Murder on Second Street: The Jackson Ward Murders (Sy Sanford Series Book 1)

by Rebekah Pierce

  Sy shook his head as if to clear it out. “I couldn’t have killed her,” he whispered as he closed and then re-opened his eyes to see better. Lena, Lena, he repeated over and over. He had to get through this. So, gathering all of his energy, he started walking towards Second Street. The cold air whipped against his face like an angry tiger. He wrapped his coat tightly around him, looking up at the dark skies which so resembled the emotions that whirled around inside of him. And as Sy Sanford finally entered into the lobby of the Sessions Hotel, a flash of lightning could be seen off in the distance as rain came pouring out of the heavens in repentance.

  Raymond Turner twiddled a toothpick in his mouth as he thumped his fingers on the table. His newspaper, the Richmond Planet, had just gone to press with the continuing sad story of Miss Sara Young. This was personal for him, though, this time. Miss Young had gone to school with his daughters – watched her grow up. It could have been my daughter, he said to himself.

  Mrs. Perditia Jones sat at the table of the Sessions Hotel, playing with a cup of coffee which had long grown cold. Her nerves were frayed as she thought of all that was happening. She looked around the table at the men in her company and wondered what each one was thinking. They were waiting for Sy Sanford to come and report what he had learned since they hired him.

  As they waited, Prometheus Jackson was telling Jack Johnson about the meeting at his barber shop earlier that morning. “Jack, the men in this neighborhood are angry. Someone is pickin’ off our women like sheep. I’m tellin’ ya, when we find out who it is, he’s a dead man,” he exclaimed as he pounded his fist on the table. Mrs. Jones gave him a once-over. “Sorry, Mrs. Jones.”

  Jack Johnson rolled his eyes to the back of his head. “This guy … he got a bone to pick with us.”

  “Whatcha mean, Johnson?” Jackson asked.

  “Why’s he dumpin’ the bodies in good places of business if he ain’t got somethin’ against us? It’s like he’s holdin’ us hostage or somethin’.”

  Preston Miller interjected. “Let’s just wait for Sanford to tell us more ‘fore we start speculating stuff. So, Turner, is it true what they saying about Wall Street?”

  Turner squared his shoulders as if about to tackle a lion. “I don’t report on lies, Miller.”

  “So, then the market is in trouble.”

  “That’s what some are saying, but I’m more optimistic. Things like that are impossible in this day and age.” Turner rubbed his forehead and then walked over to the bar to get a drink.

  “What’s goin’ on with the market? What are you talkin’ ‘bout, Miller?” asked Johnson nervously.

  Miller was about to explain the events happening in New York as they spoke when Sy Sanford finally walked into the restaurant. All eyes turned to Sanford as he slowly walked down three steps to the dining room like a man on death row. His eyes were briefly covered by the rim of his black fedora hat so that Mrs. Jones thought he looked like the devil come to visit. Sy’s matching black trench rain coat was soaked from the downpour that now throttled Richmond like it was a naughty child who was being punished for being disobedient.

  Sy quickly scanned the room of the people who had hired him to solve the murders. Each man was dressed in fine single-breasted suits of various shades of blue and black, which reflected their positions in the community. They had money and power, neither of which could do anything for them at the moment. Turner picked at his Homburg hat that lay on the table in front of him like a scab. Mrs. Jones’ cloche hat hugged her head tightly as she fingered her long pearls which draped around her neck.

  But no one’s shoulders were hunched over in self-pity nor did their eyes seem drowned in liquor and despair as were Sy’s that morning. Sy felt another shiver run down his spine. He was out of his element, he told himself. Everyone was looking at him as he entered into the room, all of their hopes pinned on the news he was about to tell them. These people needed him and he wasn’t quite sure if he could handle that. The last 24 hours had shaken his spirit once he had realized the enormity of what was happening to Jackson Ward from within its walls and on the outside, not to mention his own life.

  Mrs. Perditia Jones spoke first. “Welcome, Mr. Sanford. Please come in and tell us what you know. We are anxious to hear your report.” She reached over and pulled out a chair for him to sit down next to her.

  Sy said nothing as he sat down hesitantly. He draped his coat over his chair and placed his hat on the table. Preston Miller, Jack Johnson, Raymond Turner and Prometheus Johnson, who had barely arrived before Sanford having just come from his own meeting at his shop, all sat down at the table each seeming to clear their throats all at the same time.

  “Mr. Sanford, before you begin, let me first just thank you for taking on this challenging matter,” said William Sessions as he lit his cigar. Sy noticed that his hands shook as he lit it.

  Raymond Turner squared his tie again as he said, “Yes, Mr. Sanford, thank you. We are aware of your service to this country and we are most pleased that Mrs. Jones was able to persuade you to continue to be of service.” The unofficial mayor of Jackson Ward and founder of the Richmond Planet was weary and it showed on his face as it was inundated with more wrinkles than Sy remembered seeing the last time they had spoken.

  His paper had been continuously reporting on the murders of the women since the first body was found and his fears about Miss Young were compounded when he thought of the other news he was hearing from sources on Wall Street in New York. But he knew that the people of Jackson Ward had probably overlooked the news. Even his counterparts here in this room seemed to have overlooked it as they now focused intently on Sy Sanford and his news.

  “Mr. Sanford,” interjected Mrs. Jones, “let me introduce everyone to you. Mr. William Sessions is the proprietor of this hotel as you already know from our unfortunate meeting the other day …” and she stopped there to catch her breath. Sessions bowed his head in acknowledgement to Sy. She continued, clearing her throat. “Mr. Prometheus Jackson - owner of Jackson’s Barber Shop.”

  Sy reached out to shake his hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Jackson. I used to visit your shop quite often when I was a kid.”

  “Why have you stopped coming, then?” Jackson probed. He never liked to hear that he had lost a customer.

  “I learned to cut my own hair in the Army,” said Sy almost apologetically.

  “I see,” replied Jackson with a knowing smile on his large face.

  “I know you must recognize Mr. Raymond Turner,” Mrs. Jones stated. Sy and Turner nodded in recognition of one another.

  “And this is Mr. Jack Johnson. He owns Johnson Insurance Agency on the corner of Second and Broad Street. It’s one of the largest insurance agencies for Negroes in all of Virginia.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sanford,” and Johnson reached across the table to shake Sy’s hand.

  The men stared and waited on the edge of their seats for Sy to speak. Before he could, though, Prometheus Jackson spoke. “Mr. Sanford, I was just tellin’ everyone that the community has formed a group of men who will now stand watch on every corner of the Ward until the killer is caught.”

  “Prometheus, I don’t know if that’s wise,” cautioned Mrs. Jones. She locked eyes with him. He had hoped this news would carry well with Mrs. Jones, in his favor, of course. But her eyes spoke of fear, not pride. “Will you all be carryin’ guns, Prometheus?”

  The mention of the word sent a cold chill in the air. “I don’t think that’s a wise course of action, Jackson,” said Turner. “Let’s just wait and see what Sanford here has turned up,” and then he turned his attention back to Sy – they all did.

  His heart beat a thousand miles a minute. He clutched his sweaty hands together underneath the table, trying in vain to calm his nerves. Gathering his breath, Sy spoke slowly and softly. “Gentlemen and Mrs. Jones, the news I bring you today is quite disturbing to me as it may be to you.” Sy shook his head as if to clear out cobwebs and then took another deep breath.

&nb
sp; “Out with it, Mr. Sanford!” Sessions screamed, making many in the room jump. The group stared at him uncomfortably. “My apologies … I am just anxious. Proceed.”

  Sy cleared his throat and continued. “The women have but one or two things in common, I’ve learned. They … they … you must understand, gentlemen, that I am a securities man, not an investigator,” apologized Sy as he rubbed is hands on his pants underneath the table.

  “Mr. Sanford, you are the best that we could have,” Miller answered back re-assuredly. “Now, please just tell us what you have learned so that we can chart a course of action. The last thing we need is a vigilante mob runnin’ around the Ward in the city.” The others nodded in unison.

  “Alright! With the exception of one, which I am not sure of because I have no one to speak to about her … they were all being courted by the same man, I believe.”

  “What’d you say?” Mrs. Jones asked nervously. She was playing with her pearls again.

  Sy cleared his throat as he looked at Mrs. Jones firmly in the eyes. “They were being preyed upon, ma’am … by someone whom I believe to be quite wealthy. You see—“

  “You mean someone from our community killed these women?” Miller interjected as he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “Well, how do you know this?” Jackson asked as he stood up and lit a cigarette, his hands now visibly shaking as he lit it.

  Sy cleared his throat before he spoke again. “He drove a nice car. There aren’t too many Negro folks in the Ward who own cars, gentlemen. Remember we talked about that the other night, Mr. Miller? There were tire tracks.”

  “Is that true, Miller?” Turner asked.

  Miller nodded in agreement. Sy continued. “The information I learned reveals that the killer has access to a car and money. He wooed these women. Two of them he told he would marry and they in turn planned to leave their families … their jobs for him.”

  “Well, did you learn his name?” shouted Jackson. His eyes were charged with anger as his breathing became more ragged by the second.

  “No, sir,” Sy admitted reluctantly.

  “But how can you be sure?” pressed Jackson.

  “The tire tracks at the Hippodrome by the body of Shalesha Painter. And a witness said Sheritha Bills talked about a man with a nice car who wanted to wed her.” Mrs. Jones sucked in her breath as she searched for something in her purse. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. The room grew silent as each one mulled the information over.

  “But plenty of us drive cars, Mr. Sanford,” replied Jack Johnson wearily. “I just brought a new Chrysler myself.”

  “That’s true, Sanford,” Sessions agreed. “The Ward ain’t as poor as some folks would like to believe. Every one, if they work hard ‘nough, can live well. Why, most of the people here bought their homes.”

  Sy dropped his shoulders in defeat. “But not everyone has money.” Silence filled the space as the gravity of the situation dawned on them. “I’m just reporting’ what I know.”

  “We must be careful with this information, gentleman,” warned Turner. “If word were to get out that our killer is of the upper echelon of our society, then it would cause undue embarrassment if we turned out to be wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong,” Sy said sternly. He was irritated with Turner for a second there. He didn’t like his work being called into question.

  “You gonna keep this out of the papers, right, Turner?” Miller inquired.

  Turner looked back at Sy firmly in the eyes. He liked Sanford for all of his faults, but he also prided himself on being the bearer of truth. “We must be sure, first. What else did you learn, Sanford?”

  Sy stood up to get some air and to distance himself from the group. Their intense gazes were making him nervous and angry. “Nothing,” he admitted reluctantly. “I …I still have more work to do.”

  “Well, I for one believe that you have done well so far.” It was Mrs. Jones. She had been quietly crying as the men spoke. She was quite afraid for the women of her community, but was determined to find out who was picking them off like hunted animals. “No one else has gotten this close. We can’t stop now just ‘cause we don’t have a name – yet!”

  “Turner, you must not print this information. If the killer finds out we are on to him, he’ll run,” warned Preston Miller.

  “Or worse,” said Johnson. “He’ll stop killing just to make a point and we may never catch him. We need guns on the street, yes we do.”

  “No we don’t!” exclaimed Jack Johnson as he downed the last of his bourbon. “We’ve got enough death around here without addin’ more innocent lives to it.”

  Miller added, “And that’s all Sheriff Mason wants is to see us all dead. I agree with Jack here. No guns, Prometheus.”

  Sy sat silently watching the businessmen wrestle with the news. He was just a hired gun and didn’t feel it was his place to offer his advice, but he agreed with Miller and Johnson about the guns. Things were already bad. Real bad. And Lena…

  Preston Miller turned to face Sy. “What about Miss Young? Do you think she’s…?”

  Sy’s heart nearly stopped at the mention of her name. The gray started to cloud his vision. So, he just nodded his head because he feared what he’d say if he had to speak.

  “My God!” exclaimed Turner. “How can you say that just yet? There’s been no trace of a…a body even.”

  And just then, an errand boy ran through the doors of the Sessions Hotel restaurant and yelled, “They found her! They found her!” The little dark boy was out of breath from running so hard and fast-charged with telling such big news.

  Sy looked at Turner who had turned white, if that were possible for a man as dark as he. “Is she dead?” asked Turner.

  The room held its breath for the answer they knew was coming. “Yes sir.”

  “Where is she?” Miller asked the breathless boy.

  “Behind the old Armory on West Leigh Street, sir.”

  “Sanford, whatever you need to get this done, you’ve got it,” said Sessions as he followed the other men out of the restaurant.

  Only Mrs. Jones was left with Sanford. “Ain’t you gonna go see about her, too?”

  For a precious few seconds, all he heard was gunfire and screams. He couldn’t move even if he had wanted to. “Sy, are you going to go?” Mrs. Jones repeated.

  The gunfire ceased only to be replaced by an image of the ripped hosiery at the bottom of a trashcan. He shuddered. “I suppose I ain’t got much choice, do I?” Sy stood up slowly, picked up his raincoat and placed the fedora slowly on his head as if his hands were in pain.

  “Oh, Sy! Did Lena tell you? The sheriff was at your place. I had come by to talk with you about the case. Be careful, Sy. That man has somethin’ in him.”

  Sy stood silently looking at the floor. Why hadn’t she told him about the sheriff? Sy had no words for this news. He simply bowed his head and tipped his hat to her. Mrs. Jones watched as he walked slowly out of the hotel bar as if a dark cloud hung over him, which it probably did, she surmised. Death was not an easy thing to look at, she thought to herself.

  Chapter 18

  The torrential rainfall had now turned to a drizzle, but the bone-chilling cold still remained. However, it was not enough to keep people from coming out to see a dead body. There was a large crowd surrounding the old armory on West Leigh Street by the time Sy got there. The Leigh Street Armory was the home of the First Battalion Virginia Volunteers, an all Negro regiment of the Army. Constructed in 1895 by Negroes in the City of Richmond, and now serving as a space for the Monroe School, the towers of the castle-like building seemed foreboding on this dark and cloudy day.

  Sy stood on the fringes of the crowd as Deputy Brody and two other officers tried to maintain order, but the crowd was angry. “Why don’t you do somethin’ ‘bout this?” a voice yelled from the crowd.

  “Cause we’s Negroes, they gonna let it go,” another yelled back.

  The crowd started to p
ush towards the police. Sy got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he was pushed out of the way by the throbbing crowd.

  “They’s killin’ our women,” a man’s voice screamed angrily from within the crowd.

  As it surged forward, a gunshot was fired in the air. The crowd immediately stopped and grew silent. Sy looked behind him where the shot had been fired and watched as Sheriff Mason held his gun high in the air and began to force a walkway through the crowd.

  “Now, y’all good people of the Ward need to go home and let the police do their job,” he said with a smug smile on his face. “This is a crime scene and we don’t need y’all makin’ any unnecessary trouble for the police. Now, get before I have you all arrested for trespassin’!”

  He was standing on the top step of the armory with his hands on his hips in triumph. The crowd slowly dissipated, but not before giving the sheriff a deadly stare. Someone called back from the crowd, “Gonna be trouble for you if this ain’t stopped!” And then the crowd disappeared amongst bitter murmurings.

  Sy was still standing on the street corner watching it all when Sheriff Mason caught a glimpse of him and then walked over to him. He said smugly, “I see you ain’t been able to stop these murders.” Sy continued to stand still silently with his hands in his rain coat pockets. He was staring past the sheriff at the policemen standing on the edge of property. Sheriff Mason followed his gaze. “Well, you might as well come along and see since these here people have taken it upon themselves to hire a detective. A nigger detective! Whoever heard of such a thing, Sanford? An Army man turned nigger detective,” he sneered.

  Sy said nothing, just kept his eyes forward towards where the body lay. The two men walked towards the back of the Leigh Street Armory. Its brick walls vibrated an energy that resonated throughout Sy’s bones. It reminded him of an old castle he and his men had taken refuge in one night during a heated battle with the Germans in France. It was on the outskirts of a small village near Paris. The locals were terrified of the castle, saying that it was haunted by the spirit of a Frenchman who had been sent to the guillotine one hundred years before for killing ten children from the village.