The Lovers' Lane Murders

by Cynthia Hickey

  “My grandmother thought it could have been a shell-shocked soldier who returned from the war.”

  “Yes, she told me that, and I agreed at first. The town was full of returning soldiers. But, there didn’t seem to be any evidence to support that theory. ” He exhaled long and deep.

  “You getting tired, Grandpa?” Jackson’s forehead creased.

  “My head’s getting a little foggy. I think it’s time to rest. Why don’t you two go speak with Carson and Marvin? They were both soldiers returning home at that time. Maybe the years helped them remember something.”

  Jackson stood and helped Mr. Hudson to the bed. “We will. Someone also suggested Mr. Beckett.”

  “The man who owns the chain of hardware stores? He’s crochety. I doubt he’ll say a word.”

  Once Mr. Hudson was comfortably in bed and the lights dimmed, Jackson headed for the cafeteria with Pressley. “All you got today was validation for your opinion.”

  “It’s enough for me to know that the officer on the case at the time believes the same as I do. The Phantom never left Texarkana.” She wished Jackson would have been more interested in the criminal history of his hometown. If he was, he might show more interest in trying to solve the cold case. “Don’t you think it weird, though, for a serial killer to suddenly stop killing? I mean, it’s a sickness, an obsession, something they enjoy.”

  “Maybe someone who knew him discovered he was the killer and forced him to stop.”

  Pressley halted suddenly. “That has to be it. We find the family, we find the man, we find the reason. You’re brilliant!”

  “Finding out his identity has always been the hard part. I don’t understand how you think you can accomplish something others couldn’t.”

  “Because I’m more pesky than my grandmother.” She grinned.

  A slow smile spread across his face. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Laughing, Pressley linked her arm with his. “Come on. Let’s go talk to some retired soldiers.” Someone had to know something they didn’t realize they knew.

  They located the two men playing checkers. Neither looked thrilled to see Pressley but welcomed Jackson.

  “She’s roped you in, hasn’t she?” Mr. Carson said. “I thought you were a stronger man.”

  Jackson chuckled and straddled a chair. “Might as well humor her.”

  “Ha ha, gentlemen. We’ve spoken with Mr. Hudson, and he recommended we talk to you again.” Pressley pulled up a chair. “May I?”

  Nods and sullen looks gave the answer, but no one asked her to leave.

  “Mr. Hudson and I believe The Phantom may have been a soldier returning from war. How can I find out who came home?”

  “Military records, I reckon,” Mr. Marvin said. “Or, I can write them down for you. I remember the face and name of every returning soldier.” He crossed his arms. “It breaks my heart to think one of those fine men could have murdered those people.”

  “I don’t like to think so, either,” she said. “But, it’s something we need to look into. When can you have the list?”

  “You got a pad of paper and something to write with in that purse of yours?”

  Half an hour later, the two men, conversing between themselves, added and eliminated names. Now that Pressley had her list, it was time to investigate each of the names.

  Chapter Six

  Mary Ann slouched in her seat next to Mark. In another lane through a stand of trees another decoy couple sat in wait, one of them a boy in a dress. She shook her head. They were all out of their minds. The silly ploy wouldn’t work.

  “Wanna smooch?” Mark wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Be serious. We aren’t out here to fool around.” She rolled her eyes. If they didn’t keep their wits about them, they could die. Images of what could be flashed through her mind. Gunshots, torture, rape. What was she doing out here?

  Mark took her hand. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “I’m sure the other girls’ boyfriends told them the very same thing.” She peered through the window into the moonless night. It would be easy for someone to sneak up undetected. She’d talked brave about wanting to hunt down The Phantom, but when the Ranger recruited her and Mark, her first thought was to back out at once.

  “There are officers in the trees, Mary Ann. What could go wrong?”

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  “That’s because they’re at Spring Lake Park and we’re here on the side of the road. They’d be here in less than five minutes.” His voice echoed his growing frustration. “I didn’t think you were such a scaredy-cat.”

  “Only a fool wouldn’t be frightened out here,” she whispered harshly.

  Gravel crunched outside.

  “Shh.” Mark’s brow furrowed. “Get your gun.”

  “It’s never left my hand.” She tightened her grip.

  A flashlight blinded her right before a tap on the window. “What in tarnation are you two doing out here?” Officer Hudson asked. “You shouldn’t be here alone. The stakeout is at the park.”

  “You’re lucky we know you.” Mary Ann sat up, her heart racing. “I could have shot you.” She showed him her .25 ACP pistol.

  “God spare me from young people venturing into foolishness.”

  “The killer won’t go near the park with all those people,” Mark said. “He ain’t stupid. Somebody had to stake out away from the rest.”

  “No, he might not be stupid, but you are.” The officer shook his head. “Go home. Now.”

  Relieved, Mary Ann didn’t argue. She’d stick to asking questions and taking notes. Stepping into danger wasn’t her forte. Maybe investigative journalist wasn’t the career she should pursue. Maybe she should listen to her mother and get married and have babies.

  “Always on the weekends, always late at night,” she muttered. What drew him to commit such atrocities?

  “Evil strikes at night,” Mark said, starting the ignition. “Easier to hide under the cover of darkness.”

  “It has to be a soldier.”

  His gaze jerked her way. “What makes you think so?”

  “He’s real good with a gun. I mean, most folks around here have guns, but he’s sneaky. No one sees him or hears him until he’s right there striking to kill. Remember, the first victim—the one who survived—said the man was a wacko. Said some really strange things.”

  “That psychiatrist who gave an interview doesn’t think he’s military. Said his warped mind would have been discovered. He also said the killing would stop because it would become too difficult to commit the crime.”

  “Why not move to a different town?”

  Mark shrugged. “That’s the question we might never find an answer for.”

  ~

  “Ready to talk to Beckett?” Pressley asked as soon as they were inside Jackson’s car.

  “Sure. What about this list?”

  “I’ll have to find out who has living relatives still around before formulating a plan. Can you help with that?”

  “I’ll make a copy of the list and send it to the station receptionist. She can research it while we’re with Beckett.”

  After a quick stop at the photocopy shop and after sending the list to the receptionist, Jackson drove Pressley to a renovated brick storefront. “Last I heard, he keeps his office in the back of the first hardware store they built. A symbol of pride for him, I guess. Let’s hope he’s in.”

  A few minutes later, they were ushered into the luxurious office of Frank Beckett, owner of Beckett’s Hardware. They sat in leather chairs across from the man at his polished desk, the hard glint in the man’s eyes not making them feel welcome.

  He folded his hands on a spotless desk blotter. “Officer Hudson, how may I help you?”

  “I’m actually here with Pressley Taylor on unofficial business. She’s writing a book on what transpired here during the spring of 1946 and was told you were the person to ask.”

  Beckett’s eyes narrowed, and he t
urned to Pressley. “Why would you want to drag all that up again? Let the dead rest in peace.”

  She forced a smile. “My grandmother’s best friend was one of the victims. During that time, my grandmother took copious notes. It was her dying wish that I finish the story.”

  “I wasn’t around then, and my grandfather has been dead for a long time. I doubt I have anything to tell you that wasn’t in your grandmother’s notes.”

  Pressley’s heart sank. She’d put a lot of hope in this stern man to give her some answers. “Your grandfather never talked about that time?”

  “No. Why would he? Some things are best left forgotten. It’s bad enough we celebrate every Halloween like it’s a joyous time. It didn’t even take place in the fall. By then, things were over and the killer dead behind bars, so they say.” He leaned forward. “I suggest you let it be and make up an ending if you don’t believe the dead-in-jail theory. I’ve a busy day ahead. Please see yourselves out.” He offered a thin-lipped smile.

  Pressley stood, gripping the handle of her briefcase hard enough to make her fingers ache. “Thank you for your time.” Back straight, she marched from his office, through the store, and outside. She took long, even breaths and counted to ten. Of all the rude people she’d ever met, Beckett won the prize.

  “Are you okay?” Jackson asked, joining her on the sidewalk.

  “He didn’t even consider helping us.”

  “Come on. Let’s get lunch and see if my receptionist discovered anything for us.”

  She nodded. Dwelling on disappointment wouldn’t get her anywhere. “I am hungry.”

  “I know a diner where you can get just about anything you want.” He opened the passenger side door for her. “Don’t worry about a man like Beckett. We’ll find our information somewhere else.”

  They stopped by the station first after receiving a text from the receptionist, Marge, saying she’d put the list through the database and had their information.

  “Slow day so got right on it.” Marge smiled and handed them two copies of what she’d discovered.

  “Let’s get lunch to go and head to the hotel so I can use my laptop.”

  “Even better, we’ll grab a sandwich from the coffee shop and use their Wi-Fi. I’m sure it’s better than that rundown motel.” Jackson grinned. “I’ve a laptop in the car. With both of us researching, we’ll be done in half the time.”

  Thrilled he seemed to be fully onboard with her now, she agreed and glanced at her list. “Funny how Beckett’s name is on here.”

  “Why is that funny?”

  “I’m imagining digging up something juicy on him that will propel him to talk.”

  Jackson laughed. “You have a mean streak, don’t you?”

  “Only when warranted.”

  Pressley ordered a sandwich and large fruit tea at the coffee shop and immediately logged onto her laptop. She’d search for relatives of the 1946 returning soldiers while Jackson focused on criminal records of those same soldiers. A killer wouldn’t have a completely spotless record, would he? Wouldn’t there be at least an assault charge or something?

  “In my grandmother’s notes,” she said, “a psychiatrist didn’t think it could be a soldier because that kind of mentality couldn’t be hidden.”

  “We didn’t know as much about sociopaths back then,” Jackson said without looking up from his computer. “We now know how easily they can fit into society without detection.”

  True. She would stick with her gut feeling of a poor man suffering from what they called PTSD in the present. Pressley still couldn’t get over how the murders had suddenly stopped, but maybe the reason would be revealed along with other answers.

  “Ooh, Beckett’s great uncle spent time in an insane asylum during the time of the murders. I guess that rules him out as the killer.” Pressley sighed.

  Jackson grinned. “I was kind of hoping the killer belonged to the Beckett family.”

  “Now who’s being mean?” She arched a brow.

  “It would be nice to bring the man down a rung or two. The Becketts have acted high and mighty for a very long time.”

  Pressley slowly turned her head to the left, then the right to release the tension, and reached for her tea. “Something doesn’t add up, though. His great uncle returned from the war and was immediately sent to the hospital? If he had mental issues, wouldn’t the military have taken care of him? When did he have time to settle down and have a family?”

  “Good point. The current Beckett wouldn’t be here if his grandfather hadn’t married. Try to find a marriage certificate.”

  “The war ended in September 1945, and the murders didn’t start until the following February. Frank Beckett the Second returned from duty during the Christmas season of 1945 and married his high school sweetheart immediately upon his return. But, the hospital shows him admitted at the same time. A clerical error?”

  “Possibly. I’m not finding any behavior problems or arrests for the man.”

  “Okay. Let’s look at the other names.” She filed Beckett away in her mind to dwell on in more depth later.

  By the time they finished, they had five people still living in the area who had relatives alive during that time. All soldiers coming home. It was a good place to start. Grandma, we’re going to solve this for you. I know it.

  ~

  He watched them from the other side of the coffee shop, secure behind a fake tree. At least hidden enough he wouldn’t be noticed. What were the two of them digging up? Who cared after more than seventy years?

  Why would they want to smear someone’s name now? Because some old woman wished it? Because an old man in a nursing home couldn’t solve the case all those years ago?

  He gulped his coffee, burning the roof of his mouth and increasing his anger. Cursing, he stormed from the shop, glaring at people he passed by. The last thing he needed was for his peaceful life to be disturbed by a nosy woman who didn’t even live in Texarkana.

  Laughter compelled him to glance over his shoulder. The officer and woman strolled down the sidewalk as if they were lifelong friends. His eyes fell on the briefcase in the woman’s hands. If the cop wasn’t with her, he’d leap forward and grab it, stealing her notes to find what she’d discovered.

  Even better, he’d hire some thug to break into her hotel room. That would be safer and make sure he wasn’t a suspect in the theft. Mood improved, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit pants and headed home to his submissive wife and pit bull, Lee—the two living things he could always count on to do what they were told.

  Tomorrow, he’d pay old Officer Hudson a visit.

  Chapter Seven

  June 28, 1946

  Clyde drove past a mostly vacant parking lot, slowing by a car reported stolen the night of one of the murders. He parked behind a short wall and waited, hoping someone would come and claim the vehicle. It didn’t take long before a woman left a corner store and slid into the driver’s seat. Clyde, hand on the butt of his weapon, approached the car. “Hands where I can see them, ma’am.”

  “What did I do?” She put her hands on the steering wheel.

  “Are you aware this is a stolen vehicle?”

  “It is?” Her innocent expression didn’t ring true with him.

  “Please, get out of the car.” Clyde took a couple of steps back.

  “My name is Paige Sweeney. I just got married in Shreveport. My husband is in Atlanta, Texas. He’s the one who stole the car, and he’s there to steal another one.” The woman rambled, spilling her guts. “He travels around to make it harder to get caught. Please. I didn’t steal anything.”

  “You knew you were driving a stolen automobile.” Clyde cuffed her.

  “Yes, but—”

  The radio on Clyde’s belt crackled alerting him to the fact a man tried to sell a stolen car to a dealer but vanished when the shop owner confronted him. Clyde called for backup to retrieve Mrs. Sweeney. When another officer arrived, he handed the woman over and headed to the c
ar dealership.

  “Would you recognize the man who tried to sell you the car?” he asked the owner.

  “Yes, sir. Wore a cowboy hat and boots. Told me he needed money to leave town because he’d committed a horrendous crime.”

  Cowboy hat and boots fit a lot of people in town. “Mind coming with me to see if you can spot him?”

  “Sure. Let me lock up. Do you think he’s The Phantom?”

  “No way of knowing at this time, sir.” Clyde gave a thin-lipped smile and led the manager, Mr. Davis, to his squad car.

  After visiting a few public places and not seeing the man, Clyde led Mr. Davis to the bus station. They strolled through the crowd, studying every man in a cowboy hat and boots. One man turned, his eyes widening, then bolted from the building.

  Clyde gave chase. When the man tried to climb the fire escape behind the building, he grabbed his ankle and yanked him down. Planting his knee in the man’s back, he cuffed him. “Mr. Sweeney, by any chance?”

  “Yeah. Don’t shoot me.”

  “You’re under arrest for car theft. Why would I shoot you?” He pulled the man to his feet and marched him to the backseat of the squad car.

  “Don’t play games. You know I’m wanted for more than stealing cars.”

  After dropping Mr. Davis off at the car lot, Clyde headed for the police station, hoping he’d finally obtain some answers.

  After booking the man, he led him to an interrogation room. “Sit. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Coffee,” Sweeney muttered.

  Clyde took his time getting the small cup of tepid coffee. He wanted the man to sit and worry for a while. After half an hour of watching Sweeney through a one-way window, he entered the room and set the now cold brew in front of him. “How long have you been stealing cars, Mr. Vern Sweeney?”

  “Only recently. I need to make some quick money to leave town.” He wrapped his cuffed hands around the cup.

  “Why’s that?” Clyde sat across from him.