[Lady Justice 04] - Lady Justice And The Avenging Angels

by Robert Thornhill

  “Two hundred and forty-five dollars.”

  “Dat damn lawyer never said nuthin’ about dat,” Willie muttered. “I ain’t payin’ no two hunert and forty-five dollars when I don’ even know wot’s in dere. Besides, I ain’t got that much right now.”

  “Willie, there may be something there about your family, pictures, letters. You should find out what’s there. I’ll help you.”

  I called to the guy, “You take a check?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about plastic?”

  “Yep. Come on in.”

  The guy swiped my credit card, led us to C-17, removed his lock, and said, “Have at it, boys.”

  We pulled open the overhead door and stared into the dim locker. There were about a half-dozen old cardboard boxes and an old window in a wooden frame. All of the boxes contained old clothing but one, which was filled with books.

  “You paid two hunert and forty-five dollars for dis? Dis jus’ ain’t right.”

  I had to admit that I was feeling a little foolish myself.

  “Well, we did, so let’s get it packed into the car, and we’ll go through it back at the apartment.”

  As we were unloading, Willie said, “Might as well trow dis ole window in de dumpster. I don’ need no window.”

  “Not yet, Willie. Let’s don’t pitch anything until we go through it all.”

  He just shrugged his shoulders.

  We unpacked all the boxes. There was nothing remarkable about the clothing. It was probably Bertha’s. We repacked it and set those boxes aside to give to the Salvation Army.

  Most of the books were just old novels, but two caught our attention. One was an old elementary school primer. We looked at the copyright date, 1895. There was a written inscription, “Chloe McDonald, Rabbit Roost School, Monegaw.”

  The other was an old Bible. Inside the front cover, the name Nellie Wright Duncan was inscribed in beautiful handwriting.

  “Dis mus’ be my momma’s ole Bible.”

  The next page was even more interesting. It was designed for the owner to fill in a family tree of past relatives.

  Willie studied it. “Look here! Here’s me an’ Frank Jr., an’ here’s Momma and Daddy an’ Auntie Bertha.”

  Then he traced his finger to the next branch. “Chloe McDonald Wright and Caleb Wright. Dat’s de name wot was in de book. De mus’ be my gran’folks. I never met ’em. Looks like Chloe was born on March 17, 1874.”

  I could see that Willie was fascinated.

  “Up de line here is Liza McFerrin McDonald and George ‘Speed’ McDonald. De mus’ be my great-gran’folks. Looks like my great-gramma had two bruddas an’ a sister.”

  The last names on the top of the tree were John and Hannah McFerrin.

  “They must be your great-great-grandparents, Willie. This is so cool! I’m so glad we got this stuff for you. You just can’t put a price on something like this.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Walt. Dis is really special. I never knew nuttin’ ‘bout my folks.” A tear was glistening in my old friend’s eye.

  We thumbed through the old Bible, and a sheet of brown parchment fell to the floor. Carefully we unfolded the pages and found a crude map.

  The map started at a little square with the word McFerrin. A dotted line crossed a solid line labeled Old Chalk Road and went to another square labeled Monegaw. There was a squiggly line with Osage on top, and the dotted line stopped at a big, bold X.

  We were speechless.

  Finally, Willie spoke. “Does dis look to you wot it looks like to me?”

  “If you’re thinking it’s a map to something, I think you might be right.”

  “So wot does we do now?”

  I grinned at my old friend. “We follow it!”

  Chapter 13

  A week had passed since the bombing of the Red Garter. While there had been no more threats or messages to the media, no one was foolish enough to believe the Angels were through. We just wondered where they would strike next.

  Ox and I were on patrol when I heard my cell phone buzz.

  “Walt, this is Mary. Can you come over here right away?”

  “Yeah, I think so. What’s up?”

  “Well, you know I had three vacancies when we got back from Hawaii.”

  “Yes, you filled two of them, didn’t you?”

  “Shore did, and I think maybe we got a problem with one of the new guys.”

  “How so?”

  “Old man Feeney came pounding on my door a while ago complaining about a stink from the room next door. I told him that he was a fine one to complain about stink after what he done, but I went up and looked anyway. Sure enough, there was a funny smell coming from under the door.”

  “What did it smell like?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Never smelled anything like it before. It kinda smelled like the stuff we pour down the drains to unclog ’em.”

  Immediately, Stumpy’s table full of chemicals came to mind, and I remembered the explosion of the tiny crystal he threw on the floor.

  “Mary, get everybody out of the building, now! And don’t go back in. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Walt.”

  Ox could see I was visibly shaken. “What’s up, partner?”

  “We may have a problem at the hotel—chemicals,” was all I could mutter as I hit the speed dial on my phone.

  Willie picked up on the first ring. “Meet me out front, and bring your lock pick.”

  “Ox, lights and siren—to my place and then to the Three Trails.”

  Willie was waiting at the curb and barely had time to get in the backseat when Ox put the pedal to the metal.

  “Holy crap!” he exclaimed. “You guys goin’ to a fire?”

  “I certainly hope not,” I replied.

  By the time we arrived at the hotel, Mary had herded everyone out of the hotel onto the front sidewalk. Mary had obviously taken my warning literally. One guy was in his underwear, and another guy had a towel wrapped around his waist. Nobody was very happy.

  Then I noticed Mary was carrying her bat.

  “Some of these guys needed some coaxing,” she said as we approached.

  “So everyone’s out?”

  “Yep, they’s either out or passed out.”

  “Which room?”

  “Number fourteen.”

  Ox, Willie, and I climbed the stairs and headed to the apartment. Sure enough, a strange odor filled the hall in front of the door. I knocked. “This is the landlord. Anybody in there? Open up, please.”

  No answer.

  I turned to Willie. “Okay, open it.”

  Willie whipped out his picks and had the door open in thirty seconds. I slowly opened the door and peeked inside.

  A black trash bag was overflowing with empty hydrogen peroxide bottles, muriatic acid boxes, and acetone cans. Paper plates covered with white crystals filled the top of the dresser. I backed out and shut the door.

  “Ox, get the bomb squad over here, pronto.”

  Just then, the back door opened, and a young man I had never seen before started down the hall. When he saw us at his door, he froze in his tracks.

  We stared at each other for a moment, and then he turned and ran back down the hallway that led to the back entrance.

  I took off after him. “Ox, you take the front in case he heads down Linwood.”

  The kid was young, fast, and obviously in very good shape. By the time I reached the back door, he was down the steps and across the street. I saw him duck into an alley between two buildings. By the time I reached the alley, he was long gone.

  When I got back to the building, the bomb squad was on their way upstairs. Ox was standing by an obviously distraught Mary.

  “
So what’s with this guy?” I asked. “Tell me about him.”

  “Well, he said he just got into town and had taken a construction job. He was a real clean-cut kid and real polite. He looked a hell of a lot better than most of the creeps who live here.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Mary thought for a minute. “It was a real funny one. Let me think—oh yeah, Yates, Rowdy Yates.” Mary looked pleased with herself.

  I looked at Ox, and we just shook our heads.

  “Mary! Rowdy Yates? That doesn’t mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “Clint Eastwood played Rowdy Yates on the old TV show Rawhide.”

  Mary grinned. “I love Clint Eastwood.”

  She still didn’t get it.

  Just then, the bomb squad emerged carrying one of their contraptions.

  “Good thing you found this, Walt. There was enough TATP in there to detonate a half-dozen canisters. Did you get the guy?”

  “No, he’s in the wind. I’m sure we’ll never see him around here again.”

  “I’ll send forensics over. Maybe they can pick up some prints.”

  I looked at the Three Trails and thought about the blown-up building on Garfield.

  There but for the grace of God go I.

  I was intrigued by the old map from the Bible and had been online doing some research. I Googled the words Osage and Monegaw and discovered that both were in St. Clair County, about two hours from Kansas City. They were close to a town called Osceola, right on Highway 13. Maggie and I had made a stop there at Gordon’s Orchard on the way to Branson a year ago.

  I had gathered enough information and thought we were ready to take a field trip and begin our treasure hunt.

  I was at the precinct sharing my weekend plans with Ox, and Captain Short overheard our conversation.

  “Walt, did I just hear you say that you’re going to Osceola, Missouri?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Come into my office. I’d like you to check something out for me.”

  Puzzled, I followed the captain.

  “You know those messages that were sent by the Avenging Angels to the TV station?”

  “Yes.”

  “Our tech guys have been trying to trace the origin of those messages, and they came up with an IP address.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes and no. The good news is that we found where the messages originated. The bad news is that it’s a public library—the St. Clair County Library in Osceola. Anybody could have used that computer, so it’s probably a dead end, but since you’re going to be there anyway, could you go by the library and check things out? Maybe ask some questions?”

  “Sure, I’d be happy to.”

  I was excited to get started on our little adventure.

  I had told Maggie about Willie’s discovery, and she wasn’t about to be left behind.

  Mary had been pretty upset about the incident at the Three Trails. It had taken her several days to restore a sense of order and to allay the fears of the remaining tenants. She had been keeping an eye out for Rowdy Yates, but of course he was long gone. I could tell she needed a break, so we decided to drag her along as well.

  All four of us piled in the car and were off on the two-hour drive to Osceola. We had passed through Clinton and Lowry City and saw a sign that said that our destination was seven miles ahead.

  Suddenly Mary pointed to a huge billboard and squealed, “Cheese! Osceola Cheese! I’ve heard of that place. They’ve got every kind of cheese you can think of. And they give free samples! I love cheese! Can we stop? Besides, the sign says they got lots of bathrooms, and I gotta pee.”

  I thought about Mary bumbling around the store for who knows how long and leaving with armloads of cheese.

  “Sure, we can stop, but let’s do it on the way home. That way we won’t have to be carrying cheese around all day.”

  “Okay, but I still have to pee.”

  “You can pee at the library.”

  We crossed a bridge spanning the Osage River, pulled off Highway 13, and drove into the little town. The sign said, “Osceola, Pop. 835.”

  Osceola was the county seat, and a beautiful old courthouse, complete with a gazebo, was the centerpiece of the old town square. The storefronts surrounding the courthouse were what you would expect in a small rural town. It looked like most of them dated to the turn of the century.

  There was a restaurant, a furniture store, a bank, an auto parts place, a real estate office, and a few other small businesses. I also noticed that probably a fourth of the storefronts were vacant or boarded up, which said a lot about the local economy.

  A guy was standing on a corner. I rolled down the window and asked for directions to the library. He pointed to a building a block up the street. The library was one of the more modern buildings.

  As soon as we hit the door, Mary high-tailed it to the restroom.

  A pleasant young lady greeted us from behind the counter. “May I help you?”

  I looked at her name-tag. “Hi—uh—Angie. I wonder if there’s somewhere we can talk privately.”

  She led me behind the counter to a small office. “What’s this about?”

  I showed her my badge. “I’m Walt Williams with the Kansas City Police Department. I’m sure you’ve heard about the recent bombings in Kansas City.”

  “Of course, such a tragedy.”

  “Then you may have also read about the messages that were sent to the TV station.”

  “Yes?”

  “Our tech guys have traced the IP address to this location. Those messages may have been sent from one of your computers.”

  Her eyes grew big, and her chin dropped. “From here?”

  “How many computers do you have?”

  “Let’s see; there’s six out front for the public, and we have three for our office use.”

  “Who can use the public computers?”

  “Anyone with a library card.”

  “Do you keep a record of who uses them?”

  “Yes and no. We have a sign-up sheet. If all the computers are in use, people put their name on the list to be next. Actually, we like everyone to sign in, but it’s kind of a loose system. Not everybody does.”

  “Do you keep those sign-in sheets?”

  “Yes, we have a file.”

  I handed her a slip of paper. “These are the dates that the messages were sent. Do you think you could make me copies of the sign-in sheets for those two days?”

  “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

  I wandered back to the lobby and looked at a display behind a glass case. One photo caught my eye. The caption read, “Osceola High School Graduating Class 2008.”

  There in the back row was a face that seemed familiar. Then it struck me. It looked like the kid from the Garfield apartment.

  I had seen his face a hundred times when Ox and I were canvassing the neighborhood. The photo of the dead kid and the smiling face of the young man in the picture obviously were quite different, but the similarity was definitely there.

  About that time, Angie returned with the copies.

  I pointed to the picture. “Do you know that kid, there on the back row, second from the right end?”

  Angie looked. “Sure, I know most of them. They’ve been coming into the library for years. That’s Will Tucker.”

  At the mention of Will Tucker’s name, a young man who had been typing away at one of the public computers raised his head and looked our way.

  Our eyes met briefly, but he quickly looked back to his keyboard.

  “Do you know where they live?”

  “They have a farm north of town. Somewhere out off of B Highway.”

 
“Do you have an address?”

  Angie smiled. “Addresses don’t mean much out there in the country.”

  “Thanks anyway. Oh, by the way, my friends and I are doing some research on the area. Do you have anything about St. Clair County and Osceola?”

  “Follow me.”

  She took me to one of the bookracks. “I think you’ll find everything you want here. Some of the books are by local authors from right here in Osceola.”

  I pulled some books off the shelf, found my friends, and we sat down at a long conference table and started reading.

  The book I had chosen was The Roscoe Gun Battle by Wilbur A. Zink. I wasn’t aware that the infamous James and Younger gangs were part of the local history until I started reading. Apparently, John Younger was killed just a few miles west of Osceola.

  I was thumbing through the pages when the photo of an old black woman caught my eye. The caption read, “Hannah McFerrin in later years.”

  I grabbed Willie by the arm. “Willie, meet your great-great-grandmother.”

  We pored through the book and found all kinds of information about the mysterious Monegaw, which turned out to be a little village west of Osceola.

  I was going through the book again and came upon a hand-drawn map showing the location of the gun battle where John Younger and a Pinkerton agent were killed. The map looked familiar.

  “Willie, look at this! I think these are some of the same markings that are on your map. See, here’s the McFerrin cabin, Chalk Level Road, and here’s Monegaw.”

  About that time, Maggie chimed in. “There’s a lot of good stuff in this book too. It’s mostly Civil War stuff, but there’s information on the Youngers and on Monegaw too. It’s called The Burning Of Osceola, Missouri by Richard Sunderwirth.”

  I noticed the time. “It’s getting late. We’ve got to be going.”

  “We still gotta stop at Osceola Cheese,” Mary said.

  I took the two books to the front desk. “Angie, any way we could check these out?”

  “Do you have a library card?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Sorry, but you might be able to buy copies.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “At Osceola Cheese, just north of town. They have a little gift shop connected to the cheese store. They sell books there.”