I called Rogers and gave her the same assignment as I was driving away from the building that housed the Investigative Service, Detective Division, of the Norfolk Police.
“Where are you headed?” she asked.
“Back to Drew Sizemore’s residence.”
“Looking for something?”
“Yep.”
“What?”
“I have no idea.”
“Wait, don’t tell me. You’ll know it when you find it. Isn’t that your classic line in these instances?”
“Bingo.”
Chapter 36
The door was locked when I arrived at Sizemore’s small house. My breaking and entering skills were still developing, but his locks were no match even for my elementary level.
I entered the house cautiously. Memory can often thwart the best of intentions especially if that memory rushes to a time when a person was assaulted and left for dead. However, I have learned that the best way to foil that memory issue is to forge ahead with every intention of shooting anything that comes towards you as you relive portions of the nightmare.
McGrady was back at the station, presently doing the final paperwork on our northern trip. I gave him my notes and he said he would finish whatever the captain wanted. Surprised and pleased that he offered. Besides that, he wouldn’t be underfoot as I roamed at will in Sizemore’s former residence.
This search had to be as thorough as I could manage. A methodical canvas was needed in order to cover every nook and cranny. I started in Drew’s bedroom. There were only two bedrooms in the house. One was full of personal memorabilia. The other was pristine and devoid of anything personal. Easy enough for me to say which one was Drew’s. His room was likely the place he would put something precious, something truly significant, something sacred to him.
This was the kind of work that made hard-nose detectives into sniffling babies. It’s boring, it’s time-consuming, and it’s often meaningless when all is finished. It’s the nauseous details that make one want to go out and throw rocks at the sunrise. Or find another line of work.
We humans have our hiding places. I learned that when I was a young child. The more obvious ones are shoe boxes in the closet or the freezer compartments of refrigerators. I suppose one could actually use a freezer, but generally it’s the fridge. I save those obvious ones to the end of my methodical search.
It helps if you know the person who has stashed away a keepsake. Personality many times dictates the whereabouts of said items. In this case I didn’t know Drew Sizemore very well. A couple of conversations and one significant disclosure on his part were the extent of my knowledge. Not much to go on.
Bottom to top, I pulled out and searched through his dresser drawers. A box full of keys of every size and shape was the singular find outside of the ordinary socks, underwear, pajamas, and some sweatshirts. I go bottom to top just as a habit. Wineski tutored me in that direction.
The top of his dresser revealed a few photographs and some trinkets of old movie tickets, a key chain, and a broken watch. Nothing worth writing home about.
The nightstand by his bed had two small drawers. The bottom drawer contained some paperback books, a plastic bag of pens and pencils, and a notepad. The top drawer had everything imaginable including a night reading light that attaches to one’s head, a magnifying glass, a pencil sharpener, some unused sticky note pads, and a tiny black box. The rest of the stuff in the drawer I classified as either junk or stuff. It became obvious to me that Drew hardly ever threw away items.
The small black box was intriguing. Inside was a small silver charm of a phoenix rising from the ashes. At least that’s what I made of it since I had never seen one quite like it. Bird ascending from small, jagged points which I took to be representative of fire. I dropped it back into the box, placed the box in my coat pocket, and continued my search with great diligence for whatever it was I was to find next. I shuffled through his closet but found nothing that raised either my curiosity or my suspicions. I was headed toward the bed when my phone rang.
“Yeah,” I said in answering the ringtone. It was McGrady.
“You didn’t tell me where you were headed.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Where are you?”
“Working.”
“That was a question of location,” he said.
“Got that. I need to do this alone.”
“What are you doing?”
“Being thorough.”
“You’re back at Drew’s place,” he said.
His statement surprised me. “Lucky guess,” I said.
“Sometimes you’re predictable in your thoroughness. Find anything?”
“Still early in the redundant thoroughness.”
“I have something to say to you.”
“Oh joy,” I said.
“No, this is about the case.”
“Fire away.”
“Let’s say we do find some connection between all three – Sizemore, Goodall, and Glover. It still doesn’t fit what we know.”
“You don’t think that some kind of interlocking relationship among those three victims might direct us towards someone out there who wanted all of them dead?” I said.
“Not necessarily,” he answered. “You’re the odd one out.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. You were attacked. You almost became victim number four. It doesn’t fit, don’t you see? What is your interlocking relationship with those other three murdered victims?” he asked.
Wow. Detective Bill McGrady back at work. He was thinking. I had to consider his point.
“One more thing, Clancy. Let’s assume that we do not find any relationship among those three, except, say the obvious – all young adults. Where is it you came into the eyesight of the killer other than the fact you were out jogging?”
“But Sizemore was not jogging.”
“No, he was trying to help the victims. Maybe that simply pissed off the killer.”
“So why has the killing of joggers stopped? People still jog in that park. Doesn’t sound like a serial killer of joggers, right?”
“Don’t know. I just know that I believe, as you do, that those three victims are connected somehow other than by age. The attempt on you is the one piece that does not fit.”
“You wanna come over and join me for this redundant search?”
“What are you looking for?”
“Whatever I find.”
“Paperwork is finished, submitted, and I’m out the door.”
While McGrady was en route, I stripped the bed of its linens but found nothing except soiled sheets and pillowcases. The queen size bed had been slept in by two people, or more. That was my conclusion. The other possibility was that Drew slept on both sides of the bed and used all of the pillows available. I discounted that one and went for the multiple sleeping companions’ idea.
When I flipped the mattress to see if Drew was the kind of guy who stuffed things between mattress and box springs, I found his diary. It was the old-fashioned type with a short strap running from the back to the front with a small lock. It was made of white leather, which told me that it was more expensive than the plastic one I had as a young girl in Clancyville. I used mine to keep records of my fishing exploits with my brother Scott, and my notes on the few cases I helped my father work in the county before he died. I also did some clandestine stuff after he was gone.
I now had something specific for which to search. I needed the key to unlock Drew’s diary. Actually, I knew that I could cut the strap with a knife, but I wanted to preserve his item just for the sake of the item. Probably not nostalgia on my part as much as it was the fact that the diary belonged to someone else, albeit a dead person who had no one who probably wanted it. Wasn’t my place to mangle it. Not yet, at least.
Since it was sandwiched in his bed, my assumption was that the key was also nearby. Once more I went through his bedside table draw
ers. I dumped both of them, each in turn, onto the mattress and spread out the junk before me. I found no key in either drawer.
After restoring the drawers with their laden goods and sliding them back into their housing, I did the same thing with each of his dresser drawers. I held out some hope for the small box of keys in the bottom drawer. They were all much too large to fit the slot for the diary.
The closet had nothing to offer as well. I was still inside the closet when I heard the knock on the door. I let McGrady in and told him what I had. We both continued looking for the small key to the diary.
I finished the bedroom closet with no success. He was working the living room. I moved to the bathroom. I stood at the door and watched him for a few seconds just to be sure he was being thorough. I thought he moved much too quickly to be meticulous in his methodology.
“Every nook and cranny,” I said from my observation point.
“Not my first parade,” he said in mild disgust at my cautionary tone.
Thirty minutes later I was finished in the bathroom. Nothing by way of a key.
We met in the hallway.
“Tell you what, Clancy Evans, ace detective. You go back over the living room and I’ll go back to the bedroom. Let’s be really thorough, shall we?”
He moved away before I could object. It was time-consuming, to say the least, but he had the right notion. A few minutes into my diligence in the living room, he yelled for me to come back.
When I entered the bedroom, he said simply, “Aha!” and pointed to the small lamp on the bedside table.
“Aha?” I said.
“You missed this, ace.”
He squatted down and pointed underneath the lamp shade. I moved over so I could see what he had discovered. Hanging from a pink ribbon was a small key about the size that just might fit the small lock on the white leather diary I had found.
Quite a discovery. McGrady came to life and maybe found a clue. Amazing.
Chapter 37
McGrady and I sat on the couch looking through Drew Sizemore’s diary. It began when he arrived in Norfolk to start his new life. There were multiple references to his horrible experience in Millstone. There were paragraphs about all of his friends there, including Cass and Blake. He and Blake were not lovers according to the diary, a notation that verified what Blake had told me. In fact, they were not even friends according to some entries. He wrote that Cass was a kind person and generally respected by everyone in the house.
The most telling notes were about his relationship with O.D. Higgins. Drew was reflecting about his relationship with Higgins prior to the incident of the attempted burning of Drew and his friends. The diary revealed that Higgins was having second thoughts about continuing the relationship with Drew. Drew was upset and wrote several pages concerning that fact. He had some strong, intimate feelings about Higgins. These feelings became daily entries for Sizemore regarding what seemed to be Higgins’ ambivalence or hesitancy. According to the entries, O.D. was not reciprocating Drew’s feelings. In fact, he seemed to be moving in the other direction. The diary noted a serious argument that ended in a fist fight between them. The diary reported that the fight had taken place two days prior to the fiery assault.
I handed the diary to McGrady for his perusal. Since he had found the key I had obviously overlooked, I was more than willing to give him a chance to read a while and see if he could find something of note I had missed in the diary pertaining to Odem Higgins.
I gave McGrady a brief synopsis of what I had read.
He studied the same pages for a few minutes.
“Aha!” he said.
“I don’t like it when you say aha,” I said.
“Get used to it. You missed something again, probably important.”
“Do tell.”
“Potentially important,” he added.
“Qualifying your find, huh?”
“Nothing’s automatic. Best to keep some skepticism.”
“Yeah, right. Whattaya got?”
“O D Higgins had a diary,” he said and handed me Drew’s little book of secrets and pointed to the entry which disclosed that information.
“Worth checking into,” I said. “A definite aha moment.”
“But not necessarily a trip back to New Jersey,” he answered.
I was sitting just outside of Wineski’s office. A detective had just retired, and his desk was empty except for a phone and a drawer full of old pens, paper clips, and a few thumb tacks. I was on the phone with Lt. Colonel Applegate while I was fiddling with a bent paper clip in the opened drawer.
“Don’t recall any mention of it in the files, but we didn’t do the investigation there on the campus,” he said. “New Brunswick police handled that.”
“Reckon they have any reference to it or maybe, long shot here, they still have it in evidence somewhere?”
“Talk about long shots,” he said. “I’ll make the call for you. I know a guy who knows a guy.”
“You guys,” I said, with a hint of disdain.
Milo Strubbles, the tech guy who was helping me, came over to the desk, and stood there waiting for me to finish my phone conversation. He handed me a printout of the info he had found on Odem Stone Higgins. Wonder of wonders, it was the same info that Applegate had given me earlier. The exact same. Line for line. It was even formatted like the info Applegate had provided.
“This is it?” I said to the tech guy.
“Yeah, good stuff, right? Should be helpful.”
I smiled and decided that he had done his due diligence. It was now Rogers’ turn to see if she would be capable of outshining the official police data on Odem. I was hoping there would be more to find.
The rest of the afternoon I spent with Sam and Rogers. I needed a serious break from all that official police work I had walked away from a few years back.
“Make yourself some coffee and then sit and listen. I have some data to give you on Odem Higgins,” she said.
I set up the coffee pot for the maximum load, then parked myself on the couch to hear her out. Sam came over for a head scratch. While I was obliging, I waited for Rogers to begin.
The room was quiet. I stopped scratching Sam’s head and he moved over to the window and gazed at the overcast sky that my window view allowed. He seemed to enjoy this ritual, just not as much as his sleep.
“You can start anytime,” I said to Rogers.
“Waiting on the coffee.”
“How do you know I’m not indulging already?”
“Two things. One, a timing issue. You haven’t had sufficient time for the pot to brew. Two, you’re not making that slurping sound when you first drink the hot stuff.”
“You time my actions?”
“Internal clock. Not necessarily timing you, love. But I do utilize the clock and activities that can be timed.”
“And the so-called slurping sounds?”
“I’m a good listener. And there’s nothing so-called about that noise you make when you first drink.”
“You’re like a persnickety roommate,” I said.
“I may have to look that word up.”
“Before you do that, I want to hear about Odem Higgins. And for the record, I can save you some time if all you have is the official New Jersey police and state patrol info gathered on him a few years back. I have seen that report twice now.”
“I am insulted that you would even consider my lack of determination in seeking every morsel of data that exists on this person. I am nothing but efficient.” Her tone sounded as if I had offended her.
“My bad. Give me what you got.”
“Odem Higgins was born in Burnsville, North Carolina. According to the birth certificate, Pearl Higgins was listed as his mother. Roscoe Ramsey was listed as the father. He was born in a local clinic in Burnsville after Pearl showed up with severe abdominal pains. According to the report I copied, the baby boy was born before they could get her transferred to the nearest hospital. The doctor that delivered littl
e Odem was concerned about Pearl and the baby, so he sent her to one of the hospitals in Asheville. It seems that the records on this were misplaced. You like that word?”
“Lost the records, did they?”
“No one gives an inch. Misplaced was the official word. That must mean that they’re still looking for them.”
“If you buy that, let me sell you an ocean bridge in Arizona.”
I could tell from the humming of her motors that she was considering my not-so-subtle sarcastic analogy. And collecting data from it.
“Anything on Pearl or Roscoe?” I asked before she could respond.
“Pearl was a local Burnsville girl, but I found nothing about her. Roscoe Ramsey was from McAdams County, just over the mountain from Burnsville and Yancey County. Roscoe was an entrepreneur of sorts. He dealt in the fine art of homemade whiskey.”
“Moonshiner,” I said.
“I found that word interesting. I had to look it up. Quite an art to that moonshine concoction. You ever tasted the drink?”
“Not yet.”
“Anyhow, Roscoe had some business associates, if you could call them that, in Yancey County, so he made frequent trips from McAdams to Yancey. Somewhere along the way, his path crossed Pearl’s, and Odem was the result.”
“But she didn’t marry him.”
“Nothing to support that. At any rate, the surname she gave Odem was Higgins, which was her maiden name.”
“And about Odem himself?”
“Grew up in Burnsville with nothing noteworthy except that he was quite good at soccer. I found many newspaper articles about him. He even played football and was the place kicker for his high school football team. Seems that he was an above average student and received a partial scholarship to play soccer for Rutgers University.”
“Many might consider that a solid achievement for a small-town boy,” I said.
“If you say so. I did find two other items neither of which will send rockets to the moon.”
Jewel of a Murderer Page 21
