All Those Who Came Before

by Kathryn Meyer Griffith

  Frank was relieved. Getting the file hadn’t been as difficult a task as he’d been afraid it would be. “Again, thank you, Chief.”

  “Ah, it’s little that I can do for you. I wasn’t chief when this injustice transpired. My predecessor, Chief Lawrence, was behind this desk in those days. He’s retired now and living blissfully in Florida somewhere. Naples, I think. He was a first-class officer and a better chief. Good man. I worked for him, he taught me all I know and more. We were friends.”

  Another officer came into the room with a manila file and laid it on the desk close to Frank. He was a tall, skinny fellow with bright carrot-hued hair and a fledgling mustache the same color. His blue eyes and smile were friendly. “Here’s what you asked for, Chief. A copy of the Sutton report.”

  “Thanks Officer Berens.”

  Berens nodded in Frank’s direction and departed the room.

  As Frank picked up the folder and began to riffle through its pages Chief Dunham continued their conversation. “Officer Price, though, the main officer on the Sutton case and the one who did most of the interviews and compiled that mess of a report in front of you was totally inept, as far as I was concerned. He shouldn’t have been a police officer to begin with. Too many weaknesses of character. Liked the women far too much. Ate too many cakes and donuts. The drinking problem was the one that brought him down. Drank like a fish and, in the end, he didn’t try to hide it. Eventually, when he was caught for the third time, drunk on duty, he was fired. That must have been about six years ago or so. I wasn’t chief yet. Not until a year later.

  I have no idea where Price is now. I tried to keep in touch with the man because I felt sorry for him. He was one of ours after all. Until he stopped taking my calls and purposely dropped from sight. One of my officers said he saw him a while back living beneath some bridge. When I went to find him, he was gone. No one knows where he is now. Poor man.” A shrug. “So you can’t speak to him, or pick his brain, about what’s in that file. I’m sorry.

  “Oh, but I do remember Chief Lawrence talking to me about the case when the body was found. He’d felt so sorry for the wife. Felt bad about the whole thing. We hadn’t been much help to her, although the chief had assigned a second officer, who now works in security somewhere in Wyoming, besides Price, on the case at the time. Lawrence reopened the investigation because, I’ll tell you the truth, he suspected foul play in Sutton’s death. He believed Sutton had been mugged and murdered, and then his car purposely crashed into that ravine. But he was about the only one who believed that. We never discovered or apprehended a suspect, though. Never got a solid lead in that vein. That troubled Chief Lawrence to no end. He hated unresolved cases.

  “So, Mr. Lester...do you have any new information, any new leads or theories, to what might have happened to Joel Sutton ten years ago? Are you planning to write your next book on this crime?”

  “I’m not writing a book on it. And at the moment I don’t have any fresh leads, just hunches, but my investigation is only beginning.

  “And, to be upfront with you as you have been with me, I have another reason for wanting to find out how Joel Sutton died. You see, I’m married to Joel’s widow, Abigail. Her first husband’s death has haunted her for years, though she rarely brings it up. I know it still bothers her. I want to solve this for her. Find out if Joel’s death was truly accidental...or if it was murder. I, like your ex-Chief Lawrence, now think it was murder. Abigail hired this private detective, Andy Bracco, after her husband went missing. He investigated but didn’t, in the end, get anywhere.”

  He explained to the police chief about Bracco’s death and the dossier that had been sent to Abigail. “Of course I had to read it and that’s when I realized there were leads that hadn’t been run down. Witnesses not interviewed. Missed clues. Being who I am, Abigail’s husband and a writer, I couldn’t let it go.

  “Did you know, according to my wife’s private detective’s notes, there was no DNA taken off the body?”

  “No, I didn’t know that. As I mentioned before, I wasn’t one of the officers on the Sutton case. I imagine the files will explain more. Maybe. As I said, Officer Price’s investigations weren’t always up to snuff. Heaven knows what he missed or what he decided wasn’t important enough to put in his report or to follow up on.”

  Frank was grateful Dunham wasn’t one of those police chiefs who guarded and defiantly defended the integrity of his department and his officers, but not above the truth. Most police chiefs would have been offended if Frank had even suggested one of their investigations, one of their police officers, had been inadequate. Dunham only seemed to want to help him.

  After they conducted the polite police small talk, Chief Dunham stood up and shook Frank’s hand. “I wish you luck, Mr. Lester. I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for. If there’s anything else I can do for you, just give me a call. Call me, as well, if you uncover anything of importance; and if you have leads to or suspect who the murderer might be. You can count on us to step in and conclude the investigation for you. Make an arrest, if need be. I’d love to close that cold case once and for all.”

  “I will contact you if I discover anything of consequence, Chief,” Frank said something he didn’t really mean. He intended to wrap up the case himself. He didn’t need Dunham’s help. “Thank you.”

  Clutching the manila file snuggly against him, he exited the police station, got in the truck, and tossed the folder behind him into the seat. He’d study what was in it later that night when he was home.

  For now, he had other stops to make before he drove away from the city of Fairfield.

  WHEN HE ARRIVED AT his destination, a Quick Trip convenience store and gas station similar to so many others, he parked the truck on the side of the building. The station was embedded in the center of what appeared to be a park or woods full of dense foliage and thick trees. A perfect place for a mugging or an abduction. There was more than enough cover to hide a crime.

  He got out of the vehicle and walked into the QT. It was practically empty, yet fairly normal for that early time of the day. The rush would come as people drove home from work and stopped in for snacks and gas.

  On his right there was a young woman with short curly hair who was stocking the shelves. Other than her, and a cashier, he didn’t see any other employees. He moved up to the checkout counter and stood in front of the cashier on duty, a gaunt middle aged black man with a welcoming grin. Frank picked a couple of candy bars from the shelf beneath the counter and placed them before the man.

  “That’s all you need, friend?”

  “That’ll do it, thank you,” Frank gave the man a grin in return and handed him a ten dollar bill. The total was rung up. Change passed from one hand to another.

  “Would you mind,” he asked the man, ‘since you seem to have a break in business at the moment, if I ask you a few questions about something that happened in town here, oh, about a decade ago?” Frank caught and held the man’s gaze.

  “Something that happened ten years ago? Here in Fairfield?” The man was clearly confused. “What thing?”

  “A man from town went missing.”

  “Really? And why are you interested in such a thing?”

  “My name’s Frank Lester. I’m a writer,” Frank launched into his cover story, “and I’m doing research on a cold case crime that occurred in Fairfield back then. The disappearance and eventual the discovery of the dead body years later of a local man, Joel Sutton, that took place here in town? I’m investigating, maybe even trying to unravel the mystery of what really happened to Joel Sutton. I have reason to believe he vanished from this very store, or right after leaving it, the night he first went missing; that’s why I’m here today. Following a lead. Were you working at the store ten years ago? Did you know the victim, Joel Sutton, at all?”

  With a solemn sideward glance, the man surprised him when he answered, “Yeah, I was working here back then. And I knew Joel Sutton, too.”

  “Y
ou did?” A twinge of excitement fluttered in Frank’s chest. Jackpot. He’d been hoping someone at the Quick Trip would remember Joel Sutton.

  “Frank Lester, huh? I do know you. You’re that writer guy who pens those murder mysteries set in that quirky little town with those screwball characters, aren’t you?”

  “That’s me.” Again Frank was amused he kept running into his fans. Who knew so many people read cozy murder mysteries? He didn’t, but he was learning.

  “I’ve read a handful of them. My sister gave me the books after she’d finished reading them because she thought I’d like them, too.”

  The man behind the counter smiled ingratiatingly. “I liked them. A Lot. I’m not much of a reader, but I kinda like science fiction and murder mysteries. Reading gives me something to do here when it’s slow. I thought I recognized you from your photo on the back covers. It’s a good likeness. I’m a big fan.”

  “Well, thanks for liking my books. Tell your sister the same. I’m always happy to hear from my readers. It never gets old.”

  “I imagine it wouldn’t. My name’s Leroy Clark,” the man stated, putting out a hand for Frank to shake, which Frank did, “and I’m the manager here. You’ve lucked out. I’ve been working at this QT for eleven years next month. I was pretty new, working the night shift as a cashier, when the incident you’re referring to took place, but I remember it all so well. That night has stuck in my mind for a decade. Mostly because I knew both Joel Sutton, and his wife, now your wife, Abigail. When he vanished like he did, the police coming around, and later some private eye his wife hired, to interview me and the other employees that had been on duty that night, it cemented Joel and what had happened to him in my memory forever. You know how that is? Like everyone remembers where they were, what they were doing, when the twin towers came down or the Las Vegas shooting happened.

  “So I remember that final time, that last night I saw Joel, really well. He came in and bought a pack of cigarettes. He was trying to quit, as I was, too, so he thought buying a pack at a time would help him abstain, smoke less. It never did, of course, but he tried it anyway. We spoke for a minute or two, just the normal pleasantries because I had another customer to take care of, so Joel ended up chitchatting with some of the other people in the store he happened to know, wandered towards the rear to look for something or other, and then he left. I recall him waving goodbye to me before he went out the door. He had this odd wave where he half saluted and whistled while he did it. You knew when he was leaving.

  “Joel was an interesting individual, one of those guys who took time to just stop and chat with anyone, everyone, about anything. He liked people and they liked him. A kind man, too.

  “Once when I had a very bad cold and had had it for days, before my shift was over, Joel returned with a container of hot chicken noodle soup. He said his wife made it for me. How many people would do that?”

  “Not many,” Frank agreed, with a smile. “Joel was a compassionate person, Abigail always says, and she is a special woman. I should know, being married to her now.”

  “You’re a lucky man. I remember Abigail, as well,” the manager continued. “A sweet woman. Like Joel, she cared about other people. Quite the looker, too. She was a wreck after Joel disappeared, coming in here when she was first looking for him; crying, and so broken hearted. She never gave up hope in those early months and years he might still be alive somewhere. The police finding his body devastated her. I’m glad to know she ended up happy. That she remarried and to another creative person such as yourself. Does she still do her art?”

  “She does. She’s become quite the celebrity in her own right, gaining a reputation as an exceptional artist with her town murals and paintings in local art galleries in and around Spookie.

  “That’s where we live. Spookie. A quaint village not unlike the one I set my murder mysteries in. We live in the cabin I built out in the woods with our dogs and a finicky cat. Abby loves it there. We adopted two great children, Laura and Nick. Laura’s going to art school and Nick is a high school student and a musician in a band. We have many friends. I’m officially retired but, as you know, I write novels. I also consult part-time for the sheriff’s department in town. Abby and I have a good life.”

  “Ah, so that’s the reason you’re looking into this cold case? For her?”

  Frank nodded. Best not to mention Abby didn’t want him to be looking into it and that he was doing it anyway. The store manager didn’t need to know that.

  “What else,” the man behind the counter prompted, “would you like to know about that night and Joel?”

  The store was fairly empty, with only a trickle of customers milling around shopping for something or other, so they spoke a while about that night when they weren’t chatting about Frank’s books. The man was a mega fan.

  Frank went down the list of Joel questions he had jotted down before he’d left the house that morning and scribbled down the manager’s answers. He didn’t glean much more than he had learned from the Bracco files, except for various personal insights into the sort of good man Joel had been.

  Then Frank thought of something. “I noticed you have another person working today with you.”

  “Yeah, it’s store policy, since we’ve been robbed so often over the years. There are at least two people on duty at all times and usually three.”

  “Who was working that night? If you can recall.”

  “I do. Me and two other employees, Leann Carter and Phyllis Day. Like I said the details of that night have stayed with me. Let’s see...Leann moved on about five years ago but Phyllis still works here.”

  “That other employee, Phyllis Day, still works here after a decade?”

  “She does. Most people who work here stay. It’s a good job with first-rate benefits and chance for advancement at either this location or another. Phyllis has actually been here longer than me. Fourteen years or so I think.”

  “Did she know Joel at all, do you think?” He didn’t expect the answer he got.

  “Yes, she did. They were pretty good friends. Whenever she was working Joel would often stop and chat with her. As I said, Joel was a friendly guy. In fact,” Leroy commented, his eyes going to a woman customer who had come up behind Frank, “not only was she working at the cash register that evening, but she spoke to him for a long time that night.

  “The place was pretty much deserted because the weather was terrible. It was storming like crazy, unbelievable lightning forking down from the skies, and the fog, as thick as oatmeal, had rolled in from the woods. Joel lingered here longer than he normally did. Waiting for the rain to slow down. The lightning to lessen. But, eventually, after a while, he left out of here anyway while it was still storming. He wanted to get home to his wife, he said.

  “Phyllis ended running out into the rain as Joel was heading for his car, which he’d parked on the side there as he usually did after he’d gotten gas. He’d forgotten something–I don’t remember what–on the counter and she ran it out to him. I can still see her doing that. She looked like a drowned rat when she came back in and we made a big joke of it.”

  Now the man had Frank’s attention. That was something that hadn’t been in Bracco’s notes. Leroy Clark and his interview had been in there and one from the other on-duty cashier, Leann Carter, but no mention of Phyllis Clark, and her conversation with Joel, or that she had chased after him into the parking lot in the downpour for some reason or other, at all. Perhaps this Phyllis hadn’t been around when Bracco was doing his questioning at the Quick Trip? That might account for her interview being missing.

  “Is there a way I could speak to this Phyllis Day? Does she live nearby?”

  “She does. About a mile or two away. It makes it convenient for her working here. That’s part of the reason why she’s still here. Proximity.”

  “Is there any way, if you called her first to ask permission, I might stop by her house and talk to her about that night and Joel?”

  “She don�
��t like strangers coming to her house, I can tell you.”

  The customer behind Frank was getting impatient so Frank moved to the side. The manager dealt with the woman’s purchase and the woman left the store.

  As Frank had waited for the customer to be taken care of, he’d been thinking. So when she was leaving the store, he turned to Leroy and coaxed, “Okay, could you persuade Phyliss to come here and talk to me right now? If she’s available and would agree to it, that is.”

  Leroy seemed to consider what he’d been asked and proposed, “Tell you what, I’ll call and ask her.”

  Frank liked that idea. “I’d appreciate it, Leroy.

  “Oh, by the way,” Frank glanced up at the ceiling above the check-out corner, “do you have surveillance cameras in the store and outside of it?”

  “Of course we do. All our stores have security cameras. Inside and outside. Like I said, we’ve been robbed far too often, going back years and years, not to be as security minded as we possibly can be. The home office insists we be cautious and observant.”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask but is there any way I could get a copy of the surveillance video of the night Joel went missing? I know it’s been ten years, a long time ago, but if it still exists, is it possible?”

  Leroy scratched the side of his head, mulling over the request. “I don’t...know. I’d have to ask permission from the home office, see if we still have the original, and get their permission to copy it if they do.”

  “I’d appreciate it more than you know, Leroy, if you could look into it and check if the video exists. And if it does, if you could send me a copy of it, for the inside and the outside parking lot area, from about seven p.m. that night to twelve midnight, I’d send you an autographed copy of my newest book.” Bribery sometimes helped.