by Bill Noel
The rain had eased as I pulled in Charles’s parking lot. I asked if there was anything I could do for him and he mumbled something about nothing could be done. I reached over to pat his arm, but he opened the door and hopped out of the car before I could say anything else. He opened his apartment door and went in without looking back, and I sat in the car staring at his closed door.
I couldn’t do anything to help my friend but did have some thoughts I wanted to share with Chief LaMond about the two deaths. I called her cell phone and was rewarded when she answered. I asked if she had a few minutes to spare. She said no, but it had never stopped me from interrupting her in the past so she didn’t see any reason for me not to interrupt now. She was at her office and said she was stuck under a “three-foot high pile of elephant poop” and I could stop by and help her dig herself out. I assumed she’d meant it figuratively, and said I was surprised she was at the office Sunday evening.
“Twenty-four seven, twenty-four seven,” she said and I said I’d be there in a few minutes.
Her office was on the second floor of the relatively new police and fire addition to the back of the coral-colored city hall. I knocked on her door and she yelled for me to come in. I was relieved to see that the three-foot high pile of elephant poop was a foot of file folders and loose papers.
She looked up. “There’d be less paperwork if we shot everybody who got drunk or parked the wrong way on the streets.” She threw a piece of paper in the air. “I’m stuck in report hell.”
“The glamour of chiefdom,” I said and moved a pile of file folders off the chair in front of her desk and sat. I looked out the large window behind her that looked out on the Surf Bar. The rain had returned and the expression on Cindy’s face was as gloomy as the weather.
She moved the stack of folders to the side of the desk and said, “Okay, this ain’t national invite yourself to the office day, so why are you here and how are you going to ruin what’s already a crappy day?”
Bob and Cindy could use a lesson, or two, or a million, in schmoozing, but I didn’t figure this was the time to start. Instead, I began telling her what I had learned from Chester about Joel’s alleged alibi.
She stuck both palms out like she was stopping traffic. “Halt! If you’re going to try to get my brain working by spinning some convoluted story, I need bourbon.” She rolled her eyes. “Since I’m stuck in report hell, coffee’ll have to do. Want some?”
I said yes and she scurried out of the office and left me staring at the rain and wondering what I was going to say next that could possibly convince the chief I hadn’t lost my mind. She returned before I’d figured it out and was carrying two white mugs with FB in blue letters on the outside and steaming hot coffee on the inside.
She handed me one of the mugs, lowered herself in her chair with a sigh, and said, “Let’s hear it.”
I spent the next ten minutes telling her everything I knew and everything I suspected. She shifted from exasperated bureaucrat to attentive police chief and even took notes during my monologue. I finished and realized I hadn’t convinced myself of Wayne’s guilt, so I doubted Cindy had been swayed.
The chief nodded, looked down in her coffee mug, and then back at me. “Chris, I’ve known you for a long time, going on eight years if my finger counting is accurate. During that time, you and your collection of quirky pals have defied all odds and have stumbled into some terrible situations and even more odds defying have helped catch some really, really bad people.”
I shrugged.
“You’ve also accused folks of dastardly deeds who were as innocent as, umm, I don’t know any spiffy analogies, but they were innocent.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I nodded.
“We’ve had two tragic deaths in the last few days, and both were investigated by the Sheriff’s office. You know, I don’t take too fondly to some of the sanctimonious, egotistic, know-it-all folks in that office, but most of the time they’re right. They say one of the deaths was suicide and the other either a suicide or a self-inflicted drug overdose.”
“I know, but…”
Cindy interrupted. “Hold that but. Here’s my but. I tend to half-way agree with you, a practice that will be the end of me yet. I believe their deaths were caused by someone else, but I think it was Joel. Before you say it, it’s not because he wants to kick me out of this high-paid, sexy, all-powerful, fun-filled job, but because, if Chester is right, Joel loses his alibi and he had the most reason to want Lauren out of the way. I don’t know what happened with Katelin, but suspect she knew something about Joel and he was getting antsy about whatever it was getting out.”
I couldn’t argue with Cindy’s logic, but still felt Joel would have done a better job establishing his alibi.
“You may be right, but could you at least check to see if you can pin down Wayne’s whereabouts at the time Katelin died? And, I believe Chester did see Joel during that time frame. If he did, that means Wayne’s story about being in a strategy session with Joel is bogus.”
Cindy fumed, hemmed and hawed, and mumbled a couple of profanities, but in the end, agreed to talk to Chester, and again with Wayne and Joel. I thanked her and headed to the door before she changed her mind.
I wasn’t quick enough. “Hit the brakes, troublemaker.”
I stopped and turned back to the chief. She ruffled through a stack of papers and pulled one from near the bottom. She slipped on reading glasses and said, “Think you’ll find this interesting. At zero two hundred—that’s two this morning to you civilian types—Officer McCormick stopped a Caucasian Male, age sixty-five, walking in a staggering pattern, along the two hundred block of East Arctic Avenue. I’ll skip the rest of the professional police jargon and’ll dumb it down for you. Officer McCormick said the man was clearly inebriated and while staggering isn’t against the law public intoxication is. The staggerer was alternating between mumbling and yelling words that sounded like, ‘I’ll get the son of a bitch if it’s the last thing I’ll do.’ That may not be an exact quote, but it conveys the message.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Chill. I’m on my way there. Now, if we arrested every citizen who’s walking the streets, sidewalks, and beach under the technical definition of intoxicated, we’d have to rent the Tides to hold all of them in. For that reason, and another less ethical one, Officer McCormick ushered the individual far off the roadway and out of the way of moving vehicles and let him off with a warning.”
“Then why the report?”
“Good question,” Cindy said, and turned the report face down and slid it back in the pile of papers. “Officer McCormick, being an astute officer and one who didn’t want me to be caught with my pants down—figuratively—thought he’d better write it up and give it to me. To shred or not to shred, that is the question.”
I was ready to reach over the desk and grab the report, but Cindy decided she’d teased me enough. “You want to know who it was?”
“Of course.”
“I believe you know him. After all, he’s your neighbor.”
“Brad Burton?”
“Bingo.”
I shared how I’d mentioned at the party what I’d learned about Joel’s alibi falling apart, and how Brad had reacted. Cindy said it must have eaten on him the more he’d thought about it. She also said Officer McCormick had taken extra time patrolling near where he’d stopped Burton. Her officer knew who Burton was and wanted to extend as much “fellow officer courtesy” as possible, even though Burton was retired. She ended with saying McCormick only saw Burton one more time, and he appeared to be near his house. I thanked her for letting me know and left her office. This time she didn’t stop me.
The rain was stronger than it had been on the ride back to Folly and I had left the umbrella in the car. I was soaked before I reached the dry confines of the car. What now? I agreed with Cindy’s need for a bourbon, or wine in my case, but decided it was too early for that and headed home. Besides, I needed to get out of these wet
clothes.
I pulled in the drive and looked over at Brad and Hazel’s house. I had only a few conversations with Hazel, and although I had spent much more time than that with Brad, we weren’t friends. He was hurting and I was surprised by his early morning behavior after Charles’s party. I could understand his anger, but he’d never struck me as someone who would become that agitated. Common sense told me I should butt out. I had shared what I had learned with the police chief. It was up to them to follow up. But Brad was my neighbor now, and wasn’t checking to see how he was the neighborly thing to do? Maybe, but most neighbors didn’t have as strained a relationship as I had with the former detective. But, that was in the past, and in the last few weeks he had confided some things in me he wouldn’t have broached in the past. And, I kept coming back to the fact he was my neighbor.
So what harm could come from changing into dry clothes and walking next door to see how he was doing?
Had I only known!
40
It was still raining as hard as ever, but this time I had my umbrella, as I walked through the wet grass and hopped over a couple of puddles on my way to the Burton’s door. I figured someone was home since I could see the rear of Brad’s car sticking out from around the side of the house. I couldn’t see if Hazel’s vehicle was there. After three knocks, I was beginning to doubt my initial assessment. Perhaps Brad had gone somewhere with Hazel.
I heard what sounded like a piece of furniture hitting the floor, and the sound of a door slamming at the back of the house. I rushed around the house and saw the back of a man jogging toward the yard behind the Burton’s. More accurately, I saw Wayne Swan running away.
Do I chase him? Do I see what had happened in the house? He had a head start and twenty years of youth on me, so the odds on me catching him were minimal. And what would I do if I caught him? I turned and headed to the back door. It was standing open a couple of inches.
I started to knock, but instead pushed the door the rest of the way open and yelled, “Brad, Hazel?”
The rain was making so much noise that I didn’t hear anything, so I stepped in out of the deluge and yelled again. I was in the kitchen and everything appeared normal. There were a couple of supper plates in the strainer beside the sink and two magazines open on the small island on the far side of the room. “Brad, Hazel?” I tried again.
This time I heard a faint noise on the other side of the island that sounded like someone moaning. I moved around the island. Brad on the floor, on his side, his arm was bent over his head, and a trickle of blood oozed out from under his arm. His left leg moved—he was alive.
I knelt beside him and asked if he could hear me. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand and I leaned close to his head and asked him to repeat it.
“Hazel,” he said, “shit … call.” He mumbled something else, but again, I didn’t understand.
I stood, careful not to move Brad, and grabbed a dishtowel off the island and moved his arm away from his head wound. It was bleeding but the flow had eased. I covered the wound with the towel and moved his arm back over it.
“Brad, put pressure on the towel. I’ll call for help.”
“Hazel,” he mumbled.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped in 911, as I looked around the kitchen for Brad’s wife. I told the professional sounding 911 operator where I was and that she needed to dispatch an ambulance and the cops. She told me to stay on the line until help arrived; I said I’d try, but finding Hazel was more important than maintaining phone contact.
I told Brad not to move and that help was on the way. He didn’t respond and I didn’t think there was anything I could do for him, so I headed to the other rooms to find his wife.
The two small bedrooms were on the left side of the house and I did a quick canvas of each of them. No Hazel. The bathroom was between the bedrooms and again, no one was there. I had glanced in the living room on my way to the bedrooms and hadn’t seen anyone but had to look more closely. After all, I wouldn’t have seen Brad hidden by the kitchen island if I hadn’t heard him.
In the living room, I looked behind the couch and the two chairs. I heard the sirens from the emergency vehicles heading in our direction as I concluded Hazel wasn’t at home. I started back to check on Brad when I noticed a red, nylon NIKE backpack in front of the couch. It had to have been there when I first looked in the living room, but I didn’t notice it. I wouldn’t have now if it didn’t seem out of place. I couldn’t picture either of the Burton’s taking long walks, much less backpacking anywhere.
I knelt beside the backpack and unzipped the top zipper. What I saw made me thankful I had a strong heart. Five sticks of what looked like dynamite were wrapped together by duct tape. Taped to the top was a small digital clock with a display that showed minutes on the top and seconds in smaller numbers at the bottom.
The hour and minutes display read 0; the second display clicked from 59 to 58. Crap!
Now what? The wires attaching the clock to the dynamite were taped so I couldn’t see them; and even if I could, I had no idea which ones to try to unhook.
The seconds display read: 53. Probably not enough time to take the backpack to anywhere safely. The emergency vehicle sirens were closer, but not close enough to do anything.
I had to get Brad out of the house.
47 seconds!
I ran to the kitchen and leaned down over Brad. “Brad, can you hear me?”
He moved his arm and moaned.
“Can you get up?”
No reaction, and there wasn’t time to ask again. I grabbed him under the arms and tried to pull him toward the door. He wasn’t a large man but lifting him was like lifting three sacks of concrete. It was all dead weight. I managed to slide him around the island and to within a few feet of the back door.
He moaned louder and I was afraid I was hurting him, more than he already was. The alternative was worse, so I ignored his moans and dragged him to the door. I stepped off the back porch and yanked him out the door and into the yard. He gave a loud guttural sound and opened his eyes and gave me a look like he thought I was killing him.
I ignored him and continued to drag him away from the house. My back felt like it was on fire and my arms were numb. We were twenty feet from the house when all hell broke loose.
I was facing the house with my arms wrapped around his chest. It looked like a bolt of lightning. The white flash blinded me, before the shock waves from the explosion slammed into us. I was knocked on my back and Brad didn’t move. The kitchen window shattered into a zillion particles and covered the yard like a hailstorm. The door flew off its hinges and landed three feet to our left. Everything happened at the same time and I couldn’t comprehend it. I think I saw the back-wall buckle and fall; part of the roof fell with it.
The sound of the explosion was deafening—literally. I saw parts of the house flying around but didn’t hear a thing. The rain was joined by pieces of the house pelting down on the yard. It wasn’t until someone held a large golf umbrella over our head, that I realized others were there.
The entire back half of the house was demolished. There was little fire after the explosion, but the fire department was hosing down the house. I don’t know why it came to me, but I smiled thinking the hoses weren’t needed; the rain was doing a good job of soaking everything.
I slid out from under Brad and two paramedics began working on me. One of the firefighters asked if I was okay. He pointed to my head and said I was bleeding. Other than feeling like I had been run over by one of the fire engines, I said I was fine, but he insisted one of the EMTs look me over. He also asked if anyone else was in the house. I said no but wondered what Brad had meant when he kept saying Hazel.
Cindy arrived next and shoved her officer out of the way so she could get to me. I assured her I was okay, and told her what had happened, and who I had seen running from the house moments before the explosion. She asked if I was sure. I nodded, and she stepped away and called someone on
her radio.
Brad was loaded on a stretcher and they were loading him in the ambulance. I was concerned about Hazel and saw Brad talking to the EMT. Thank God, he was okay—or close. I tapped the medic on the arm and asked if I could ask Brad a question.
“Make it quick.”
Brad’s eyes were blinking and his head was wrapped in gauze. He saw me and said, “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later. Where’s Hazel? You kept mentioning her name when we were in the house.”
“I wanted you to call her. She’ll worry.”
“I will, but, where is she?”
“The mall. She’s buying drapery for the living room.”
And we had nearly gotten ourselves killed because I spent so much time looking for her.
Brad reached over and squeezed my arm. I leaned closer, and he said, “I think we’ll need more than drapery.”
41
It had been eight days since the Burton’s attractive wood-framed cottage had become a pile of kindling; the same number of days that it’d been since Hazel Burton arrived home with three sets of tan and green drapery and nowhere to hang them.
Six days had come and gone since Joel Hurt, faced with charges of murder, decided he would rather flip on his long-time friend, to avoid a long, protracted trial. While Mr. Hurt admitted that Wayne Swan had concocted an alibi for each of them for the time of death of Lauren Craft, he swore he didn’t know Swan had killed Ms. Craft until Swan told him so, the day he decided to leave town.
Five days had passed since Trooper Marcel Samuels of the Massachusetts State Police pulled over a late model Dodge Ram Pick-up truck near Worcester and with a hand on his firearm asked the driver if he was aware the folks in the Charleston County, South Carolina’s Sheriff’s office had a keen interest in talking to him. In fact, the interest was so keen Trooper Samuels asked the driver, identified as Wayne L. Swan, to step out of the truck where he was cuffed and taken into custody.
