The Case Of
The Death Book
By Michael Pickford
THE CASE OF THE DEATH BOOK is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, deceased or alive, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Case Of
The Death Book
© 2018 Michael Pickford
All Rights Reserved
Dedicated To You - The Reader
One
IT WAS A COLD day outside. Freezing. It was one of those days that made you want to stay inside all day eating pizza and watching old feel-good movies from the eighties. But I had a class at nine a.m.—too early.
It was Thursday, and I’d been looking around most of the morning for my overcoat. I couldn’t find anything in that house. What a mess it was. I should have never agreed to share a 900 square-foot house with three other college boys in the first place. What was I thinking? I had to find something else. Soon.
I finally found a sweater and threw it on over my one clean T-shirt. Or was it clean? At that point, I didn’t care. I stepped out the front door only to be greeted by a bone-chilling winter wind and an icy sidewalk. I managed to make it to my car, but there was a thick sheet of ice covering the windshield. Why would they keep classes in session on such an icy day anyway?
“Hello, Samuel. Fine morning we have here isn’t it?”
It was our next-door neighbor - Mr. Walker. He was a fifty-something-year-old man who was trying to make it through the rest of his life alone after having already suffered five failed marriages. You’d think after the first two he’d stop torturing women with matrimony.
Mr. Walker was a decent guy though as far as I could tell. He knew we were struggling college students and he always tried to help us out whenever he could. If we forgot to put the trash out by the road on pick-up day, he’d get it done. He was always there if one of our cars needed to be jumped off. If a pipe or a toilet got clogged in the house, he’d fix it free of charge. He even lent me fifty dollars once for groceries when my weekly check from my mom got lost in the mail.
“Good morning, Mr. Walker. I suppose your idea of a fine morning varies slightly from mine,” I said in response to the sarcasm in his description of the gloomy arctic-like weather we were having.
“You still looking to find another place to live?” he asked.
“Well, to be honest, this place would be just fine if I didn’t have to share it with three baboons. Baboons who’ve never heard of the concepts of washing dishes and throwing pizza boxes in the garbage can,” I said as I scraped in vain at the solid sheet of ice covering my windshield.
Mr. Walker laughed. I didn’t.
“Well, you may be in luck,” Mr. Walker said as he opened up a cheap two-liter bottle of soda and poured it all over my windshield. “I have an old friend on the outskirts of Rutherford County. Well, he’s an old friend of my fathers. Anyway, his grandson is about your age, maybe a year or so younger, and he’s looking for someone to share an apartment with.”
“Is he a student here?” I asked without taking my eyes off my soda-covered windshield. The ice was melting away before my eyes. Soda? Really?
“Well, no.”
“Oh, so, he’s a working man,” I said concerned about the way Mr. Walker responded to my question. Was it just me or was he trying to hide something about the guy?
“Well, I suppose he’s a worker.”
“What do you mean you suppose? Listen, I don’t want to get myself into a situation where I’m stuck paying all the rent and utilities. The roommates I have now are a bunch of slobs, but they hold up their share of the rent at least.”
“Oh no, there’s no chance of that,” Mr. Walker said. “Trust me. His grandfather has more money than his great-great-grandchildren could ever spend if he ever has any. In fact, I’d be willing to wager that whoever Zeb decides to room with will never pay a penny for rent.”
“So, why do I sense a little reluctance in your voice when you’re answering my questions about him?”
Mr. Walker adjusted his gloves and grabbed the scraper out of my hand, “Well, let’s just say he’s different. I mean, he’s a brilliant boy just like his grandfather; genius, really. He’s just different.”
Mr. Walker had never let me down before. He was always a good neighbor who often went over the top to help us out, and I trusted his judgment. But the way he was acting suggested there was something strange about the young man.
“He doesn’t have some kind of handicap, does he? Is he an invalid?” There was irony in me asking that question.
Mr. Walker finished wiping off my windshield. He turned toward me and said, “No, nothing like that. Listen, why don’t you judge for yourself. If you want, I’ll arrange for you to meet him. You two can get acquainted. No commitments. No pressure. If you’re not comfortable with what you’re seeing or hearing, just walk away. No harm no foul.”
“No harm no foul.” I never did care for that phrase. My older sister said those same words to me when she wanted me to go on a blind date with her friend’s younger sister back when I was a senior in high school. A cheerleader. That’s what she told me she was. I thought—who wouldn’t want to go out with a cheerleader. What a disaster that was.
I went on two dates with the girl, and suddenly, she was telling everyone we were an item. I knew she wasn’t my type from the beginning. Not at all. I was too soft-hearted to break it to her though. She wasn’t even really a cheerleader—didn’t have the looks to be one. It turned out she just wanted to be a cheerleader. As a matter of fact, she was obsessed with the idea. It was all she talked about. She didn’t stand a chance of ever being one.
Anyway, I finally broke it off with her, and she began stalking me. She ended up breaking the windows out of my car before I finally had to have my sister talk to her friend about it.
No harm no foul. Yeah, right.
“What did you call him? Zeb?” I asked wondering what kind of a hick Mr. Walker was trying to get me involved with.
“Yep, Good ole Zeb. Named after his great-grandfather.”
“Well, I’ve got to get off to class Mr. Walker. Thanks for clearing off my windshield. That was a neat trick.”
“So, what about it?”
“What about what?”
“Zeb. Do you want to meet him or not?”
I opened the door to my car and said reluctantly, “Sure, set it up. I’ll be free after six o’clock if he can meet this evening. Do you think he could meet me at the library?”
“I’ll see what I can do my boy. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”
I waved to Mr. Walker and backed carefully out of the snow-covered driveway. All I could think about at the moment was that I might be late for class. Professor Joelson was a stickler for the rules. Susan Green was an excellent student and smart as a whip, yet she once got three demerits for being late for one of Professor Joelson’s lectures.
I had no way of knowing that little discussion with my friendly neighbor through chattering teeth and chapped lips would change my life in the most surprising and, quite frankly, weird ways.
Two
OH. I BEG YOUR pardon. I haven’t even introduced myself. My mother taught me better than to be so rude. She really did.
Anyway, my name is Samuel Hickson. I stuck with Samuel after successfully avoiding being tagged with the obvious nickname associated with it. My mother had a lot to do with that too. She’s an old-fashioned society-type lady and simply would not stand for anyone cal
ling her child Sam. Not that there’s anything wrong with the name. She was just overly proper. I didn’t mind. Samuel suited me just fine.
I was raised in a high-end high-rise apartment in the swanky part of Chicago. I attended a private school through the sixth grade and then another private school through middle school and high school.
I never knew my father very well. My mother and I hardly saw him. He was always away from home. He told us he worked in espionage for the government, but we never really knew for sure. All we knew was my mother received a very generous check from him every month—very generous. We lived well, and I was raised well.
I had no siblings other than my sister who was seven years older than me. So, my mother was always very protective of me.
I always excelled in whatever I put my mind to. My academics were sound, but my true love was running. Any kind of running suited me just fine. Because of my GPA and athletic abilities, I was on my way to one of America’s finest schools to study medicine when it all ended in a tragic car accident on the night of my graduation. I suffered several serious injuries, and my left leg was crushed beyond saving. It took over a year for me to recuperate, and my life was hanging in the balance for a while.
I learned to walk with a prosthetic over time. I could even run some but not well enough to compete and certainly not well enough to claim any of the scholarships available to me before the accident happened.
My father was killed later that same year. The regular checks stopped coming. My mother had put some money away for a rainy day, but it wasn’t enough to support the lifestyle we’d enjoyed for many years.
A buddy of mine convinced me to move to Tennessee and attend a popular and well-respected college there with him. I reluctantly agreed after I was able to score some academic scholarships that would pretty much give me a free ride. My mom had enough in savings to make it by and to send me a hundred dollars a week for rent, gas money, and groceries.
I was making it just fine, except I couldn’t bear to live one more week with the unrefined brutes who shared the small house with me. The only things on their minds were partying and women. That kind of life just didn’t suit me. I was always a serious-minded guy anyway, and after almost losing my life at the hands of a drunk driver, I detested the idea of drinking and partying altogether. My accident had matured me well beyond my years.
Well, enough about me. I’d like to say I’m the star of these little stories I’ve decided to put to paper but that wouldn’t be true. The young man I met when I moved to Tennessee was in my estimation so extraordinary I felt several of his more notable accomplishments should be written down in one form or another. I’m not much of a writer, but I’ll do my best to get the stories across in the most interesting way I can. So, bear with me.
Three
MY DRIVE TO CAMPUS was slow going due to the icy road conditions. I made a mental note to wash the salt off my car as soon as the stuff melted away. I arrived at the campus and parked my car with just enough time to make a dash for Professor Joelson’s classroom.
I decided to take a shortcut through the library rather than walking around two large buildings to get to where I needed to be. I almost ran smack into Lindsey Robbins, a beautiful graduate student who was studying to be an architect. Did I say beautiful? Okay, stunning!
Lindsey was quiet and reserved but also studious and intelligent. Not to mention creative. I had a speech class with her, and she took somewhat of a liking to me from the beginning. The feelings were mutual. We became friends, but nothing else seemed to be in the cards insofar as a relationship was concerned. That was okay. I was too focused on my studies anyway, and she seemed always to be busy with academic endeavors too.
“Don’t you have a class at nine with Professor Joelson?” Lindsey asked with a concerned expression on her face.
“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m running late. I’ve really got to get going.”
I would have preferred to stick around and talk to Lindsey, but I couldn’t afford the demerits.
“I’ll talk to you at lunch?” I asked as I brushed passed her.
“Wait! Haven’t you heard?”
I stopped and spun around at the urgency in her voice. “Haven’t I heard what?”
“Professor Joelson has been murdered. He was found dead in his study last night.”
“Murdered?” I said shocked. “In his study? His study here on campus or at his house?”
“I think it was at his house. I haven’t heard all the details yet, but there’s a lot of talk around campus about it.”
“I would imagine so,” I said. “Well, it looks like I’m free until after lunch. I guess I’ll finish up the reading assignment I didn’t have a chance to get to last night. I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a pop quiz on it today. You know how Professor Wagner is. She won’t rest until everyone drawing breath knows and loves literature the way she does.”
Lindsey smiled shyly, “Okay, I’m off to class. I’ll catch you later.”
“Catch you later,” I said.
I looked around the library for a quiet place to do my reading.
Professor Jessie Joelson. Murdered! Wow! Who in the world would want to do him in? He was a stickler as a professor, but he was a great teacher and a great guy. Everybody liked him, and he was always so patient and helpful to his students. You just never know what’s going to happen to somebody.
I found a quiet cubicle adjacent to the history section in the back part of the library and settled in for my reading when a text came through on my phone. I glanced down. The text was from Mr. Walker. It said Zeb wouldn’t be able to meet with me that night, but he would be free from ten o’clock to twelve o’clock that morning. I glanced at my watch. It was ten after nine.
"Oh well, I may as well get this over with," I thought. I didn’t particularly care for literature anyway.
I texted Mr. Walker back to find out where I could meet with Zeb. The response was odd. A clock shop in Byway?
Four
IT WAS JANUARY THE eighteenth, and the cold air just kept getting colder. The snow and ice weighed heavily on the tree branches and clung relentlessly to the rooftops of houses and businesses.
With my coat buttoned and my scarf in place, I made the chilled trek from the library to my car and cranked up the heat. I needed to buy some gloves. I entered the address to the clock shop into my GPS and eased out of the parking lot.
I drove slowly along the snow-covered roads trying to brace myself for what to expect. I had no idea what my first meeting with the strange Zeb would be like. The way Mr. Walker acted when he was telling me about Zeb left me with the impression he was probably weird and friendless. After all, he was from the area, yet he had to solicit strangers in order find a roommate.
Then there was the ever-elusive question as to why he needed a roommate in the first place. He obviously had plenty of money because of his family’s fortune. He wouldn’t need anyone to pay part of the rent. Maybe there was something Mr. Walker wasn’t telling me with regards to their finances.
The back road the GPS took me on was curvy and likely dangerous on a sunny, dry day. Driving over snow and ice didn’t help matters. I cautiously rounded a sharp curve and almost lost traction even though I had a four-wheel drive SUV.
Since the accident wasn’t my fault, we had enough insurance money to replace my vehicle with a new one—a nice one. My mom couldn’t afford a vehicle for herself after my dad died, but she wouldn’t have used it anyway. She tended to stay close to the apartment, and when she needed to go to the store, she would usually walk. She had a bicycle to take her to a couple of places a bit further away that she liked, but she was in excellent shape and didn’t mind it at all. Sometimes, she would call my sister or a cab if she needed to go somewhere during inclement weather.
My mind drifted back to thoughts of Zeb. What kind of a name was that anyway? I was certain I’d never heard of such a thing. I wondered if it was short for something, but what?
The
re were a couple of times when I had doubts and almost turned around to head back to campus, but then I reminded myself of the living situation I was in. It was intolerable. The endless partying and loud video games made it impossible for me to focus on my studies late at night. And late at night was when I did my best concentrating. I was a lifetime night owl with no indication things would change. When the world was asleep, my mind was free and clear to think without the distraction of wondering what everyone else was doing.
I thought my GPS had gotten confused and tossed me in the middle of nowhere. I was about to give up when a small cluster of old buildings came into view. I had evidently entered a small unincorporated town on the southeast edge of Rutherford County. A sign on the side of the road confirmed it. WELCOME TO BYWAY—UNINCORPORATED.
I pulled into the small town and saw a large building to my right. It appeared to be an old rundown general store. They were open for business, and there were a couple of elderly men sitting in wooden rockers on the long front porch clothed in heavy winter coats and gloves. They were sipping from mugs of what was probably hot coffee. I’d learned Tennessee folks loved their coffee. A handful of smaller buildings were attached to both sides of the general store. They were vacant and dilapidated.
I pulled to the left and parked in one of the many empty spaces on the other side of the lonely street where there were several more old connected buildings that probably once housed thriving stores back in the fifties.
The building in the center looked odd and was much taller than the buildings surrounding it. There was a large clock tower jutting from its roof and an old-fashioned courthouse clock in the middle of it. I checked it’s time against my phone and found it to be accurate.
A large rusted sign hung just above the door on the front of the old brick building. The sign said, CLOCKMAKERS AND MENDERS. I got out and walked reluctantly toward the doors. Ice still covered the sidewalks. I was thankful I'd worn some shoes with good traction.
The Case Of The Death Book: A Zeblon Jack Mystery Book 1 Page 1
