"That’s quite a collection, sir. Where do you get your knives?"
"Call me Bernie. I go to a lot of gun and knife shows. That’s where I got the two rifles. I buy and sell knives at the shows. Sometimes, I find a good knife at a great price online. Usually on eBay. I buy it, and then resell it for a small profit. Do you ever attend any of the shows in the area?"
"I’ve been to a few."
"Hold on a minute," He said. "I’ll be right back. Pour yourself a drink if you’d like. There’s another glass in the kitchen near the sink."
"Thanks anyway, I’m not really in the mood right now, perhaps later."
He left the room and went down a hallway. He came back with a covered sword and a pair of gloves in his hands. "This here is a real authentic Japanese Military Officer’s sword. My father got this beauty from a Japanese General he captured on the Isle of Mindanao in the Philippines during World War II. It’s a Walkisashi Samurai Sword from the Momoyama Period in the 1800’s. Here put these gloves on."
I donned the gloves. He handed me the sword still in its wooden sheath. I removed the weapon. It looked old. The blade was somewhat nicked and pitted. The tip was broken. "This is a real gem," I said. "It looks like a valuable collectors item. I imagine these are quite rare."
"Rare or not, it’s a family heirloom. I’ll never sell it. You said you have your father’s knife collection? Are you interested in selling any of them? I’d give you a good price if the pieces are worth it."
"Hmmm… Like you said about your Walkisashi, they are family heirlooms."
"I’m curious. What do you have?"
"Let’s see. I have a William Henry Lancet Golden Mile Pocket Knife, a vintage Marble’s Gladstone, an Elephant Toe Bone Folding Knife circa 1900, a Sunfish Toe Nail Worm Groove Bone from the 1900’s, a vintage Wards Bone Boy Scout knife, and many others." My research was paying off.
"Wow. My heart is pounding. That’s quite a collection. I’d love to see them."
"Maybe we can work something out." Now that he seemed comfortable with me, I decided to probe a little deeper. "Bernard Flowers. That name rings a bell with me. I remember seeing a news story in The Sentinel about someone named Bernard Flowers. Was that you by any chance?"
"Yeah, that’s me all right. The cops thought I killed a priest because I was in an argument with him over some money that went missing. His name was Father Watson. He was the pastor of St. Francis de Sales parish. It’s just a few blocks from here. He blamed me for the missing cash because I was in charge of money counting back then."
"Oh yes, The Father Watson murder. That was big news around here."
"You got that right. There were a lot of reporters who wanted the police to find the murderer. The pressure was on. The police wanted a scapegoat, so they arrested me, but they had nothing on me. They had to let me go. The damn media was all over me. It seemed like the idiots camped outside my house."
"How much money did they say was missing?"
"Watson said it was around $1500. I didn’t take the money. Someone else must have grabbed it. I left the room for a few minutes. I thought I locked the door but I guess I didn’t, or someone else knew the combination. When I came back, the money was missing. I told Father Watson what happened, but he blamed me since I was in charge. We had a heated argument about it. He called the police. I was released because they couldn’t pin it on me. The fact was, other people had access to that room as well as me."
"So because of that argument, the police blamed you for killing the priest? That’s crazy."
"It was crazy. It's still crazy. The cops were all over me for the murder. They said I killed him with one of my knives which happened to be missing around the time of the murder."
"I guess you were in a pretty tough spot, Bernie. Money was missing. You and Father Watson had an argument about it. You collected knives. You’re an ex-Army Ranger, and one of your knives was missing. How did you get out of that situation?"
"That was easy. I shut up and demanded a lawyer. I called a friend who got me the best lawyer in town. The cops released me after that. Of course, they could never prove I murdered Father Watson, because I didn’t."
"I guess it was kind of weird that you were missing a knife around the time of the murder. The kind of knife they said was probably used in the killing."
"A lot of people have knives like that. Anyway, I told the police that someone must’ve stolen one of my knives from my display at a local gun and knife show a month or so before the murder. Lots of folks attend those shows. A bunch of people came to my table to look around that weekend. I couldn’t watch all of them every second. I figured one of the Boy Scouts who came to the show with Father Preston that day stole the knife. But, I couldn’t prove it. I talked to Preston about it. He told me none of his boys would do such a thing. You see, I had shown the scouts some of my knives a few weeks earlier during one of their meetings. Of course, the police never found the murder weapon, so they couldn’t pin it on me. But, they sure suspected me."
"What kind of knife went missing?"
"It was a Bowie knife. The Expendable model, made by Hibben. It was worth about $90."
"I've seen that kind of knife at some of the shows. Did you ever find it?"
"No. It’s still missing."
"I also read something in the paper about some witnesses who saw you running from the church that afternoon. They said you were covered in blood." That wasn’t in the paper, but I decided to throw that into the conversation.
"Oh, those bimbos in the car who almost ran me down. I had just left the church after picking up my old cassock and surplus. I wasn’t going de Sales any more, so I wanted them back. I decided to start going to St. Jerome parish instead. I used to serve at Mass at de Sales from time to time. I kept my old cassock and surplus in a vestment closet there. They still fit me. I had used them when I was an altar boy until the age of nineteen when I was drafted. I always liked serving at Mass. Anyway, I was running home because I left my paint can open."
"Paint can?"
"Yeah, I was painting the shed out back that afternoon. While I was painting, I got to thinking about what had happened with Father Watson and all. It made me real angry. So, I decided to leave my project and get my stuff from the church. Since it’s so close to my house, I ran over there, and then ran back home. That’s when I saw those idiot girls. They were laughing at me after they almost hit me with their car. Without thinking, I gave them the finger. I guess they saw the red paint and thought it was blood."
"So, you were painting your shed in the backyard that afternoon?"
"Yes."
"I saw that shed when I drove up your driveway. Did you make that yourself? It looks like it was well constructed."
"I bought some lumber from Home Depot, then built it myself. It’s twenty by twenty with an 8-foot ceiling. It has plenty of room inside. Would you like to see it?"
"Oh yes. I’d love to see it. I dabble in woodworking a little." I lied again.
We left the house and walked into the backyard. He opened the shed. Inside, I saw a power mower, some potting soil, a long wooden table, a variety of paint cans, and numerous gardening tools. There were red paint drippings on the table, and on the side of a one-gallon paint can. It was the same color paint that was on the shed. I picked up that can.
Then something caught my eye. I saw a pair of red stained khaki pants and a red stained, white t-shirt hanging from a nail on one of the walls. I walked over to the clothing and took a look. I turned to Flowers.
"Did the police buy your story that you were painting your shed?"
"They never asked me about that, but I could have proven it."
"Well, you did an excellent job on this building. I’m sure you’re proud of it,"
"Are you interested in buying the Mustang, or are you just a looker?"
"I’m thinking about it. I have to check with my bank." At that point, I figured Flowers was off the hook once again. The girls in the car probably saw paint stains no
t bloodstains. He sounded sincere to me. It seemed like he was a guy who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time without a solid alibi. I kind of felt sorry for him. It looked like I had more work to do.
My cell phone rang. It was Jake.
"Hello ––Yes, this is Mr. Sundance." I had to pretend it was someone else. "Oh, the alarm went off in my home? Okay, I’ll be right over."
"I guess you’re still with Flowers," Jake said.
"Yes, that’s right. I'll be right there." I turned to Flowers. "Sorry, Bernie, I have to go home immediately. My alarm system is having problems. You know how it is."
"Sure, sure. I understand. My system gives me problems too. Maybe you can stop by again. I’d really like to see your knife collection." He extended his hand.
We shook hands. I left his house, got into my car, turned off the recording unit and then drove away.
I was getting nowhere, but there were a few more people to see. I peeled off the road into a nearby gas station parking area. I called Jake and gave him my opinion of Bernie. He sounded disappointed, but at that point there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. I decided to ride over to St. Francis de Sales to tie up a loose end.
17
I left the gas station and drove the few blocks to the church. There was someone I needed to chat with. I was hoping he would be available.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw him shearing the lawn with a John Deere riding mower. He saw me as I walked toward him. He stopped the mower, and then turned it off. I moved in closer. He dismounted. He was a hefty man who stood about 6-foot. He had curly red hair, green eyes and a face which had seen too much sun. He appeared to be in his mid to late 60s.
I smiled and put my hand out. "Mr. Lyons?" I said as I shook his coarse hand.
He nodded. "Yes, I’m Gregory Lyons. And who might you be, young man?" He spoke with an Irish brogue.
I showed him my ID. "Mr. Lyons, my name is Johnny Sundance. I’m looking into the murder of Father Watson. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions."
"Really? The murder of Father Watson you say? That happened years ago. How can I help you with that? Am I a suspect or somethin’?"
"No, you’re not a suspect. I just need to know what you might have observed around here the day of the murder. I understand you were working on the grounds that afternoon. Did the police talk to you?"
"Me? On the day of the murder? I didn’t see anything. The police didn’t talk to me at any time. I wasn’t here that day."
"You weren’t?"
"No, I was in Miami for my lovely daughter’s birthday. It was Bridget's fortieth. We put together a big party for her. We had a wonderful time. I didn’t get back in town with the missus ‘till Sunday evening around 9 o’clock." He took out his cell phone. "Here, let me show you something. These are pictures of the party. I took them myself with this here phone. It’s quite a gadget this phone. Take a look at my family and the decorations." He then flipped to another photo. "There’s Mildred, my wife of forty-eight years." He flipped to yet another picture. "And this is Bridget, the apple of my eye. Isn’t she a beauty?"
"Yes."
"She’s a fine Irish girl. Look at that red hair, those beautiful brown eyes, and her clear skin. As you can see, she’s got a good figure. If she’s anything like her mother, she can bear a lot of children for some lucky gentleman. Mildred gave me seven kids. Six were boys. Bridget is the youngest. Oh, and she’s a cardiologist. She’s single too. You’re a fine looking young man. Are you single, Mr. Sundance?"
"Yes."
"How old are you, son?"
"Forty-five."
"That’s just fine. Do you have a business card?"
"Yes, would you like one?"
"I certainly would. And, a photo of yourself if you have one."
"The only photo I have of myself right now is on my ID." I handed him my card. He put it in his wallet. "Do you mind if I take a picture of you with my phone, Mr. Sundance?"
I was taken aback at that, but I figured what the heck, it’s only a photo. I wouldn’t be holding up a sign that said, "Will you marry me, Bridget?" Although I had a feeling Mr. Lyons would have wanted me to do just that.
He took about 4 shots of me with this phone. He even did a selfie with the two of us. He smiled at me, and then winked. "So, young man, getting back to your question, there really isn’t anything I can tell you about the day poor Father Watson met his maker. At least not from an eyewitness perspective."
"So, it wasn’t you who was working on the grounds that day?"
"No, sir. Like I said. I was in Miami. We left home on Friday around 10 o’clock in the morning and drove down there. I didn’t find out what happened until late Sunday night after we returned. There was a message on the answering machine. Mildred burst into tears. I wept a little myself. It was terrible news."
"Hmmm …we were told an individual was doing some gardening near the statue of Our Lady that afternoon. They assumed it was you."
"Well, that’s a fair assumption, since I am the groundskeeper and part-time handyman around here."
"Is there anyone else you can think of who might’ve been doing some gardening here that day?"
"The only other person who does any gardening around here is Henry Stone. He fills in for me once in a while, usually in the summer when we go back to Ireland for a couple of weeks."
"Do you think he was here that day?"
"I doubt it. He was in the hospital. He had a heart attack the Wednesday before. I remember because I was the one who called 911. The poor chap collapsed right here on the church grounds while carrying a heavy bag of fertilizer."
"So, is it just you and Mr. Stone who work on the grounds?"
"Yes. We manage to get it all done. Oh, and Father Preston helps now and then. He taught me a lot about plants, trees and lawns. He’s the one who planted the shrubs and flowers around the statue of Our Lady a couple of years ago. He tends to them periodically. Maybe someone saw him and thought it was I. We're about the same height, although he’s a much thinner fella. I don’t know if he was working here that afternoon. You might want to ask him about that. He’s probably at the Monastery. That’s where he stays."
"Thank you, Mr. Lyons. I guess I’ll be having a talk with him."
"I’m sure he’d like to meet you. By the way, have you ever been to Miami?"
"Yes. A few times."
"Do you like it? Do you think it would suit you?"
"It’s all right."
"Glad to hear that."
We shook hands. I thanked him again. I heard the sound of the lawn mower as I walked toward my car. A few puzzle pieces began to come together. It looked like things we’re getting a bit clearer. Then it hit me. I went back to Mr. Lyons. I wanted him to do me a favor. He stopped the mower again. He didn't dismount.
"Do you have more questions for me, sir?"
"Just one more. Can you get me a shovel?"
"I certainly can get you a shovel, if you tell me what in the world you need it for."
"I’m looking for something important. I think it’s on the grounds. It would help in my investigation."
"Well, if it’s that important. Okay" He got off the machine, and then walked to a tool shed on the other side of the grounds. He came back with a shovel and met me at the statue of Our Lady.
I dug all around the sculpture. It wasn’t long before I discovered a partially decomposed trash bag. I found a red and white plaid shirt, a pair of blue jeans, a pair of black shoes, a blue New York Yankees baseball cap and a Bowie knife inside the bag. All the items appeared to have bloodstains on them.
I finally had some solid evidence. I was certain the shoes would match at least one of the bloody footprints found at the murder scene. I asked Mr. Lyons to step back. I told him we would need a statement from him later. He said he would be happy to provide one.
I contacted Jake. I told him what I had found. He said he’d be right over with a crime scene crew to take
photos, retrieve the evidence, and do a thorough search of the area. He told me he would have the crime lab analyze the evidence immediately.
About twenty minutes later, two men drove up in an EPPD Crime Scene truck. Jake was right behind them. The lights on his car were flashing. Jake darted from his vehicle and then came over to me.
"Well, Johnny, it looks like you found the evidence we've been looking for. Of course, we won’t have anything conclusive until the lab techs analyze it. But, I’d bet a month’s pay, it’s the right stuff. Nice work. Now we just have to connect it to the murderer."
I discussed my hunch about the murderer with Jake as we watched the crime scene technicians do their thing. He nodded his head and smiled as I laid it all out for him. Two hours later, the crime seen techs were finished.
Jake and I drove back to his office. We waited as the lab people went about their business. It wasn’t long before we had a few answers.
They found Father Watson’s blood on all the items we retrieved. They also found traces of someone else’s blood on the evidence. In most stabbing cases the culprit also gets cut in the process. The other blood was most likely that of the murderer. To be sure, they needed a sample of the assassin’s DNA to check it against the bloodstains.
"Okay, Jake," I said. "We need to take a little ride."
"Of course, let’s go."
18
It was a forty-minute drive from Jake’s office to San Sebastian Monastery. However, with lights flashing, it only took twenty-five. Rosen drove up the tree-lined drive to the main complex.
San Sebastian had been in the area for about fifty-five years. The 200 acre complex served as a place for Catholic Retreats. They also hosted youth summer camps for local churches. The buildings were of old, Spanish design.
We entered the Administration Building. We stopped at a desk were a young Hispanic girl sat typing. She stopped and smiled when she saw us. "May I help you?"
"We're here to see Father James Preston," I said.
"Father Preston? I’m not sure he’s around right now. Let me check." She picked up the phone and then pushed a button. She said something in Spanish, which I didn’t understand except for the name Preston. She hung up the phone. "Someone will be right with you. Have a seat if you’d like." She went back to her typing.
MURDER RITES: THE JOHNNY SUNDANCE MYSTERY SERIES (JOHNNY SUNDANCE MYSTERIES Book 1) Page 11
