Captain Sy and his men dismissed the villager’s fears and story and stayed in the castle anyway. That night, his men swore that they had heard screams coming from one of the towers. They were so frightened, he had to take a man with him to go and investigate the noises. When they returned, he told his men it was nothing but mice scurrying around and that a hole was in a window. “It’s the wind! Now get some sleep, men. We have a long day tomorrow,” he ordered.
But he and the private had seen something. He had threatened to kill the private for treason if he told the men what they had seen, and this fear kept the private quiet for years. Sy did not want his men to know that locked in a room in that tower were the bones of children, stacked high up against a wall. And now, as he walked by the armory, he felt the presence of something evil as he had that night in the castle.
Sheriff Mason and Sy Sanford walked into a grisly, eerie scene. Deputy Brody and the other two officers had the body of Miss Sara Young covered with a white sheet. Lying next to her body in a neat pile were her clothes.
“It’s the damn-dest thing I ever seen, Sheriff,” exclaimed Deputy Brody, standing over Sara’s body.
“Don’t act like you ain’t never seen a dead body before, Brody!” snapped Mason.
The deputy took a step back, folding his arms across his chest. “I meant the clothes, sir.” All eyes turned to the pile next to the body. They were folded neatly and on top of them lay her Mary Janes and her pocketbook. Sheriff Mason took a deep breath and bent down to lift the white sheet off the body.
Sy stood over the sheriff and was shocked to see that Sara Young simply looked as if she were sleeping. Her hands were folded across her naked body as if in reverence to the Lord. Her hair and make-up looked as they had the morning she had gotten dressed and left for work: neat and orderly. She was beautiful and clean…too clean, Sy thought to himself.
Then, he saw what he had known would be there; a long, clean slit across her throat from ear to ear. “And where was the blood?” he whispered under his breath as he walked away from the body to look around the perimeter for blood. There was no blood anywhere. Her killer had clearly killed her someplace else.
“Well, I’ll be damned! Just like the other,” said the Sheriff in surprise. He put the sheet back over her face and turned to Sy who was standing a few feet away from him. He was visibly shaken as he wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “Whatcha know about this, boy?”
Sy turned his attention back to the sheriff. “I don’t know anythin’, Sheriff,” Sy said between gritted teeth. He squinted his eyes down at Sheriff Mason and placed his hands back into his pockets. They ached to hit something. He hated being called boy; every Negro man bristled at that word meant to take away their pride and self-respect. He was a grown man who had seen more death than any of the white men here, but because he was a Negro, he was to always be a “boy.”
Sheriff Mason stood up and walked briskly over where Sy stood, and poked him in the chest. “You killin’ these nigger girls, Sanford?” and he stared Sy hard in his face, his cold breath sending chills down Sy’s spine.
But Sy didn’t flinch or move a muscle. To show weakness now meant he’d be taken in for these murders – he sensed this. The Sheriff didn’t care nothing about those women killed, but he didn’t want a Negro riot on his hands either. So, now he felt the quicker he brought someone in for the murders, the faster he could get on with other more pressing issues. “No sir. I don’t kill innocent women.”
The vein in Sheriff Mason’s forehead was throbbing wildly. “You was in the war … you mean to tell me, you ain’t never killed nobody? You expect me to believe that?”
Sy’s hands were balled up in a fist inside his coat pocket. A cold wind came through just then, forcing the men to tense up even more against the bone chilling wind. Sy never took his eyes off of the sheriff, though. He could see Deputy Brody standing to the far left of Sheriff Mason, hands tucked into his coat pockets as well and staring at the two men with intense interest.
“I ain’t never killed innocent women, sir,” Sy repeated slowly and coldly as he stared back at the sheriff. He was not going to lower his eyes for nothing. Never take your eyes off the enemy, he recalled telling his men during training before shipping off to France.
Another more powerful cold wind came down and blew the blanket off of Sara’s body then. Deputy Brody ran over to catch it and put it back over her. And then he stood over her head like a guardian with his foot on one end of the sheet. Sy hadn’t moved a muscle, but he saw what had happened.
The sheriff heard the commotion and turned around to see what was going on. “Put her in the truck, now!” he barked, having lost all patience with the situation. Deputy Brody waved for the other officers to come over and assist.
Sheriff Mason turned his attention back to Sy, and pointing his finger in his face, stated heatedly, “Don’t you even think about leavin’ this city, Sanford! I ain’t done with you,” and he started to walk away.
“Don’t worry, Sheriff. I ain’t got nowhere to go!” Sy yelled back bitterly.
Sheriff Mason stopped, turned and replied back, “And stay out of my way! I’m investigatin’ this now. I find out you meddlin’ where you don’t have no business, and I’ll lock you up where you belong, boy.” Then he mumbled under his breath as he got into his car, “Damned niggers ain’t worth a penny.”
Sy watched as the sheriff and his men drove off with Sara Young’s body. Birds flew by overhead, chirping loudly and excitedly as they landed on the branches of the dogwood trees that had long since lost their bloom. Crickets joined in the merriment, singing their songs from somewhere in the distance. Sy finally took his hands out of pockets and flexed them to bring back circulation into them. He took a deep breath then and turned back to the spot where Miss Sara Young had been placed.
The killer had taken special care of her, thought Sy. “She was special to him,” he said out loud. It echoed off the brick walls of the armory. He looked around him again at the neighborhood that surrounded the Leigh Street Armory. Single-dwelling family homes were up and down Leigh Street. The Italianate structures with wide bay porches and gables that competed with the Armory for attention stood quiet and empty today. No one was out and about today like normal, a sort of foreboding, thought Sy. The only noises to be heard were that of the birds and cicadas who were determined to speak.
Is that how the killer was able to drop off Sara’s body without bringing attention to himself? He had frightened the community into hiding so that he was free to move about. Sy shook his head in disbelief. The killer knew the people well. And then something else came to Sy. He was remembering something else about Sara Young. Where was her hosiery? All working women wore them, but he didn’t see any in her pile of clothing. Sy swallowed hard as a cold sweat ran down his back. His stomach felt as if it were about to implode. Maybe he was wrong, he thought. Maybe.
He then bent down and touched the spot where her body had lain. It was dead cold. Sy then looked around in the bushes and behind the trash cans. The killer had to have made a mistake, he thought as he walked along the dirt and grass way behind the armory. “They always do,” he whispered to himself as he searched the grounds.
He was looking intently at the ground in front of him when he spotted something white – a piece of paper or trash - out of the corner of his left eye. He quickly walked over to the west end of the property on St. Peter Street, and stood on the edge of the sidewalk. He bent down and picked up the wet paper – it was a flyer. Rain had made most of the print unreadable, but he still could make out the writing at the top: The annual Black and White Ball. It was this Saturday at the Price building.
A big smile spread across his face for the first time in months. Sy folded the flyer as carefully as he could so as not to tear it and put it in his coat pocket. He looked back down and saw another set of tire tracks next to where he had found the flyer. A surge of energy ran down his legs. He touched the track with his hands, fee
ling the ridges of the tire that had made them. He looked up in the direction of Leigh Street and smiled ruefully. “I’m gonna catch you, you son of a bitch. I’m gonna catch you.” And he knew just where to get started.
***
Sy left the Armory and walked straight to the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank on St. James Street to talk to Miss Young’s co-workers before Sheriff Mason shut them down with fear. He also felt that they might be able to give him some information that would break the case wide open. The killer had taken great care of Sara’s body, again suggesting to Sy that the killer knew her. “You just don’t get that close to someone to slit their throat and not really know them,” said Sy to the cold wind.
He had seen much death while serving in the war. Most of his battles were fought in man to man combat as the rifles they used had bayonets on the ends of them. The machine guns would often overheat and become inoperable without the aid of cooling mechanisms; that would force the men to fight hand to hand combat. Nobody liked it when they had to do it.
To kill a man from a distance was one thing – you didn’t see his eyes or hear his death cry as he fell directly in front of you. But things were different when you had to kill a man up close. It became more personal. And for some men, the nightmares would begin with the first kill and continue to the day they died themselves.
As Sy walked to the bank on St. James Street, he thought back to his first hand to hand combat kill. A German raiding party had been sent to their dugout. As the grenadiers threw their hand grenades into his unit’s trenches, Sy and the men in his dugout charged at the Germans with their bayonets. The machine gun had long overheated and was, therefore, useless, so this was their last resort. Sy, running on pure adrenaline, charged ahead and brutally met with the breast plate of a young German soldier. The young soldier looked at Sy incredulously as his body first twitched and then went limp against the bayonet.
Everything around him seemed to freeze as the weight of the German’s body forced Sy to fall to the ground with it. His blade was stuck in the soldier’s chest as often happened with bayonets when used incorrectly. Sy began to panic once he realized that his bayonet was stuck and another German could come along and kill him at any moment in this vulnerable position.
“No!” Sy screamed as he used his feet as the force to pull the bayonet out of the body. It took what felt like eternity, but Sy finally got it out. Raindrops began to fall again on Sy’s face as he stood in front of the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank and tried to shut out the sight of the dead German soldier’s blue eyes from his mind. He couldn’t have been much younger than he himself was, thought Sy as he closed the dead man’s eyes on the battleground that day. He then threw up next to the body.
The cold rain on his face brought Sy back to the present. He had felt no joy at his first kill. But Sara’s killer did. He could tell by the way her body had been posed and the careful placement of her clothing minus her hosiery. Sy had to stop him before he killed another innocent woman.
Chapter 19
He took a deep breath and went into the bank. It was empty save for two tellers and a large ornate photograph of Mrs. Walker which hung on the wall behind the tellers. Sy paused for a moment to stare at the photo. He met Mrs. Walker once during a parade the Ward held for the veterans returning home from the war. She was warm and sincere in her speech to the men held later that night at the Hippodrome Theatre encouraging them to put their hard-earned money into the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank, which cared about them and their financial future. But at the time, Sy was not too keen on the idea of a woman owning a bank. It was just unheard of.
So up until this moment, he had never been inside of the bank having decided to open an account with another bank, Mechanics Savings Bank, instead. Green eyes met Mrs. Walker’s brown as he walked towards the photograph which appeared as if it were watching him in return.
His shoes echoed on the marble floor as he walked up to the first teller, a plain looking young woman with bifocals and bright red lipstick on her thin lips. “May I help you?” she asked as she wiped her nose with a handkerchief.
Sy removed his fedora. “Uh, yes! I’d like to ask some questions about Miss Young,” he began slowly so as not to further upset the plain teller.
“The police have already been here. Are you from the papers or something?” she stated nervously.
“No. I’m Sy Sanford of Sanford Securities. Is your supervisor here for me to speak to?” he quietly asked as he looked around the empty bank.
The teller followed his gaze. “There’s no one here right now except for me and Mrs. Dillon, the supervisor.”
At the mention of her name, Mrs. Dillon, an older woman with salt and pepper coifed hair, came over to Sy and the teller. Her high heels clicked on the floor like taps as she walked towards the teller and Sy, and for a brief second, Sy thought he saw Sara Young. He tensed.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Sanford?” Mrs. Dillon’s voice was smooth like honey as she stood before him with her hands clasped. She had to have been about sixty years or more, but her voice made her seem much younger. Sy was taken aback by it for a moment as he imagined this is what Sara Young’s voice must have sounded like.
“Mrs. Dillon, I’m investigatin’ the death of Miss Young. Can you tell me if Miss Young had any trouble with a particular customer?”
“I didn’t know we had Negro policemen,” she replied smugly, her nose quite high in the air, Sy mused.
The young teller sneezed in an effort to hide a giggle.
“I’m not a policeman, Mrs. Dillon,” he informed her. “I’ve been hired by a few concerned citizens of the Ward to investigate. Now, can you please tell me if Miss Young had any troubles with male customers, in particular, lately?”
Mrs. Dillon, who stood an inch or two shorter than Sy, tightened her jaws and forced her chin up as if irritated at this moment already. “Not that I know of,” she said. “Miss Young, God bless her soul, was professional at all times. And besides, we have very respectful customers.”
She meant to say wealthy clients who knew how to act, thought Sy. “Well, did anyone pay too much attention to her?” he asked a little more sternly, folding his arms across his chest, allowing his hat to dangle loosely in his hand.
As he did so, he noticed that the plain teller had raised an eyebrow. Sy had struck a chord with her, but Mrs. Dillon shook her head and said no.
“Are you sure, Mrs. Dillon? It is very important that you tell me the truth,” he urged cautiously. Mrs. Dillon tightened her lips shut and just shook her head. Sy then turned his head sideway to look at the plain teller. Her eyes were downcast behind the Bi-focals. He unfolded his arms. “Do you want to tell me something, Miss?”
“She most certainly does not!” interjected Mrs. Dillon vehemently as she went to stand in front of the teller’s window, blocking her from seeing Sy. “We do not disclose information about our customers, Mr. Sanford.”
Sy was beginning to lose patience with the woman. She was clearly more concerned with the bank’s image than the life of one of her employees. He had met men like this, but it was his first time ever meeting a woman with such an attitude, and he didn’t like it one bit. He sucked in his breath and narrowed his green eyes at her.
“You don’t seem to understand, Mrs. Dillon. A young woman is dead – one of your employees whom you said was very professional and as you said, ‘very good at her job’. She is the fifth woman to die in the Ward. If you don’t tell me what you know, another woman might die and it’ll be on your head.”
The plain teller spoke up behind Mrs. Dillon. “There was one person. He always asked her out, but she turned him down. He … he only went to her window.”
The hair on the back of Sy’s neck stood up. He was about to get a name. “What’s his name, Miss … please? I just want to talk to him about her. I won’t tell him about you,” he pleaded.
Mrs. Dillon turned around and gave the teller a cold stare. She was more concerned with protecting the image o
f the bank than bringing a killer to justice and it pissed Sy off. He walked over to the obstinate woman, and gently moved her to the side, stepping between the two women, and putting his back to Mrs. Dillon. He repeated with urgency in his voice, “His name, Miss!”
The teller started to cry and shake uncontrollably behind the window. “We used to tease her about him. Say things like we wished a rich man like him would look at us that way. But she said he made her nervous. That … that he didn’t look at her right.” She blew her nose into a handkerchief yet again.
Sy motioned for the young woman to come out from behind the window. He had to calm her down. Obeying, she came out and stood nervously before him as Mrs. Dillon glared at them both in contempt. Sy reached for her and softly held her shoulders to calm her down. He had learned on the battlefield that sometimes, just a simple grip on the shoulders could calm a wild man down, and it worked here, too. The teller broke down into tears. “Jeffrey Peterson,” she stammered out his name. “His name is Jeffrey Peterson.”
“Thank you,” and he gently released her shoulders. The teller ran to a nearby chair in desperate tears. Sy watched her emotionally collapse. How many times had he seen such a scene?
He then turned back to Mrs. Dillon who was glaring at the teller as if she were something nasty on the bottom of her shoes. He placed his hat on his head without taking his eyes off of her. She felt his eyes on her and she hesitantly turned to face him, her chest heaving rapidly.
Murder on Second Street: The Jackson Ward Murders (Sy Sanford Series Book 1) Page 11
