All Those Who Came Before

by Kathryn Meyer Griffith

  Leroy grinned. Frank had him. “Wow, that would be great. All my friends would be so impressed that I not only know a real author, but an author who autographed one of his books for me. That’s proof. Tell you what, you leave me your telephone number and address and if I can get permission and obtain a copy of the video for that night, I’ll send it to you. I don’t see what objection the big boss would have to that. It’s not evidence or anything.”

  Yet, Frank thought.

  Frank gave the manager one of his writer’s business cards with his book covers on it in full glorious color; scribbling his cell number and home address on the back. The store manager gave him his contact information as well.

  “Now,” he said to the store manager, “I trust you not to hand out my telephone number and address all around. I cherish my privacy.”

  “I guess most writers do. But I won’t give your address and telephone number to anyone else, I promise.”

  Then the manager telephoned Phyllis. When he got off the phone he told Frank what he’d found out. “She’s agreed to drop by here and chat with you. When I said who you were and why you wanted to speak to her, that you’re a famous writer doing research, and you’re interested in Joel Sutton’s disappearance, she agreed right away. She’ll be here any minute. She says she’ll meet you outside at the picnic table around the side there.” He pointed to a weathered table that was outside the building and beneath the trees.

  Frank thanked the man for his help and moseyed out of the building. Once outside, he didn’t have to wait long. He was relieved the table was shaded by massive trees hovering over it because the day had grown hotter. Frank wasn’t outside more than five minutes before a sweat broke out on his skin. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face and neck. He had barely made it to the picnic table, and sat down, before a wave of dizziness had assailed him. He laid his hand on his chest until the dull ache subsided. He made another mental note to himself: Call your doctor and make that appointment. You’re playing with fire here. Get that check-up. Now. You’re no spring chicken anymore, old man. Something’s not right.

  Yeah, yeah, his procrastination self mocked him. It’s nothing. Nothing. Just a little heartburn. But...you’re fine. Focus. Focus.

  An older model blue Chevy with a woman behind the wheel drove up and the woman got out. A slightly overweight female with auburn colored hair pulled up into a high pony-tail, a shy smile; in baggy blue jean shorts and a T-shirt with the words I Love Cats on its front approached him. “Frank Lester?”

  He stood up and shook the hand she gave him. “That’s me. You must be Phyllis Day?”

  “I am.” With a soft grunt, she settled across from him at the picnic table.

  There was a melancholy tinge in her eyes he recognized from other depressed people he’d known. He sensed she wasn’t a happy person and wondered if it had to do with her professional or personal life. None of his business, he chided himself, so onward.

  “Nice to meet you. Leroy says you’re a writer?”

  He sat down again. “I am.”

  “He also said you wanted to discuss Joel Sutton and his disappearance from all those years ago?”

  “I do. I know it was a long time past but there’s a reason.” He somberly explained why he wanted the information and his relationship to Joel’s once wife, Abigail.

  When he was done talking, he observed her reaction, waiting. A sympathetic look had spread across her face and he knew she had something important to give him.

  She nodded. “It’s true, I was friends with Joel. He made anyone he met a friend, though. Really. He was that kind of person. He could and did talk about almost anything. Never looked down at anyone no matter what their job was or who they were. Had a sense of humor. So he had a lot of friends. Everyone in town, you know, eventually comes to our store. It’s a gathering place because Fairfield isn’t that big. And everyone needs gas or something else we sell.

  “I knew your wife, Abigail, too, and liked her. I’m glad she’s doing better these days. She was a nice woman. She is, I mean. Those were awful days for her after Joel went missing.”

  The woman, shaking her head, pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. After a puff or two, she resumed talking. “You know, I did go to the police after Joel went missing. They took my information and some officer; I can’t recall his name–it was a long time ago–came out once weeks later to see if I’d remembered anything else that could help. I couldn’t. I’d told them everything I could recall. At the time anyway.”

  “Could I ask you to tell me what you said to the police? Somehow there’s nothing in the police files about you or what you told them.”

  “Really?” Phyliss let out a small noise that sounded like a disgusted snort. “I’m not surprised. As I recall, the cop who spoke to me didn’t seem very with it or quite...sober. He didn’t ask many questions and didn’t seem to care what I said. He wrote down very little.”

  Oh, so it would have to be from scratch, then. Frank had brought his handy notebook from out of his shirt pocket and had his pen poised above it, ready to write. “All right. I know it’s been a long time since that night, but do your best. We’ll start at the beginning. Don’t worry, I’ll write down everything you say, this time, and everything you can remember.

  “What happened that night, Phyllis, and what did you see?” As a past and present detective, Frank was well aware witnesses and their memories weren’t always reliable, especially after so much time had passed, so he would be grateful for anything she could tell him. It would be just another piece of the puzzle. But if he gained enough pieces of that puzzle, maybe, just maybe, he’d get the whole picture.

  “Okay. Let me think.” The woman, taking another puff of her cigarette, began to relate what she recalled about that fateful night, painstakingly, as if she had to drag every detail from her memory. He could tell she was racking her brain for the specifics; trying hard to give him what he needed. “As I recollect, Joel showed up around seven o’clock that evening or so. Got gas at the pumps and then moved his car adjacent to our building, wanting to wait out the worst of the storm if he could.

  “My goodness, but the weather that night was horrendous. It was storming to beat the band, with this scary lightning that seemed to cover the whole sky, and the wind was vicious. And to make it worse, everything was covered in a blanket of fog. You couldn’t see ten feet in front of you. I remember that especially because, as close as I live to the store, I was worried about driving home later. It was really bad out.” Her hand pressed against her chest in a gesture of sincerity, as she confessed softly, “I have this thing about weather. I’m scared of violent storms and such. I dislike snow, but absolutely hate icy conditions. Don’t tell my boss, but sometimes I even call in sick if the weather’s too threatening. I almost did that night, call in sick, but the worst of the storm came in after I’d begun my shift. So I got caught. I was here.

  “Anyway, Joel stopped by to get cigarettes, I think, or something. He came in soaking wet just from the sprint from his car–which by the way was a newer car, a sleek cherry red sports coupe of some kind, he’d just bought and was so proud of–and another reason that specific visit stuck in my mind, my memory. It was his beautiful new car he was showing off to everyone, along with what happened when he did come in, paid for his gas purchase, and bought his pack of cigarettes.”

  “What was that?” Frank watched the woman’s face closely to show how interested he was in what she was saying. A trick he’d learned as a young homicide detective. People believed you were more genuine that way.

  “A couple things. When he paid for his cigarettes he yanked out his wallet and gave me his credit card. But I couldn’t help but notice how much money, cash, he also had on him. It was uncommon he carried that much. A wad of twenties. A thick wad.

  “Thing was, there was this man, one I’d seen a couple times before, not often, I didn’t know his name, standing in line behind Joel who seemed exceedingly interested
in him and his wad of money. I believe, from conversation I’d overheard him have with other customers on different occasions, the man lived in a run-down farmhouse somewhere in the older section of town.

  “Anyway, the man couldn’t take his shifty eyes off of Joel’s wallet. If you ask me, the man seemed down on his luck, he was filthy, with raggedy clothes and an angry look in his eyes. He stunk to high heaven, too. I’ve seen druggies before and I would have bet a hundred bucks the man was strung out or had some sort of mental problem. It was the way his body twitched; his eyes roved around everywhere as if he were dazed.”

  “Do you remember what this man, besides what he was wearing, looked like?”

  “Not really, sorry. He was so nondescript. Average looking. Average height. He kept his head down most of the time he was in the store. I think...dark longish hair. But that’s about all I can recall after all this time, other than what I’ve already said.”

  Frank nodded. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  “I do know he gave me the creeps, but I also felt sorry for him. I have a cousin I care about who has a mental condition. She’s bi-polar. So I recognize the signs. Earlier I’d seen the man get out of a ratty looking car with a smashed up rear fender...an old greenish, that weird lime green, color. A Pinto, if you can believe it. A real hooptie. I had thought: who drives a Pinto anymore? So that wreck of a car caught my eye.”

  “Did he and Joel interact in any way?”

  “No, but he watched Joel like a hawk watches a baby rabbit. Then Joel took what he’d bought and went out the door into the night. Here’s the thing.” Phyllis leaned closer, crossing her arms on the picnic table’s pitted surface. “Somehow Joel had left his credit card on the counter and after the man behind him paid for his soda and left, I saw the card laying there. I snatched it up and ran outside, in the rain, to see if I could catch Joel before he drove away. He was pulling out when I caught him. I ran up to his car and when he rolled down the window I gave him the credit card. He thanked me and drove away. I was soaked by then, but I felt pleased about doing a good deed, especially for Joel.

  “That’s when I saw the beat-up Pinto pull out behind Joel’s car. Hard to miss, besides the ugly color, it had a busted rear fender. I don’t know why but I had the feeling something wasn’t right. So before the Pinto roared off down the road into the fog I tried to get the license plate number.”

  “Did you?” Frank experienced a surge of excitement. His cop’s intuition was telling him this could be something. This could be important.

  Her shoulders fell a little. “Only the first three numbers. Sorry. It was raining too hard, and it was too foggy, to catch any more of it. I gave the numbers to the police when they came out to interview me the next day, after Joel first went missing, you know. I don’t remember them now, though I imagine they are somewhere in the police report.”

  Frank would be sure to search for them when he studied the Sutton report police Chief Dunham had given him. He couldn’t remember if any partial license numbers had been in Bracco’s dossier, or even if there’d been mention of Phyliss or the green Pinto. Which made him ask, “Did you give this information to Abigail’s private investigator, Andy Bracco, when he talked to you?”

  “Who?”

  “Andy Bracco? The private investigator Abigail hired after a couple of weeks when the police couldn’t find Joel? Bracco recently passed away and his daughter bundled up and recently sent his findings, the complete file on his investigation of Joel’s disappearance and what he uncovered afterwards, to Abigail. Curious, I had to read it. From what I could make of it all, there were some loose ends, things omitted or things that should have been included but weren’t, in the narrative. So I decided to try to chase down and tie up those loose ends, if I could. That’s one of the reasons why I’m looking into Bracco’s findings now.”

  “No, no, I don’t think I ever talked to him. Bracco, I mean. I spoke to no one else but the local police here.”

  That surprised Frank. “No one else?”

  “Nope.”

  Hmmm, Frank thought. That was strange. How had Bracco over-looked Phyliss and the green Pinto?

  “But,” she added, “I will say sometime after Joel went missing, I don’t recall precisely when, I was transferred to another Quick Trip a couple towns over and worked there for over a year before I was reassigned here. So perhaps I wasn’t here when that private detective did his interviews.”

  That scenario was possible, Frank supposed. But why hadn’t Bracco taken the time to track Phyliss down at the new Quick Trip and speak to her? He asked her that question.

  “I don’t know. Could be he meant to and something came up? Who knows now with him being dead and all.”

  “Yes, who knows now.”

  After a short conversation with her about his books and how she loved murder mysteries; wanted to write one herself someday–how many times had he heard that one–and other niceties sociable conversation demanded, he thanked her for her help and took his leave.

  Feeling better physically than he had felt before talking to Phyliss Day, the dizziness gone, he thought he’d finish what he’d started. He’d make that final stop before calling it a day and heading home. He had business at the medical examiner’s office on the other end of town. Chief Dunham had given him the address.

  EARLIER THAT MORNING, before he’d driven away from his house, Frank had been smart enough to call ahead and speak to the Fairfield medical examiner, a Stuart Woodley, and prepare him for his visit. After an amiable telephone chat with Mr. Woodley explaining what Frank needed and why, the man said he’d attempt to dig up Joel’s autopsy report, and any other medical files connected to it, and have a copy of them ready for Frank when he arrived. Here again Frank being an ex-cop, sheriff’s consultant, and a mystery writer, afforded him special treatment. He tried not to abuse that privilege, but when he really needed to use it, he did.

  “Detective Frank Lester, it’s nice to meet you.” The man who rose up from behind the desk, came around it, and shook Frank’s hand, was so short of stature, at first Frank thought he was a dwarf. He wasn’t. Just a very short man. He had a white lab coat on, his hair was the same color, and his face was pale. If he stood in front of a white wall, he’d be nearly invisible, except for his eyes, which were a brilliant and shrewdly intelligent blue.

  “I was a detective. In Chicago. Now I’m just a lowly sheriff’s consultant in Spookie, where I live.” Frank thought the other man’s handshake was unusually firm, yet his smile was warm.

  “Nothing to do with police work is lowly, Frank.”

  “Glad you think so.”

  The room they were in was spartan, as was the building itself. There was nothing on the walls. There wasn’t much furniture, and it was of a simplistic gray metal variety. Very futuristic. There were other doors, most likely to other rooms, visible. The room was so meticulously clean it looked as if someone had just mopped and waxed the floor, the walls, and the doors. The place made Frank cold. He knew what was beyond those doors.

  The other man smiled again and officially introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Stuart, in case you hadn’t figured that out yet. I’ve been waiting for you. I would normally have been out to lunch but I decided to go after your visit. I had to meet the cop who became an author. The cop who’s resurrecting a long dead cold case. Most excitement I’ve had in a long time. I’ll eat later.” He gestured Frank to an uncomfortable looking chair and, after he’d resettled himself in his seat, the man passed over a plain file folder, which was very thin.

  Frank took a quick look at the name on the file tab. Joel Sutton. “Thank you for this report, Stuart. Hopefully it’ll help me in my quest.” Frank smiled at the medical examiner. He’d already clarified why he’d wanted the file and what he was trying to do. Woodley had seemed to understand and hadn’t denied his help.

  “Hopefully. I salute you for trying to solve such an old case. There are way too many of them on the books as far as I’m concerne
d. People go missing or are found dead under suspicious circumstances all the time. Chief Dunham and his men do their best but there are always these rare cases that defy solving no matter how hard the detectives work. Nature of the beast, I guess. Being an ex-detective yourself, you know what I’m talking about.”

  “I do,” Frank replied. There were cases he’d left behind in Chicago he could never crack as hard as he tried. Some crimes remained unexplained mysteries forever. It was the nature of the beast.

  “You know,” the medical examiner volunteered, “I wasn’t here when this Joel Sutton went missing or when his remains were found. I’ve been here three years and, according to that file, Joel’s corpse was discovered in his car eight years ago.”

  Frank nodded. “That’s what you mentioned on the phone. But you’ve read the file?” As the folder lay in his lap, Frank tapped it with his fingers.

  “I had some time waiting for you, work load is light today, so I did read it. I’m an inquisitive man.”

  “Good, because since you’ve read it, I have a couple of questions. From what Chief Dunham told me there was no DNA taken off the body or from the outside of the car? Not even finger prints. How was that?”

  Woodley shrugged. “According to the file you have there, the car, demolished and abandoned in an isolated gorge about five miles from here, wasn’t found for two years–over two years. The corpse inside was skeletal with scarcely any flesh left to DNA test. Probably because the car’s windows had all been open the whole time and there had been the weather, of course; and the animals and insects had gotten to the body, which was a mess. The M.E. at the time, Carl Willis, did the best he could. Then again, because of the car’s wrecked condition, the police at the time of discovery believed Mr. Sutton had died in an accident. No one thought, as you are beginning to believe now, he might have been murdered. So why back then take DNA samples and look for finger prints? It is all there in the file. There’s nothing much else I can add to it or I can give you.”