A Cincinnati Cold Case

by R. W. Nichols

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “Yes. I want you not to try to block the Ervines’ claim in court. As soon as the document is authenticated, the lawyer will present it. They’ll need somebody on their side.”

  Naomi considered this and then said, “I’ll make a deal with you.”

  “What would that be, Mrs. Wurtsmith?” Jimmy took another sip from his cup, appreciating the rich flavor. If Millie was the one that had brewed it, she made excellent coffee. Maybe she hadn’t missed her calling, after all.

  “In exchange for Theodore’s and my cooperation, I would like you to forget this happened today.”

  Jimmy knew she meant having a weapon pointed at him. This meant concealing the facts, which was illegal. He was considering the possible repercussions when she added, “And, if Theodore was the one who shot at you before, then I want any possible charges dropped. His name is not to appear on a police report or written about in the newspaper.”

  This was something Jimmy had no control over. The shooting was an open case and had detectives working on it. It was his duty to come forward. But, if he didn’t tell them whom he suspected, he was certain they would never think to look at Theodore Wurtsmith, the recluse millionaire. For the Ervines, this was the best solution. For himself, well --. It could mean not getting his old job back. It could even mean a short stint in jail, and the probable pulling of his P.I. license. But like a famous heroine in a classic novel, he pushed it out of his head. He’d worry about it tomorrow.

  He thought again of the Thug Brothers and that the differences between him and them were becoming less and less, and wondered how it had come down to that. It seemed the line between right and wrong was becoming harder to differentiate.

  But, sometimes you just had to go with the flow of traffic.

  Chapter 34

  The first thing Jimmy did after returning to his office that morning was to call Avis Clough. He told him that Theodore Wurtsmith would be willing to have DNA testing run. This was met with disbelief. But after informing him that Naomi, the first Mrs. Wurtsmith, had been aware of the new will and that she would be willing to give a deposition to that effect for the court, the disbelief turned gleeful. This was the first of many obstacles that needed to be removed and Jimmy could almost see the attorney rubbing his hands together. That big paycheck wasn’t just mist on the horizon.

  Avis had news of his own. The handwriting expert was positive that Darren Wurtsmith had signed the will himself. The writing was wobbly as if done with a shaky hand, which was to be expected, but contained enough similarities to Wurtsmith’s known signature that the expert was willing to bet his reputation on it. To be thorough, Avis stated that a second expert would be examining the document in the following week and that he might even hire a third just to impress the court and further remove all doubt.

  Avis thought it best that Theodore Wurtsmith have the testing done in secret, in case it was proven that the Ervine kid wasn’t related. If he actually were, then that would be a sensational finding and would help strengthen the case. If not, well, he didn’t want the waters muddied.

  Jimmy saw the advantages to secret testing and was sure that Naomi and Theodore would agree. If they could keep Theodore’s name out of it, they would, he told the attorney. Jimmy said he would suggest to them a facility out of state. He repeated his suspicions that Luther Billings had switched samples. Avis said that if Bryan Ervine were proved Wurtsmith’s son, then he would turn this detail over to the authorities to handle. He expected Billings wouldn’t be managing Valley Clinic & Lab long if an irregularity under his watch could be proven, and he may even face criminal charges.

  Jimmy was then told there would be nothing else required of him until the case went to court and that a check would be in the mail. Jimmy thought about asking to testify by deposition also, but changed his mind. Maybe a little free advertising showing his capabilities was a good idea. Clients hadn’t been breaking down his door, and he still had to eat.

  “You’ve done an excellent job,” Avis said. “Would you be interested in assisting in other cases, should I need someone with your experience and skills?”

  “Certainly. Just call whenever you need me,” Jimmy stated, surprised he was willing and actually looking forward to it. Attorneys weren’t his favorite breed of people, but he understood Avis. The man didn’t hide his avarice well and Jimmy was comfortable with that fact. It was only the slick ones, the ones that said they were doing something for the greater good, but, somehow, their pockets filled first, that he couldn’t abide. He hated hypocrites. In his own way, Avis was an honest man.

  After hanging up the phone, Jimmy leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes. Smiling contentedly to himself, he thought that as pleasantly eventful as the last two days had been, he deserved a little nap.

  ***

  Det. Paul Lewinski remained late in his office Friday night, also pleased with the results of the last two days. The Hilton girl had been found and as soon as Mason was caught, that cold case would be closed. It was just a matter of time. Anyone stupid enough to leave a driver’s license on the body would make another mistake. Mason was as good as arrested; he just didn’t know it yet.

  The coroner had assured him that he would have the cause of death by Monday. To his experienced eyes, everything pointed at strangulation. But it would be good to have it a matter of official record.

  Thinking of the likely manner of death brought goose bumps to his arms and a quick catch to his breathing. Strangulation. The victim’s eyes huge, the pupils black and dilated, the shock and fear frozen on her face. As he put himself in Mason’s shoes, he experienced the thrill again. He saw and loved every second. He could almost touch the fear and panic churning in his memory from where he sat at his desk. It was so beautiful. Such a lovely, lovely death.

  Finally, craving more, he stood and walked quietly around the building, searching for stragglers like himself. There was no one still here, except the dispatch officer. The man was conscientious; Paul knew he would never leave his desk. With his body stiff and on high alert, he walked back to his office, closed and locked the door behind him.

  His hands were trembling, annoying Paul as he unlocked the bottom right drawer of his desk. Inside, at the back underneath several files, a small box came to light. He separated out a small key hidden in the heavy, jangling collection he carried in his pants pocket and reverently opened the box and then just stared as blood catapulted around in his temples, rushing, drowning out all other sound. He wasn’t aware that his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared. Gone far away where touch, smell, and the sound of sweet, sweet violence was his alone, he was in a different world.

  A fake diamond ring, a belt made from a cheap silver chain, a compact with the letter H worried into the design on the metal lid, and a red hair extension that had been rolled tightly to better fit in its own corner were all that were inside, four seemingly unconnected items. Sad little treasures that sat lonely in their locked box, waiting for the rare times he couldn’t resist the urge to see and touch, and remember.

  His fingers gently caressed each piece, reliving, as he experienced each kill over again. Paul didn’t allow himself this gratification often because he didn’t want to diminish the emotions that clung to each souvenir. And when he finally did break down and give in to the pleasure, it was only when he knew he was totally safe. Keeping his trophies at the post, in a building occupied by dozens of cops, might not be thought of as clever, but so far it had worked. No one ever thought of suspecting a detective. No one ever thought of suspecting him.

  Buoyed up by this thought and yesterday’s discovery, a sudden irritation disturbed his nirvana. Only rarely did he allow negative emotion to rule. But this time, it was an old wound with a scab that sometimes needed to be picked. And this annoyance was, naturally, that he wanted his other souvenirs back. The ones he�
��d used to frame Grant with. He wanted the soft, feather barrette and the skimpy black lace thong back where they belonged. They were his. And they belonged in his stash. He knew he could go down to the basement and get them out of the evidence locker right now. No one would be the wiser. Those empty spots in the box were calling to be filled, begging for their return.

  But, he didn’t go to the basement. He thought it a testament to his self-control that he left them where they were. They would be in his possession soon enough. Mason would be caught. And when he was, after the man’s day in court and those delectable trophies were used to convict him, then Paul would retrieve them from the evidence vault where they were stored. They’d go back into their home in the little box, to keep company with the others.

  ***

  “Abby wants to go to the memorial,” Izzy told Eleanor. “I hate that sort of thing.”

  “I know,” Eleanor said. “But don’t you think it’s the right thing to do?”

  “Maybe, but I’m still not going.”

  Eleanor had to grin at that. Abby going without Izzy being dragged along was funny, and downright impossible. Of course, the girls didn’t always know what the other one did and sometimes they didn’t know the other’s thoughts. It was a strange situation, but Eleanor was getting used to it.

  “I believe that private detective… What’s his name? Jimmy, I think,” she said feigning ignorance to better poke fun at the younger woman. “I expect he’ll be there.” Her grin grew wider. She knew that there was no way she wouldn’t get a reaction to this. Jimmy Warren, PI, was a favorite topic of conversation with Izzy recently.

  She’d seen more of Izzy lately. Abby had been her first friend, but as the young woman matured she’d begun shedding the downtrodden, sweet-but-sad attitude that she routinely wore. Izzy’s brash, up-beat personality had come more to the forefront. At first Eleanor had found this alarming, but now she welcomed it. She understood why Abby was the way she was. Abused women need a shell to hide behind. It’s strictly self-preservation on their part and completely to be expected. Izzy hadn’t gone through what Abby had with Grant, or with their mother. She didn’t have that baggage to carry. She had been allowed to develop as flippantly as she (and Abby) wanted, with Abby the only one that even knew she existed for years. She was sometimes hostile, irreverent, but always strong enough for them both. She was the duo’s rock.

  Eleanor understood all this, and she accepted it. She would never have thought to seek out professional help for the twins, no more than she would have asked about their sex lives. This was something that in her generation was just never done. Besides, they were adjusting well, and also, she liked them both. One without the other wouldn’t be as enjoyable, or as complete. Over her seventy-some years she’d learned to be tolerant of others; their flaws and idiosyncrasies widened and gave color to the world.

  The one question she had was which girl had actually eliminated Grant. The fact that the man was dead and decaying under the rose garden behind the shed didn’t concern her. She didn’t give that a second thought. Grant deserved it. The question she’d like an answer to was who did it. And the question was merely one of curiosity, not due to any sense of morality on her part.

  She knew Izzy had voiced her intentions of getting rid of him. ‘Permanently’ had been her word. There was no doubt that she would have, if the opportunity had arisen. Abby certainly had reason to do it, and the garden was hers. Deadly Nightshade had been the poison used, and Eleanor knew that plant flourished among the herbs. Abby had once told her to never pick the berries or leaves from the plant without wearing gloves. She remembered that day as if it was yesterday. Seemed so long ago now. But did the woman have courage enough to murder her husband?

  “I’ll probably go, for the family’s sake,” Izzy spoke, interrupting her thoughts, as if she were reconsidering her earlier decision, as if Jimmy Warren wasn’t the real reason. Which was just what Eleanor had known she would do. “But Janet and I never really got along,” Izzy added. “She was Abby’s friend more than mine.”

  “I know, but going shows your respect for the family,” Eleanor said. “Her poor parents… Janet didn’t deserve what happened to her. Grant was such a son-of-a-bitch.”

  Izzy looked Eleanor in the eye and said, “Yes. He was.”

  Chapter 35

  Monday morning dawned wet and gloomy. Jimmy was running late again, so he stopped at a fast-food joint and bought a breakfast sandwich and a cup of coffee that was so boiling hot it must be trying to make up for its lack of taste. Being self-employed was making him lazy about schedules. But, rather than buy a new alarm clock, he instead considered changing the time the office opened to ten instead of nine. That would solve the problem, unless of course, he just slept in that additional hour. And then there was the problem of the lettering on the door. It would cost to get it changed, and he didn’t want to spend the extra money. He sighed; he’d just have to force himself to get up, instead of rolling over.

  At the office, he waited impatiently for his coffee pot to brew. His coffee wasn’t the best but it beat what was in the Styrofoam cup all to hell. When it was finally ready, he took his time with his sandwich and sipped at the fresh coffee. There was little to do; he might as well enjoy his breakfast. The two cases he had were nearly finished. The Wurtsmith/Ervine case was in the hands of the attorney with nothing Jimmy needed to bother with, unless he was called to tie up some loose end. And he didn’t foresee that. The Hilton case was on hold until there was verification from the police and the medical examiner. If it weren’t Janet Hilton’s body, then he would try to figure out what direction to go in next. Which way and just what he could do, he didn’t have a clue. If it were her, then, after the memorial, his part would be over. Law enforcement would still have to find and convict Mason. But that was their deal. His job would be done.

  He read a magazine that he’d bought for rainy days, he guessed today qualified, and listened to the clock tick/tock as it checked off the seconds. He watched as the seconds turned into minutes, the minutes turned into hours, and had just told himself that at quarter to twelve (he wasn’t waiting until noon), he was closing for a long lunch, when there was a tap on the door that startled him so much his feet dropped off the desk and his heart jumped to his throat.

  After struggling to regain his composure, he yelled out, “Come in,” and waited, eagerly (it had been such a boring morning) to see who was on the other side of the door. “What’s behind door number one?” he thought, amusing himself. He was easy today.

  The door opened and a middle-aged, big-bosomed woman of medium height walked in. Jimmy noticed long fingernails painted a bright red, with several large glittering diamond rings on fingers barely long enough for a child. A style commonly called ‘big hair’ made a valiant effort towards making her appear six inches taller than she was. And the last thing, although by no means the least, that registered in his quick appraisal was the woman’s makeup. If she’d ever heard that day makeup should be less conspicuous than clubbing makeup, she didn’t show it. The eyeliner was black and heavy, the shadow a dusky blue-gray that came to a point almost at her temple, and the lipstick, in a shade just darker than her nails, looked several layers thick. If it hadn’t been for her clothes, which were right out of a fashion magazine, Jimmy would have thought her an aging call girl. Maybe a ‘madam’ who ran a cheap stable. But her outfit was plainly expensive with a designer brand. It would easily cost a workingman’s monthly salary.

  Jimmy was impressed, and a bit amused, liking his job more and more. You never knew what was going to come through the door. You might have to wait a while, but it was worth it. And to think he’d almost missed this by leaving early because he’d been bored. He made a note to buy more magazines.

  “How do you do? I’m Jimmy Warren,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Mrs. Levy Parker. Anita Parker,” she said, limp
ly taking the hand he’d offered. “I’m not so well.” Her hands were cold and she allowed her fingers to remain in his for only a brief time, before pulling them back into a fist that she hid in her lap.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Jimmy said not without sympathy, as he wondered what would have brought a woman of her station to his side of the tracks. “Please, have a seat.”

  The woman sat down in the straight-backed chair in front of the desk, but not before running a hand around the seat, looking for dust. It was apparent she wasn’t impressed with his furniture or housekeeping skills. Jimmy grinned to himself. If he didn’t get a client today, he wouldn’t be able to say he hadn’t been entertained.

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s better than it looks,” Jimmy said, conscious of the coffee stains on the side of his cup and the ring on the desk where it had been sitting. His thoughts returned to the possibility of hiring an office manager, a woman preferably. He really needed a woman’s touch in his office.

  “I’m sure,” she replied, not looking sure at all.

  “Mr. Warren,” she said, ignoring that he’d asked to be called Jimmy. “May I come straight to the point?”

  Jimmy nodded, wondering if it was fraud, larceny, or something as mundane as an unfaithful spouse that she needed help with. Maybe she wanted to know where a certain makeup artist had disappeared? She must have had to apply her own makeup this morning. He thought that uncharitable thought and instantly was disgusted with himself. The way his face looked he was certainly in no position to judge someone else’s appearance. He hadn’t even bothered with make up.

  “I have reason to believe that my husband is cheating on me.”

  With that question answered, Jimmy now believed that he was getting a new client. This woman wasn’t leaving. Being anonymous, an unknown like he was, was to his advantage. She had come to his office specifically because no one in her circle knew he existed. Her intentions were to hire a PI from the wrong side of the tracks, so no one she knew would suspect. Well, he could do the job and do it discreetly. He didn’t care what she or her friends thought of him; he knew he was qualified. And, it was readily apparent that she could afford him. His rate per hour just took a hike.