Murder Scene

by Richard Montanari

  ‘Abbeville PD.’

  ‘Ivy, it’s Carl Tomlinson.’

  ‘Hey, Carl. Twice in one month. People will talk.’

  ‘Let them,’ he said. ‘I heard about that bad business with the Deacons.’

  ‘Crazy days, Chief.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  Once a cop, Ivy thought. ‘I’ll let you know, Carl.’

  ‘Okay. How’s Francesca Lindor doing?’

  ‘She’s officially Frankie now. I think it’s a teenage thing.’

  ‘I like it. She looks like a Frankie.’

  ‘So,’ Ivy said. ‘What can I do you out of?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about what we talked about. About those pictures you showed me.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I knew I’d run across something like this before. But it’s a lot of years ago. More than you’ve been alive.’

  Ivy drew a notepad across the desk.

  ‘What do you have?’ she asked.

  ‘This happened when I was just a couple years on the job. Even before Abbeville even had a police department. I was working in Middleton. I was a patrol officer then.’

  ‘When are we talking about here, Carl?’

  ‘Don’t call me on this, but I have been trying to work that out. I’m thinking it was 1969.’

  Ivy made the note. Carl continued.

  ‘A call came in one night. It was right around the beginning of summer, just before the Fourth of July. Some kids had gone down to the quarry with fireworks. Raised a big noise as I recall. There’s some houses around there and the neighbors complained.’

  ‘Which quarry was this?’

  ‘The one off Route 87. Near the Quilliams farm. Or what used to be the Quilliams place.’

  Ivy knew the location.

  ‘A body was found in one of those caves down there,’ Carl said.

  Ivy felt the hairs on her arm raise. ‘A body?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carl said. ‘A young girl. A teenager. Do you know the caves I mean?’

  Ivy did. She and her friends used to go down there to smoke their pot and drink their Colt 45. ‘I know the place.’

  ‘It seems to me that there was something really similar on the ground right near the body. Something to do with crow’s wings.’

  ‘And you say it was like the evidence I showed you?’

  ‘It was a while back, but I can see it in my mind’s eye so clearly now. Back then I didn’t make anything of it. You weren’t around, but it was a crazy time, the 1960s, what with acid trips and Woodstock and crazy clothes. The idea of a teenager dressing up with feathers on her head didn’t ring any alarms. Seems like all the kids had on Halloween costumes all the time back then. Even in Middleton.’

  ‘Do you remember what happened with the case? Was the case ever closed?’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Do you know if there was a ruling on cause or manner of death?’

  ‘Well, we weren’t set up to do any kind of investigating or detective work back then. And I was just a boot, of course. I secured the scene, called it in, waited for the fire department to come out and bring the body in. That was pretty much my involvement.’

  ‘And you’re saying this was in the summer of ’69?’

  ‘I’m going to say for sure it was,’ he said. ‘But the interesting thing is, when the case got turned over to the county, they continued the investigation.’

  This was not unusual, Ivy thought. Back then, when many of the smaller towns and villages were unincorporated, law enforcement was conducted at the county level. If you called the police, or emergency services, you got a county employee. It was still the same way now for many small towns.

  ‘What’s interesting about that?’ Ivy asked. ‘Sounds like SOP for the time.’

  ‘Well, what I mean is, I got relieved that night by two deputies.’

  ‘Holland County deputies?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Carl said. ‘And here’s the interesting part.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘One of them was your mother.’

  55

  Before hanging up with Carl Tomlinson Ivy had gotten the rest of the man’s thoughts and recollections from that night in 1969. Carl did not know or remember the victim’s name, or anything else about the dispensation of the case, whether it was ruled a natural or accidental death, or a death under suspicious circumstances.

  When she hung with Carl, Ivy called the Sheriff of Holland County.

  ‘Oh, God,’ her mother said. ‘Joe McGrath. I haven’t thought of him in years. Do you remember him?’

  Ivy sort of remembered a man named Joe. If she said she remembered him well, she might not get the story. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not really.’

  Her mother fluffed her hair. It was her way when she was talking about the old days. ‘He picked me up at the house for a few months when we didn’t have a car.’

  ‘We had a car?’

  Her mother smiled. ‘Not so you’d notice.’

  Ivy recalled they’d had two Buicks for a while; one on blocks, the other on bald tires. One winter they used the comatose car to jump the dead one.

  ‘Was he a really young-looking guy?’ Ivy asked.

  ‘That’s him. We were understaffed in those days. You went on patrol and had to do the work of detectives. A lot of it was break-ins and such, so we’re not talking Holmes and Watson. But still. We didn’t get any overtime, but I couldn’t get my fill of it.’

  Ivy told her mother about the old case, the body near the quarry.

  ‘I do remember a girl being found down there,’ her mother said. ‘Joe is the one you should talk to about it.’

  ‘Joe McGrath’s gone, Mama. It was the cancer. I’m sorry.’

  Ivy June looked out the window. ‘Joe,’ she said softly.

  Ivy consulted her notepad. ‘His wife’s still living out on Baintree Road.’

  ‘I can’t remember her name.’

  ‘Michelle. They call her—’

  ‘Mickey. Mickey McGrath,’ Ivy June said. ‘She had red hair. Probably not anymore, though.’

  Ivy took her mother’s hand. ‘No, Mama. Probably not.’

  ‘Why are you bringing up all this?’

  Ivy told her, keeping it all in a broad sense. Many times over the years Ivy had wanted to share with her mother the details and theories she had about her village. She ultimately did not, knowing how painful it would be to consider that Delia’s disappearance might have been part of it all.

  ‘Well, in those early days, I didn’t have much to do,’ her mother said. ‘I was just a young one, mind you. Joe took over the scene. My job was trying to keep people from trampling things.’

  Ivy had made printouts of the crown of wings found at the Gardner farm. She showed them to her mother.

  ‘Do you remember anything like this?’ she asked.

  Her mother studied the pictures for a while. ‘No, baby girl. But it was dark when I was out there. By morning they had removed the body, and collected what they wanted. My next shift I was back on patrol.’

  ‘I checked on the records at the Sheriff’s. There’s nothing from around that time.’

  ‘Wouldn’t imagine there would be. Every time there’s a new sheriff things go missing.’

  ‘Do you think Joe kept anything?’

  Ivy June considered this. ‘Could be. He was a stickler for detail. Neatest car you’ve ever seen.’

  ‘I’m thinking I might take a ride over to his widow’s place. Maybe there’s something there.’

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  ‘Can you make the call? I could do it myself, but it might be better if it came from you.’

  ‘No,’ her mother said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not, Mama?’

  Her mother stood up. ‘Because I’m going with you.’

  Mickey McGrath was a slight, animated woman a few years older than Ivy June. It turned out she did still have red hair. A
little bright for her age, Ivy thought, but it suited her fair complexion.

  The two women kept hugging and crying, hugging and crying. Ivy gave them time and space.

  When the conversation settled on the present, Ivy asked Mickey:

  ‘Did Joe keep anything from his time in the department?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Mementos or souvenirs,’ Ivy said. ‘Maybe some photographs or case files.’

  ‘He kept his uniforms,’ she said. ‘His summer one and his winter one. Still have them in the closet. I get them cleaned every so often, even though.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He kept a storage shed. God only knows what’s in there. A whole lifetime of things, I imagine. I haven’t been out there in years.’

  ‘The shed is here?’

  She pointed out the back window. There were two outbuildings near the property line. One was a corrugated plastic instant shed you can buy from Home Depot or Lowes; the other a wood shed, quite the bit worse for the seasons.

  While Ivy June and Mickey caught up, Ivy set up shop in the shed. From the door she could see that there were a number of banker-style boxes stacked at the rear of the lean-to, but in order to get to them she would have to move a lot of junk.

  It took most of a half-hour to move the rusted rotary push mower, the banded stacks of mildewed National Geographic magazines, the boxes of rags and nearly empty paint cans, the dozen plastic bags full of Christmas lights, Halloween decorations and plastic Easter eggs.

  There were dartboards and lampshades, a pair of clothes hampers, a broken dot-matrix printer with a dead mouse in it.

  The banker’s boxes at the back contained mostly cash register receipts as well as news clippings about law enforcement and crime in general in the tri-county area.

  At the bottom of the stack were two boxes wrapped in yellowed masking tape, each with a scrawled signature along the part that sealed over the lid.

  Ivy brought the boxes into the light, took out her penknife, cut the tape on both boxes.

  The containers were filled to the top with Xerox copies of police files, folders, case summaries, witness statements, court records. Ivy rifled through one stack. There was folder after folder of photocopied crime scene photographs, autopsy protocols, as well as toxicology reports.

  If Joe McGrath had kept anything about the old case, it would surely be in these two boxes.

  56

  In her first full day at the library Detta mostly shelved and re-shelved books. She got a break at three, and took the time to get a sandwich from a food truck on the square. Summer was in full burn, and people were walking their dogs and riding their bikes. Almost every person she passed said hello. It was kind of nice. She was even starting to recognize people.

  She stopped at Uncle Joe’s and picked up a pair of apple turnovers for the evening’s dessert. She resisted the ganache tartlets.

  As she rounded the corner onto the block where Godwin Hall was located she had the oddest feeling she was being followed.

  She stopped, looked back over her shoulder.

  There, about a block behind her, was Purple Mohawk, suddenly getting really interested in the window at the insurance agent’s.

  Was she following her?

  Detta ate her sandwich on the square, tossed a few bits of bread to the birds. She used to like doing this on Washington Square, and noticed that even the birds were a little bit more laid-back in the country.

  No further Mohawk sightings. This was good.

  Detta gathered her trash, walked it over to the can by the stone wishing well. When she turned around he was there.

  One minute there was an almost empty village square, and in the next minute Billy was right in front of her.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  Everything she’d planned to say to him the next time they met dissipated into thin air.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Abbeville.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘How do you like it so far?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s okay. Met some nice people. I can’t say the same for everybody here, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Detta told him about her run-in with the creepy kids, the leader of the group in particular.

  ‘She has a purple Mohawk,’ Detta said. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I do,’ he said. ‘Not well, of course. Not my type. But she is kind of hard to miss.’

  ‘What is her problem?’

  ‘I’d say it’s jealousy.’

  ‘Jealousy? Seriously? Why would she be jealous of me?’

  ‘The fact that this is not obvious to you proves my point.’

  Detta was confused. Maybe it was just his way of saying that she was pretty.

  ‘What happened between you two?’ he asked.

  As they walked across the square, toward the library, Detta told him more about the day she met Purple Mohawk and the zombie twins, about their exchange.

  ‘She told me I needed to watch my ass.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Is she bothering you?’

  ‘A little, I guess. It was kind of creepy to think she might have been following me. Maybe I got under her skin.’

  They walked in silence for a while.

  ‘How do you like working at the library?’

  ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘I like it a lot, in fact. And do you know what I like the most?’

  ‘Besides the old lady shoes and Ace bandages?’

  ‘Can you be serious for one minute?’

  Billy smiled. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I like the fact that it’s an old library. I like that people walked into this building more than a hundred years ago to get their books. I like that some of the same books are still on the shelves. I think that’s so cool.’

  Billy reached out, took each of her hands in his own. She noticed for the first time that he had a tattoo on his right forearm.

  ‘There’s a reason you are drawn to the past,’ he said.

  ‘There is?’

  ‘Yes. I knew what it was the moment I saw you for the first time.’ He looked at her, his eyes bluer than she’d ever seen. ‘It’s because you’re an old soul.’

  Before she could respond, it started to rain. Just like that. No warning, just a quick darkening of the sky and rain. More like a downpour.

  Billy took off his jacket, put it over their heads as they ran up the steps to the library. He opened the door for her. As Detta stepped inside he drew her close, and kissed her. It was a brief kiss, and it happened so quickly, just like the downpour, that she had not a second to think about it.

  He turned to leave, took three or four steps into the rain, then spun around and said:

  ‘I know who you were, Bernadette Hardy.’

  She could barely hear him over the thunder. She wasn’t quite sure what he’d said.

  ‘Wait,’ Detta said. ‘What do you mean?’

  Billy smiled, but it was sad somehow.

  All afternoon she walked in the light of those five words.

  I know who you were.

  When her shift was over for the day, she sat down at one of the computer terminals, signed on. She took out the piece of paper bearing the odd inscription her father had given her, the one carved into the headboard on the bed he got at the auction.

  Iucundissima est spei persuadio et vite imprimis.

  It took a few attempts to get the spelling right, but she finally did. When she hit Enter, she was directed to a website called Explore. It was a page dedicated to a Dutch artist named Pieter Bruegel. Detta had heard the name, had run across it in some art books, but did not really know anything about him.

  She scrolled down the page, and found a translation of the Latin phrase. Translated, it said:

  Sweet is the trust that springs from hope, without which we could not endure life’s many and almost unbearable adversities.

  She read it twice, then a third time.
She liked it. She thought it was a pretty cool thing to have carved into your headboard. She wondered who had done the carving, and how long ago they had done it.

  She was just about to write down the translation when she remembered that she was a trusted employee of this establishment.

  She hit Print.

  Before she left for the day she checked out a huge coffee table book on the complete works of Pieter Bruegel.

  57

  As Detta approached Godwin Hall, she noticed that the sign out front seemed to be newer, or at least a cleaned-up version of the original. When had her father done this? The letters, embossed in gold, seemed brighter. She was able to read it from almost a block away.

  She walked around to the back, took out her keys, stepped inside. She saw a note taped to the refrigerator door.

  I have a meeting with KSU. There are sandwiches in the fridge. I’ll be back by six. Wish me luck. Love you. Dad.

  She walked into the front room, flipped on the TV. Midday stupid shows: people groveling in front of rent-a-judges, political shouting matches, infomercials for rolling toenail clippers.

  She turned it off, went upstairs and changed her clothes. Her father had put fresh flowers on the milk crate that was serving as a temporary night stand.

  Her chore for the afternoon was cleaning the back door. Or, more accurately, scraping the back door.

  Specifically, the job was removing the decals from the door, which she imagined was the front entrance when this place had been open for business. There was an old MasterCharge decal (The Interbank Card, it read below), as well as one for BankAmericard, whatever that was. There was one for Diners Club and one for Carte Blanche.

  Before long she’d gotten most of the decals off the door and the floor swept. She rummaged around the cabinet under the kitchen sink, found the Windex and the paper towels.

  She stayed with it until it was crystal clear.

  Chore completed, she decided to explore the basement.

  The main room in the basement was somewhat tidy, with the boxes stacked along the walls. Along one wall were three old steamer trunks, the kind people used to travel with in the 1930s and 1940s.

  She walked over to the trunks, flipped the latches on the top one. She gingerly lifted up the lid, slowly, in case there was some kind of creature inside, some vampire laying dormant for a hundred years, just waiting for some stupid girl from New York to open it and become his blood slave for all eternity.