Old Secrets Never Die

by Lois Blackburn

  “He said he only asked Hiram for ten thousand dollars to start a new business, but that fifteen thousand would be more comfortable–can you imagine that? And the ‘old man’, as he called him, turned him down. When he saw Hiram’s blueprints and plans for the shop he said his heart sank. I tell you, Mark, he spewed venom most people reserve for their worst enemy. No sympathy whatsoever that I could hear–for Hiram or even his mother.

  “I tried to calm him down and change the subject. Even told him I had a friend whose son, about his age, moved to Putney. When I mentioned the name, he just shrugged–didn’t even really respond.

  “His eyes looked a little odd. I kept trying to see if they were gray or hazel and he wouldn’t look straight at me long enough. Do you think he might be on drugs? I might not recognize it, but I know you would. He just wanted to talk ugly about Hiram.

  “He kept pulling out a little red matchbook from his pocket and rubbing his finger across as if it were a lucky charm. When I reminded him we were in a non-smoking government building, he said he doesn’t smoke–just carries the matches in case he needs to call his good buddy, the bartender. Isn’t that odd?”

  Mark didn’t comment on Bashia’s list of concerns about Tom Litchman, but he had taken detailed notes while she talked. “Thanks for the call, Bashia. I won’t keep you. Greg and I are going to review the case to see what we know, what we don’t know and what we need to know. We’ll look into everything–leave it to us, please. Good luck with your interview.”

  When he hung up, he knew his remarks had sounded noncommittal, maybe even uninterested but he hoped to discourage Bashia from pursuing her curious tendencies, as if that were possible.

  Mark pulled a whiteboard and its easel out from between two file cabinets and set it up next to the desk. A child’s colorful zippered pencil case containing several dry-erase markers hung on a string from one corner.

  “Fancy, shmancy, Mark,” said Greg, laughing. “Your office certainly is well-equipped for investigative techniques.”

  “This was here before I arrived,” the trooper explained. “The pens may be dryer than dust by this time–who knows how long it’s been since they were used, but I thought it might come in handy one day.” He drew three columns down the board and wrote the date in the top left corner.

  Dr. Rodow’s preliminary findings were among the crime scene reports they had received during their walk-through at the house. Lucinda had insisted that Dottie stay close even though she was never in the house before. Lucinda looked thoroughly through every room and closet without breaking down.

  Tom trailed behind the women, handling a few small items in a bedroom obviously shared by him and Chad in years past. High school graduation photos stood in matching maple frames on either end of a highly-polished mahogany triple dresser.

  “Not a thing is missing, I don’t think. Before I left Sunday, I walked around up here to be sure everything was in order in case a customer happened by,” Lucinda said, deep in thought. “I don’t even see any drawers ajar–that’s one of the things I watch, so that it’s neat.

  “So, unless there is a mess in the library, I don’t think anyone’s been in the house since I left–except your people, of course. I think there’s some white powder on the table next to our bed.”

  Horton confirmed that the crime squad uses white powder on dark surfaces for contrast to show any fingerprints.

  Once Lucinda and Tom Litchman left with Dottie Weeks, Mark and Greg had walked through the library-office themselves, refreshing their view of the crime scene now that the room was empty of the victim and CSU staff.

  Greg had glanced inside the manila envelope Roscoe gave him to be sure it included photographs and drawings, along with Dr. Rodow’s findings and all the team’s narrative reports. He suggested they stop for a quick lunch, then sit down in Mark’s office, where there was room to spread it out and review the case together.

  The medical examiner set the approximate time of death as between nine Sunday and five Monday morning, maybe twelve hours before Bashia found the body. Rigor mortis had begun but was not complete–that process usually took six to twelve hours. The body was cool, but not cold although the thermostat was on a low overnight setting.

  From the exit and entrance wounds, Dr. Rodow found the death was not suicide. Spatter stipples of blood around the entry wound on the head, plus the angle of entry would have made it impossible for Hiram Lazarus to shoot himself, the ME noted. “He’d have to have been a contortionist to reach that far back on his head. Suicides usually involve a temple or mouth shot.”

  “Well, I’m glad to have confirmation that we can rule out suicide,” said Mark, “I hadn’t mentioned it before, Greg, but it was obvious to me. Hiram Lazarus was left-handed because of a Vietnam war wound yet the gun was very close to his right hand.”

  Mark wrote “T.O.D.–9p-5a.” in the Facts column of the whiteboard.

  “Any other secrets you’re keeping from me, Mark? I’m the lead on this case, remember? I’m glad to know you’re thinking every minute. Both Lucinda and Tom would be well aware of that fact but, I guess in a moment of panic, people sometimes make simple mistakes. Of course, it’s early, there could be other options.”

  As in any shooting death, the victim’s hands were swabbed for firearm residue–none found in the onsite analysis, the CSU report stated. Only an autopsy would show the presence of foreign tissue beneath the victim’s fingernails. Greg and Mark planned to observe the autopsy, whenever Dr. Rodow scheduled it.

  Other lab analyses would also slow the investigative process if the pair didn’t learn the answers first. The CSU team had vacuumed the hardwood floor, uneven because of its age, for possible trace evidence left behind by the killer.

  Both officers realized that eighty percent of murder victims know their killer and at least thirty percent of killers are within the family. Lucinda and Tom were definitely “persons of interest”, although not suspects yet. Both could be interviewed as long and often as they were willing.

  Lucinda, naturally, had shown the most emotional outbursts so far, but once or twice, Greg said he wondered whether some of her tears seemed forced or exaggerated. In most wife-kills-husband cases, he knew, there was usually a key element–the last straw that drove the woman to act.

  “I wonder how angry she really was with Hiram, both because of her suspicions of an affair and because of his refusal to finance Tom’s business venture,” he remarked. “She seems to have tremendous anxiety about being alone, but maybe inheriting the business and whatever insurance he had would make it easier.”

  “It’s tough to pretend you’re shocked and horrified about the death of a family member if you’re the one who did it,” Mark said. “You have to be a good actor. We’ll have to think about how much acting we might have seen today.”

  Tom’s attitude and general demeanor bothered both men as they reviewed Mark’s copious notes from the interviews and added notes to the whiteboard. Tom contradicted himself several times regarding his last conversation with Hiram. First, it wasn’t the big deal his mother thought, then it was a big deal for Hiram to refuse him more help. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind what the officers might find more plausible.

  They felt Tom’s grief, if any, was well hidden. Besides being distracted by the attractive young reporter, he sometimes paused overly long before responding. He denied talking to Trip Beck since Sunday night, yet the bartender knew about Hiram’s death. Mark reminded Greg that Tom said he hadn’t been in the house since the argument–was that true or not?

  “And how on earth could you say you forgot your own mother was coming to visit you from one day to the next?” Greg laughed out loud. “He must think we just rode in on a turnip truck.”

  “You know, Greg, I always feel sorry for young men who can’t decide what they want to be when they grow up,” said Mark. He stood to stretch his legs to ease the stiffness setting in. “My Polish family hoped I’d become a priest, but after I served MP duty
in the Army, police work was the only thing for me. I got into the police academy right after my discharge. Too bad Tom didn’t experience the military discipline–he might have found motivation toward something.”

  Business associates also ranked high on investigators’ priorities in murder cases. Mark called to arrange an interview with Caroline Mathis in Essex the next day. She said she would open New England Antiques by ten. He made a note to ask whether Hiram and she owned insurance policies on each other.

  They hoped she knew more about the mysterious stranger than Bashia had mentioned. She might also have some idea whether Hiram had any recent problems with other dealers or customers.

  The only other associate they knew about was Bashia, first at the scene of the crime on Monday. Mark wouldn’t recuse himself because of his friendship with her, but he would remain neutral on any questions regarding her. After all, this was his territory and he always enjoyed the challenges of an investigation. “You’ll know her better after this case and realize she couldn’t kill another human being, but I know you have to look at her as closely as anyone else. Go for it, Greg.”

  Greg confirmed his intent to question Bashia alone if it became necessary but, for now, would assume Mark’s confidence in her was justified. “But she doesn’t get a bye just because you know her.”

  When Mark and Greg had listed what they knew and didn’t know on the whiteboard, they realized they had many more questions than answers. There was no sign of forced entry to the home, the door was usually unlocked.

  It wasn’t a robbery; nothing appeared to be missing in the rest of the home and the office-library wasn’t obviously disturbed except for several papers strewn on the floor. Paper, being absorbent, can’t be dusted, but they hoped chemical analysis would illuminate invisible sweat in fingerprints that could be identified.

  Greg flipped through the crime squad team’s well-indexed report. The papers, someone had noted, appeared to be a local architect’s drawings of a store layout, along with a spreadsheet of construction costs. Both reports were prepared for Hiram Lazarus and dated within the past month. They didn’t appear to have been handled a lot.

  The CSU squad’s diagrams showed prints were lifted from the open glass door of the gun cabinet.

  Ballistics tests on the firearm found near Hiram’s body were not complete, but the revolver apparently came from the gun cabinet. Its serial number was found in the antiques dealer’s meticulous inventory record. A spent bullet casing was still in the cylinder.

  One of the usual investigative techniques was to track the victim’s activities in his last twenty-four hours. The men had little to go on, besides Lucinda’s departure the previous morning. They would check Hiram’s telephone records. No dishes in the sink. Nothing obviously askew except Bashia’s rearrangement of furniture on the sun porch.

  They decided not to let Roscoe release the crime scene yet. There were too many unanswered questions. It was too early to know if they had all the evidence out of that room.

  They needed a break in their workday, as well as in the case. It was time to quit. The report on the family members’ fingerprint comparison and Kim Barnes’ transcriptions would have to wait for another day.

  “Are you heading home, or do you want to grab dinner someplace,” asked Mark as he stood and stretched his arms over his head.

  “Think I’ll go home and see if my wife remembers who I am,” Greg answered. “I’ll take the CSU reports, maybe go back through them again tonight and I’ll be here bright and early in the morning.”

  Just then, Constable Dupre burst through the door, hat in hand. “Glad you’re still here, I wanted to give you this news in person. Good old Jonathan Edward Beck, the Third, refuses to sign a statement that says your Tom Litchman was at the Beck ’n Call Sunday night. He was there Saturday night, won the weekly dart competition. But Tom called Beck Monday afternoon, said he had to go to Woodstock ’cause his mother’s husband died and–he says this is exactly what Tom said–please alibi him for Sunday night. He told Beck he’d been with some chick his mother can’t stand and his mother showed up unexpectedly at his house that night and…”

  “So Tom lied to her and us about where he was. We’ve got some detecting to do, gentlemen,” said Greg, twirling an invisible Sherlock Holmes mustache. As they used to say in the movies, ‘The plot thickens’.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Dixie Café, catty-corner from the New England Antiques, looked inviting. Bashia parked her car, clutched her coat as the wind tried to whip it off and hurried in. She paused to absorb the aroma of black coffee and what she thought must be meatloaf with thick brown gravy.

  She quickly glanced about the small café, then chose a booth near a window. A half-dozen tables with blue and white striped tablecloths and metal soda-fountain chairs filled the room. Several men in work clothes, huddling over their coffee, occupied two of the tables.

  A waitress came to her booth, smiled broadly, placed a menu on the table, then asked, in a loud, friendly voice, “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Bright posters of Elvis Presley and President John F. Kennedy hung on the walls. “Are those posters collector’s items?” Bashia asked.

  “Well, no, but we thought they would be a subject for conversation and it’s proved to be true.” She chuckled.

  When the waitress returned with the coffee, Bashia asked, “I’m not from this area, but I come down occasionally. I don’t remember seeing a restaurant here before. Is it new or am I getting senile?”

  “Yes and no,” she laughed. “Oh, I don’t mean you’re senile! We’re about to celebrate our first anniversary. I’m Dixie Bauer, the co-owner, and moved here a few years ago from South Carolina. My son, Jay Junior, and me run the café and those posters”–she gestured to the walls–“show our different interests. I loved Elvis!” As if on cue, “Heartbreak Hotel” blared out from a jukebox along one wall. She grinned at the coincidence.

  Dixie added, “That’s why you see biscuits and sausage gravy on the menu. It’s been a big hit with the locals. We needed something to attract people. Around here it’s usually clam strips and fries, but we took a chance on a different menu. But I’m waitin’ awhile before I offer grits.”

  Bashia nodded, studying the woman. She thought she must be in her late forties; her bleached blond straight hair styled in a short, layered cut that swung about her attractive face as she moved. Bashia wondered if she got her trim figure in a gym or by operating this café around the clock. She liked the woman.

  “Well, I guess I’d better try the sausage and biscuits then,” she replied and looked at the menu for the first time. Sure enough, there’s the meatloaf entrée; maybe another time.

  Heading for the counter, Dixie called out “biscuit special” through a small window. Two of the men noisily rose to leave and she hurried over to their table. “See ya tomorrow!” She gathered their checks and money.

  Bashia sat absently staring out the window. She had driven to Essex alone, wanting to check out the area again and clear up some puzzling thoughts. She had a feeling that the Essex shop held a clue to Hiram’s death. The man Caroline described–was he a friend or customer of Hiram’s? Caroline said he looked too grungy. Who was he and what did he threaten Hiram with?

  Dixie arrived with a steaming plate containing two flaky, buttermilk biscuits smothered in thick, white gravy with bits of sausage throughout. The aroma was heavenly and Bashia groaned, knowing she would eat every bit and the heck with her diet.

  “Oh, my, this smells so good,” she said as Dixie refilled her coffee cup. Not waiting for an answer, Bashia dug into her dish with relish. She smacked her lips after the first bite, put down her fork and said, “You’ve got a winner here!”

  Dixie nodded, “That’s what they all say,” twirling her pencil in her fingers as she left to take care of another customer.

  “What brings you down here?” Dixie asked when she returned a few minutes later.

  Bashia paused, wonde
ring how much Dixie knew of the area. “Well, my friend has an antiques shop across the street and they have been broken into. Have you had any trouble?” she asked.

  “No, thank God, we haven’t. But maybe it’s because we have a well-lit front, are small and haven’t been here very long. Who would think we would be worth robbing? Caroline told me what happened and warned me. She thinks it was a person who visited the shop a few times.”

  “Have you seen this fellow?”

  “Oh, yeah. He came in several times. I hate to say this, but he looked like he had slept in his clothes and hadn’t eaten for a while–kind of scarecrowy. Once he stopped in, looked about, then turned around and left. The next day he came in and took a booth near the window. He sat for hours, sipping coffee.

  “When I tried to make small talk and asked his name, I thought he was pulling my leg when he said ‘Skip’. At first I thought he meant skip it.”

  Dixie stopped and took a deep breath as she refilled Bashia’s coffee and bent over the table, dropping her voice. “The next time he came in I tried to get him to a counter seat, said the booths are for two or more people, but he said he liked the view. When he said that, I seen he could be lookin’ at the beauty shop, the library or the antique shop. I got to thinking he might be a stalker or even–uh, a pediatrist or a peddler–oh, what’s the word I want? Oh, yeah, a pedophile, a guy who steals kids. That’s when I got worried, a pedophile here in our neighborhood!

  “I was thinkin’ he might be dangerous and should I call the police. But then he got up to leave, slapped his hand on the table, said ‘Thanks for nothing’ and stormed out. That was the last I seen him.”

  Mark pulled up to the curb on Gillway Lane in his patrol car and turned to Horton, “I guess this is it, how many other New England Antiques can there be in this area?”

  “Must be, old buddy. Just like your friend, Bashia, described. Let’s take a look.”