Killing Cousins

by Rett MacPherson

  “When was the last time you saw your cousin, Patrick?”

  “Patrick Ward?” Her eyes narrowed and her lips grew taut. It was clear she was irritated with me and probably wondering how I knew they were cousins.

  “Yes, Patrick Ward.”

  “It’s been years. Why do you ask?”

  “He was found dead, Friday morning. In the old Yates house.”

  She blanched, but said nothing. Instead, she turned the door knob and ushered me out in pensive silence.

  The door shutting behind me sounded deafening, but it wasn’t really. She’d shut it normally. She wouldn’t have breached any sort of etiquette in showing me out. It was my imagination. I imagined what she really wanted to do was slam the door after me.

  I had never felt so thoroughly rejected. I had made no impact on her whatsoever. How could that be?

  Eleven

  The heat rose to 102 degrees on Saturday. I didn’t feel like doing a darn thing, and so I didn’t. Rudy barbecued, I read a novel, then watched a movie starring Ed Harris, which is always a treat, and relaxed. I was grateful not to have to go outside in this mess. Whatever I’d wear outside I’d have to peel off when I came back in, and I didn’t feel like changing clothes. In a rare moment for Torie O’Shea, certified busy bee, I just wanted to veg out.

  I was just getting ready to plunk around on the piano when the phone rang. I answered it on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Victory?”

  “Mom! How are you?” I asked, delighted to hear her voice.

  “Very good, how are you?”

  “Hot. What’s the temperature in Alaska?” I asked.

  “About seventy.”

  “Aaargh. It’s a hundred and two in the shade here and dripping with humidity.”

  “How is everybody?” she asked.

  “Good. They’re tearing down the Yates house. Hey, did you know that they are tearing down the Yates house so that the mayor can put the riverboat casino in there? Did you know that riverboat gambling was even on the ballot?”

  “Slow down,” she said. “I’d heard through Colin that the riverboat gambling casinos could very well be an issue we were going to have to deal with in the not-so-distant future.”

  “Yeah, well, the future is here and it stinks,” I said, looking out the kitchen window and watching Mary in her swimming suit play on the swing set. How come kids don’t seem to be as affected by the weather as adults? When we visited my aunt in Minnesota, the kids lived outside in fifteen-degree weather, while Rudy and I huddled in the house, dressed in four layers of clothing.

  “Take a deep breath,” Mom said. “Colin wants to know how the estate is going.”

  “I’ve got all the rooms downstairs cataloged. I start on the second floor on Monday. I’m taking the weekend off, it’s too hot to do anything. Hey, did you know that Bill bought the Finch house?”

  She was quiet a moment. “Yes.”

  Even though I had posed it as a question, I really hadn’t expected her to answer yes. I had expected her to say no and then I could go into my big speech informing her about everything. It sort of took the wind out of my sails. “You did? How come I didn’t know it?”

  “There are some things in this town, Torie, that you don’t know. And believe it or not, it is not a sin,” she said. I could tell she was smiling across the phone lines.

  “But I work so hard at knowing everything,” I said, whining. “Oh my God, I really am just a young version of Eleanore, aren’t I?”

  Laughter erupted on her end of the phone and we shared the laugh for a moment, even though I really was thinking to myself that I was becoming Eleanore. My mother took it as much more of a joke than I had intended.

  “How’s Matthew?”

  “Good,” I said. “He’s smiling and cooing.”

  “Oh…I can’t wait to see him. Well, I just wanted to call and check on the estate for Colin and tell you that we are having a wonderful time.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Oh, wait, Colin wants to talk to you.”

  “Oh, wonderful. I mean, all right,” I said. I winced as Mary dived off the swing into the yard, scaring the chickens in the coop to squawking and flapping their wings. Her face lit up with laughter. She obviously thought that was funny and so climbed back onto the swing to do it again.

  “Torie,” Colin said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I talked to Duran.”

  “Yes?”

  “I she…Do you think he can handle this?”

  I knew he was referring to the death of Patrick Ward. “What are you asking me for?”

  “Because I only know what Duran told me. You were there. Does it seem like this is a really bad one? Should I call in help from someplace else?”

  “No, it looks pretty run-of-the-mill. I mean, we were wondering what he was doing in the house in the first place. He obviously wasn’t a hobo or anything, but Duran is going to check it out with his family and see if maybe he was ill or drunk or whatever else would cause him to wander into the house,” I said.

  “All right,” he said. “Duran has a way of not telling me the real seriousness of a situation when I’m out of town.”

  “Well, don’t get your panties in a wad. It’s not like he’s lying to you. I think he just tries so hard to keep things under control when you’re not around. He wants to impress you. I’m sure he doesn’t want to disturb your honeymoon, either,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’ll be home in a week.”

  We said our good-byes and, God help me, I had the most horrible thought. I wanted to read the sheriff’s files on the Finch kidnapping. Once Colin was home, there would be no way I could get access to them. So, if I was going to read them, I had to do it now.

  I hung up the phone feeling really guilty. Might as well feel guilty now and get it over with.

  The New Kassel Gazette

  The News You Might Miss

  by

  Eleanore Murdoch

  Yeeehaw! Everybody get ready for the Pickin’ and Grinnin’ festival coming up in September! We hope to invite back several of the same bands from last year’s Blue Grass Festival, and add some new ones. Tobias Thorley is the man to speak to if you want to volunteer. Sign up at Fraulein Krista’s Speisehaus and he’ll call you. We need volunteers to make this run smoothly.

  Everybody look out! Our dubious mayor has finally decided to tear down that eyesore known as the Yates house. Good riddance.

  Oh, and Chuck Velasco is wanting to put together a winning bowling team this year. So, if you can bowl above 100, he wants to see you by September 1st.

  And everybody, since school will be starting in a little over a week, please remember to look out for New Kassel’s children as they make their way to school.

  Until next time,

  Eleanore

  Twelve

  Sunday broke like sludge. It seemed as if the sun were actually having to work at rising in the sky, fighting the haze trying to pull it down with invisible tentacles. It was going to be hot. I made a big breakfast for the family, took a shower, and slipped on the lightest shift dress that I owned. It was olive-green and all cotton and zipped up the back. I could not dress any cooler without getting arrested.

  I drove out to Wisteria by way of the Outer Road, passing my Aunt Emily’s farm. I honked at my Uncle Ben, who was out in one of the fields; he waved back. The air-conditioning dried the sweat on my face, and if I could have figured out a way to drive in the seat backward, just so my back could get dry, I would have.

  As I drove along the two-lane blacktop, I passed the intersection for Highway P and thought how beautiful the sky looked. The sun was still in the lower half of the firmament, but little prisms of light scattered out from it because of the haze. How’s this for optimism? Even though it was an ecological disaster in the making, it was beautiful.

  New Kassel Outer Road became Main Street, Wisteria. At the first intersection, after two blocks of fast food heaven, I made
a left and pulled up in front of the sheriff’s department. Both Deputy Duran and Deputy Miller were working. Deputy Newsome would come in later, which meant that one of the first two would be working a double shift today.

  Just for the record, I had no game plan for this. I was going to wing it.

  I walked in and saw Deputy Duran sitting with his feet up on the desk, eating an Egg McMuffin. He jumped as soon as he saw me, bringing his feet off the desk and choking on his McMuffin. He coughed, clearing his throat, and then said, “Torie. Nice surprise.”

  “Hey, Edwin. How are you?”

  “Good,” he said.

  I had thought about bringing some of my mother’s apricot bars to segue into asking for the Finch kidnapping records, but that would have seemed like too much of a bribe, which was exactly what it would have been. But it didn’t really matter, there weren’t any left to bring. Yes, we had eaten them all.

  “What brings you out on this Sunday morning?”

  Oh, just the thought that your boss will be back this Friday and I want to coerce you into letting me see something I’m not supposed to see. What I said instead was a rather unbelievable “Nothing.”

  That was a dumb answer. “Oh, uh…I have to return something to Wal-Mart, actually, and just thought I’d stop by and see what Patrick Ward’s family had to say.”

  “The damnedest thing,” he said. “His sister said that he had no history of Alzheimer’s, senility, seizures, blackouts, nothing. But the really funny part is that she didn’t even know he was in town.”

  I just stared at him. “You mean he comes all the way down here to New Kassel to fall asleep and die in an abandoned building? That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, Edwin. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know, I know,” he said, waving a hand at me. “Want some coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’m just gonna have to wait for the autopsy results, which should be tomorrow. I told the coroner I had to have a fast autopsy because the building is slated for destruction.”

  “So, you’re thinking…foul play?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what else to think at this point. Like I said, I just have to wait.”

  “Hey, Edwin. If somebody was going to request an old file, how would they do it?”

  “An old file where? Whose old file?” he asked, confused at the switch in subject matter.

  “What if another sheriff’s department, or the FBI or somebody like that wanted to request one of your files from like, pre–World War Two, how would they do it? I mean, where do you keep them?” I asked and hoped that he wouldn’t ask me why I wanted to know.

  “Why do you want to know?” he asked.

  There was a long pause, too long, I thought. “I know somebody that lives in…Kansas City and they were just asking me.”

  “Oh, you mean like maybe for some genealogical thing?” he asked. He knew I was a genealogist and that I was always exhausting every new possible way to find information on my ancestors. I just refused to believe that there were some ancestors that I would never find.

  “Sure, yeah.”

  “There’s not really any genealogical information in old sheriff’s files.” He was deadpan.

  “I know, but it helps to round out the ancestor.”

  “Well, about the most a civilian can hope to get at is the Civil Court records,” he said.

  “At the courthouse,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “But that’s not going to give details of an investigation.”

  “You’re right. Only if it goes to trial, and then there’s the trial records, but I don’t know if you can ever get access to those or not. Not my expertise, Torie. Sorry.” He finished off his McMuffin and my frustration grew.

  “Yes, but what if somebody wanted to find out the details of an ancestor’s investigation?”

  “You can’t.”

  “But…if somebody could, if you were in law enforcement. Where would you look?” This was harder than pulling teeth. Was I losing my touch? I was seriously beginning to worry.

  “Well, we personally keep everything older than fifty years old downstairs in the vault. Just because of space. I don’t know if the sheriff makes copies or anything like that. I really don’t know. I just know that at the end of the year, he makes us take a big stack down to the vault. We have to keep them, because you never know when somebody is going to make a request for them,” Deputy Duran said.

  “And they’re just in a vault? Like under lock and key?”

  “Oh, no. That’s just the nickname for it. It’s just the basement, Torie.” He laughed at my misinterpretation and I could have strangled him right then and there.

  I talked small talk for a few more minutes and then I left. I went to Wal-Mart and killed a few hours and then went back to the sheriff’s station. Only this time, I parked up the street and waited. I knew it was going to be a hot wait, but it would be worth it. Eventually, Deputy Edwin Duran would go to lunch.

  Thirteen

  Duran left for lunch at five minutes past twelve. He walked out, looked up at the sky as if in disbelief of the heat, got in his squad car and left. I had to be quick because I couldn’t be sure if he was going to dine in or just go through a drive-through somewhere.

  As soon as his car was out of sight, I got out of my car, leaving it parked where it was. I entered the sheriff’s office; Deputy Miller was now behind the front desk. He was shorter than Duran and heavier, but about the same age as we were. He was not a native New Kasselonian. He was from out west, by Union, Missouri.

  “Hey, Deputy. Don’t get up. I need to speak to Vada about the Blue Grass Festival we’re going to have in a few weeks,” I said, walking toward the back where the basement door was. Vada forwarded a call to him and he picked it up. I just kept on talking, headed in the direction of Vada’s office, who was the switchboard operator and receptionist rolled into one. “So I’m just going to go back there right now and talk to her. Okay? Don’t get up. I know my way around.”

  I smiled sweetly. Miller looked at me as if I had just dropped in from Mars. Whatever. As long as he didn’t follow me. Of course, the way my luck had been going lately, he would follow me. I listened intently for his footsteps to fall behind mine. The phone call kept his attention, though, and so, instead of going to Vada’s office, I yanked the basement door open quickly and reached around for the light switch. I finally found it to my left, flipped it up, and I was in business.

  I tried not to be negative, but there was no way I was going to get by with this. And if I did get away with it, I was thinking seriously about ratting on myself to the sheriff anyway just so he would fire Deputy Miller.

  I descended the steps and stopped in my tracks. Duran wasn’t joking. There were boxes piled everywhere. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t any method to the madness, either. Somebody had had the insight to put the boxes up on pallets, so even if the basement got wet, the boxes wouldn’t. That seemed to be the end of the engineering genius involved in storing the files of the Granite County Sheriff’s Department.

  Great.

  Where to begin? Eventually, I noticed the dates on the fronts of the boxes gave way to dates from the 1950s, and they gradually got smaller the closer I got to the back corner of the basement. The boxes were stacked six or seven high, making them almost taller than me, and several deep.

  It was cool in the basement, but humid. I felt soggy and itchy. I always feel itchy in attics and basements. Dust makes me hallucinate.

  1940. 1939. 1938 had to be behind 1939. I moved the boxes out and, sure enough, found 1938. There were three boxes marked 1938. I’d thought for a minute that it must have been a record-high crime year, but then realized as soon as I opened a box that at least one box had been devoted just to the kidnapping of little Byron Lee Finch. How could I stand down here and read all of it in the remaining five minutes I probably had until either Duran returned or Miller finally got suspicious? I couldn’t. Okay, reading someth
ing I wasn’t supposed to read was one thing. Taking it off the premises was another.

  I thought about it a minute. I guessed I could take the box up the steps and set it in the alley behind the station, leave through the front, and then go around and get the box. God, that sounded like…like I was doing something illegal. I had to find a way to do this that didn’t make me come out looking like a criminal. Otherwise, my conscience would bother me so much that I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. Blast my mother anyway, for teaching me right from wrong.

  Okay…think. I guess I could just take the box out past Miller and tell him that Vada gave it to me. It was…a list of bluegrass bands. What were the chances that Colin would find out? Okay, don’t answer that. What were the chances that Colin would find out before I could get it read? That seemed much less likely.

  Okay. I picked up the file box and headed for the steps. I opened the door slowly with my foot, just in time to see Deputy Miller heading out the door. The phone call must have been an emergency. That meant that the only person in the building besides Vada was…me. I headed quickly for the door, knowing that Vada couldn’t see me from her office where she answered the phone.

  And then…I hesitated. Somewhere in the depths of my mind, my mother said, “Victory! You’re not really going to do this. Are you?” I looked back at the basement, over to the hall where Vada’s office was. Back to the basement. I looked over at Colin’s football poster and felt the biggest twinge of guilt in my life.

  I couldn’t do it.

  Besides, if I got the information that I wanted this way, it would just cheapen what I was doing. I would tilt the delicate balance between the Jerry Springer Show and 60 Minutes. I would be on the Jerry Springer end of the journalistic spectrum, and I didn’t want that. I never wanted to be on the Jerry Springer end of anything.

  I was about to take the box back to the basement when Deputy Duran pulled up in his car. As he got out of his car, I saw him through the glass in the door as he rounded the front of the squad car carrying a bag from Kentucky Fried Chicken. He whistled, tossing his keys up in the air, and I thought, I’m caught. That’s it. It’s the end of my career as an award-winning biographer before I even get the first page written. Not to mention that Sylvia would probably fire me.