by J. T. Lewis
Inside we found Allen huddling with Sheriff McHenry while the rest of the task force was gloving up to start the investigation. Glancing around, I observed a relatively clean room with well-worn furniture and few lights. Neat stacks of magazines and newspapers filled most of the nooks around the room, making it look more like he was a collector rather than a hoarder. I grabbed a pair of gloves myself and eased over to the body for a preliminary look, taking care where I stepped.
The body was lying on its back about six feet inside the door, the knife still sticking from the bloody chest wound. The right hand was loosely wrapped around the knife, as if he had tried to pull it out before he had expired.
The left arm was laying straight out from the body, ending abruptly in a bloody stump, a gory meat cleaver lying nearby. Bent metal-rimmed glasses lay on the floor three foot above his prone body.
Lying in the pool of blood surrounding the arm was a card with the word ‘GHOST’ beaming up at us. Blood had soaked into the edges of the paper, creating a macabre veined look to it that sent an involuntary chill up my spine.
Betty was beside me while Frank took up position on the other side of the body, crouching down to get a better look. Mr. Longstreet was wearing pajamas under a threadbare robe that appeared to have been dark blue at one time. There were no apparent footprints left by the murderer. He would have had to be extremely careful to have avoided blood on his shoes in this room.
“Knife and cleaver appear to be standard kitchen hardware,” Frank stated from his crouched position. “I’ll go check to see if I can confirm that,” he said as he bounced up like his legs were made of springs. He then headed to the kitchen to compare the knives there with the murder weapons.
Betty tugged at my sleeve and pointed toward the door, “the front door hasn’t been compromised, and the lock and handle are intact. Has anyone checked the back door for signs of a break-in?”
“Back door was closed but unlocked when we got here,” Tucker Vance piped in as he entered the room from the bedroom. “No sign of a break-in there, and the front door was locked.” A flashback of the mysterious perp coming from the back of the house gave me a chill as I was reminded once again of the vision.
“You think he knew his attacker?” Betty questioned with a surprised look on her face.
I looked down at the late Mr. Longstreet, wondering just how many acquaintances our apparent hermit had, and how many of those would be visiting in the middle of the night. Another thought entered my head, so I threw it out for discussion.
“Maybe it wasn’t someone he knew, maybe it was someone he thought he could trust,” I offered, having no idea what or who that would be.
“Who could get the old man to open his door and invite in this late at night?” No one commented on the thought, but their looks told me they were thinking about it.
I moved to the outside of the room looking for any additional clues. I noticed some display cabinets that I hadn’t detected earlier, a closer look revealing that these held maybe a hundred or more pocket watches of every conceivable size and design, all of them looked to be antique. I could guess that their value would be easily in the thousands or more. Frank appeared beside me and a “wow” escaped his lips as his eyes landed on the accumulated time pieces.
“I do believe robbery is out as a motive,” I stated flatly, not having seriously considered that as a motivation for the perp until now anyway.
Moving on, I noticed that some of the periodicals stacked ubiquitously in the house were quite old, but as I made my way further around the room it became quite apparent that none of them were recent editions. I hadn’t seen any that were newer than five years old, further evidence that old Harold didn’t get out much and probably didn’t do a lot of entertaining.
Moving to the kitchen and looking into the trash bin revealed it to be full of containers used by the local charity that brought meals to shut-ins; this guy hadn’t had much of any contact with the public for quite awhile.
Having another thought, I made a note to check on the people working at the charity that regularly delivered meals to Harold. It was along shot, but they would be somebody that he trusted and would let in his house at night.
Walking back into the living room, my eyes wandered to the window where I was greeted by a sight that caused me to blink my eyes in disbelief…an American flag.
An old front porch, draped with an American flag
Chapter 19
March 10, 1997
I pulled Betty aside, telling her I would be right back; I had a hunch to follow. Looking at me quizzically, she nodded then turned back to the investigation. I left through the front door, pulling up on the crime-scene tape as I walked under it and continued across the road.
The house seemed to be a weather-beaten yellow with what must have once been white trim. Tidy in appearance and well maintained overall, the owner would seem to be someone that took pride in his home, and the flag draped on the porch also attested to the owner’s patriotism.
The lingering scent of cigar smoke as I padded up the steps brought back yet another memory from my dream, as an eerie feeling of déjà-vu crawled up my spine. I hated to bother people when they were sleeping, but if what I saw earlier was true at all, this man may have been an inadvertent witness to this murder.
I tapped on the door three times and waited, getting no response. I was preparing to again knock on the door when I noticed the reflection of a light on the ground beside the house, the shape of window panes clearly outlined in the shadows. Presently the light on the other side of the door switched on and I heard someone fumbling with the lock. The door creaked slightly as it slowly opened a crack, and then continued on its arc as the owner stepped forward.
“Well hello, Gabriel, what brings you to my neck of the woods?”
Before me stood a short African-American man, slight of build but with the bearing of a one who had worked hard for a living and was proud of what he had accomplished.
“Hello, Zeke, I had no idea that you lived out this way,” I said, taken aback a little at knowing the owner.
“You mind if I come in for a moment, I’m afraid I need to ask you a couple of questions?”
Motioning to follow him, he turned and led me into a small but tidy living room with two upholstered chairs and a couch. These were arranged in a semicircle around the old TV set. He held out his hand palm up at a chair as an offering to sit down, which I did, observing pictures of his wife and kids spread out throughout the room.
Ezekiel Green was a fixture around town, having started life in what was called New Town in the old days, always considered at that time “the wrong side of the tracks.”
Graduating high school in the late thirties, he enlisted in the Marines to see the world. When the Japanese started World War Two, he was stationed in the Philippines and was eventually captured with the rest of his command at Bataan. Forced on the Bataan Death March with his fellow soldiers, he and his buddies survived the ordeal by sheer willpower and propping each other up when the other faltered.
For the rest of the war he existed as a prisoner in numerous Japanese internment camps. Upon his release and subsequent discharge he came back to town and got busy, the pent-up energy of his confinement pushing him relentlessly.
He courted and married his high school girl friend and found a job in construction. After a few years he went out on his own and made a good name for himself as an excellent carpenter. After his wife died six years ago, he abruptly quit working and entered retirement, a good portion of which he spends at the Legion with old Doc Elliot.
“I guess you’re involved with the circus across the road eh? What’d old man Longstreet do to get all you out of bed in the middle of the night?”
Looking him straight in the eye, I broke the news to him that Mr. Longstreet had been murdered.
“You don’t say,” Zeke stated, suddenly very serious. “Loony as a bird that one, but still, you don’t wish that on anybody.”
�
��Did you see anyone over there tonight, or see or hear anything strange?” I asked, almost knowing what he was going to say.
“Yes sir, I did notice that he had a visitor earlier in the evening. Fellow didn’t stay very long though, so I didn’t pay him too much attention. Thinkin’ back on it now though, fellow left out the back door wearing different clothes when he come out, left in a car he parked down the road if I recollect correctly. But that can’t be the guy you’re looking for.”
In answer to the confusion showing on my face he continued, “That guy was one of yours.”
“I’m sorry, Zeke, I’m still confused, what do you mean he is one of mine?” I questioned, almost dreading the answer.
With a serious look on his face he leaned forward, as if trying to teach a dense child a tidbit of knowledge.
“The guy I saw tonight was one of yours Gabriel, he was wearing a uniform, same as some of them fellows across the road is wearing right this very moment.”
“The man I saw was a sheriff’s deputy.”
Chapter 20
March 10, 1997
The man was ecstatic!
He had already called off work; there is no way he could pretend to do his menial job at the Save-A-Bunch today…no not today. The well laid out plan had worked like a charm. It had only taken three trips past the house before he had confirmed that the neighbor was sitting on his porch, a witness the mentor had insisted on for some reason.
Parking just out of sight down the road and traveling on foot to the small house, he had easily gained entry posing as a deputy with a dead cruiser.
The witless old man had shown him to the phone in the kitchen, leaving him alone to make the call. Spotting the knives on the counter, he had silently grabbed one with his gloved hand as he waited for the call to go through. The answering machine picked up, telling him that no one was there at the moment, and to please leave a message.
“The Ghost strikes again,” he whispered into the phone. “Thanks for making it so easy,” he finished with a smile before hanging up the receiver. Slipping the knife up his left sleeve and holding the hilt in place with his cupped hand, the man then turned back toward the living room.
“Find someone to help?” the old man asked as he exited the kitchen.
“Oh, they will get the message alright,” the man said with a smile, enjoying his play on words, enjoying himself immensely truth be known.
The old man stood up from his chair as the visitor passed by him on the way to the front door. Pulling the knife out of his sleeve with his right hand, he waited for the old man to get close enough on his way to open the door. When he sensed him in the right location, he swiftly turned on his heel, bringing the knife up in an arc, finding its mark just below the sternum.
“Thank you for your help,” the stranger said clearly as first surprise, then fear entered the old man’s eyes.
The orgasmic rush gave the stranger shivers as he happily watched his victim’s life ebb out of his eyes. The old man was reaching up feebly and grabbing at the knife in a last ditch effort to pull it out, his last breath escaping his body in a rattle as small red bubbles formed on his mouth.
Realizing that he was now holding up the dead weight of the body, the man pushed it away and watched it land on the floor like a felled tree. Taking a few moments, he closed his eyes to enjoy the feelings streaming through his body; the intensity of emotions almost overwhelming.
Coming back down to earth, he quickly unbuttoned his shirt, pulling out 2 garbage bags he had earlier wrapped around his stomach.
Heading into the kitchen, he picked up the meat cleaver he had spotted with the knives and returned to the body. The cleaver was sharpened to a fine honed edge, making the removal of the hand easier than he had expected. Opening one of the bags, he placed the hand inside of it and then carefully sealed it with the built-in pull-strings.
Removing his outer gloves revealed the latex coverings underneath as he opened the second bag, depositing in it the bloody gloves, followed by the deputy’s jacket he had worn into the house. Pulling the hood up on the sweatshirt he had worn under the jacket, he worked for a moment folding the bags into as small of a package as he could muster. Heading to the kitchen again, he exited out the back door and worked his way quietly around the house to the road. Continuing on to the car he had obtained for this project, he got in and started down the road, straining to see the road ahead as he left the lights off for the first mile.
***
Approaching court house square, he carefully parked a block away, waiting in the car for a few minutes before existing the vehicle with one of his packages. He then got out and made his way to the front entrance of the building, the one he knew would be in the shadows due to lack of maintenance and a burned out bulb. Taking a last quick look to confirm his being alone on the street, he climbed the first two steps, undoing the ties on the garbage bag and then turning the bag upside down to deposit the hand.
Quickly retreating down the steps while folding the bag, he headed back to the car, getting in and starting the vehicle before traveling toward the bridge at the edge of town.
Pulling off the side of the deserted bridge, he got out of the car and threw the bags into the river. Re-entering the vehicle, he then drove to the nearest empty fast food parking lot, turned around and headed back to town.
Crossing the bridge again, he turned at the first right and parked the car on the deserted street. Finally leaving the car with the keys in the ignition; he walked the fifteen blocks back to his apartment.
A grin formed on his lips as, just before entering his apartment, he heard sirens in the distance.
“Maybe they have found the hand already,” he thought to himself as he unlocked his door and entered the living room.
Once inside, the man stood quietly in the dark, reliving the night’s events in his head over and over. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his newest token, feeling the ring with his fingers. It was fate that drew his eyes to the mantle and the ring upon it, the light reflecting brightly off of it seemingly a sign to the man that it was his reward. His mentor would be angry if she found out, but he would cross that bridge if it came up later.
He had celebrated the rest of the night with various forms of alcohol, which was also a contributing factor in his calling off work this day. Taking the ring once again out of his pocket, he took in some of the details through his bloodshot eyes.
Smiling at his prize, he deposited it back into his pocket and clasped his hands behind his head. It was a good day to be the Ghost, a very good day indeed.
Chapter 21
March 10, 1997
Zeke’s revelation had left me speechless, speechless and confused.
I sat back in the chair and went over the facts in my mind while Zeke looked on quietly. Whether he fully understood the implications of what he had just told me were doubtful, but it appeared he realized that something had rung a bell in my head at the very least.
“Zeke, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to ask you to get dressed and come down and make a statement.”
Shrugging his shoulders, having apparently resigned himself to the reality of not sleeping again anytime soon, he rose from his chair. He then started off to his bedroom to change.
“I’ll be right back,” I called after him as he made his way down the hall. He raised a hand over his shoulder in recognition that I had indeed said something and that he was listening.
Pulling open the front door, the icy stab of the winter cold hit my face like a thrown rock. I shook off the shock and headed across the road toward the yellow police tape.
Spotting a deputy, I was about to recruit him to take Ezekiel in for his statement when, catching a glimpse of his uniform, I thought better of it and just gave him a wave as I passed.
Inside the house, the preliminary was wrapping up and they were clearing out to let the forensic guys have a go at it. I swept through the living room, coming up on Frank and Betty in the kitchen. Grabbing Be
tty’s elbow and looking Frank in the eyes I mouthed ‘follow me’ as I led them out the back door, not stopping until we were thirty feet from the house in the overgrown back yard.
Grabbing both of my befuddled friends by the shoulder, I pulled them close for a huddle as I started repeating the conversation I’d had moments ago.
A look of confusion crossed both of their faces as I treaded my way through the earlier conversation, soon to be replaced by looks of both shock and alarm as the ramification of what I was telling them sunk in.
“What’s our next step?” Frank asked almost timidly; knowing we needed to attack but not knowing a direction to take.
“Zeke’s getting ready to go down and give us a statement. I thought I would ride with him; you two follow close behind and keep an eye out. If on some off chance there is an actual deputy involved, I don’t want to risk leaving Zeke unprotected. We’ll meet at our offices in the courthouse; I’ll call Allen and let him in on it when we get there.”
Both quickly agreed to my plan. We walked across the road and let ourselves into the house, calling out for Zeke when I had the door shut again.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” he half shouted as he slowly made his way down the hall, inserting an open box of ‘I-Bolds’ into his jacket pocket as he walked in. Everyone in town knew Zeke, and he greeted Betty and Frank like they were supposed to be there.
“Can we take your car?” I started, trying to sound as normal as possible, “I could ride with you, and they will follow us downtown.”
“You can ride with me, sure,” he started, a sly look in his eye; “but I ain’t got a car.”
I mentally started working on plan ‘B’ as Zeke slowly made his way toward the front door. Turning with a grin, he finally said, “Got a truck though, will that work?”
