Lady Justice and the Mystery Mansion

by Robert Thornhill

  “Are you working on your previous owner scrapbook?”

  “Not right this minute.”

  “Then please get started. There’s something terribly wrong over here.”

  “What now?”

  “I’ll show you when I get home.”

  On the way home, I tried to rationalize what Art had found. Some handyman might have just cut himself and tossed the knife away in disgust. If it had been there a long time, some hunter might have been cleaning a rabbit or squirrel and accidently dropped it. OR, with our luck, some heinous crime had been committed and the perp had hidden the murder weapon.

  When I entered the apartment, Maggie met me at the door.

  “You found something, didn’t you?”

  I held up the knife.

  I could tell by the look on her face that she had found something too.

  “Come. Look!” she said, dragging me into the office.

  “William and Janice Lawton bought the house in 1975 after the Baldwin’s were found murdered. The Lawton’s owned a chain of supermarkets across the city. Other than that, I couldn’t find anything until 1993.

  “Then, I found an article in the Kansas City Star. It said that William came home and found his wife stabbed to death in their bed. Evidence was found at the scene that led to one of Lawton’s employees, Gene Paxton. That, along with Mrs. Lawton’s jewelry found in Paxton’s closet was enough to convict him of second degree murder.”

  We both looked at the knife.

  “Did the article say whether the murder weapon was ever found?”

  “It wasn’t mentioned in the article.”

  “Then this could be it!” we both said at the same time.

  “I should get this to Derek Blaylock,” I said. Then I turned to Maggie. “Another owner, another murder. I’m beginning to think that place is cursed.”

  Maggie didn’t disagree.

  Derek looked at the knife then back at the murder book. “Tell me again where you found it.”

  I had called ahead and told him what we had found. By the time I reached the precinct, he had pulled the file from the archives.

  “In an old cistern. It had been covered up for years. Then today, one of my workers fell through and found the knife.”

  “And this is the same house where we found the baby buried in the basement?” he asked in disbelief.

  “One and the same.”

  “It sounds to me like that place has some kind of curse.”

  “That’s exactly what I told Maggie. Does the murder book say anything about a weapon?”

  “No, it was never found, but they had enough to convict the guy without it. A glove with the victim’s blood and the perp’s name was found at the scene. It matched the mate found at the perp’s apartment.”

  “That sounds awfully convenient.”

  “Maybe, but they also found the victim’s jewelry hidden in the perp’s closet. Plus, the guy had a record. Open and shut case. Gene Paxton got life with the possibility of parole. He’s in maximum security in the Jefferson City Correctional Center. He’s been up for parole several times but was denied each time because he showed no remorse. He claims to this day that he’s innocent.”

  “Maybe he is,” I said. “Are you going to have the knife checked out?”

  “Of course. First we need to make sure the blood on the blade is a match to Janice Lawton. We’ll also check it for fingerprints and DNA. Then, depending on what we find, we’ll go from there.”

  “Please let me know what you find.”

  “Of course.”

  Back at the apartment, I told Maggie about my conversation with Blaylock.

  “What happens if it’s really the murder weapon and there are prints that don’t match Paxton’s?” she asked.

  “Then that would certainly cast doubt on Paxton’s conviction. According to Blaylock, he’s maintained his innocence from the very beginning. Why do you ask? Have you found something more on the Internet?”

  She nodded. “Come here. I’ll show you.”

  She pulled up a wedding announcement in society section of an old Kansas City Star.

  “Look at the date,” she said. “William Lawton and April Skaggs were married just three months after his wife was tragically murdered. Does that seem a bit soon to you?”

  “Not if they were seeing each other before the wife died. Hmmmm, get rid of the wife and marry the mistress. It could be motive for murder. I guess we won’t know for sure until we get word back from Derek, but good work!”

  “That’s not all,” Maggie said. “I found something else. April Skaggs, the new Mrs. Lawton, passed away five years ago at the age of sixty. I found her obituary.”

  “I’m impressed!” I said. “You’re becoming quite the little investigator. If you ever decide to hang up your briefcase, there might be a place for you in Walt Williams Investigations.”

  She laughed. “No thanks. I’ll leave the sleuthing to you and Kevin.”

  “I don’t suppose you know where William Lawton is residing these days.”

  “No, I tried, but it was a dead end.”

  “Sounds like I need to give Ox another call.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Ox called back saying he had found a William Lawton at the Kansas City Hospice House on Wornall Road.

  “What do you think?” Maggie asked. “Should we pay William a visit?”

  I was torn. I wanted to talk to the guy, but I didn’t want to get crossways with Blaylock. If Lawton’s prints were found on the knife that could reopen the investigation and I didn’t want to interfere and mess things up. On the other hand, if Lawton was in a hospice facility, that probably meant his days were numbered.

  I finally made a decision. “Sure, let’s do it. After all, we have a legitimate reason. Now that we’re the new owners of the Gladstone property, we’re just looking up previous owners to get some history on the place.”

  “Sounds good to me,” she replied.

  At the hospice house, we asked about William and were directed to his room.

  We found him in bed, an emaciated man, barely clinging to life. A priest was at his bedside holding his hand.

  “We don’t mean to intrude,” I said. “If Mr. Lawton is up to it, we’d like to speak to him.”

  The priest rose. “I’m Father O’Malley. Who are you and why are you here?”

  “We’re Walt and Maggie Williams. We recently purchased a grand old house on Gladstone Boulevard. We discovered that Mr. Lawton was a previous owner and we just wanted to meet him.”

  When I mentioned the Gladstone house, I saw Lawton stir and I saw a look of concern on the priest’s face.

  Lawton raised a withered hand. “Come closer. You said you bought the Gladstone house?”

  Father O’Malley found two more chairs and we told Lawton about how the house had fallen into disrepair and how we were restoring it.

  He followed my every word and interrupted several times with questions.

  When there was finally a lull in the conversation, I made a decision.

  “There was one other recent event,” I said. “One of our laborers was working on the grounds and fell into an old cistern that had been covered for years. Thankfully, he wasn’t injured, but he found something very interesting while down there, an old knife that appeared to be covered with dried blood.”

  The moment I said that, Lawton looked questioningly at the priest.

  Father O’Malley smiled. “It’s okay, William. Tell them. Unburden your soul. Confess your sins and seek absolution before you pass into the next life.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Lawton told us how he had murdered his wife and framed his employee, Gene Paxton.

  When he finished, I asked, “Are you willing to share your story with the police? An innocent man has spent 25 years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. You still have a chance to make things right.”

  He nodded. “I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

  I took his hand. “Thank you.”<
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  Knowing time was a factor, Maggie and I went straight to the precinct.

  When I knocked on Blaylock’s door, he waved us in.

  “You’re right on time. I just got the results back on the knife.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “The blood on the blade matched that of the victim, Janice Lawton, and the prints on the handle were made by her husband, William.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  I told him about our visit at the hospice house. “William Lawton is ready to make a complete confession, but you’d better hurry. He may not be around too much longer.”

  Blaylock just shook his head. “You continue to amaze me. Good work.”

  “So what happens now,” I asked. “How do we get Gene Paxton out of prison?”

  “A judge will have to vacate his conviction. With the knife and the deathbed confession, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Looks like we’ll need an attorney.”

  I knew just who to call, Suzanne Romero, the best defense attorney in Kansas City. She had saved Mary Murphy who had been wrongfully accused of manslaughter for shooting an intruder who threatened her with a knife. Then, a few years later, she defended Ox and me after we had been framed for murder by two corrupt cops.

  I, in turn, had helped exonerate several of her clients who had been wrongly accused.

  Thankfully, she was in her office and had time to see us.

  After I shared our story, she readily agreed to take the case pro bono.

  “Unbelievable!” she said. “It would be an honor to set right this horrible miscarriage of justice. I’ll get started on the paper work immediately.”

  Two days later, the three of us were in a room at the Jefferson City Correctional Center awaiting the arrival of Gene Paxton.

  When he entered, he was obviously confused. “Who are you people?”

  “I’m Walt Williams, this is my wife, Maggie, and this lady is Suzanne Romero, the attorney who will be getting your conviction overturned. Soon, you will be a free man.”

  It was a good thing he was sitting down, otherwise, he would have crumbled to the floor.

  He buried his face in his arms and wept uncontrollably.

  Minutes later he composed himself. “How --- how did this happen?”

  I shared the entire story including William Lawton’s confession.

  “They wanted me to say I did it, but I never would. I knew I was innocent. Thank you all so much.”

  A week later, a judge vacated Paxton’s wrongful conviction and Gene, still young at age 47, walked away a free man.

  That same night, William Lawton, the penitent murderer, passed away.

  It took twenty-five years, but in the end, Lady Justice prevailed.

  CHAPTER 14

  Jason Briggs pulled to the curb in front of the old mansion on Gladstone Boulevard.

  It had been ten long years since the police hauled him away in handcuffs, his father lying in the foyer, shot dead by a bullet meant for him.

  How quickly things can change, he thought. Father was making thousands during the housing boom and I was a rising star in in my company. Then, the bottom falls out of the housing market and I foolishly stole from my firm to bail him out. From riches to tragedy to prison in the space of a year.

  Prison had been no picnic, but it could have been worse. It didn’t take long for the inmates to test the newcomer. Shortly after his arrival, three lifers cornered him in the exercise yard. His Special Forces training served him well. After sending his three attackers to the infirmary, he wasn’t bothered again.

  Now he was out, and he had returned to claim what he had left behind.

  He had done his homework and knew that an old couple had recently purchased the house and were restoring it to its former grandeur.

  He looked at the men scurrying in and out and a plan started to come together in his mind. If he could hire on as a laborer, he would have the run of the place and access to the location where he had left the money he had stolen to help his father. If it was still there, it would give him the chance to start his life over again.

  He saw the name and phone number of the contractor on the side of the pick-up truck. He wrote the information down and pulled away.

  Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Every time I pulled up in front of the old mansion, I thought of Steve Martin in the movie, The Jerk. His character, Navin Johnson, is speaking to his girlfriend who is fast asleep.

  I know we've only known each other four weeks and three days, but to me it seems like nine weeks and five days. The first day seemed like a week and the second day seemed like five days. And the third day seemed like a week again and the fourth day seemed like eight days. And the fifth day you went to see your mother and that seemed just like a day, and then you came back and later on the sixth day, in the evening, when we saw each other, that started seeming like two days, so in the evening it seemed like two days spilling over into the next day and that started seeming like four days, so at the end of the sixth day on into the seventh day, it seemed like a total of five days. And the sixth day seemed like a week and a half. I have it written down, but I can show it to you tomorrow if you want to see it.

  Anyway, the restoration seemed to take forever.

  Likewise, the original fifty thousand deposit turned into seventy, then ninety. Like Navin, I have it written down if you’d like to see it.

  Even though it had taken a huge bite out of our savings account, I had to admit that the place was looking pretty darn good.

  Maggie was in seventh heaven. After the rough-in work was completed, she was there almost every day supervising the details of the finish work.

  We spent endless hours picking out door knobs, light fixtures, wall paper, and all the other crap that goes into the finished product.

  That first day in the hardware store seemed like a week --- never mind --- I already told you how it felt.

  Every purchase was a gut-wrenching decision. Which wall plate? This one or that one? Like Rhett Butler, I wanted to say, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” But it was important to Maggie, so I did my part as a supportive husband.

  As it turned out, I was glad I did. Maggie had done a fantastic job and I had to admit that the place was quite beautiful.

  Unfortunately, since the day I announced our purchase to our friends and family, they were constantly begging me to let them drop by to check on the progress of the restoration.

  On more than one occasion, Bernice talked Dad into taking her over so she could ogle the sweat-soaked torsos of the well-muscled workers.

  Also unfortunately, while Bernice was ogling, Dad was busy imparting his remodeling wisdom to anyone who would listen.

  Another big mistake was taking Jerry. As a stand-up comic, he has a repertoire of jokes for any occasion. I left him alone for just a few minutes while going over some details with Don. I found him surrounded by a cluster of workers.

  “A man hired a carpenter to put on a new roof. He watched as the carpenter picked up a nail, looked at it then tossed it away. The next nail he pounded into the roof. Then the next nail he tossed aside. The man asked, ‘What’s wrong with the nails you’re throwing away?’ ‘The heads are on the wrong end,’ the carpenter replied.’”

  The workers, most of who could speak very little English, just shook their heads and walked away.

  “Tough crowd,” Jerry muttered.

  Finally, I had to put my foot down. No more visits from the peanut gallery. I was paying these guys by the hour and the distractions were costing me a small fortune.

  Once Mary discovered that Art Cranston, her former tenant at the Three Trails, was staying in the old carriage house, she talked Willie into taking her over so she could take him sandwiches and cookies.

  Finally, the work on the mansion was finished.

  The only thing that remained was the restoration of the carriage house. It would be a relatively simple process. The roof had to be repl
aced and the cupulo repaired. Resting on top of the cupulo was an ornate weathervane.

  In addition to the usual letters designating north, south, east and west, there was an arrow with a large bull. I thought that was curious until I remembered that Matthew Matson, who had originally built the home, made his fortune in cattle. The workers removed the weathervane and placed it inside the carriage house. It would be polished and replaced as soon as the roof was finished.

  The carriage house had a dirt floor and Maggie insisted that we replace it with concrete. More dollars down the money pit, but as the old saying goes, ‘in for a dime, in for a dollar.’

  With all of the activity in the carriage house, I decided to move Art back to the Three Trails. Since most of the work had been completed, there were few materials left to be pilfered by midnight requisitioners.

  Just another week or two and the restoration would be complete.

  As soon as the construction started on the carriage house, Jason Briggs knew it was time to make his move. Ten years ago, he had buried the money he had stolen from his company in the dirt floor of the carriage house. Once the concrete was poured on the floor, the money would be sealed up forever.

  He hadn’t been able to access it during the day when workers were everywhere, and Art Cranston was there every evening. When he overheard the owner tell Cranston he was moving away, he decided the time was right.

  After the workers had gone for the day, Jason found a shovel and crept into the carriage house. In an hour, he would have the money he had dreamed about for a decade in his lonely cell.

  I was halfway to the Three Trails when Art muttered, “Oh crap!”

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Mary’s Tupperware. She asked me to be sure and get it back to her, but I left it in the carriage house. I hate to ask you to go back, but you know how Mary gets.”