The Lovers' Lane Murders

by Cynthia Hickey

  She turned and smiled. “May I help you?”

  “My name is Pressley Taylor, and I’m Mary Ann Warren’s granddaughter. She married a Mark Clark.”

  “I knew a Mary Ann Warren once.”

  “I’m her granddaughter.” Pressley stepped further into the room. “I’m a journalist now. Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course. Sit.” She motioned to the one other chair in the room. “It’s good to see you, Mary Ann, but you shouldn’t be roaming around by yourself. They haven’t caught the guy yet, you know.”

  Just like that, the woman slipped into the past. Pressley decided to go along with her. She might recall more if she thought it was still 1946. “I’m being careful.” Pressley sat. “Have you heard any new news?”

  “Not since he broke into that couple’s house.” She leaned close and whispered, “I hear that some of the young men are out looking for the killer themselves. That can’t be a good thing.”

  “I agree. It’s too dangerous.” She must not have gotten that far in Grandma’s notes. “I’d like to find out who killed Sally.”

  Mrs. Oglesby put a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. “Did the fiend get to her too? I think you should let Mr. Hudson handle this, Mary Ann.”

  “I’m hoping he’ll help me.” The young Officer Hudson, not the former. “But, the police are tight-lipped on this.”

  “Of course, they are. The public should stay safely locked out of their way. I daresay it isn’t safe for us young people to court anymore. Much better to stay home under the watchful eyes of our parents.”

  “Who do you think the killer is?”

  Her eyes widened. “How would I know? With so many soldiers returning home, businesses up and running again, why it could be anyone passing through.”

  “But killing every twenty-one days? It has to be a local.”

  She reached over and patted Pressley’s hand. “Find a good boy and settle down. Have babies and leave this to the police.”

  “Do you think it’s a soldier?”

  The woman looked shocked. “It couldn’t be one of our returning heroes. Where’s your head, Mary Ann?” A bell sounded somewhere in the distance. Mrs. Oglesby grinned. “Time to eat. Will you stay and enjoy a meal with me, Pressley?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” She waited for the woman to move to a wheelchair, then wheeled her into the hall. “You’ll have to show me the way.”

  “Turn right and follow the hall. Hello, Mr. Carson. This is my friend, Pressley Taylor.”

  An old man using a walker grinned, a roadmap of wrinkles crossing his face. “You sure are a pretty thing.”

  “We were just talking about soldiers, weren’t we, Mary Ann? Mr. Carson was a soldier, Mr. Marvin, too. Yoo-hoo.” She waved at another man who stepped into the hall.

  Bowed, he walked without aid. He turned, revealing a jagged scar on his left temple. “There’s the prettiest girl in the building.”

  Mrs. Oglesby giggled and patted her hair. “Such flattery. Come and eat with us, you two. Mary Ann is asking questions about the murders.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Marvin nodded. “She’s slipped back in time again. She does that a lot.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Pressley said. “But I would like to ask some questions about that time, if you don’t mind. I’m a journalist writing a book.”

  “Best to leave that in the past, Miss.” His voice hardened. “That was a terrible time.”

  “We lost some good friends,” Mr. Carson said. “We don’t want to relive it.”

  “Who do you think killed those people?”

  “They caught the guy. It was that thief.” He moved away, muttering and shaking his head.

  “Now you’ve gone and upset him.” Mr. Miller glared at her. “I don’t think I will join you ladies for lunch.” He followed his friend.

  “I’ve never known either of them to be rude before,” Mrs. Oglesby said. “Perhaps you should leave and come visit another day when they’re in a better mood. See if Officer Hudson is coherent enough to talk to you.”

  Pressley sighed. “You may be right.” She continued to the dining room where she left the woman with her friends and returned to the front desk to sign out. Pressley hadn’t been aware the former officer resided in the home. If she had, she’d have gone to him first. She shoved open the heavy glass doors to see Officer Hudson approaching. “Hello.”

  He frowned. “I wasn’t aware you knew anyone here.”

  “Friends of my grandmother’s.” She grinned. “Did one of the elderly people commit a crime?”

  “No, I volunteer to serve them the midday meal a few days a week during my lunch hour.” He narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be asking questions and upsetting them, would you?”

  “Guilty as charged. The two gentlemen I spoke with weren’t pleased, and my grandmother’s friend asked me to come another time.”

  “Look, Miss—”

  “Call me Pressley.”

  “Okay. Those who lived through those months in 1946 don’t want to be reminded of that horror. Stick to the books for your information.”

  “A first-hand accounting would be invaluable. I don’t think the killer was ever caught, and I want to prove my theory.”

  “If he wasn’t caught, he could still have family living here. Family who wouldn’t want it known that their ancestor was a brutal serial killer. That would put you in danger.”

  Chapter Three

  April 13, 1946

  Sally Bradford played the last tune on her saxophone, packed her instrument into its case, and then jumped off the club stage to where her boyfriend, Leroy Yates, waited. “That was a good show, wasn’t it?”

  “You were the best, Sally.” He grinned. “The place was really hopping.” He crooked his arm and took her saxophone case in his other hand.

  They merged with the others leaving the building and headed for Leroy’s car. He stashed the saxophone in the trunk and joined Sally inside, turning with a grin. “Want to hang for a while? I know a safe spot.”

  “Are you sure? These murders have me worried. The newspapers call him The Phantom.”

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts, Sally. He’s a man same as any other. We won’t go where those other folks went.”

  “Well, okay, but just for a little while.” Her gut told her they were making a very bad decision. She rubbed sweaty palms down the skirt of her plaid dress. “Promise me, Leroy. Promise me he won’t come for us.”

  “I promise.” He gave her a quick kiss and opened the car door. “He must follow people. Otherwise, how would he know where lovers go? We’ll make sure no one follows us.”

  Sally watched over the backseat as Leroy drove them to the side of a secluded road. Not seeing a single automobile, she relaxed a bit. “Don’t go any further. I want cars to be able to see us if they drive by.”

  He reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “We’ll see cars coming from both directions.” His arm snaked around the back of the seat. “Relax.”

  Sally tried to lose herself in Leroy’s arms, but the ever-present fear of being watched cast a dark shadow over the romance. “I want to go home.” She pulled away.

  Groaning, Leroy pulled back.

  A masked man appeared on the driver’s side of the car and tapped the barrel of a gun against the window. Leroy reached for the key in the ignition as Sally’s screams filled the air.

  The assailant yanked open the door and dragged Leroy outside. Sally shoved open her door and made a mad dash for the woods. Shots rang out behind her, spurring her on despite the tears pouring down her face. She cried Leroy’s name several times before clamping a hand over her mouth and fighting not to make a sound.

  She stopped to catch her breath and pressed her back against a tree. The snap of a twig sent her running again. Whimpers escaped her lips.

  A few yards away, she caught sight of the masked killer and ducked. When he turned to look in the other direction, she resumed her flight. Which w
ay was the main road? If she could reach it, she might find help.

  Oh, God, he was getting closer. Her heart beat fast, her lungs burned, her legs trembled. She’d never make it. The man would kill her like he killed Leroy. She choked back a sob.

  A roosting bird shot from a tree. Sally screamed and whirled. Her stalker stood on a slight rise, illuminated by the moon. If she could see him, he could see her. She glanced down at her dress. The white squares in the plaid pattern glowed like a light.

  She switched direction and fought her way through thick brush, finally emerging in a clearing. How far had she run? The area didn’t look familiar to her.

  A shot rang out. Fire burned through her, driving her to her knees. The last thing she saw was the barrel of the gun pointed at her head and the glitter of a madman’s eyes through the slits in the pillowcase.

  ~

  The ringing of his telephone pulled Clyde Hudson from a deep sleep. He fumbled for the handset. “Hudson.”

  “We’ve got another one. Someone reported the man, but we haven’t found the girl yet.” His boss’s voice sounded resigned.

  They were both dead—that was a given. “Where?” After the chief gave him directions, he promised to be there as soon as he could and swung his legs to the floor.

  “I’m calling in the Texas Rangers now.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s time.” Clyde shuffled to the bathroom. It was past time in his opinion. They should have had rangers here a month ago if not sooner. “See you in a bit.”

  Half an hour later, he pulled behind the squad car sitting on the side of the road. Two coon hounds sat a few feet away, waiting for their orders.

  Clyde approached the chief who stood over the body of a young man. “Do we have an ID?”

  “Leroy Yates. Multiple gunshots to the head. Left the club with his girlfriend, Sally Bradford, around one a.m. She played the saxophone in a band. Her instrument is in the trunk, but there’s no sign of her.” He glanced toward the woods. “My guess is she fled.”

  Taking the leashes of the two dogs, Clyde nodded. “I’ll radio if I find anything.” He gave the command and sprinted after the dogs, barely able to keep up with their pace. Shrill barks filled the night sky.

  If they’d called in the Rangers a month ago, would these latest victims still be alive? It was definitely time to put a curfew in place. No one out after dark. Already news reporters flooded into town, dubbing the killer The Phantom and causing mass hysteria among the public.

  The dogs’ barks changed when they picked up a scent. Clyde found the body approximately two miles from Leroy. Like her boyfriend, Sally had been shot multiple times, her dress up around her thighs. He radioed back to the chief that he’d found her. “Looks like she made a run for it, but he caught up to her. She’s dead.”

  The chief cursed. “I’m on my way.”

  Present Day

  Pressley sniffed back tears. How frightened grandma’s friend Sally must have been when she’d fled for her life. More determined than ever to find out who had killed her grandmother’s friend, she closed her notes.

  One way or the other, she’d get Officer Jackson Hudson to help her. Didn’t he want to finish what his grandfather had started? How could he not? Clyde Hudson had spent days—months—trying to catch The Phantom and failed. The truth needed to be told for all those who had fought and died.

  She packed the handwritten journal and printed out her typed notes. Maybe if Officer Hudson read what she had, he’d be more inclined to help. Before leaving the house, she called the nursing home only to discover the older Hudson was having a bad day and for her to check back tomorrow. Pressley sighed, grabbed her briefcase, and headed for the police station.

  The officer frowned at her through a window and shook his head before meeting her out front. “Miss Taylor, what can I do for you?”

  “Pressley.” She smiled. “I have something I’d like you to look at.”

  “Does this pertain to the murders of 1946?” He arched a brow.

  “Yes.” She kept her smile in place.

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. His hazel eyes flashed. “Follow me.” He led her to a conference room with an oval table and six chairs. “Please have a seat.”

  “Am I keeping you from work?” Pressley sat and placed her briefcase on the table. “I can come back at another time.”

  “I’m sure you could.” He sat across from her. “You’d come back again and again until I listened, right?”

  She shrugged. “Just take a look at my grandmother’s journal. If you don’t change your mind about wanting justice, I’ll continue on my own. I really would like your help, Officer. This case haunted your grandfather. You can be a part of finding out the answers. Let him go to his grave in peace knowing The Phantom was finally identified.” She pulled the journal from her briefcase and slid it across the table.

  “Leave him out of it. He’s an old man on his deathbed.” He opened the journal and skimmed the pages. “I’m impressed. She took better notes than most of those involved.” He sat back and crossed his arms. “I’ll be honest. I’ve only read through a few old reports, and that was just out of curiosity. The world today has enough trouble. What good can come from dredging up the past?”

  “My grandmother’s dying wish is enough for me to pursue this.”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “So you’ve said. Do you really think The Phantom’s family cares one way or the other? Unless they’re a big name in this area, it shouldn’t matter. Lots of families have skeletons in the closet, Officer.” Please agree to help.

  He sighed. “If we’re going to be working together, you might as well call me Jackson.”

  “Thank you.” Relief filled her.

  “Only on my off time. I can’t shirk my duties.”

  “I understand.” She stood and offered her hand. “I’ll make copies of the journal and have them ready when you finish work. Where should I meet you?”

  “Shelby’s Diner, five o’clock. I’ll pay for supper.” He escorted her outside to the sidewalk, his expression still grim. “I’m serious, Pressley. Pride runs strong here. You could uncover a coiled snake by digging all this up.”

  She flashed a grin. “I’ll leave it up to you to keep me safe. See you later.”

  The man exaggerated. Who would care about something that happened over seventy years ago except someone wanting to know the truth? The Phantom would be long dead by now. Even Pressley’s kin had a killer in the family. Sure, it happened in the 1800s, but nobody cared anymore. It was just something interesting to mention when people spoke about their ancestors.

  Glancing both ways, she crossed the street and headed for an office supply store in order to make copies. She still planned on typing the journal but wouldn’t have that finished by the time she met up with Jackson. She leaned on the counter while the employee made the copies.

  “These look really old,” the girl said.

  “1946,” Pressley answered. “I’m studying the murders that took place then.”

  “You should hang around on Halloween for The Phantom Ball. It’s an annual thing.”

  “That sounds a bit macabre.” Pressley couldn’t imagine celebrating such a horrible event.

  “It’s a big deal. There’s parties, picnics, games…I’ve always wondered what would happen if someone decided to copycat those murders, you know?” She pressed the button on the machine. “I mentioned that to Mr. Beckett once, and he got real mad.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Someone who knows an awful lot about those events.”

  Chapter Four

  1946

  Texas Ranger Gonzales marched into the police station. Five news reporters followed close on his heels. The ranger turned and fixed them with a sharp gaze. “If any of you print anything without my permission, I’ll have you run out of town. Got it?” Heads nodded.

  Clyde fell into step behind the ranger as he headed for the conference room. The big man stopped in front of the cas
e board and studied the notes and photographs there.

  “What’s this?” He frowned.

  “Some of the young bucks around here are trying to help,” Chief Rawlings said. “We’ve warned them to desist.”

  “See that they do. They’ll run this psycho off before we—” He turned as the phone rang and motioned for Clyde to answer.

  “Officer Hudson here.” A pawn shop owner informed him that a man came in and dropped off a saxophone. Clyde hung up and glanced around the room. “But we have Sally Bradford’s sax.”

  “It’s worth checking into.” Gonzales stormed from the room, leaving it up to Clyde to follow.

  “He’s all yours,” the chief said. “Whatever he needs.”

  Clyde grabbed his hat and hurried after Gonzales. After questioning the pawn shop owner who, thankfully, kept records, they headed to the address of a local hotel. The manager was more than happy to unlock the suspect’s room but informed them the man hadn’t been around in the last hour or two.

  “Thank you for your help.” Clyde stepped into the room and glanced around before heading to the small bathroom. “Sir? Got some bloody clothes in here.”

  Gonzales glanced into the room. “Bag ‘em. We’ll wait here for the man to return.”

  Less than an hour later, a very confused Mr. Roberts entered his room. He glanced to where Clyde and Gonzales sat. “What’s going on here?”

  “You tried to pawn a saxophone,” Gonzales said.

  “Yeah, so? I need money to pay for my room.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “I played in high school. Mind telling me what you’re doing in my room?”

  Clyde balanced his elbows on his knees. “How did you get blood on your clothes, Mr. Roberts?”

  “I got into a bar fight.” He moved aside his hair to reveal a fresh cut. “Am I under arrest?”

  Gonzales sighed and climbed to his feet. “No, sir, but with the murders happening around here, we had to question you.” He slapped his cowboy hat on his head and left the room.

  “Stick around a while, sir,” Clyde told the man before following Gonzales from the room.