Shadow of a Killer: the Dark Side of Paradise

by Frank A. Perdue

  Everett Paulsen was considered a competent investigator, though he was also thought of as eccentric by his peers, those heretofore mentioned multi-colored guys. His white cowboy hat, reminiscent of thirties “B” movies contributed to the perception. He loved Hopalong Cassidy. The forty-year old blond Norwegian had been with the Sheriff’s department for five years. He was very thorough, and some said plodding, since he took his time and reasoned out every clue, and eye-witness account. He took nothing for granted unless it was proven in his eyes to be hard fact. It was natural then that, in a case that had suddenly become complex, he would be the man to sort out all the facts.

  Ivan Dunn was still not off the hook however. Paulsen questioned all the jailers, looking for some indication of collusion, where a hit man could have been hired at the Greek inmate’s request. He checked the visitor records, noting that only two individuals had seen the prisoner other than his attorney, whose reputation was irreproachable. They were his wife, and the chief of the FBI in Los Angeles. He didn’t understand why a federal guy would take an interest in the case, except for sorting out the forensic evidence. That certainly wouldn’t require a personal visit to the accused.

  In researching the background of Rachel Dunn, previously Rachel Embree, he learned she originally came from Richmond, Virginia. He placed a call to the local police of that area, and was referred to a retired sergeant named Andrew Dark. Could it be that the man was related to the New York Giants baseball player Alvin Dark? He bet others had wondered that too. The surname was just unique enough to provoke that thought. Paulsen made a note to ask the obvious question, if he ever reached him. His initial phone call to the man’s address went unanswered.

  In the interim he showed up unannounced at Jered Longfellow’s downtown office. He flashed his badge to the secretary in the outer office of the spacious quarters. He was used to the fact that no one thought of him as a detective, after seeing the hat. But it sometimes worked to his advantage, putting his quarry at ease.

  He was in luck. The attorney was in his office, and he was alone.

  “Detective Paulsen is it? What can I do for you?”

  They had met twice before, formally. He was on the witness stand, and very uncomfortable under the ruthless cross-examination that followed. Looking at the man now, he was slightly surprised at how tall he was. It was also the first time he’d seen the attorney smile. It was disarming.

  “I’m investigating the Jack Carey murder case. I understand you’ve been hired to defend the man accused of the crime.”

  “That’s correct.” Short and to the point.

  “And you visited Ivan Dunn in jail.” Just a statement of a known fact.

  “You know I can’t discuss these things. Attorney client privilege, and all that.”

  “Of course. But you must have a sense about his innocence or guilt. What’s your gut feeling?” Paulsen was sure he wouldn’t receive an answer to that one, but maybe he could read something in the man’s face.

  “All my clients are innocent,” Longfellow grinned.

  “Sure. Okay then, who do you think killed Evan Castiglione?”

  The lawyer’s face became sad. The corners of his mouth turned down, and he spat, “I don’t know, but I’d like to be in a small room with the son of a bitch.” He became thoughtful for a moment, before continuing, “I was the one who sent him out to help prove Ivan Dunn’s innocence. Now he’s gone, and I’m convinced more than ever that my client didn’t do it. But I’m also sure Evan was getting too close to the truth, and that’s why he was killed.”

  “What do you think the truth is?” Maybe this was a way to get around the privilege thing.

  “Ivan Dunn was framed, pure and simple. Who in his right mind would leave a note confessing to a murder? And forgetting that, would you leave a gun at the scene that was easily traceable back to you?”

  “So counselor, what’s the connection between your client, Jack Carey, and the killer?” Paulsen looked up, and made eye contact with Jerod Longfellow.

  “That’s the million dollar question. If I knew the answer to that one, I’d get Ivan released in a heartbeat. As it is I may be able to convince the judge in the case to allow bail, now that there is some doubt in the eyes of the law, as evidenced by your visit here.”

  This was a smart man, Paulsen observed quietly to himself.

  After arriving back in his office, the detective once again placed a call to Richmond and the home of the retired police officer, who could very well aid in his investigation. With any luck he could rule out any collusion by the wife of the incarcerated suspect in the murder of Evan Castiglione. This time the phone rang only once.

  “Hello.” A pleasant sounding male voice on the other end of the line answered.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Andrew Dark called the number Thomas Embree had given him. He recognized the voice of Rachel Embree when she answered. He was surprised that he would remember what she sounded like after, what was it, four years?

  “I’m afraid I don’t have very good news Rachel,” he began. When I called the prison down here I was informed that Harold Lambright had recently been released. He never reported to his parole officer here in Richmond. It looks like he’s blowing in the wind. No one knows his whereabouts.”

  “I was afraid of that, Mister Dark. Thanks anyway for the info. How have you been? I would have come to see you myself, but I had to make a trip to Illinois to follow up another lead, and my son volunteered to see you.”

  “That’s all right Rachel. He is a very good-looking well behaved young man. You should be proud.”

  “I am.” She changed the subject. “I’m so sorry to hear about your wife. She must have been a very smart woman to marry you.”

  “Thank you Rachel. I miss her something awful.”

  “If you ever get a chance, Ivan and I would love to have you visit us out west.” Then as an afterthought she added, “If he ever gets out of this mess he’s in.” She began to sob.

  Andrew Dark heard her crying and said, “He’s going to beat this thing Rachel. Don’t give up hope.”

  “I know. I just wish it were soon. I can’t bear the thought of him in that hellhole of a jail, or worse, in prison.”

  Not five minutes after he finished talking to Rachel, the phone rang again. It was a man named Everett Paulsen.

  After the identification, the detective got right to the point. “I’m calling to get some information about Rachel Dunn.”

  “It was Rachel Embree when I knew her. I haven’t seen her in about four years though.” This stranger didn’t need to know he’d just hung up from talking to the woman he was asking about. “Just what do you want to know?” Then something else occurred to him. “I can’t very well see your credentials over the phone, so how do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  Paulsen was irritated, but he said, “Good point. I guess you can call the San Diego Sheriff’s department. They will give you a description of me, and verify that I’m a detective working on a murder case that Ivan Dunn is involved in.”

  “I’ll do that. Why don’t you call me back in a half-hour or so. I’ll still be home.”

  “If you wish.” This was a very cautious man, Paulsen thought as he placed the phone back on its cradle.

  He used the time to review his files on the murder, and in exactly one hour he redialed the number of Andrew Dark.

  “Did you get the proof you needed,” and he added tersely, “So that we can get on with it?”

  “Yes I did. Surely in your profession you can understand why I needed to be careful. Do you believe everything you hear?”

  “No, you’re right. I am just trying to expedite this investigation, in case we’re holding an innocent man.”

  “You’re darn tootin’ he’s innocent! He shouldn’t have been locked up in the first place.”

  The detective had to answer that one. “You have to know that I wasn’t brought into this investigation until yesterday.” It was another way o
f saying, It’s not my fault. “So tell me what you can about Rachel Dunn, or Embree.”

  “She’s a sweet lady, if I didn’t already say that. I first met her when she was a gunshot victim. She’d never been in any trouble, so we’d had no reason to cross paths, even though she’d lived here in Richmond all her life.” He thought for a second or two, then continued, “Let me amend that last statement. I did see her way back in nineteen and twenty-nine when her boyfriend at the time disappeared. She was just seventeen, and a beauty even then.”

  “You don’t have to embellish it, I know she’s pretty.”

  “Anyway, it was right after the stock market crash, and this boy, Phillip Atchison the third, who was the Embree girl’s boyfriend at the time, could not be found, to answer questions about his father’s death the day of the crash.”

  Paulsen was interested, “Did he kill his father?”

  “No, but at the time no one knew what happened for sure. It wasn’t until nineteen fifty that all the facts of the case came to light. It was Ivan Dunn who solved it.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “So was everyone else around here, meaning Richmond. Rachel knew the boy was innocent, because he told her so before leaving town.”

  “Tell me about Rachel and Ivan Dunn.” He had to get back to his own case, but the other was fascinating, that’s for sure.

  “Well as I said before, Rachel was shot. It was Ivan Dunn who saved her, by pulling her back into her house from her porch where she fell, and calling the police.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  “Well, to make a long story short, we caught the man who shot her, thanks to Ivan, and sent him off to prison.” He decided to tell the detective about his other phone call after all. “I just finished talking to Rachel about him, and the fact that he’s been released on parole, and God help us, he has disappeared.”

  Everett Paulsen had a thought, “What was his name?”

  “Harold Lambright.”

  The name didn’t ring a bell with the detective, but then there was no reason it should have. “Do you think he could have anything to do with my case?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Paulsen could imagine the twinkle in the old man’s eye as he continued, “but I’m retired you see. I don’t have to think at all.”

  There was something else, “What kind of rifle was used to shoot Rachel?”

  “I didn’t say it was a rifle, did I?” The old man had been going for a while, and now he was taking his fun.

  “No, I guess you didn’t, but if she was shot with Ivan Dunn being right there, he would have been caught sooner,” and he paused, “Unless she was shot with a rifle.”

  “Hmm, you’re pretty smart after all, I guess. It was an Italian job, brought back from the Great War by his father, who also died that same day Phillip’s dad was killed.”

  That did it. Everett Paulsen didn’t want to play that game anymore. He thanked Andrew Dark for his time and disconnected the call, forgetting to ask about the ballplayer relationship. He thought of calling Andrew Dark back, but that would be painful, given the older man was leading him on.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Gladys Pisney was at a loss as for what to do next. The news of the private detective’s death was the lead story on the radio the night it happened, and on the front page of the newspaper the next day. The poor man had visited her earlier that same day he was killed, and now he was lying in a mortuary on a cold slab, on his way to a final resting in a grave every bit as frigid. She had a vivid imagination.

  Did he tell anyone of our visit? She wondered silently. Perhaps she should call the police. Then again they might ask her all kinds of embarrassing questions. She wasn’t sure she wanted to subject herself to that. But the detective had placed great stock in what she had revealed. Actually it was exciting that she had information no one else knew, now that the man had met his demise. Of course, if no one knew she possessed such knowledge, what good would that be?

  Being a witness of sorts in a murder case might bring more people to her door, perhaps even her own children who hardly ever visited. She could even become a celebrity, interviewed on that new gadget television, and the radio. Her loneliness would become a thing of the past.

  Her mind was still racing as she donned her Sunday best church clothes, locked her front door behind her, and hurried to her pink Cadillac. She was so preoccupied with her thoughts she failed to realize she had no idea where the police station was, any police station.

  -------------

  Jay Sommersby was no longer stationed outside the widow Carey’s home. He had been relieved shortly after Evan Castiglione had been shot and killed, not thirty feet from where the sheriff’s deputy had been standing. He’d been questioned extensively, as if he were the culprit who’d done the deed.

  As he told them, he saw nothing. At first he thought it was a car backfiring. Castiglione was nearly hidden from view as he was reaching for his vehicle’s door on the driver’s side. As he related to the investigators, when he realized it was indeed a shot, he dove to the ground, and pulled his own pistol, waiting for an intruder to try to gain entrance to the house where Linda Carey resided. In reality though, it would have been hard to release his piece from his holster, what with his arms wrapped around his head. He didn’t share that fact with the investigating officer.

  He remained sprawled on the front yard grass for more than a minute, as he recalled. There was no activity from the street, or the yards adjacent to the crime scene. It wasn’t until the widow appeared at her door, and called his name that he sprung into action. He yelled to her to get back out of sight and lock her door. When she complied he rose and went to where the private detective lay in a pool of blood. He went through the motions of checking for a pulse, even though he was sure the man had expired. He then went to his own vehicle and called for backup and an ambulance.

  Not long after writing a report of the entire incident, and being grilled, he was relieved of his guard duties, and assigned to a desk. He was the officer on duty at the Sheriff’s substation when a harried gray-haired old lady walked in and announced that she might have some information about the Ivan Dunn case.

  --------------

  There’d been a flurry of activity in and around the home of Linda Carey after the killing of Evan Castiglione. The killer decided he’d better stay away from there for awhile. He cursed his own lack of discipline in the moment. He should not have done it. It wasn’t the first time his temper had gotten the better of him. Or maybe it was jealousy. Linda Carey was destined to be his, and not too long in the near future. He hadn’t planned and executed his elaborate scheme just to silence Jack Carey, and extract vengeance on Ivan Dunn. He fancied himself a suitor of the pretty widow, who would need comforting. Perhaps they would even marry. But for now he would lay low, and wait. His time would come soon.

  He returned to his rented motel room in the Chula Vista suburb south of San Diego. He was suddenly tired, realizing that he hadn’t slept much since he executed the first part of his plan. Had it really been over a week? He must have napped in his car at times. He surely could not have gone without sleep for that long. He made a mental note to rest more often, for he would have to keep his wits about him to carry out the rest of his scheme. After Ivan Dunn was convicted of the Carey murder would be soon enough. He drifted off to sleep mere minutes after his body hit the lumpy bed, not even realizing he’d forgotten to extinguish the overhead light. Without remorse, he slept like a newborn.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Though she didn’t realize it at the time, Gladys Pisney had just become Ivan Dunn’s guardian angel. What she revealed to the seemingly bored Sheriff’s deputy would change the entire course of the investigation into the death of Jack Carey.

  Of course Jay Sommersby didn’t grasp the complete significance of what the little old lady was telling him. He was not privy to the details of the investigation. He knew that, to the authorities, the case was cut and dried, and Ivan
Dunn, the killer, was safely behind bars on his way to the electric chair. The investigators, in turn, would be highly interested in what Jay Sommersby really knew about the case. He certainly wouldn’t tell them.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight, Ma’am, you’re telling me that some Chinaman, or other fellow of Asian descent, delivered a package to the Dunn home a few days before the killing.” He paused in his writing, “and this is important how?” He almost yawned in her face, but his disinterest was faked.

  “The Dunn’s weren’t there at the time. I saw them leave earlier, and they hadn’t returned. I guess they were at that cabin in the mountains, as the papers said.”

  ”And you’re telling me that he went inside the home?” he made it a question.

  “That’s right. And when he came out he had a smaller package than when he went in.”

  Sommersby kept writing.

  “I told all this to that nice man who got himself killed. What was his name Mister Corleone?”

  “Castiglione Ma’am.” He remembered because the report of the murder was on the desk right in front of him.

  Fortunately, the attorney Jered Longfellow chose that moment to enter the Sheriff’s substation. Law enforcement people were usually tight-lipped about any developments in their case.

  “Hello deputy. I see you’re busy. I can wait until you’re finished.” He had learned long ago you can learn more with courtesy than belligerence. In this case it paid off right away.

  “That’s all right counselor. You might be interested. This report concerns your case.” He held up the sheet of paper containing the information Gladys Pisney had related to him, not even thinking that he might be bypassing protocol in revealing it. He should have discussed it with his superiors first, but he was more interested in looking and feeling important. He looked at the informant sitting across from him and stated, “I’ll forward this report to my superiors, Ma’am. Thank you for your cooperation.” It was a dismissal.