Secret Keepers and Skinny Shadows: Lee and Miranda

by Mary A Russell

  In fact, I forgot about them. It seems Joan did also because she never mention them again.

  I did read them this time. Some are lengthy. I would like you to take a look at them as well. I was completely hooked after the first letter.

  Joan and I were both older teens at the time of the murder. You know, best friends busy with school, homework, and boys. Nothing else mattered much back then. I don’t remember much about the murder except it was never solved.

  After you read the letters we could spend some time investigating this. Lillian weaves an interesting theory about Joan’s uncle and his murder.

  Out of curiosity, didn’t Joan show them to you? If I remember right she told me she did. If she did, why didn’t you take an interest in this for her? But I think I already know the answer to that question.

  As usual you dropped the ball Lee. You pushed Joan and what interested her aside.

  I no longer have access to the FBI websites, so I dig up the info on my own the best way I can, but it can be done with some good research skills.

  I could be a big help to you if you decide to investigate this. If you don’t, I will. In fact, I’ve already started looking up a few of the people this lady writes about. We can work our way through this just as we have many other projects. I can’t believe the book company you work for would let you get by without using a computer. Oh well, in any event you always have me and my geeky brain and expert computer skills.

  Take a vacation and come here. We can investigate this together. You can stay with me. I think we could get along for a couple of weeks anyway. After that who knows. I have a room in the house where you can live with all the comforts of home and you won’t be under my feet. If you had ever traveled with Joan when she came to visit you’d know that she always stayed with me.

  Anyway, you still remain my favorite guy because you were Joan’s one true love even though your one true love was the book business.

  You need to lose yourself in something since Joan’s death. It’s been almost three years now; that’s a long time to grieve her loss. It’s time for you to start a new chapter in your life. You should get away. This is the perfect opportunity to do so. Call me. You have my number. It hasn’t changed.

  Miranda

  The newspaper clippings about the murder along with the letters written by Lillian Grace, who said she knew who committed the murder; was all it took to lure Lee to New York State with the goal of clearing his conscience, and maybe getting a good night’s sleep. He would look into the murder for Joan and then the tormenting thoughts, sleepless nights and dreams might go away.

  CHAPTER 6

  Bridgetown, New York, February 1962

  The mud-rutted alley was dark except for an occasional backyard lamp, and the brilliant full moon shining down on the naked ancient oaks that stood on the properties behind 30 Chestnut Avenue. The moonlight wove a twisted path down through the tree branches casting skinny shadows that looked like tall dark men leaning against the wooden fence enjoying the night.

  The opaque dark patches were hiding a hideous sight in the back-lane behind the hovels where the locals lived.

  Small piles of snow lay against the wooden fence that had boards kicked out in different spots, but there were two gone beside the grisly scene.

  The inhabitants of the run-down houses on the avenue couldn’t imagine the giant man filling the space on the ground within a few steps from their homes. It wasn’t the best part of town, but they thought it was pretty safe until now. The people who lived there knew the bars out-numbered the homes, but never had anything like this taken place before.

  The wailing of sirens, and rhythmic pulse of the blue flashing lights on the police cars pulled curious neighbors out of their warm beds. They drifted out into the night to investigate the noise, but not all of them were surprised; some were frightened. Some had already been out and about.

  Wide-eyed adults were wiping sleep from their eyes. Women were holding their bathrobes closed with their hand.

  “What the heck is that? Am I seeing what I think I see?” the woman said. They all seemed confused by the sight in front of them. They walked back and forth, gathered in groups pointing in disbelief.

  “Look he’s almost covered with snow,” John Williams said, pointing at the big man’s body. He was sitting in the snow slumped over, with his feet straight out in front of him. His arms dangled at his sides, hiding his hands in the snow.

  “Oh, how hideous,” one man said.

  “I can’t look at it again. It’s too horrible; such a repugnant sight,” the short woman said as she turned away after a glance quickly covering her daughter’s eyes.

  “Watch your step John, don’t slip on the bloody ice,” his wife said.

  “Look at the blood. It’s gathered in pools in the ruts starting to turn to ice. The snow around the body looks like someone used an air brush to spray everything red,” the tall man said.

  “Look, his head is laying on his shoulder,” one man said as he moved closer to the giant’s body. “Look at that slice in his neck. It goes from his ear to his Adam’s apple. No wonder his head is flopped over.”

  “Get back, move away from him,” a policeman said. “Get away from that body. You shouldn’t be there.”

  The residents were pressing nearer, some standing next to the body in the bloody snow. The man who was told to get away kicked the giant’s lifeless shoe as he walked away blending back into the hushed crowd. The two policemen trying to keep the people away from the scene glanced at each other shaking their heads in disgust at the man’s gesture.

  “Okay folks,” one of the policemen said, “it’s time to move away. This is a crime scene. Go back to your homes please. Take the children inside. They shouldn’t see this. Make room for Detective Jones he’s coming down the alley.”

  “Officer what do we have?” Jones asked. The officer moved behind the detective, grabbing the arm of the man following him.

  “Hey buddy, you can’t come in here,” the officer said. Jones looked back to see what was going on.

  “Oh, he’s okay, officer. He’s from the newspaper. He can come over here with me.”

  The reporter smirked at the officer making his way over to stand beside Jones, with his pencil ready to write.

  “Detective Jones, as you can see it looks like murder,” the patrolman said, as he looked from Jones, and back at the smirking reporter.

  Jones stopped in front of the body, then he turned watching the residents drift back into their houses. Some of them were peeking out their windows continuing to watch what was going on. “It looks like the whole neighborhood was out here,” Jones said, while looking at the officer who was setting up the wooden saw horses around the scene.

  “Detective Jones, we got them away from the body as soon as we arrived on the scene. We got here a few minutes before you did,” the officer said. He moved over in front of the barricades, turned his back to Jones and the reporter, telling the remaining stragglers, “go on now, head back to your homes.”

  Jones could see the reporter from the corner of his eye. He was staring at the body while writing fast, probably describing what he was seeing.

  As he glanced from the reporter to the body, Chief of Detectives Jones said, “I’ll say this—from the number of footprints around the body I think it took a lot of men to bring down this giant of a man.”

  Jones saw the reporter staring at him as though waiting for more information.

  Jones pulled his pipe from his coat pocket, put it in his mouth and clenched the stem between his teeth. Then he reached in the other pocket pulling out a pack of matches opening it he saw it was his last one. He tore it from the book, struck it on the striker patch, listened for the hiss, as he watched it break into a blaze. He put the fire to the bowl, sucking on the stem, each breath pulled the flame down into the bowl. He watched the white smoke swirl from the sides of his lips disappearing into the air. Breathing in the sweet smell Jones looked at the reporter and said
, “Cherry tobacco is my favorite.” The reporter looked at him and nodded. After a couple of puffs Jones held the pipe between his fingers.

  Jones said, “This is a gruesome sight.” The reporter nodded his head in agreement as he stared at the body.

  Jones moved his eyes in a slow circle around the mangled body that lay sprawled in front of him almost covered by snow.

  He pushed his hat back on his forehead, fifty-two-year-old Jones wanted to get through this month. He put in for his retirement last month. He hoped looking down at the body that it wouldn’t take long to solve this murder.

  “This would have to happen to me,” Jones said looking over at the reporter. “I’ll be stuck on this case until it’s solved. And that might delay my retirement. Things like that always seem to happen to me.”

  The reporter stared at the body. “Well, I’m sure of one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m sure this poor man didn’t want to be murdered.”

  Jones stared back at him and paused before speaking. “I know what I said sounds cruel and hard-hearted, but I’ve been waiting a long time for this retirement. Oh, well, forget I said anything so stupid. We need to get back to the business of this murder.”

  “I’m all for that,” the reporter said.

  Jones took his hands off his hips and stuffed the now cold pipe into his pocket. He pulled a pair of white gloves from his coat putting them on. Jones didn’t like the cotton gloves. In cases like these the blood always leaked through onto his hands. He didn’t like touching dead bodies.

  He leaned over the body and brushed away the snow, pulling the victim’s head back onto his neck to get a better look at his face. Jones stepped back a couple of feet, moving so fast he almost fell in the slippery snow.

  “What the—?” Jones said, pausing for a minute, as he sucked the air. “What is that all over his face? It looks and smells like dried mustard, ketchup, and relish. The welt between his eyes looks like someone belted him with a blackjack.” He looked up at the reporter shaking his head.

  Jones positioned the man’s head back on the right shoulder shuddering a bit as he let go of it. Wrapping his hand around the arm of the blood-soaked jacket, he pulled it out of the snow to examine the palm of the right hand.

  “Look at that it’s covered with black powder burns and dozens of pinhead-sized holes.” Jones looked up at the reporter.

  “It looks like someone used a bird shot pistol or rifle,” he said to the reporter. “They must have pulled a gun on him, in a defensive reaction he grabbed the end of the barrel with the palm of his hand as they pulled the trigger.”

  Letting go of the blood soaked sleeve it dropped back into to its original spot. He grabbed the other one holding it up to examine the hand, it was clean except for some black and blue marks on the knuckles. “It looks like he put up a good fight,” Jones said as let it drop. He started to push the bloody snow around looking for clues, hoping to find a weapon. Wanting to find something that would make this case a quick easy solve. Pulling open the red and white checked jacket his eyes landed on what looked like a check sticking out of the victim’s shirt pocket. With careful precision he slid the paper out, for a few seconds he stood examining it.

  “It looks like we know this man’s name,” Jones said to the reporter. “This is a Conn railroad pension check made out to Bertrand Wyatt Grayson, Appleton, New York. I guess robbery wasn’t a motive.” Jones glanced in the direction of the reporter as he dropped the check into the plastic bag the officer was holding open for him. “Label that evidence bag number one,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” the officer said, pulling out his marker.

  Jones’s shifted his eyes trying not to look at the oozing neck as he pulled a worn, brown wallet from the other shirt pocket. He could hear the faint sounds of a crying baby coming from one of the houses behind him. He turned his head looking in the direction of the sound. Lights were on in all the homes. He could see white puffs coming from the tops of the chimney stacks, dissolving and filling the air with fireplace smoke. He turned back to the wallet.

  “His expired driver’s license,” Jones said, “confirms he’s indeed Bertrand Wyatt Grayson. Let me see.” He paused as he fingered through the bill compartment. “Two dollars in the bill compartment, so I guess we can rule out robbery as a motive.” He was about to drop the wallet into the second bag when he noticed a small piece of paper pushed down in the corner of the bill compartment. He plucked it out and unfolded it. Without thinking, he read the phone number loud enough for the reporter to hear, “944-823-1415.” Jones glanced at the reporter shrugged, then dropped the wallet and paper into the waiting baggie.

  Jones took a couple of steps back from the body. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” Jones said as he stood with his chin cradled in his right hand. With a wide-eyed steady gaze, he studied the body.

  “What could Grayson have been involved in to die like this?” Jones said. “From my years of experience as a detective, I know people often hide the seedy side of their lives from their loved ones. My question is, what was Grayson hiding? Maybe the phone number will give me some answers.”

  Jones looked up in time to see a man coming down the alley pulling a gurney.

  “Oh, better move back,” Jones said as he took the reporter’s arm guiding him away from the body. “I see the coroner coming.”

  “Good evening, Joe. Where’s Leslie?” Jones asked, as the coroner came to a stop in front of the body.

  “What’s so good about it? Leslie called off tonight,” he said, shaking his head. “Of all nights for this to happen. They said he had to go out of town or something. I don’t remember.”

  After completing his examination, Joe and the officer wrapped the body in a sheet and placed it on the gurney.

  Jones looked up to see a Bridgetown fire truck pull up and stop at the end of the alley behind the waiting ambulance. He could hear the men talking.

  “I’ll get the hose,” the tall fireman said as the two of them jumped out of the truck. The short one turned on the water and ran to catch up with the tall one dragging the hose toward the scene of the crime.

  “I’ll help you,” he said, grabbing the hose. Just then the two firemen halted in their steps staring at the gurney as the coroner pushed it passed them to the waiting ambulance.

  The tall one riveted his eyes on the blood spots leaking through the white sheet. Jones could see him shiver. They started down the alley again coming to a quick stop when they reached the spot where the body had been.

  The short fireman sucked in his breathe. “Look at all that blood. It’s everywhere.” Jones approached the firemen just then.

  “I want you men to wash away the snow from that spot,” Detective Jones said pointing. The firemen then turned the hose in that direction pulling the handle. The water rushed out, melting the snow down to the bare ground. Jones watched, hoping to find a knife, gun, or something useful.

  “Look at that,” Jones said to the reporter, “not one single clue.”

  “Thanks, for coming out, fellas,” Jones said. “I’m disappointed we didn’t find anything.” The firemen walked back to the truck, dragging the hose behind them.

  “All that remains now,” Jones said to the reporter, “is finding someone who knows something. And what are the odds of that?”

  The reporter shrugged.

  Jones with the reporter by his side questioned the neighbors and people in the local bars.

  When they were finished, Jones looked the reporter in the eyes and said, “I’m heading back to the office now to file my report.”

  “Okay. I need to get back to the paper and write up my story so it’ll make the morning edition.” The reporter paused. “Jones, thanks for letting me get close to the scene. I know you didn’t have to.”

  Jones nodded to the reporter as he walked away.

  CHAPTER 7

  Bridgetown, New York, February 1962

  Later that night on the outskirts of a
town a few miles south of Bridgetown, a man pulled his truck to the side of the road, stopping in the middle of the hill. He put the gearshift into park but left the motor running. He glanced down the road, then checked his mirrors for headlights coming from behind. When the coast was clear, the driver slid out walking around the back of his Chevy he stopped at the guardrail, looked around in the dark, and then threw the gun over the hill. It landed with a clang in the rocks, weeds and brush on the creek bank below. He walked back around the truck through the exhaust fumes rolling from the tailpipe filling the night air, got in and drove off.

  The headlines in the morning edition of the Bridgetown Mirror screamed in bold black print:

  Retired Conn Railroad engineer murdered

  The body of an Appleton man was found against the wooden fence in the alley at the rear of 30 Chestnut Avenue. Big Bert Grayson’s lifeless body was discovered by a group of teens on their way home from ice skating late last night.

  Fifty-eight-year-old Grayson often frequented the local bars in Bridgetown at the south end. This area is known for its rough bars, loose women, and knockdown, drag-out, fights.

  The investigators traced Mr. Grayson’s steps from a string of local bars to his last known location, Jim’s Diner, where he borrowed five dollars from someone. He met two men there and was last seen walking toward a dark sedan in the parking lot of the diner with these two unknown men.

  Bertrand lived with his sister Elizabeth and was retired on disability from the railroad.

  The family members at first thought robbery could be a motive until they learned he didn’t cash the disability check he had received that week. The police discovered it was still in his shirt pocket when they found his body. His brother Benson told the Mirror it wouldn’t have been easy to kill Bert, and that he was a popular guy around the bars because of his size and strength. Police are speculating that more than two men might be involved. If robbery wasn’t the motive, was it revenge or jealousy? Or a love spurned?