floor in the rear. The name on the door read Philip Baker, MD. Any doubts about whether he was related to Chief Baker were eliminated by a photograph of the two of them posing for a picture on the golf course. The family features also shone through in the pug nose and crew cut.

  After I introduced myself and Dr. Baker checked my credentials, I said, “I see you know Chief Baker.”

  “He’s my brother,” Dr. Baker responded brusquely.

  I then asked him if he had examined Billy Webster’s body.

  “My preliminary examination is completed,” said the doctor. “I’m afraid we don’t have the staff and resources to do things as quickly as they do in the city.”

  “Did you find anything in the initial exam?”

  “No bullet holes or anything like that, if that’s what you mean,” he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “All indications are that Billy died from the impact when he hit the ground. I found nothing unusual in the condition of the body.”

  “Will you be doing an autopsy to confirm the cause of death?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary considering the circumstances. And as I said, we don’t have the resources.”

  I thought about telling Dr. Baker that he may want to do a toxicology report based on the syringe that was found in the plane. I decided against this, as I didn’t think that would spur Dr. Baker to action, and I didn’t want word of my evidence getting back to Chief Baker.

  The heat felt even more intense as I exited the hospital. I realized that it was the first air-conditioned building I had been in since I arrived in Cordoba. But then again, I wasn’t sure if that was air-conditioning or the coolness Dr. Baker had displayed toward me.

  My next stop was Harry’s Service Station on Main Street. When I arrived, I noticed that my car was up on the rack and a mechanic was working underneath.

  I walked into the office, which was decorated with greasy handprints. Harry was behind the desk. I asked him if there was any progress on my car.

  “Just a sec,” he said, cigarette dangling from his lips, “I’ll check with Chuck and see how it looks.” He got up and
headed to the repair shop. I watched through the window as he approached Chuck. They had a short conversation and Harry returned.

  “May be done today, if not tomorrow or the next,” said Harry. “Depends on if Chuck has any trouble getting the new axle in.”

  At least we were making progress. “Thanks,” I said. “Keep me posted.” As I walked out, I realized that during my entire visit, including the time Harry spent talking to Chuck, Harry had not once removed the smoking cigarette from his mouth.

  > CHAPTER 20

  SAM ON THE CASE

  It was now about noon, so I strolled down Main Street to find a place to eat. A few blocks down I came across the Bell City Public Library. I remembered that Sam had come to Bell City to do research this morning, so I stepped inside to find her.

  There was a large circular front desk in the circular lobby. To one side against the wall, there were ancient-looking file cabinets, where I was sure for countless years Bell City and Cordoba students had waged a never-ending battle against the Dewey decimal system.

  Branching off in several directions around the radius of the lobby were several rooms. Above each room, carved into the woodwork with elaborate lettering, was a description of the books contained therein. I started on the left. The first room was titled “Fiction”. I peered in at the rows of books but decided this was not the place to find Sam. The carving above the second room said “Humanities.” I wasn’t sure what this meant, but I passed this room up also. I continued my circuitous route around the library.

  The next room, toward the back, was titled “Research.” I decided this was as good a place as any to start and walked in. There were several rows of books, and to one side there was a wall of microfilm in little boxes and machines which I gathered were used to view and print the microfilm. I headed in that direction, pulled out a box of microfilm, and read the label, which read, “New York Times, Oct. 1939–Feb. 1940.” The boxes around it held earlier and later issues of the Times in sequential order.