Ghosts of the Past

by Mark H. Downer

“Well if you’re not responsible, and you believe your dad can keep the secret that narrows it down to his trusted friends.”

  Courtney knew her dad was not capable of something like this, and if she swore him to secrecy, he was certain to have abided by it. It has to be one of the others.

  “Look, Matt you may not believe me, but I swear to you that I had nothing to do with the things you’re accusing me of. I promise you that I spoke to one else other than my father. And I know my father. There is no way in hell that he could be involved with this at all.”

  Ferguson was skeptical, but recognized the sincerity in Courtney’s voice. “What do you know about the others?”

  “Not enough. I have met Jason Allen before, several times as a matter of fact, and I know my Dad thinks highly of him. Paul Keeney and Sotheby’s reputations are impeccable, and he’s been there for years. AXA is well known and respected for their art insurance products. As for Mr. Hancock, I have never met or heard of him before. Listen, are you so damn certain that Dr. Karl may not have mentioned it to anyone else.”

  Ferguson was not certain. He just couldn’t believe that Karl could be involved. However, he didn’t contemplate the possibility of Karl inadvertently letting the information slip. Maybe Courtney was right. Either that, or she was a superb liar. There was only one way to find out. “Let’s go see him!”

  “Who, Dr. Karl?”

  “Yeah. Both of us, you and me together. We’ll find out from him what he knows. Somebody’s responsible, and I want to find out who.”

  “That’s fine with me. I have nothing to hide. I had nothing to do with this. What are you going to do even if you do find out who’s responsible?”

  “I’m going to threaten them with the police. I’ve already written a synopsis of the events that have transpired and I’ve indicated that the focus of attention be directed at all of you.” Ferguson lied. He had no such written document at all. “And I can easily add Dr. Karl’s name as well. I’ve placed it with my will in case anything happens.” Ferguson lied again.

  “Well, once again you have nothing to be afraid of from me. I swear to you that my father and I have nothing to do with your troubles. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m very interested in the letter and the possible recovery of the art, but certainly not at the expense of stealing anything, much less trying to have you hurt. I don’t know what I must have been thinking, but I was hoping your visit here today might lead to something more along the lines of an invitation to dinner, not an accusation of attempted murder.”

  For the first time, Ferguson felt that he might possibly have made a mistake. Maybe he had falsely accused her without analyzing all the facts and everyone else involved. Nevertheless, the fact remained that she was still one of only two original people he confided in, and she could still be lying through her teeth. The dinner comment was intriguing, he thought.

  “Do you have time right now to visit Dr. Karl?” The mellowing of Ferguson’s tone did not go unnoticed by both of them.

  “I do. In fact, I’d welcome a visit to the professor.” Courtney picked up her phone, punched in a three-digit extension and told the receptionist that she and Ferguson were going to step out for an hour or two.

  With that, both of them rose, and without saying a word exited the museum and began the one-mile walk through campus to the Language Arts building.

  Chapter 8

  May 20, 2001. Louisville, Kentucky.

  The Ford Crown Victoria slowed as it approached the cluster of emergency vehicles crowded into the driveway and front yard of the modest one-story ranch house on Grandview Avenue. Detective Toby Shutt maneuvered through the opening of gathered neighbors and bystanders, created by two uniformed Jefferson County police officers.

  He parked behind one of the three police cruisers on the scene, killed the engine, and stepped out to greet one of several officers on the scene.

  “Hello David. Looks like we got ourselves a mess here.” Shutt addressed officer David Laise, who was shaking his head back and forth, as he flipped open a small steno pad in his left hand.

  “I think you could say that, Lieutenant. This is a real cluster fuck.” Laise replied.

  “Lay it on me. Start with the victims.”

  “We’ve got three males, all Caucasian, all deceased by the time we arrived an hour ago. Two appear to be in their early twenties, the other is an older chap, in his late seventies. The house belongs to the older one.”

  Shutt turned and started to walk toward the front door, waving his hand at Laise to follow. “Keep talkin’.”

  “The old one appears to have been killed from a knife wound to the neck. The other two took single rounds each to the head, I’m guessing a mid-caliber handgun. They’re all in the kitchen.”

  “What do you mean you’re guessing?” The two of them entered the house.

  “We can’t find the gun. We have the knife. The positioning of the bodies,” Laise paused, “it just doesn’t look right.”

  “Somebody else?”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  Toby Shutt had been on the Jefferson County police force for 22 years, the last six in homicide. This afternoon he was tired. He had not slept well again for the third night in a row and his partner had taken a personal day, which left him working his ass off at the station. He was starting to feel the effects of being in his forties. At 6'4”, he was imposingly tall, but the once muscular frame had started to settle around his midsection. Between the rigors of police work, raising three children and dealing with a very demanding wife, he had no time left to take care of himself. He still had a full head of red hair, though, and a healthy, ruddy complexion to match.

  The Jefferson County force, which had jurisdictional assignment to the suburban sections of the Louisville metropolitan area, did not encounter a significant number of homicides. The majorities of the fifty or sixty murders annually in Jefferson County were committed in the city limits, and therefore, were covered by the City of Louisville police force. Nevertheless, Shutt was well respected in both agencies for his ability to detail and analyze a crime scene, and had a superior track record for solving crimes that took place in the county’s jurisdiction.

  There was nothing pleasant about a murder, especially a multiple murder. This one was no different. Shutt had learned to anesthetize himself to the grizzly scenes, and work as though there was no human element to the victims. Depending on the victims, that was either easy or very, very difficult. There was generally no gray area in between. His initial reaction to the two younger victims, as he entered the kitchen, was they looked like punks. He foresaw no problems getting emotional over this one.

  The paradox was almost comical. There were people everywhere. Dusting everything in site, bagging anything that look suspicious or related to the crime, photographs being snapped from every direction, and three people laying dead, that could easily been mistaken for furniture.

  There was no question there was another shooter, thought Shutt. The blood spray patterns on the two young males, the positioning of their bodies, led Shutt to conclude the shots came from where he was standing, on the other side of the kitchen table, just in from the foyer. The blood on one of the punk’s hands, along with the proximity of a long stiletto-type knife just off his fingertips, was sure to confirm that the old man was probably killed by the one with the bandage on his face. Why was that dude all bandaged up?

  Brian Crockett, from the coroner’s office belatedly noticed Shutt as he entered the kitchen and began surveying the carnage. “Hey Toby, how goes it?”

  “Good Brian and you?”

  “No complaints, except I was hoping to play golf this afternoon. Don’t think that’s gonna happen now.”

  “Can you fix the time?”

  “Earlier this morning, everything’s still pretty fresh. I understand the witness outside saw these tw
o arrive around eight. It had to happen shortly after that.”

  “Did you notice the patterns and entry wounds on those two?” Shutt pointed at Syron and Nieron.

  “Yeah. You’ve got somebody else that did these two. The old man took a knife in the jugular; my guess would be from this poor slob.” Crockett nodded his head in the direction of Syron, who still lay crumpled on the floor, a pool of dark, sticky blood surrounding his head. “Can we mark ’em and bag ’em?”

  “Have at it.” Shutt insisted.

  The Language Arts building had only been a ten minute walk through campus from the museum, but the silence between the two had made the time pass much slower. By the time Courtney and Ferguson arrived the hallways were filled with students breaking from class.

  Ferguson couldn’t help but notice the eye contact and turning heads Courtney was receiving from most of the male twentysomething’s as they shuffled out of the classrooms and down the halls.

  They reached Dr. Karl’ office, only to find it locked and no sign of lights or life inside. Without saying a word, Courtney looked diagonally down the hall, and without hesitation made off for the last door on the right in the corner.

  “He’s not here today, never showed up for class,” said a cute little blond female mingling with a group by the water fountain.

  “Thanks, did he give any reason?” Ferguson replied, quickly trying to catch up to Courtney.

  “No. Nobody’s heard from him,” as she vanished in a sea of other students.

  Courtney had already stepped into the open door, which yielded a small, silver-headed woman in her late-fifties or early-sixties, seated behind a congruence of metal desks and tables, busily typing on a computer while balancing a phone between her left shoulder and ear. “Hi Ms. Day.” Courtney whispered, bending over and offering a short wave with her right hand.

  Beth Day let go of the phone with her shoulder and caught it with her left hand, replacing it in the cradle. “Hello Miss Lewis.”

  “Please Ms. Day, Courtney!”

  “Only if you call me Beth!”

  “Fair enough.” Courtney conceded. “I didn’t mean for you to hang up so abruptly.”

  “Oh, it’s okay. I have been trying to raise Dr. Karl for the last several hours and I keep getting his internet answering machine. I already left him a message this morning, so I’m hanging up when it comes on.”

  “Is he at home?”

  “No one knows. He did not show up for classes and he has not called in. I tried his cell phone too, but there’s no answer. I’m beginning to get a little worried, he’s never done anything like this.”

  “But you think he might be at home?”

  “The line’s busy, but I have no way of knowing for sure. I thought I might drive by there when I finish up here, but that will be another couple of hours. I need to wait on his three o’clock class in case he doesn’t show up this afternoon.”

  “Well, I tell ya what”, Courtney waved her hand back and forth between herself and Ferguson, “We need to talk to him ASAP, and I’ve been to his house on several occasions for tutoring, so we’ll drive by there right now and report back to you what we find. How’s that?”

  “I sure would appreciate it Courtney. It’s just not like him to miss classes without touching base with me.” She scribbled a phone number down on a post-it-note and handed to Courtney, “You can reach me at this number. Thanks.”

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  The Taco Bell across the street from the Language Arts building could not have been a better coincidence for Carlos Garagua. He was beginning to get hungry just as Courtney Lewis and the young man accompanying her exited the museum on foot. The mode of transportation had caught him somewhat off guard, since he had expected her to leave via the parking garage in the sleek little Porsche.

  Nevertheless, the diversion of following them on foot had allowed him to dash into the fast feeder for something to eat. He had just paid for his order as he turned to see the two of them exit the large red brick building, and head back the way they had come. He quickly grabbed a handful of hot sauce packets and napkins, rudely pushed through the people waiting in line, and hurried out the door as he tried to keep pace as discreetly as he could.

  His surveillance took him back the same way he had come. Lewis and her companion re-entered the museum and Garagua returned to the rental car, parked in the fraternity row parking lot across the street, to relax and dispose of his now cold lunch. A brief conversation with Bolivar had provided directions to his location. He would be there within the next half hour to pick up the equipment and return to Lewis’ apartment.

  On the way back to the museum, it was mutually agreed upon, that since Ferguson’s house was on the way to Dr. Karl’s residence, they would follow each other to Ferguson’s, leave his car there and drive on together in Courtney’s car to visit Dr. Karl.

  Ferguson was not surprised when they returned to the museum’s parking garage that Courtney slipped into the well-polished, black Porsche parked next to his Explorer. The car fit her personality perfectly… fast, sleek, beautiful, and expensive. Courtney knew where Elmwood Lane was, and instead of following Ferguson home, she turned over the 6 cylinder, 300 horsepower German engine, and by backing out before Ferguson could even get his door open, indicated she was going to lead. Ferguson shrugged indifferently, climbed behind the wheel, and managed to stay relatively close behind.

  As she exited the garage and made a right turn onto Third Street, he emerged from the same exit and tried to catch up, figuring she knew the best way to I-65 from the museum. As he turned right in pursuit, a white Ford Taurus sedan, sitting across the street, hurriedly turned left in front of him, causing him to brake hard, and mutter a mild expletive at the “jerk” behind the wheel.

  It took him until the Zorn Avenue exit, almost eight miles from the museum and only a few miles from his house to pull up behind her. When they reached Elmwood Lane, she pulled over and allowed him to lead them to his home halfway down the first block. Neither one of them noticed the white Taurus pull onto the street behind them and drive on past as Ferguson led Courtney into his driveway.

  Securing his car in the garage, Ferguson returned to the Porsche, and the two of them headed for Dr. Karl’s. A considerable distance away, Gargua’s Taurus had turned around and was headed back to resume the tail. Pulling out behind him was a black, Ford Crown Victoria adding to the procession of cars following one another.

  Garagua keyed the one-way phone and spoke. “Julio?”

  “I hear you Carlos. What’s up?”

  “Just checking in. The girl has gone from the museum, to a walk around the campus, back to the museum, to a man’s house over on the northeast side of town, and I am now following this man and Miss Lewis in her car to God knows where. We’re headed further east on Brownsboro Road. She’s a busy little bitch.”

  “I don’t care where she goes Carlos, keep with her and keep in touch if anything suspicious comes up. I’ll relieve you when she comes home.”

  “I hear you boss. I’ll touch base with you later.”

  Dr. Karl’s was less than ten minutes away. The horde of police, emergency and crime scene vehicles were still there as Courtney and Ferguson pulled up to the yellow “Police” tape stretched in every direction in front of Dr. Karl’s yard, driveway and portions of the street. They both looked at each other simultaneously, and without saying a word, conveyed the concern and confusion that was starting to infect both of them.

  They exited the car together and approached the closest officer to them, who was chatting with some of the onlookers that refused to go away.

  “Excuse me officer,” Courtney interrupted, “What’s the problem here? Is Dr. Karl alright?”

  “We’ve got a triple homicide miss, that’s the problem. Do you know the owner of the house?” the young officer r
eplied, beginning to feel the exhaustion of the day creeping in.

  “Pardon me officer, maybe I can help here.” Shutt broke in as he was making his way back to his car and overheard the inquiry. “I’m detective Shutt. Did I understand you knew Mr. Karl?”

  “I know a Dr. Karl,” responded Courtney.

  “I’m sorry Miss… ?” Shutt fished for a name.

  “Lewis. My name’s Courtney Lewis.”

  “And you’re Mr. Lewis?” Shutt glanced at Ferguson.

  “No. I’m just a friend of Courtney’s,” Ferguson held out his hand, “Matt Ferguson.”

  Shutt shook his hand and then extended it to Courtney who returned the favor. “I’m afraid you knew him. He’s deceased.”

  “What happened?” Courtney persisted.

  “We don’t have all of the facts Miss Lewis, but we do know that he was murdered. How do you know Mr., excuse me Dr. Karl?”

  “I was a student of his. He’s a professor at U of L.”

  “I see. And how did you know where his home is?”

  “I’m not a student at U of L. I am an assistant curator at the Speed Art Museum. Dr. Karl was tutoring me in German. Sometimes it was more convenient for him to tutor me after work hours, which often meant I came to his house.”

  Shutt shook his head in affirmation and turned to Ferguson, “And did you know him?”

  “No, I’m just accompanying Courtney. She… we went to see him at his office on campus and he had not shown up. So she volunteered to drive out to his house to check up on him.”

  “Volunteered to whom?”

  “His secretary.” Courtney declared as she was dialing the number from Beth Day on her cell phone. “I’m going to let her know what’s happening.” As Beth came on the line, Courtney turned and walked away for some privacy as she relayed the horrible news.

  Shutt, pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights from inside his coat pocket, tapped one out, and gestured to Ferguson, who declined. By the time he had it lit, Courtney had returned.