“You gave me the file and that’s good enough. Thank you. I’ll return it when I’m done.”
“You don’t need to. Those are copies in that folder. We never release the originals.”
The two men spoke a brief time longer, mostly about what it was like to be a coroner in a small city, and how Frank conducted the research for the murders in his murder mysteries. Frank picked the coroner’s mind for relevant minutiae he could use. He found both Woodley and the office he held interesting, contemplating that he might make one of his characters in his new book a medical examiner. He hadn’t used one of those before in his books. So he listened and stored away every subtle nuance the M.E. exhibited. It helped that, after about fifteen minutes of talking, Frank realized he liked the man. Woodley was clever, a fair conversationalist, and had a wicked sense of humor.
“Working with dead people all day,” the M.E. said, “a doctor has to have a sense of humor, or the job can sour you pretty quickly. My staff here and I joke all the time, play pranks on each other. Laughter helps. Not much different than a police officer having to keep upbeat for his mental health.”
“So true,” Frank concurred. “In our lines of work a good attitude often keeps us from totally going around the bend.”
“Exactly.”
When Frank’s meeting with Woodley was over he left and drove home so he’d be there in time for supper. The day, with everyone he’d seen and spoken to, had tired him out and he was ready for his own hot coffee, a homecooked meal, and time alone later on the porch with Abigail. Digging into the tragedy of her past life had made him frantic to rush home to protect and love her. He was so grateful he had her and the children. The day had made him aware of just how fragile life could be, and how inevitable death.
THE MANAGER FROM THE Quick Trip telephoned Frank that evening. “I got permission from my boss to retrieve that surveillance video you wanted for the night in question. You were really lucky it still existed. The store doesn’t usually keep their surveillance videos that long. But, for some reason, the boss set it aside and preserved it. It shows the inside and the parking lot as you asked. I downloaded it onto a DVD. It’ll be in the mail to you first thing in the morning. The outside stuff is pretty fuzzy because the rain and fog makes it tricky to see what’s going on. But it’s something.”
“It’ll be better than nothing. Thank you. And perhaps I’ll spot something of use in it no one else has. Thanks for sending it to me and thank your boss for me, as well. I’ll be sure to put that autographed book in the mail tomorrow morning. I promise.”
Supper was over, Nick was in his room writing songs, and Abigail was preoccupied at the kitchen table adding finishing touches to her drawings from that day at the Theiss house. So Frank retired to his writing study where he delved into the files from Fairfield’s Chief Dunham and the its medical examiner Stuart Woodley; doubled checked a couple things in Bracco’s dossier. He was following a timeline and comparing details between the three accounts. So many things, he soon saw, did not match up.
He hadn’t told Abigail where he’d been that day or anything about the records he’d snuck home, hiding them beneath his shirt until he could unload them up in his study. Knowing he should tell her what he was up to, he found he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he knew more than he already knew. Not unless he could offer her more clarity on what had really happened, or on the possible identity of the man who, accidently or purposely, had killed Joel. Because, the truth that was dawning on him, after he’d mucked through all the files first to last pages, was he didn’t believe Joel’s death had merely been an unfortunate car accident. There were too many inconsistencies and too many unfollowed leads. Opening the police report again, he read through it for the third time. Looking for anything suspicious, anything off, to point the way...anything....
Bracco’s account had nothing in it about Phyliss or the green Pinto. The private detective never interviewed her, but the police report did briefly have her recounting of that night. The report mentioned Phyliss, the suspicious man in the green Pinto, how Phyliss ran out and saw it follow Joel’s car into the night. It listed the first three numbers, a partial license plate. But then nothing after that. Officer Price had never asked about or searched for that Pinto, never followed the bread crumbs. Sloppy. So sloppy.
Frank kept studying the files he had, taking notes and trying to figure out how everything fit in together, or not. Slowly, the picture of what had happened to Joel Sutton became clearer.
Later that night, he closed up the files and put them away so Abigail wouldn’t see them. He had a lot of thinking to do.
TWO DAYS LATER FRANK received the surveillance DVD from the manager at the Quick Trip. He watched it over and over on his laptop. And yes, there was Phyliss at the cash register, looking younger and happier. There was a man he took to be Joel–he’d seen Abigail’s pictures of him in the old photo albums–paying for his cigarettes at the main counter...and forgetting his credit card, an oddly behaving man in shabby clothes stalking him through the store and outside, Phyliss running after Joel out into the parking lot and there...in the foggy night was the Pinto, with a smashed rear fender, tailing Joel’s new red sports car out onto the highway. Bingo.
The parking lot and road leading away from the store portion of the video was grainy and, as Leroy Clark had warned, not very good, but good enough to make out the two vehicles, among the other cars at the gas pumps, leaving; driving under the gas station’s lights so Frank could just make out their colors. He replayed it again and slowed it down, paused it at certain times, but he couldn’t see the man in the Pinto clearly. It was too dark. He did think the man had longish hair, was most likely Caucasian, but other than that the figure driving was a blurry blob.
The only thing Frank couldn’t understand was why hadn’t Officer Price, or someone else in the Fairfield police department, search for the man in that beat-up Pinto? Yeah, Price had been incompetent all right. Frank closed the laptop. He sat there mulling over what he would do next. Then he had it.
He had to try to find that green Pinto, if it still existed. It was somewhere in Fairfield, if Phyliss had been right about the suspect living nearby, and if Frank was really lucky, or if fate was on his side, he’d locate it somehow...and the man who had driven it that night. He needed to speak to that man. It was the best clue he had so far.
Chapter 6
Abigail was up early that morning, leaving Frank snuggled sleeping in their bed. She’d left a note for him telling him where she’d gone. She wanted to get to the Theiss house as soon as she could and begin her first large canvas. On the news the night before the weatherman had said there would be rain by afternoon so she wanted to get as much accomplished as she could before the wet weather moved in.
She’d gotten out of bed, showered, slipped into her summer clothes, gathered her art supplies, the five by seven foot canvas for the day’s work, and had gone out to the car, grabbing an apple and a peach for breakfast on the way. She also had a go-cup of coffee. The canvas barely fit in her hatchback but she carefully inched it in. Figuring she could start the painting on scene and then she could finish it at home. It was important to begin the creative process onsite so she could feel, capture, the ambiance of the place.
When she had left the house she’d silenced her inner voice as it tried to caution her. Sure, the house had given her the willies every time she’d been there. Sure, Myrtle, Glinda and Frank didn’t like the place and wanted her to stay away from it. But what evidence did any of them have that the location was dangerous? None. So she would finish what she’d begun and paint what she wanted to paint. The house.
Everything packed in the car, getting ready to slide behind the wheel, she glanced up and saw a huge black crow squawking at her from a tree limb. Caw, caw, caw. It had its feathery head cocked down at her and was bouncing on the limb from foot to foot. Swatting its beak back and forth. So angry at her for something. She looked around. No other birds or people anywhere around s
he could see. Yep, it was shrieking at her all right. A frightening scene of birds swarming down to peck at humans from the old Hitchcock movie The Birds suddenly careened in and out of her mind. Yikes. The sooner she got in the car, the better. She was scared the crow was going to swoop down and attack her.
Frowning, looking away from it, she hoped the angry bird wouldn’t come after her.
Some people believed seeing a crow was a bad omen; it meant someone was about to die. Some said the crow was an omen of change for they represented ancient magical laws and wisdom, and when a crow called to someone, that person might have a flash of their authentic self because the crow saw their soul self. Abigail liked the latter portent better than the first. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the crow was still staring straight at her. It cawed again, and then, taking wing like a demented avenger, it flew straight for her.
She escaped into her vehicle as the crow swooped not more than three feet away from the closing door. Then the bird shifted direction and, after a sharp curve in its flight, disappeared up into the sky. Crazy bird. What had possessed it to fly at her? She had no idea. Good thing the car had been so near.
The sun, pulsating like a furnace in the sky above her, had already made the day hot. So she was glad she’d brought her wide-brimmed straw hat along. She’d need it, until the rain came anyway.
THE DRIVE OVER WAS pleasant and, humming an old Tom Petty song, Running Down a Dream, she allowed herself to appreciate the lovely day. Nothing bad could happen on such a day, she thought. Crow or no crow. She couldn’t wait to arrive at the house and begin painting.
Once on the premises she set up her largest easel and gently balanced the over-sized canvas on it She was grateful there was no wind to knock it off, just a slight breeze drifting around the property. Second thing she did was bring out her iPhone and snap pictures of the house from different angles. She’d initiate the paintings at the Theiss house but finish them at home, so photographs would be essential. Strolling cautiously on tip toes around the building so as not to step on any jagged glass or a, heaven forbidden, snake, she procured in photos not only the main structure but the well in the front yard, the trees around it, and the rusted swing set. She knew Frank wouldn’t be happy to learn she’d trespassed into the yard, no matter how careful she’d been, so she wouldn’t tell him. It was, after all, the only way she could have gotten the photographs she needed.
When she finished taking pictures, she prepared her paints then began sketching in pencil on the canvas until she had the house and yard outlined, soaking in the mood of the scene. The building and everything around it looked pretty much as it had the last time she’d been there, except she could have sworn somehow it felt, it appeared, different. The building looked...if possible, even more decrepit, more forlorn. If a house could weep, this one was weeping.
As often occurred, as she sketched and then switched to the paint, she went into a sort of trance where there was nothing else but her and her art in progress. There were only the canvas, the paint coming off the brushes onto it, and the fever of creating.
She’d gotten so much done in such a short time, the entire drawing and a portion of the painting, so she took a break to wipe the sweat off her face, arms and hands, sip some cold coffee and then, quite by accident, she happened to catch a glimpse of the upper level of the house.
Something, somewhat in the shape of a human, stood in one of the upstairs windows.
All she could make out was a shadowy outline, no details, no distinct features. It resembled a man but she wasn’t sure. Really? No one lived in the house any longer, it was falling apart, supposed to be empty, so who was in the window? The figure was there and gone a moment later.
The next thing Abigail knew, after hopping over the broken step, she was at the front door, her hand on the handle.
Don’t go inside. Frank had made her promise. Yet, she couldn’t stop herself, something beckoned her into the house, she moved into the murkiness of what must have been the entry hall. She stood there, breathing heavily, her eyes searching the flaking walls, and then took a few steps, her feet crunching on the brittle floor. It was stifling inside as if the outside heat had pooled within. She could see dirt swirling in the air around her, but the windows let in just enough daylight she could see what she had to see. Something, the sound of footfalls above her somewhere, caught her attention. Someone was walking around on the second floor. Someone or something.
She went through the entry way and into what appeared to have been the living room. The faded furniture, coated in spider webs and decades of dust, filled the room. It surprised her that everything had been left as it must have been when the previous residents had lived in the house. Over forty years ago. Had no one claimed any of the family’s possessions or cleaned the place out? Had there been no other family members to empty it? It was so creepy. So sad. The sofa, an uncomfortable looking boxy print-patterned thing, reminded her of one her family had had when she’d been a child. There were filthy lamps on the side tables, tattered magazines on the coffee table. One of the magazines, Redbook, had the date of May, nineteen seventy-nine, on the cover. An antique console television set of light colored oak wood squatted in one corner with old bunny ears on it, and the rugs on the floor were so covered in grime she couldn’t guess their original colors. The heavy dust made her sneeze. She covered her nose with the fingers of one of her hands.
All of a sudden the room was so chilly. Goosebumps popped up on her skin. She could hear strange moans and groans within the walls and beneath her feet, all around her, as if the house was sighing.
What was wrong with this house?
The footsteps above her halted, then resumed. She had the urge to climb the steps to her right and see who or what was up there. She had no light, though, and the upper floor would be darker than the first floor. Even on the ground level shadows lurked in the corners and spread across the walls like murky ghosts. She shivered. If she wanted to explore the upstairs she should have brought a flashlight. She should go.
She paused at the bottom of the steps. Again something pulled at her, and she began to ascend the stairs, the wood creaking torturously beneath her feet. This is not a good idea, she thought, but kept climbing. Soon she came up to and moved into the hallway, staring at the doors lining the upper level. Four doors. All closed. There were whimsical hand written signs on the doors. Jeanette and Imelda on one. Lucas on another. The door at the end of the hallway was just: Mom and Dad. How quaint. There were daisies bordering the signs. Daisies, as she recalled from old television shows, had been popular in the nineteen seventies.
Seemingly all on its own, the girls’ door creaked open barely a sliver. Another shiver crept across her flesh.
Walking toward the room’s door she was almost there when it abruptly and violently slammed shut. She jumped. The stillness of the hallway couldn’t have slammed that door shut. Her heart raced and a wave of dizziness hit her. She wrenched at the doorknob and, after fighting with it, tugged it open.
The room was a young girls’ room. It was painted a soft pink. The curtains had once been white with yellow daisies on them, now they were grimy and washed-out. There were cardboard daisies pasted across one wall. Framed horse and kitten pictures, along with macramé wall hangings, also decorated the walls in between the pictures. Some macramé purses hung on a hook on the inside of the door. There were two beds, and two dressers with the kind of fancy mirrors on the top of them that young girls would appreciate. Two night tables with lamps on them snuggled beside the beds. Both beds had washed out quilts on them. An oval pink rug covered the floor. A fan hung in the middle of the ceiling. There were pink shelves on the walls above the beds. One shelf had plastic dinosaurs of various sizes and colors, and some of those monster models kids had liked back in those days, on it. It looked as if the occupants had recently vacated the room, except everything was dirty with age.
But the room was empty of anything living, besides her. Whoever or whatever had been
standing outlined in the window, just seconds before, was no longer there. The emptiness of the room created an eerie sensation.
She moved closer to the window, and her fingers wiped off a circle of dirt on the pane so she could peak out. The window overlooked the front of the house and yard. The wall around the window was riddled with cracks, some large and some small, from the ceiling to the baseboard. The wooden frame around the window also appeared fragile as it was surrounded by a yawning gap. The whole wall, now that she looked hard at it, appeared to be on the edge of crumbling. She stepped away from it. The house was disintegrating from the inside out.
Leaving the room, closing the door behind her, she returned to the hallway. The passageway was now freezing...and then she heard someone crying in whispery sobs behind the door she’d just come out of. She reopened it; her eyes scanned the room. It was still empty. She shut the door again. But the weeping in the room continued, growing louder. She couldn’t tell if it was a man, woman or child. It didn’t matter. The sobbing unsettled her more than the creepiness of the room she’d just left. What was wrong with this house?
But that last trick had done it. Time to get out. She pivoted around in the hallway and practically ran down the stairs, not looking back once, through the living room, entry hall and out into the darkening day. She stared up at the sky. Charcoal hued clouds raced across it and, as forecast, raindrops were beginning to fall. She must have been in the house longer than she’d thought. The day felt so much later. The sun was heading downwards.
Grabbing up her canvas, easel, paints and folding chair, she dashed to the car as the rain erupted into a downpour. After loading everything in, she drove away faster than she’d come.
All Those Who Came Before Page 14
