Shadow of a Killer: the Dark Side of Paradise

by Frank A. Perdue

  “How about that.” And he smiled for the first time. “Say, you fellas ain’t so bad after all. Can I get you some ammunition?”

  “No thanks. Not today.” At least now they knew why the shootout sounded like firecrackers on the fourth of July, but no one was hurt. There must have been that one live round that killed the Sheriff’s deputy. No one could figure out how the dead man in 334 fit into the puzzle. They found a shotgun on the roof, and another next to the two bodies on the third floor. Only the one downstairs had been fired. What really happened wouldn’t come to light until after it was discovered by forensics the only fingerprints on the shotgun were those of Jay Sommersby. Even then it was inconceivable the cop had killed the man in 334. Rather than implicate a dead deputy, who might have been a hero, and without any real proof of his involvement, the investigation was dropped.

  Chapter Forty

  On the first week of March a party was held at the mansion on the hill in La Jolla. The circular drive in front of the huge home was filled with vehicles of all sorts, including some with police and sheriff’s emblems. Inside, the champagne flowed freely.

  Off in one corner of the spacious living room Harry Shields could be found conversing with an attentive Angelo Rodrigues. Standing next to Angelo was the widow Linda Carey, who had accompanied him to the party. She held his arm while he talked. Part of what the two FBI men were discussing was the highly probable promotion the younger man certainly deserved and would most likely receive. The paperwork had already been forwarded to headquarters.

  Vince Allison was there, circulating among the many officers in attendance. He was still hunting for follow-up material for his story on the murders and the manhunt, along with the final shootout. He would probably gain a newspaper award for his fine coverage.

  The mayor also showed up, not wanting to miss a photo op with the man who was suddenly all over the news. Vince Allison had written how Ivan, by showing himself to the killer, had saved his Son-in Law from a bullet that would have surely found its mark. The mayor, being a man to not pass up a positive publicity opportunity, was anxious to have his picture taken with Ivan Dunn who was suddenly a hero in the eyes of the reading public.

  All in all it was a short party, barely lasting two hours. It wouldn’t do for the law enforcement people to be driving their squad cars with alcohol on their breath. So it was two celebratory drinks and a breath mint, then off they went.

  The host and hostess speeded things right along too.

  Earlier, Rachel had caught up with her husband when he had checked back into the hospital after the shootout in Chula Vista. He hadn’t been hurt, but he was still listed as a patient.

  She flew into his arms, not being careful at all. He winced when she bumped his casted arm, but it was all for show as he reached around her with his good arm, and they kissed, passionately.

  “Oh darling, can we go home now?”

  “Why would you want to do that?” he teased.

  “That’s easy. I have a party to plan.”

  “Can we resume our honeymoon after this party?” There was a twinkle in his eye.

  “Of course.”

  “Then by all means let’s get the party over, so we can get on with the important things in our life.”

  “We have a wedding to go to in Japan, too, don’t forget.”

  “Yeah, we’ll both look forward to that.”

  Rachel had a thought, “We can’t count the trip, because that’s for Thomas, so where do you want to go on this honeymoon?”

  “Upstairs.”

  The end of a novel

  By

  Frank A. Perdue

  Keep reading to learn the true story of the incredible event that changed this author’s life.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I was adopted shortly after birth and never told. It wasn’t until 1993, nearly sixty years later that I learned the true story. What follows is a dramatized but accurate version of what happened so long ago. I hope you enjoy it. Some of the names have been changed to honor the right of privacy of individuals who may still be living. I call this work

  IN SEARCH OF J.J.

  The story has no end. It has a beginning and a middle, but the end is elusive. It’s out there somewhere. Maybe it will help to get it out into the open…this secret that has already affected the lives of nearly a hundred people.

  She couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the first time. It had happened over and over again. But she kept going, so she must have been getting some rest sometime during the black night. The nights were her enemy. During the day she could handle it. But at night…it was a cancer. Not the medical kind. She had already dealt with that. No, this was worse. Maybe if she told someone…

  It was Sally’s day to visit. Her mother was pretty independent but, still, each daughter dropped by every few days to make sure everything was all right. Beulah would be seventy-eight soon, and they worried about her. Physically she was fine, Though slightly stooped by osteoporosis. There had been that scare with colon cancer, but that was over, thank God. The little gray-haired lady, with the slightly broad bottom was a fighter. There was still a twinkle in her eyes that said “Life is not so bad. I think I’ll stick around for awhile.”

  When her mother came to the door of the single-wide trailer, Sally could see that something was wrong. Beulah was obviously nervous. After they were seated on the old, floppy, but comfortable couch Sally’s mother said, “I have to tell you something, but you’re going to hate me for it.”

  The day the letter arrived, Frank and Nonie were in a hurry. They were always rushed. Ever since he had retired from the National Weather Service, and she from the school district, it seemed there was no time for anything. The day he retired they moved to Seattle. They couldn’t afford to stay in San Diego with the cost of living, even if they wanted to. Their youngest son had started college, and the other three had already moved on with their lives, so there was nothing really to hold them back, except…

  Frank’s mother Esther had been a vital woman in exceptionally good health. She was eighty-five when a stroke robbed her of her dignity, and made her nearly a vegetable. It happened at a time when it was impossible to care for her at home, so she was placed in a nursing home with the promise that, as soon as Frank and Nonie were settled in the Pacific Northwest they would bring her up to live with them. But she died eleven days after they left to go north. After the funeral they found a house in Sequim, Washington overlooking the Strait of Juan De Fuca, bought a small older boat, and a satellite system, and settled down to serious retired life; fixing up the house and yard, visiting with Nonie’s many relatives in and around Seattle, and getting out on the boat those few times it was running properly. Frank promised, if there was a next time, he would buy a new boat.

  The letter was in the middle of a stack of bills. It was legal size, and did not appear to be from a creditor. The return address on the envelope revealed it was from a Sheila Becker in Sacramento, California. That didn’t ring a bell with either Frank or Nonie. Nonie got the bills to check out, and Frank opened the letter from Ms. Becker. It was puzzling to say the least.

  “Dear Mr. Perdue,

  I am currently researching my family genealogy and I am hoping you can help me. I am trying to locate a Frank Allen Perdue. He was born in Reno, Nevada, on May third, nineteen thirty-four. He spent his early childhood in Las Vegas, Nevada. His father’s name was also Frank and his mother’s name was Ethel or Esther. I do not know what happened to this person after leaving Las Vegas.”

  There was a self-addressed stamped envelope for a reply.

  Frank was intrigued by the letter, so he sat down and responded immediately. He included the facts that his father’s name was Norman, not Frank, and he had passed away years ago. Norman was born in Fort Worth, Texas, and Esther, his mother was born in Swanton, Ohio. After mailing the information to Ms. Becker, he did a curious thing; rather than throwing the letter away, he placed it in a drawer for safekeeping.

  Sall
y was ecstatic. She was beside herself with euphoria. She couldn’t believe what she had just heard from her mother. And yet it had to be true. Why would she make up a thing like that? As she drove away from her mother’s house, she played it back in her mind. Her mother had kept the secret for nearly sixty years, ashamed that her family would think less of her for it. “Sally, you may have another sister, and a brother out there somewhere.” And then she related the incredible story of what had happened so long ago.

  When the second letter arrived, no one was home to receive it. It sat in a mailbox for almost a week before Frank and Nonie returned home from Seattle and found it. “It’s another letter from the Sheila Becker in Sacramento,” Frank said, as Nonie began looking at some of the other mail that had accumulated while they were gone.

  “Dear Mr. Perdue, I wish to thank you for your prompt response to my letter of April 22, 1993. Your letter arrived on your birthday, and I hope it was a happy one. My relationship is not to the Perdue family, but to Frank himself The individual I am looking for was adopted and I am related to him biologically. I don’t know much about the couple who adopted Frank. It is possible that the father worked in a large grocery store, but I am not even sure about that. If you are the person I am seeking I would be very pleased. I am again enclosing a self-addressed stamped envelope for your reply.”

  They were tired from their journey and the late hour, so Frank dropped the letter on the already cluttered coffee table and they went to bed, not really giving much thought to what was on the written page that Frank had read aloud to his wife.

  The next morning they both woke rather early, and voiced the same idea; “Let’s read the letter again.” So they did. Then they retrieved the first letter and reread it.

  There were so many coincidences-so many facts about Frank’s family and his life, yet it couldn’t be him they were seeking. HE WASN’T ADOPTED! He knew who his mother and father were, but then so did Sheila Becker.

  Nonie left the room. When she returned she had the photocopy of Frank’s birth certificate in her hand. It had been with their important papers for years, but there was no reason to look at it, until then. People take the facts of their birth for granted. They already know what’s on the document. Everyone knows it lists their name and their mother and father’s name, when they were born and where. In Frank’s case the where was Reno, Nevada. In the space left for the address was printed Allen Maternity Home. Frank and Nonie both had the same thought; Allen was Frank’s middle name. It also occurred to them that “maternity home” was another way of saying “home for unwed mothers.” On line 27 was another strange statistic. It read “Number of children of this mother (at time of this birth and including this child), and under the category born alive and now living was printed the number zero.

  Frank was dumbfounded. He was fifty-nine years old. Could it be that his family had withheld the fact of his adoption for all those years? Maybe it wasn’t true. Perhaps they were just overreacting to some silly coincidences. There was one way to find out for sure.

  Ray and Neva were still alive. Ray was Esther’s younger brother. He had learned his trade, meatcutting, from Frank’s father Norman in the early 30’s. The two couples had been nearly inseparable. If anyone knew the truth it would be them.

  Frank was too shaken to place the call to Escondido, California, where Mr. and Mrs. Ray Smith resided. A hundred different thoughts were going through his head. At this point most of them were self-pitying, so Nonie dialed the number. When Neva answered the phone Nonie engaged her in small talk for a while and then said, “Neva, I have to ask you this-was Frank adopted?”

  Nonie could hear a gasp on the line, and then it went silent. Nonie continued, “Before you answer I want to tell you that we already know he was born in a home for unwed mothers, and that Esther had never had any children.”

  Neva answered, “Then you already know. Esther always wanted it kept secret.” And she added, “Nobody could have loved him more than Esther and Norman. Please don’t tell Ray. It would kill him to know you found out.”

  After returning the phone to its cradle, Nonie went to the bookcase and found Frank’s baby book. They had retrieved it along with other mementos, after his mother passed away. As they began to leaf through the pages, looking for clues to the facts of his birth, they noticed that a picture of Frank in his bassinet was captioned “Sonny’s first picture, age one month old.” She remarked that they should have realized a new mother, especially one who had waited ten years to realize a child, would have earlier pictures of the baby than one month.

  Sally agonized over what she had learned from her mother. She had been sworn to secrecy, but she had to tell someone. She did tell her boyfriend, and several girlfriends. She wanted to search for the lost ones, but didn’t know how to start. Besides, her mother wanted it kept secret. That was in nineteen ninety.

  It was nearly a year later before Sally finally convinced her mother that they should search, but they didn’t know how to begin. Her oldest living sister Sheila needed to be told. (An older sibling Verna Jean, who had been called by her middle name, had passed away in nineteen seventy-five.) According to Sally, Sheila was the brains in the family, and that’s what they needed in the early stages of their investigation. After hearing the story, Sheila agreed that they should do what they could to find their sister and brother, but even she didn’t know where to start.

  It would be several months before Sally heard about a support group that provides advice to families trying to reunite. By the time she went to one of their meetings, her personal support group had grown to include her sister Georgia, and her niece Vicki, who was more like a best friend, and almost the same age as Sally.

  Beulah remembered that the family who adopted her little boy, whom she had named John Allen, changed his name to Frank Allen. She couldn’t recall if the last name was Perdue, or Duprez. Her daughters realized that if they could eliminate one of the names it would make their task easier. Sally went to the vital statistics office for the state of Nevada, which was in Carson City. Because of a privacy act, they could not reveal what the name was, but they were told what it wasn’t, and it wasn’t Duprez!

  Armed with this new information, and a renewed hope, Sally returned to Sacramento. The support group had recommended using a statistical research company to obtain addresses of the various Frank A. Perdues across the United States. At this point Sheila and her logical mind took over. She got in touch with the Shenandoah Statistical Research association of Arlington, Virginia. They provided her with a list of twelve names and addresses. They included all the Franks, F. A.s and Francis’s. She wrote identical letters to each. It was April nineteen ninety-three.

  So much had happened since Frank and Nonie Perdue received the first letter from Sheila Becker. They were on an emotional roller-coaster. But it was time to call Ms. Becker and find out where she fit into the puzzle. Frank dialed direct to Sacramento, to the phone number that had been listed on both letters they had received, along with the return address. A woman answered. “Hello,” Frank said, “I’m trying to reach Ms. Sheila Becker.”

  “I’m Sheila,” the voice said.

  “Sheila, this is Frank Perdue, calling from Sequim, Washington.”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought it best I call you at this point to tell you I just found out I was adopted.” Silence.

  “If I am the person you are looking for, what relationship would you be to me,”

  “I would be your sister.”

  Frank went on to ask about the family, and was told that, in addition to their mother, there were four sisters still living, including one in Kentucky, Janis, who didn’t know anything about their search. At that point Frank interrupted, and asked, “and my mother is still living?”

  “YES!”

  It is impossible to describe what Frank was feeling at that point. He thought he had lost his mother, and then to find out his mother, his real mother, was still alive was incomprehensible. It was li
ke a dream. It wasn’t real. He felt a sense of guilt that he was so quick to replace his mother, Esther, with another he didn’t even know. Then he became caught up in not knowing how to refer to them. One was his birth mother, the other his adoptive mother. One was his real mother, but which one. Esther and Norman had raised him as their own, and taken on the total responsibility of his well being. On the other hand, they had never told him of the turn his life had taken that day in nineteen thirty-four. Which life would have been better? In the life he lived there were aunts and uncles and cousins who were very dear to him. There were no sisters or nieces and nephews. He had been deceived by one family, and abandoned by the other. Instead of living within a perfect family, he was illegitimate, a bastard. These were terms of long ago, and if society was so quick to label another human being with a scornful name, then it was easier to understand that perhaps his birth mother did not have a choice. She had to give him up to adoption for his own sake.

  “I want to call her.” Frank told Sheila.

  “Let me talk to her first, and prepare her. It will be such a shock to hear from you after all these years. Why don’t you call her in fifteen minutes.” It was not a question. Frank agreed, and with that Sheila gave him their mother’s phone number. They hung up after promising to keep in touch.