Code Rojo

by Ray Flynt

  Brad ordered coffee and the $9.95 lunch special—fish and chips with a side of coleslaw.

  After eating, he shoved a twenty across the counter with instructions to keep the change. As he stood to leave, Brad referenced his previous visit. “I see you fixed your sewer problem.”

  Chuck screwed up his face. “Yeah, nasty.”

  “I knew you were having a bad day.”

  It took a few seconds. The man squinted, before recognition spread across his face. “I remember you now.”

  “Yeah, I’m an investigator working the case of the man who was killed three houses down from here. The man accused of the crime ate here a couple of times.”

  Chuck eyed Brad warily. “I remember.”

  “You told me he wasn’t much of a tipper.”

  He grunted. “Yeah, this ain’t exactly Morton’s Steakhouse, but a guy’s gotta make a living. College students leave better tips than that guy did.”

  Brad started to leave, but turned back. “Did you notice anything else about him?”

  Chuck shook his head. “Kept to himself. Sat at the counter, just like you. Never talked to nobody. Didn’t bury his head in his phone like a lot of people these days.” Chuck nodded in the direction of a booth where all four occupants stared at their smartphones.

  “I understand he visited here three days in a row.”

  Chuck shrugged. “I’m not positive. Think it was three. That’s what I told the police.”

  Brad withdrew a five-dollar bill from his pocket and placed it on the counter along with his business card. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Hey, that’s not necessary. You already tipped.”

  Brad waved over his shoulder. In case he had to pay a return visit, the man wouldn’t forget him.

  Outside, behind Ralph’s Diner, Brad took the same path Joe Hernandez used to access the fence-building site. Brad wanted a view of McCurdy’s backyard from the direction the attacker most likely took on that October night. It meant trespassing on the yards of the row houses behind McCurdy’s place.

  Five months after the murder, Hernandez’s fence still looked brand new. Brad paused and stood on tiptoe for a view of the patio inside the fenced off area, featuring stone pavers and a fire pit surrounded by wrought iron furniture covered with multi-colored pillows. The only thing missing was the scent of suntan lotion.

  Brad walked a few steps further behind the wire mesh fence separating Bennett McCurdy’s yard from his neighbor. He and Sharon had visited the opposite side of the fence a few days earlier, spotting the locations where McCurdy’s body and the lethal crowbar were found.

  Brad tried to imagine what had drawn McCurdy outside that night. It would have been dark. The police report made no mention of his porch light being turned on. Had the vigilant ex-cop heard a noise—an animal perhaps—and come out to investigate? He recalled seeing preparations for Halloween on McCurdy’s kitchen counter. Maybe early tricksters prowled through the backyard commanding his attention.

  In the police theory of the case, Joe Hernandez, after spending a few hours at Amigos Bar—screwing up his courage—had returned, using the same path Brad just followed. They envisioned Hernandez extracting revenge on McCurdy for having complained of noise earlier in the day, which slowed work on the fence-building project. However, the police weren’t aware of an even more potent motive from those days when McCurdy had tormented a delinquent-in-training.

  A whistle blast startled Brad, followed by a shout. “Get outta there or I’m calling the cops.”

  He glanced over at a woman shrieking from the back porch next to McCurdy’s. She wore a housedress, with her brown hair pulled into a bun. At first, he thought her threats were hurled at him, but her air-pounding fists aimed behind him. Brad turned around, but nothing drew his attention.

  “Who are you talking to?” Brad called to the woman.

  She seemed unaware of his presence before then, and her body quaked as she clutched at her heart. “Damn. You scared me.” She made a quick recovery, shouting, “Who the hell are you?”

  He took a few steps closer so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice. “I’m investigating Mr. McCurdy’s murder.”

  She backed away from her porch railing. “Not so fast. Lemme see some ID.”

  Brad withdrew a business card from his wallet, opened the rickety gate in the fence, and approached the corner of McCurdy’s yard adjacent to her back porch. He extended his hand.

  The woman snatched his card, held it at arm’s length, and narrowed her eyelids to read. “Anybody could’ve printed this. Lemme see your driver’s license.”

  Brad held it up for her perusal.

  “Okay,” she mumbled. “You ain’t the police?”

  Brad shook his head.

  “I hope the guy who done that gets the needle.” Her tone softened. “We miss Bend. He was our neighborhood watch.” She used McCurdy’s unusual nickname.

  “It looks like you’ve taken over those duties. Who were you shouting at?”

  She hurled her fist at the row house directly in back of McCurdy’s place. “Those damn hoodlums.”

  Brad swiveled and stared at the abandoned row house he’d first noted during his visit with Sharon. The wooden porch appeared on the verge of collapse, while plywood covered the windows on the first floor. Duct tape crisscrossed the second-floor windows, those whose panes weren’t already missing. “I don’t see anyone.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Trust me. They’re in there.”

  “Who?”

  “Kids from the neighborhood. They figured a way to get into that deserted property and use it like a clubhouse. God only knows what goes on in there. Drugs and drinking for starters.” She gestured toward the front of her property. “You know there’s a school right across the street?”

  Brad nodded.

  “I’ve seen ’em in there playing hooky.”

  “Have you contacted the police?”

  She scoffed. “I did…what a waste of time.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Old man Lacroix, but he had a stroke a couple years ago and is in a nursing home. His daughter lives in Australia and don’t much care what happens with it.”

  “Maybe I can get the police to look into it.”

  “But you ain’t with the police.”

  “No.” Brad laughed. “But I know people.”

  She shrugged. “Good luck. They’ve stopped listening to me.”

  “Were you home the night Mr. McCurdy died?”

  She moved closer to the porch railing, apparently warming to the idea of talking with a stranger. “Earlier that night, before visiting my sister…so I wasn’t here when he got killed. When I left, I seen him standing on his front stoop making a phone call. Police think I’m the last person to see him alive, well…except for the killer.” She seemed proud of that fact.

  Media reports mentioned an 8:30 p.m. call to his brother.

  “Do you remember what time you saw him?”

  She shook her head. “Not exactly. Had to be before six-thirty. That’s when my sister picked me up.”

  “Could you tell who he was talking to?”

  “Not sure he talked to anyone. I waved at Bend as he held his phone to his ear. He looked perturbed and muttered that he couldn’t get a signal in his house.” She sighed. “Only saw him for a few seconds.”

  “When did you find out about the murder?”

  “After all the police and emergency vehicles arrived about one in the morning. The red flashing lights woke me up. I thought maybe a house caught fire.”

  Brad gestured toward the neighbor’s property. “Did you have any interactions with the guy they arrested when he was building the fence next door?”

  “No. Funny though. The fence looked good. At one point, I considered asking him if he could build one for me. Good thing I didn’t, or I might be a goner.”

  Brad smiled. Odd that she would make that leap in logic. “Are you the neighbor who reported witnessing a confronta
tion between McCurdy and the man working on the fence next door?”

  She beamed. “That’s me.”

  “Would you mind telling me what you saw?”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “Well, I didn’t see a lot.”

  Is her police statement embellished?

  “I was upstairs in the bathroom when I first heard yelling. I raced to the bedroom window as fast as I could to see what’s goin’ on.” She pointed above to the room at the back of her row house overlooking McCurdy’s yard. “They stood inches apart on the property line, with Bend yelling at the top of his lungs and waving his arm.”

  Brad recalled Hernandez’s accusation about McCurdy having a weapon. “Which arm did he wave?”

  She held both of her arms out in front of her and closed her eyes, before waving her left arm. “This one. It was the arm closest to what I could see.”

  “What exactly did McCurdy say?”

  She blushed. “A lot of curse words I don’t want to repeat.”

  Brad grinned. “I understand. Could you hear what the other man said?”

  “He didn’t say much of anything. Just stood there tight-lipped.”

  “How long did it last?”

  She rolled her eyes up, blinking. “From when I arrived at the window, less than a minute. Bend turned and walked away.”

  Her story jived with what Hernandez had told him.

  “I appreciate your time, Ms….sorry, never got your name.”

  “It’s Juanita.”

  “Thanks, Juanita. You have my card. If you should happen to remember anything else from that night, give me a call.”

  Brad retraced his steps and approached the front side of the row houses hoping to talk with the owners who engaged Hernandez in the fence-building project. He’d already seen how their backyard outshone all of the neighbors. The same was true for the front façade featuring a black-enameled front door, elaborate wrought-iron railings, and window boxes overflowing with fresh spring flowers. Other houses along the street had curtains or old-fashioned mini blinds at the windows, whereas this one sported light gray mesh blinds. He tapped the silver door knocker twice.

  A tall man who looked to be in his mid-forties, wearing khakis and a Temple sweatshirt, opened the door.

  Brad handed him a business card. “I’m Brad Frame, a private investigator looking into the murder of your neighbor. I understand the man accused of the crime installed your fence. I wonder if I could speak with you for a few minutes about your experience working with him.”

  The man opened the door wider and extended his hand. “I’m Lyle Grundin. Come in.”

  The interior of the row house looked unlike others Brad had seen, starting with an open concept that allowed a view of a white shaker kitchen with black stainless appliances at the rear. Gray painted walls, wide-plank wood floors, framed water-colored paintings, and contemporary furniture completed the look.

  “You have a beautiful place,” Brad announced.

  “Thanks. We’ve put a lot of work into it.”

  Another man, about the same age as Lyle but shorter and stouter, descended the staircase.

  “This is my husband, Dennis Letty.” Lyle made introductions and summarized the reason for Brad’s visit.

  “Let’s sit on the patio since you’re asking about the fence.”

  Brad accompanied Lyle out the back door, while Dennis offered to follow with glasses of chardonnay.

  While they waited for the wine, Lyle launched into a tale of their row house acquisition. “We picked up this place for $25,000.”

  Brad’s jaw dropped.

  “Believe me it wasn’t worth more—land value mostly. It had been abandoned after a heavy snow collapsed the roof three years ago, requiring a total gut job. The city put it up for sale for non-payment of taxes and we made a bid.”

  Brad perked up at the prospect of hearing a positive tale of how the city’s sale of properties was supposed to work.

  “Dennis is an architect. He did all the design work and served as general contractor, lining up all the subs to do the work. From the time we acquired title, it took nine months before we could occupy.”

  “What line of work are you in?”

  “I’m a CPA.”

  The profession suited his low-key, soft-spoken demeanor.

  “I’m guessing the idea of building a fence and installing a patio represented phase 2 for you guys.”

  “Exactly. We sketched out plans for what we wanted a year earlier; had to let our bank account recover.”

  Brad laughed. “I understand. How did you find Mr. Hernandez?”

  He gestured toward the row houses behind. “There’s a hardware store on South Passyunk with a message board where contractors can leave their business cards to handle small home improvement jobs like painting, crown molding, and general handyman projects. Knowing what we wanted, I grabbed a few cards off the rack and started making calls. Three or four guys I spoke with were either too busy, or our job wasn’t big enough. Then Mr. Hernandez promised he could start the following week. We had a Halloween party planned for a Saturday night and wanted to use the backyard, so when he said the work would be finished by that Friday we jumped at the chance.”

  Dennis arrived carrying a tray. He handed Brad a glass of chardonnay and a small plate of brie and Wheat Thins crackers.

  Brad thanked them for their hospitality. “How did you find Mr. Hernandez to work with?”

  Dennis shrugged. “Lyle dealt with him.”

  Lyle set his wine glass on a table next to his chair. “No problems. He did exactly as advertised and finished a couple of hours later than planned, but still inside our time window.”

  “According to the police, it was you who first pointed them in the direction of Mr. Hernandez as a suspect in Mr. McCurdy’s murder.”

  The two men exchanged glances before Lyle spoke. “A detective knocked on our door that night…actually around two-thirty in the morning. We were already awake due to all the commotion with police lights and emergency vehicle sirens. The officer showed me a crowbar asking if I’d ever seen it.” He shot a look at Dennis. “I explained about the work we’d had done on our fence and that the contractor had asked if we had a crowbar he could use. That was on Thursday, the day when he was setting the posts. We happened to have one from our own renovation days, so I gave it to him. That’s the way I explained it to the police. They wanted to know Mr. Hernandez’s contact information. I gave them his phone number, which is how I made contact.”

  “So Hernandez hadn’t returned the crowbar to you when he finished using it?”

  Lyle shook his head.

  Brad munched on a cheese cracker while contemplating additional questions. “How well did you know your neighbor, Mr. McCurdy?”

  Dennis rolled his eyes. Lyle scowled before speaking. “Not well. By that I mean we never hit it off. When this was a construction project, he complained all the time about the noise and dust. Dennis saw McCurdy more than I did because he visited the construction site more frequently. Whenever he spotted either of us, he charged over to complain.”

  Dennis nodded. “He got nasty a few times. I tried to point out that we’d ultimately improve his property value—or maybe he preferred living next to a row house falling in on itself.” Dennis held his hands on either side of his face. “The man had blinders on.”

  “Did you know he was a retired police officer?”

  They both nodded. “Oh, he made sure everyone knew,” Lyle said. “I think he missed that badge.”

  “Did things change once construction finished and you guys moved in?”

  “He wasn’t exactly the welcome wagon if that’s what you mean. Complaints stopped but whenever we had parties…”

  Dennis peddled his hand as if encouraging Lyle not to continue.

  Brad sipped from the chardonnay glass. “What happened when you had parties?”

  Lyle sighed. “Well, I can’t say for sure it was because of McCurdy, but most often the cops would
show up and place a ticket or two on one of our friend’s cars for some bullshit infraction.”

  Brad stood. “I appreciate your time. It doesn’t sound like Mr. McCurdy would ever be a candidate for neighbor of the year.”

  “No.” The two spoke in unison.

  18

  Brad paced his Bryn Mawr office mulling the implications from his trip to South 13th Street. Lyle Grundin had positioned the murder weapon in Joe Hernandez’s hands; borrowed to help wrangle fence posts into place and later used to kill Bennett McCurdy.

  Brad paused to stare at the brass fireplace poker, as if its resemblance to a crowbar might spark an epiphany as to how anyone other than the defendant could have killed the retired cop. Hernandez had no outside witnesses to his flimsy alibi of sitting outside an old girlfriend’s house brooding about their lost relationship at the time of the murder. Putting him on the stand to recount such a flimsy story would open him up to cross-examination. No jury in the world would buy it.

  Other aspects of his visit troubled him as well. McCurdy’s unassuming former neighbors had painted a picture of a man obsessed with grievance, who turned molehills into mountains, and used his connections within the police force to avenge personal slights. A portrait not unlike Hernandez’s tale of McCurdy’s harassment of him when he was a juvenile.

  Brad loathed a blame-the-victim defense, but if he shared the details of his visit to Lyle Grundin and Dennis Letty’s row house with Archie Greer, he feared that’s what would happen. Had McCurdy earned his nickname by bending the rules as Archie had suggested? Maybe Nick had it right that he shouldn’t work with defense attorneys.

  For the moment, the crowbar assumed a pivotal role in evidence. Lyle Grundin had identified the weapon when the police first showed it to him. He could be a damaging witness at trial, putting it squarely in Joe Hernandez’s hands. Brad sat at his desk, pulled out his phone, and texted Greer, who had a meeting scheduled with the defendant on Monday. Brad asked him to find out what Hernandez did with the crowbar after using it on the construction site. His answer might mean the difference between establishing reasonable doubt or as nosy-neighbor Juanita had suggested—a needle in his arm.