Past Perfect

by Richard Stockford

  Dave Adams peered back and forth between the sword and his computer monitor. “It looks like this 18th century Spanish short sword,” he said, pointing to an image on the screen.

  When Clipper and Janice brought the sword in, Adams had carefully laid it out on a clean sheet of butcher paper and photographed it under a variety of lighting, examining it carefully before sliding the sword gently from its scabbard. “Not much chance of prints from this old leather,” he’d said, “but we’ll try, and we might want to fume the blade.”

  The sword had a slim blade of about two feet and a leather wrapped handle with a fancy curling brass guard. The brass was tarnished to a dull gray and the handle leather was dried and darkened with age.

  “Is this blood?” asked Janice, pointing to some dull, brownish-gray streaks on the blade near the handle.

  “I’d think it’s rust,” said Adams, “but we can test for blood.” He carefully scraped a small amount of the gray material into a clean vial, sealing and labeling it with his initials and the date.

  Clipper had been looking at the scabbard. “It all looks pretty old,” he said, “”but this belt is definitely newer than the scabbard. Small too. Can’t be more than eighteen or twenty inches.”

  “We need to find Pauline Ennis, and ask her if she’s ever seen it,” Janice said.

  Clipper looked confused. “What’s Pauline Ennis got to do with it?” he asked.

  “She may remember seeing Sebastian with the sword when they were kids,” Janice said patiently. “You know, playing with it or something.”

  Suddenly comprehension dawned on both of them. “You didn’t know Pauline Ennis is Sebastian’s sister?” asked Janice.

  Clipper was shaking his head. “I’ve got a dead Ennis and a fugitive Ennis,” he said, “but I never connected them with the Gaylords.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Janice, looking horrified. “The kid that was killed in Winterport was Pauline’s son. I didn’t pay any attention to the names of the people you’re looking for. This is bizarre.”

  “Well,” said Clipper, “judging by the dust in that attic, this thing has been hidden there for a long time, maybe forty years. Who would know about that now?”

  Janice thought. “Sebastian and Pauline are the only people still around that were in the house at that time,” she said. “It’s got to be Pauline.”

  Clipper checked his watch. “Ok,” he said, “let’s grab some lunch and see if we can figure this out.” While Janice went to get sandwiches, Clipper and Adams organized all the old reports and photos in the conference room. As they ate, Adams read the original police reports out loud in chronological order, while Janice followed in the paperwork she had found, and Clipper took notes. When they had exhausted the police reports, Janice continued with the diary and the newspaper clippings and when she finished, Clipper had written a concise two page summery.

  “What we know for sure is that Eleanor Gaylord disappeared on Friday, October 31, 1975, along with three pieces of luggage she had packed for a trip to Chicago. The cab driver arrived to pick her up at 4 p.m. as scheduled, but couldn’t raise anyone at the house. He was well alibied with subsequent calls and cleared as a suspect. Her plane ticket was never used. As for the rest of the household, Montgomery Gaylord was in Augusta; Walter White was at work, Ann White, who was Montgomery Gaylord’s sister, was shopping; and the three kids, Sebastian Gaylord-thirteen, Pauline Gaylord-twelve and Chester White-fifteen were all in school, and all of their alibis checked out. There were never any ransom demands, and no evidence of a struggle or foul play was found in the house. The case was worked by local, state and F.B.I. investigators, but no leads were found, and eventually it became inactive with the assumption that Eleanor took off to get away from a domineering husband.”

  Clipper looked at Janice. “Apparently, Ann White didn’t believe that theory and made somewhat of a nuisance of herself demanding further investigation. She describes some friction between her son, Chester, and Sebastian Gaylord and, a year after the disappearance writes a letter to her friend, the retired Bangor Police Chief, saying that she could prove that Eleanor was murdered, and that she knew who did it. Unfortunately, she died a day later without revealing her proof to anyone, although from her diary and the letter, we can infer that she suspected someone close - a family member. The letter was intercepted by her brother Montgomery, and the case was never re-opened.” Clipper did not mention Jimmy Lindquist’s involvement.

  “Until now,” said Janice. “It’s plain to me that Sebastian murdered his mother and, I bet, Annie White too. Now how do we prove it?”

  Clipper grinned at Janice’s command tone. “The only evidence we have is an anonymous note, an old sword, and a dead woman’s diary,” he said. “It’s all just theory at this point. Let’s see what the lab can tell us about the sword and the note and go from there.”

  Chapter 19

  Jennifer Ennis looked up from the cleaning bench late Tuesday morning. In the past three days, she had absorbed the basics of ballistics, windage, sight pictures, breathing control, and trigger squeeze, as well as the recoil of more than two hundred carefully aimed practice shots. No longer interested in just hitting the silhouette target, she was developing a great deal of pride in being able to consistently deliver a small grouping of several shots to the ‘X’ ring at distances out to two hundred yards. During the practice sessions, she had also absorbed a steady, persuasive litany of militia rationale and objectives from Dautry.

  He faced her now from across the bench. “You’re a good shot,” he said. “Now we talk about tactics. Unfortunately, sometimes the only way you can correct the deficiencies of an organization, or a government, is to exploit them. This country will not recognize the constitutional mandate and absolute necessity of maintaining an armed civilian militia until it is hurt by its inability to properly defend the people. We…”

  Jennifer held up her hand. “Major Dautry,” she interrupted, “I don’t need to be recruited. I’m a soldier now, and I know who the enemy is.” She paused. “What I don’t know is who the hell you guys are. You call yourself the Infidel Army and preach anti-Islam, but this whole camp looks like the terrorist training camps I’ve seen on the news, and you sound more like a terrorist cell than a civilian militia.”

  Dautry grinned. “Kashif said you were smart,” he said. “We actually operate on several different levels. Our public purpose is the protection of the United States against radical Islamic terrorists. That’s a useful cover that puts us squarely on the side of law and order, and it’s easy to maintain with our local recruits. You and Kashif have been helping to publicize that cover as well as generating funding for our real intention, which is to defend the American people against a corrupt and self-serving government. If we must commit ‘terrorist acts’,” Dautry flashed hooked fingers, “to do that, then so be it.”

  Jennifer stared at him for a long moment. She had noticed a difference between some of the men, dressed up like soldiers and practicing war games, and others who were standoffish and harder, more professional looking. “And the last level?” she said shrewdly.

  Dautry hesitated. “We are bigger than we look,” he finally said. “There is more to the Infidel Army than just this camp, but that’s all you need to know for the moment, and we do not appreciate curiosity.”

  Jennifer nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said sketching a salute. “Can I get in some more practice this afternoon?”

  Janice spent Tuesday morning at her computer. She wrote an update on the Gaylord Mansion project for the Historical Society, and printed it out before working on a proposed budget for the museum. So intent was she on the numbers on her monitor, she didn’t hear the furtive opening of the back door and the soft footsteps of the intruder. She caught only a brief glimpse of movement reflected in the computer screen before a rough bag was pulled down over her head, completely cutting off her vision. Janice started to scream, but the sound died in her throat as a hard punch rocked the side of her head, and
the bag twisted tight at her neck. She pushed back in her chair and tried to stand, but strong hands bit cruelly into her shoulders as she was forced back down, and a low voice grated in her ear. “Back off. Leave it alone.” Another punch, this time to the back of her head, stunned Janice and the voice seemed to fade in and out as she gasped for air. “Keep putting your nose where it don’t belong, and you’ll end up missing, too.” The bag tightened viciously at her throat, and bright stars flashed and burned in her vision as her lungs labored in vain for air. Suddenly, she was flung brutally forward into the computer, and even the stars went black.

  At first, Clipper didn’t recognize Janice’s strained voice on his cell phone. When he finally understood, he yelled for John Peters to get a marked unit started for his house, and bolted for the stairs. The cruiser was just pulling up when he barreled into the driveway and spotted Janice standing on the front step.

  “I’m ok,” Janice called as Clipper ran up. “He’s gone.”

  “The bastard won’t scare me off.” Janice glared at Clipper and John Peters. They were in the kitchen, Janice holding an ice pack to her swollen jaw, and Clipper pacing angrily. “This just proves that there’s something to find, and I’m going to find it and bring his ass down.”

  Clipper sighed. “Look,” he said, swallowing the urge to shout, “why don’t you grab some stuff and spend a couple days with my sister?” Clipper’s sister, Ann Dobbs, was a librarian at the University of Maine and lived about eight miles away in Orono. She and Janice were close friends, finding common ground in their mission to manage Clipper’s life.

  “No, I’ve got work to do, and he won’t sneak up on me again.” Adamant.

  Clipper capitulated in the face of steely resolve. “I’m going to put a patrol check on the house and the mansion,” he said, “and I want you to let me know where you are every second of the day.”

  Janice smiled. “Yes, dear,” she said meekly, glad she hadn’t told Clipper about the cheap knife she had found stuck into her desk through the pages of the museum report when she had awakened. The knife, black metal handles with a four inch folding blade that snapped open at the touch of a tab on the back of the blade, now lay in her purse beside the Llama .380.

  At two-thirty that afternoon, Clipper and Peters stood on Pauline Ennis’ doorstep. Pauline glared at them through a closed screen door. She was heavily made up and dressed in black slacks and a silk blouse, but her face was puffy and Clipper caught a strong smell of bourbon. “You’ve already searched my home,” she said. “My son’s dead and you’re calling my daughter a bank robber. Get out. I have nothing to say to you.”

  Peters slipped into the bad cop role. “We’re investigating multiple homicides,” he said, flatly. “We can talk here or at the station, but we are going to talk, Mrs. Ennis.”

  Clipper held up his hand and smiled. “We aren’t here looking for Jennifer,” he said. “You may be able to help us with another matter, and we’d really appreciate it if we could just sit down with you here for a few minutes.”

  Pauline stared owlishly for a moment then abruptly turned away from the door. “Alright,” she muttered over her shoulder, “but, make it quick. I’ve got to get to the funeral home.” She dropped into a chair, started to reach for the drink that sat on a side table, then thought better of it. “What do you want?” she said, waving them to a couch.

  “Tell me about your mother’s disappearance,” Clipper said without preamble. “What do you think happened?”

  Clipper was not prepared for Pauline’s reaction.

  “Ha,” she barked. “I wondered if you guys would ever get around to this. It only took you forty years. There were four men in that house, and one of them murdered her.”

  Chapter 20

  Pauline Ennis’ hand reached out for her drink, seemingly of its own volition, and she smiled grimly into the astonished faces of Clipper and Peters as she drank.

  “Well,” she amended, “I don’t imagine Uncle Arthur had anything to do with it. He was a nice guy that spent all his time working, but the others…” Her voice trailed off, and then she looked up with a little start. “Oh,” she said, “I don’t know which one did it, or how, but she didn’t belong there.” Pauline took another sip. “My father was the absolute lord and master of that house,” she said. “He was a big, important man, and my mother was a nice lady who didn’t fit his idea of the successful politician’s wife.”

  “We understood your father was in Augusta when she disappeared,” Peters said.

  Pauline grunted. “He could’a been on Mars,” she said. “He had all kinds of people that’d do things for him.” She raised her glass and seemed surprised to find it empty. “And, my brother was just like him. Always better that everybody else, throwing his weight around.”

  “Did you ever see your brother with a sword?” asked Clipper.

  “What? A sword? No, why would he have a sword?”

  “Mrs. Ennis,” said Peters, “When was the last time you were in Gaylord Mansion?”

  Pauline peered at him. “Probably about a year ago,” she said. “Just before the old bastard died.”

  Clipper tried a different tack. “How did you and Sebastian get along with Chester White?” he asked.

  Pauline seemed to look back in time. “He changed,” she said. “He was always fun to be around, but he changed after she…left. Got moody. Argued all the time. I was glad to see him and his father leave after Aunt Annie died.”

  Clipper leaned forward. “What’s your best guess”” he asked. “What happened to your mother?”

  Pauline looked into her glass again. “She didn’t run away,” she said, tears welling unnoticed from her eyes. “Those bastards killed her.”

  Clipper spent the rest of Tuesday afternoon at his desk. He made it a habit to read every one of the fifty to one hundred incident reports generated by every patrol shift, setting some aside for follow-up assignments, and absorbing the general temperament of his town. He was just getting to the bottom of the stack when Carol Murphy called. “Hey, big guy,” she said. “You owe me an interview, if I remember correctly.”

  It was four-thirty when Clipper met Carol and her cameraman in the station lobby. “Lieutenant Clipper,” Murphy started, “A week ago, the body of Pauli Ennis was found in Winterport, apparently fatally wounded in a shootout with Waldo County Deputy Sheriff Justin Monk. Can you explain the link between his death and the recent rash of crime in Bangor?”

  “We have reason to believe that Pauli Ennis was one of the trio who committed several credit union and bank robberies in the greater Bangor area in the past weeks.”

  “Can you identify the other two robbers?”

  “We currently have arrest warrants for Jennifer Ennis, the sister of Pauli Ennis, and a man named Kashif Amini. All three of them are, or were, students at the University of Maine. Anyone who has knowledge of their whereabouts is encouraged to call the Bangor Police Department.”

  “Can you confirm that Kashif Amini is of Islamic origin?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “But he was heard to shout ‘Allahu Akbar’ during the robberies.”

  “Well, apparently he did, but we still cannot comment on his ethnic origins or political leanings.”

  Murphy changed direction. “Sources tell us that last Wednesday’s attack on the police station and the fire on the waterfront were also linked to the bank robberies.”

  “The investigation is on-going, but we believe that to be the case,” Clipper said.

  “Lieutenant, bank robberies, armed attacks on the police station, murder, arson…these are big league crimes for Bangor. What resources can you bring to bear and how would you assess the threat to our citizens?”

  “We are acting in concert with local law enforcement agencies including Sheriffs’ Offices, local police, State Police, the State Fire Marshall’s office and the F.B.I. These crimes are egregious in nature, but they are not directed at Bangor’s citizens per se, and we will bring those res
ponsible to justice.”

  “Can you explain your reluctance to accept the assistance of the ex-military personnel in the area who are under the command of Major Kempton Dautry?”

  Clipper‘s smile was icy. “For the same reason you wouldn’t want your surgeon to accept the assistance of his janitor,” he said. “This is not combat. It’s criminal investigation, and law enforcement professionals will deal with it.”

  Murphy shifted subjects again. “Lieutenant Clipper,” she said, “with all of this on your plate, how do you find time to deal with the more mundane, everyday crimes?”

  “We prioritize, and work longer hours when we have to.”

  “And cold cases? When will you find time to deal with the new evidence that I understand has come to light in the matter of the forty year old disappearance of a prominent Bangor citizen?”

  Clipper hid his shock. “I have no comment regarding any other ongoing investigations,” he said flatly. He stepped out of the camera shot and motioned Murphy to follow him through the front door.

  Once outside, he rounded on her furiously. “What the hell was that about,” he said. “Where did you get that?”

  Murphy faced him squarely. “I got an anonymous letter, and I wanted to see if it was true.”

  Clipper glowered at her. “Next time, try asking,” he said. “If you air that tape,” nodding at the cameraman peering at them through the door, “you eliminate any possibility of ever solving that case. And that letter’s evidence in a criminal matter. I want it.”

  Murphy was adamant. “I can edit the tape and I’ll share the letter, but this story is mine.”

  Clipper hesitated. “Dump the cameraman,” he finally said, “and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” Fifteen minutes later, they were seated at a corner table at Cleo’s and Clipper was studying a hand-written note through a plastic baggie.