Saving Farley's Bog

by Don Sawyer

  He finished the burger and wiped his fingers on the napkins provided. He took another pull from the straw. Damn, they sure made good root beer. Had to give them that. Then he phoned Molly Maxwell.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Cottage

  Stitch slept fitfully. He would doze off and then awake with a start. Several times he glanced nervously at the alarm clock, afraid he hadn’t set it right. Finally he was jolted out of shallow sleep by the irritating buzz of the clock. He got up quickly. It was 5:30. He wanted to be at the cottage early. Just in case Maxwell got different ideas.

  As Stitch drove the back roads toward the cabin, the sun eased above the horizon in the east. The black trees slowly took on colour. The sandy roads gleamed white.

  Around 6:15 Stitch reached the driveway to the cabin. He pulled off the road and stood looking down at the house below him. Something was wrong. Then it hit him. The car was gone.

  Stitch jumped back into the Rav and roared down the drive. He pulled in front of the log cottage and rushed up to the door. He stopped and closed his eyes. The door was wide open. From the splintered door jamb, it was clear that it had been smashed in. Stitch took a deep breath. Then he walked through the door.

  Someone had left in a hurry. A coffee table in the living room had been turned over. Women’s clothes were strewn on the floor next to an empty suitcase. Stitch walked cautiously into the living room. At the far end there was a huge picture window facing the river. Through it, he could see the porch. On his right there was a small kitchen. A few dishes were piled in a sink. A cup had been overturned. A pool of coffee covered the linoleum floor.

  Beyond the kitchen there were two doorways. Bedrooms, Stitch figured. He slowly walked to the first. He stood with his back against the wall. Then he reached over and turned the round handle. He pushed the door open.

  The door slammed open. Then there was silence. Stitch slowly moved around the edge of the door frame. He looked inside. The bedroom was empty. It hadn’t been used for a while. The bed was made. A thin film of dust covered a round bedside table.

  Stitch made his way to the second door. It was slightly ajar. Again he stood against the wall. He pushed the door open. He listened for any sound inside. There was only silence. He turned from the wall and walked through the door.

  The room was a jumble of overturned chairs, bed sheets and clothes. But only one thing caught Stitch’s eye. At the end of the bed there was a large rust-coloured splotch of dried blood about five feet up the wall. He couldn’t see over the bed’s wood footboard. But a man’s feet in white running shoes stuck out into the room. Stitch closed his eyes and shook his head. “Damn it,” he swore. “I knew it. Shit. Daffy’s right. I am a moron. I should have made him go with me.” But even as he said it, he knew he’d had no choice.

  Stitch walked slowly toward the end of the bed. He saw that the red smear wasn’t only blood. There was a jagged hole in the middle. Bits of bone and brain stuck to the wall. He mentally noted that the blood had dried. The whole operation had gone smoothly and quickly. Stitch figured there had been two of them. One to kick the door down and cover. The other to find and kill their target. They must have shot Maxwell before he went to bed.

  He rounded the footboard and looked at the floor. Bob Maxwell lay face down on the carpet. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on when Stitch last saw him. A small red hole glared from the back of his head. Stitch took Maxwell’s limp wrist. There was no pulse. Then he rolled the body over.

  Stitch never understood how they got away with such crap on TV. In the police shows, everyone died such nice, neat deaths. You saw where a bullet went in. But you never saw where it exited. He stared down at Maxwell’s face. Half his forehead was gone. His glazed eyes were covered in blood and brain. His shattered head lay in a pool of drying blood. There was a sickly sweet odour of blood and organs. It reminded Stitch of being in a butcher shop.

  Stitch bent down and quickly studied the body. He turned the head. The bullet had been small, probably 9mm. Could have been a Luger. Or Glocks were becoming popular with hit men. More rounds if you needed them. He rolled the body back onto its stomach. The left arm was jammed upward, probably broken. They had grabbed Maxwell by the arm and wrenched it upward. Then they had smashed him into the wall. He wasn’t a big man. Stitch doubted he could have put up much of a fight. Once against the wall, bang. A quick shot to the back of the head. The body slid down on the floor. And the killers were gone. All in a matter of minutes.

  Stitch glanced around the room. The killers were pros. He knew there would be nothing. No fingerprints. No shoe impressions in the mud outside the house. No asthma inhaler that conveniently slipped out of the killer’s pocket.

  Stitch went through Maxwell’s pockets. His wallet was in his back pocket. There were maybe five 100 dollar bills still in the billfold section. These guys were not after his money. He glanced through the rest of the contents. No ID. A few receipts for recent purchases. A picture of his two kids. No last note intended for Stitch.

  Stitch turned the body over. There were a few coins in his pants pocket. Stitch pulled a small calculator out of Maxwell’s shirt pocket. An accountant to the end, Stitch thought. He ran his hand around the inside of Maxwell’s belt. Then around the waist band of his pants. Nothing.

  Stitch stood up. No voice from the grave, it seemed. No clue who did it. No ideas about where to go from here.

  Stitch was about to turn away when something caught his eye. He looked down at Maxwell’s feet. He wore a pair of Adidas running shoes. Stitch cocked his head in thought. One was neatly done up. But the laces of the other were untied. The shoe looked as if it would fall off if Maxwell had tried to walk in it. Could he have been caught before he had a chance to tie it up? Possible, but unlikely. Other than the shoe, Maxwell was perfectly dressed. And he was not the kind of guy to walk around with his shoelaces untied.

  Stitch crouched down. He gently pulled the untied shoe off Maxwell’s foot. As he did, a small slip of brown paper fell out of the shoe. Stitch looked around. A paper shopping bag lay on the top of the chest of drawers. A chunk had been torn out. On the floor next to the bureau Stitch spotted a red Bic pen.

  Stitch picked up the paper and studied it. Red letters and numbers had been written in a shaky scrawl. He wrote this in a hurry, Stitch thought. Maybe he had heard them kicking down the door. He knew they weren’t neighbours coming to welcome him into the neighbourhood. He saw the pen and bag on the chest of drawers. He scrawled the message as they smashed in and headed for the bedroom. At the last second, he must have untied his shoe and slipped in the message. Just before the killers entered the bedroom.

  What was it he so desperately wanted to say? Stitch returned his attention to the scrap of paper. On it was written: KN6631475. After the last number there was a line. It looked as if he had wanted to write more but ran out of time.

  KN6631475. Stitch ran his hand over his hair. A licence plate? Too many digits. Phone number of some sort? A code?

  Stitch carefully folded the paper and placed it in his wallet. Then he pulled his cell phone out of its holster and called the Parsons Police department. He had a homicide to report.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Ride Home

  The drive home was long and depressing. Before the police arrived, Stitch had taken pictures of the body and scoured the cabin for other evidence.

  It had taken several hours for the police to check Stitch out and clear him. They weren’t used to execution-style murders in Parsons. There were lots of anxious phone calls and scurrying around. It was pretty clear no one knew exactly what to do. They walked all over the crime scene destroying potential evidence. Stitch was glad he’d been over it first. They also grilled Stitch. He was their only lead and they were reluctant to let him go.

  Stitch told them what he could about Maxwell. He told them he was working for Maxwell’s wif
e. They were quite interested when he explained how he had tracked Maxwell to the cabin.

  The first thing Stitch did when he got on the road was what he dreaded most: He called Molly Maxwell. At first she was shocked. She asked over and over for details of the killing. Then she started to sob. She cried and sniffled on the phone for several minutes.

  Then she moved to feeling guilty. If it wasn’t for her hiring Stitch, her husband would probably still be alive. It was all her fault. She should have left him alone.

  Stitch had waited patiently. When she had finished, he asked her a simple question. “Molly,” he said gently. “Are you the one who agreed to switch your vote for $100,000?”

  There was a pause at other end. Then a loud sniffle. “No,” she said at last.

  “And are you the one who found a lover and ran out on the family?”

  “No,” she said again, this time a little stronger.

  “No, you’re not, Molly. You acted out of love and concern. You are the one who acted responsibly. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  Stitch could hear her short, ragged breathing.

  “Bob was a big boy. He made some really awful decisions. And they caught up with him,” Stitch said quietly. “You did not make those decisions. He did. Right?”

  “I, I guess so,” Molly replied uncertainly. “But why did he do it, Stitch? Was it my fault? Wasn’t I a good enough lover? A good enough wife?”

  “Molly, I don’t know anything about your relationship. That’s not my department. But I do know this. No relationship succeeds or fails without help from both sides. I know. I’ve managed to screw up lots of them. It’s easy to blame the other person. It’s a lot harder to be honest with yourself. I think that’s what Bob was doing. Putting all the blame on you.”

  There was silence at the other end. “How did it feel for you these last months?” Stitch asked.

  Molly sighed. “Yes. It wasn’t working. I tried to talk with him. But Bob didn’t want to see anyone. He was a very emotionally closed man. He told me to see someone myself. I was the one who had the problem.”

  “Which made it easy for him to justify what he did. Listen, Molly. You are going to need some support. Are you interested in seeing a really good counsellor?”

  “I… Well, I guess so. I’ve never seen a shrink before.”

  Stitch shook his head in the car. Why are people so afraid of seeing a counsellor? he wondered. If they broke a bone, they’d be at hospital in a flash. But if they have a broken heart, it’s not important enough to get help. There’s nothing that can be done. Seeing someone who helps people heal emotionally shows weakness.

  “I’ve come to know several good people in our area,” Stitch said. “Melanie Brooks is super. She is gentle and caring. But she also gets you to figure things out for yourself. I think you’d like her. Would you like her number?”

  There was another short pause. “Yes. Yes, Mr. Robinson,” Molly said forcefully. “I would like her number. Maybe it’s time I start taking control of my life.”

  Stitch grinned. “That’s my girl. Give Erin a call. She’s my secretary. Tell her you need Dr. Brooks’ number. And Molly?”

  “Yes, Stitch?”

  “You’ve got a whole life ahead of you. A great life. For you and your kids. I know what a mess all of this has been for you. But it will pass.”

  “Promise?” Molly asked in a tremulous voice. She sounded like a little girl. She started to cry again.

  “Promise,” Stitch said confidently.

  There was a long pause at the other end. “Will you come see me when you get back?”

  Stitch briefly squeezed his eyelids shut. What was he getting himself into? “Of course I will.”

  “Tonight?” Molly asked more softly.

  Stitch sighed. “I won’t be in until late.”

  Molly seemed to sniffle. “I don’t care, Stitch. I just need you here right now. Please?”

  Stitch hesitated. “OK. I’ll come right to your house.”

  “Promise?” Molly asked.

  “Promise.”

  Afterwards he drove in silence. He wasn’t in the mood for music. The car drifted on cruise control around the gentle curves of the expressway. His mind too was on cruise control.

  Stitch shook his head. Time to get back to work. He gave the Bluetooth lady instructions to call Daffy.

  Daffy answered on the second ring. It was as if he were sitting by the phone waiting. “Yeah, Stitch. What do you have?”

  “Ain’t good, Daffy. I went out to Maxwell’s cabin this morning. He’d been shot.”

  Daffy groaned on the other end. “Is he dead?”

  “Oh, yeah. Real dead.”

  There was a pause. “Dead is good.”

  Stitch almost ran off the road. “Dead is good?”

  “No, no,” Daffy said hurriedly. “I know it’s sad for his wife. His kids. But as far as the injunction goes, it’s not that bad. The best thing would have been for him to be here and to have testified.”

  “Yeah,” Stitch grunted. “Whoever wanted him dead must have come to the same conclusion.”

  “But they screwed up. You have proof he’s dead?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got proof!” Stitch said angrily. “I’ve got pictures of him with half his head blown off! That good enough?”

  “OK, OK,” Daffy said soothingly. “Sorry. Did you find the body?”

  Stitch took a breath. “Yeah.”

  “OK. That was hard. And then you called Maxwell’s wife.”

  “Yeah,” Stitch repeated tiredly.

  “So you’re upset. I understand that. But I’m looking at this as a lawyer.”

  “Coldly,” Stitch muttered.

  “That’s not fair, Stitch. But he’s dead. Now I have to use that information to help my clients. Who, by the way,” Daffy added, “have blockaded the access to Farley’s Bog for the last 48 hours.”

  “That’s good, I guess,” Stitch said. “So how does Maxwell’s death fit into all of this?”

  “The acceptance of evidence depends on two things: necessity and reliability.”

  Stitch shrugged in the car seat. “Yeah?”

  “So before, we had your recorded confession, OK?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But that only proved that he had said he’d been bribed. Not that he actually had been bribed. He didn’t say it under oath. There wasn’t even a signed affidavit. Before he was killed, we had reliability going for us. He was testifying to being part of a crime. It could have meant jail time. He was saying something that was not in his personal interest.”

  “No kidding. It got him killed.”

  “Right,” Daffy agreed. “But getting an injunction to stop a project is hard. The judge has to be sure the grounds are solid. So, if we had this recorded, where was Maxwell? Why should the judge grant the stop order if Maxwell wasn’t willing to testify? If we didn’t even have a signed affidavit from him?”

  Stitch nodded. “That’s where necessity comes in. It was necessary before to have him testify. Now that he’s dead, he can’t.”

  “Exactly!” Daffy enthused. “That makes your taped confession incontrovertible.”

  “What does that mean? That no one can say it’s a lie?”

  “Right again. He’s been killed for what he said. His taped statement is now reliable and necessary. The judge has every reason to believe it. To believe that the vote change was a result of bribery and blackmail. And that he may have been murdered for his comments. We’ve got ‘em!”

  “Hope so. Listen, I’ll be in late tonight. I’m going to see Molly when I get in. Can we get together first thing in the morning?” Stitch paused. “See, there’s one more thing. I don’t want to go into detail on the cell. But I think I’ve got something. A clue.”


  “Clue to what?”

  “To who killed Bob Maxwell. And why.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Homecoming

  It was almost midnight when Stitch pulled up in front of Molly’s. He parked the Rav along the curb. Then he leaned back tiredly against the headrest. He closed his eyes for few seconds. He had no idea what to expect. Hysterics? Tears? He hated this part. Usually he had to report to a wife that her suspicions were right. Her husband was having an affair. Or to an employer that his employees were stealing from him. That was bad enough.

  But he’d never had a client’s spouse die on him before.

  Stitch got out of the car and walked toward the house. He automatically pushed the button on his car key two times. The car beeped twice and was quiet.

  The spring evening was soft and velvety black. Stitch smelled apple and plum blossoms in the thick air. The quarter moon hung like a bright smile in the sky. His steps seemed muffled.

  The outside light wasn’t on. In the darkness, Stitch stepped carefully onto the concrete porch. He took a deep breath and knocked.

  The door opened wide. Molly stood silhouetted in the doorway. Stitch nearly gasped. She was wearing only a white terrycloth robe. And she looked beautiful. Stitch leaned forward. What was it? What had changed? Her brown hair fell softly around her shoulders, framing her upturned face. Her smile seemed warm, welcoming. But it was her eyes. When he had first met with Molly, they were dull and sad. Now they sparkled.

  “Hi,” Molly said. “I didn’t know what time you’d get here.” She blushed and glanced at her bare feet. “I was taking a shower.”

  Stitch stood and looked for way too long. Finally he shook his head and smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to stare. But, you’re, uh, stunning. Literally.”

  Molly glanced up bashfully. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “That’s true,” Stitch agreed. “But I usually don’t mean it. Tonight I do.”

  Molly looked at the floor in embarrassment. “Well, do you want to come in? The kids are with their grandmother.” She looked up. “I think they’re really confused.”