The Opening Night Murders

by James Scott Byrnside

  “It’s Lucy.”

  “Lucy, I know who did it, and I think I know why. May I use the telephone?”

  “Is it a local call?”

  “How do you define local?”

  “I’m not supposed to let anyone make calls, even the employees.”

  “It’s terribly urgent. A matter of life and death.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes behind her glasses. “Really. People will die if you don’t make your phone call?”

  “I know it’s a cliché, but it’s the honest-to-God truth. Besides, a woman like you has to take pity on a man like me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I can see the wedding ring on your finger. That means my opportunity is over. I have to live with that tragedy for the rest of my life, and I’ll forever curse that lucky son-of-a-bitch you call your husband.”

  “Jesus Christ.” She twisted the phone and pushed it toward him. “Make it snappy.”

  Walter winked at her. He tried the office, but Rowan wasn’t there. He searched his pockets and found the number for Dave Bowen at the Brown Bear.

  “Yeah, Walter, we’re kinda busy. What can I do you for?”

  “Is Manory there?”

  “Nah.”

  “I need you to give him a message when you see him. Can you do that for me, Dave?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Tell him I solved the case. Well, a few things have to be checked out first, but I have the killer and method figured for sure. Tell him not to do anything, just wait for me. And make sure to stress that I solved it before he did. Be real shitty about it, and rub it in his face. If you have an evil laugh, this would be a good time to use it.”

  “Walter, I’ve got a pencil that’s about half an inch and the back of a receipt. Give me a quick, succinct message.”

  “Walter solved it. You should have read the playbill. California, here we come.”

  “Walter solved it. Shoulda read playbill. California. Okay, Walt, I gotta go.”

  “Abyssinia.” He grinned from ear to ear. “Enjoying the book, Lucy?”

  “I can’t figure it out. The body is in a locked room, the brother is nowhere to be found, it’s impossible.”

  “Naw, it’s easy. I went through practically the same thing down in Mississippi, except when I did it, it was much more complicated. And I had a flood to deal with.”

  “You solved a real locked-room mystery?” Her mouth fell open like a drawbridge. “All by your lonesome?”

  “That’s right. I had help from my assistant, but he played a very minor role. He mostly got in the way.”

  She pointed to his bandage. “What happened to your hand?”

  “Communist.”

  “Wow, you must live an exciting life.”

  “Not compared to Adair.” He gave two knocks on her desk. “Thank you, Lucy.”

  “Anytime, Walter.”

  A solitary bulb provided the only source of light outside the building. Walter walked to the parking lot behind the laboratory, his shoes trudging through the mud and onto the pavement. He scraped his feet and got into the car.

  Manory will be happy. It’s always the smallest detail that gets the noggin joggin. No more opening night murders. He heard it, plain as day. His brain really is getting old. The Manory from ten years back would have solved this case four days ago in his office. Los Angeles will fix him right up. The beach and the sunshine must do wonders for the mind. It would do wonders for Lucy, too. Poor girl. Gotta work in this building all night. Fumbling with a flashlight and a map, he planned his route back to Chicago as he whistled. There she is. There she is. That’s what keeps me up at night. Oh Gee whiz, Oh Gee whiz. That’s why I can’t eat a bite. Now ain’t she sweet? See her coming down the street. I ask you confidentially, ain’t she…

  Baraboo Station was a glorified log cabin with foliage growing spastically around the sides. A gangly old man with a pipe and a farmer’s hat bent down to the window pass. The pipe clacked against his false teeth as he spoke. “What are you looking for?”

  Rowan yelled through the glass. “It is a general store named Warner’s!”

  “This is Baraboo. I don’t know where you think you are.”

  Rowan yelled louder. “Warner’s!”

  The man straightened his head to think about it and then bent back down, pulling the pipe from his mouth. “Do you mean, Warner’s?”

  “Yes!”

  After a ten-minute walk and a short conversation with the manager, Rowan was directed to the back exit. A small pond and a rather unkempt garden of coexisting dead and living flowers sat next to an abandoned junkyard, the scraps of metal rusted and far past any useful condition. The whole area was engulfed in wild stalks of weeds and dirty crabgrass. A small girl stood knee deep in the water, splashing it idiotically with her arms. An aging woman with a taut face and tense jaws watched her from a lawn chair, a cigarette and an iced tea occupying her hands. Rowan cautiously approached her, the yearbook tucked under his arm.

  “Mrs. Ber?”

  She cocked her head. “Yes?”

  “Thank goodness. I was worried you were no longer employed here.”

  “I’m retired. My grandson runs the place now. That little angel is my granddaughter, Edna.”

  Rowan half-heartedly nodded toward the pond. “Lovely child.”

  “Little Edna must be supervised constantly. While my grandson works, I watch Edna. Edna suffers from Pica. Are you familiar with Pica, Mister…?”

  “Manory. No, I’m not.”

  She set the drink down, slapped the ants off her knees, and approached him. “Well Mr. Manory. It’s a disease you don’t want to have. I can assure you of that.”

  As opposed to other diseases? “Mrs. Ber—”

  “She has a compulsion to swallow things.”

  “I believe we all have the compulsion to swallow things.” He patted his gut. “Some of us more than others.”

  “Things, Mr. Manory. Things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Mostly metal things. Screws, nails, things like that. I can’t watch her all the time. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it. There must be about a pound of metal inside her. God only knows what else she’s stuffed in her gullet over the years.”

  “I seriously doubt it comes to a pound. She would not be alive.”

  “Oh, Edna’s time isn’t long. If she swallows one more thing, her stomach might not hold out. That’s why I put her in the pond. Everything’s natural in that pond. If she eats plants or bugs, or…I don’t know. What else is in a pond?”

  “Protozoa. Bacteria.”

  “Let her eat bacteria. It’s better than metal.”

  “I’m sure it is. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve traveled a long way to find you, Mrs. Ber.”

  “I can’t imagine why. I’m a nobody.”

  “In 1912, a man was murdered up in Devil’s Lake.”

  “Clarence Williams.”

  Rowan stood back, stunned. “You remember him?”

  “I’ve never forgotten his name, the poor man. But, they didn’t know for sure that he was murdered.”

  “He drowned.”

  “He didn’t know how to swim. Of course he’s gonna drown. That’s just common sense.”

  “Why would he drive from Chicago to go swimming, if he did not know how to swim? Why was his car found back in Illinois?”

  “I think about it every so often, I do. What if he drowned and that poor woman I saw him with, she panics? Right? She drives away and it isn’t her fault. Besides, people have been known to do stupid things. They are people after all.”

  “The police brought a suspect here.”

  “If that’s what you’d call her.”

  “You refused to identify her.”

  “I couldn’t identify her. She had dark hair and she was skinny.”

  “And the woman you saw all those years ago with Clarence Williams was fat and had blonde hair.”

  “The word I used was pudgy
. She wasn’t fat. I couldn’t call her fat. That would be overstatement.”

  “Mrs. Ber, would you remember the woman’s face if you saw it now?”

  “Of course.”

  “You are certain?”

  “It’s one of those moments in my life that plays in my head every so often. Comes at the darndest times, too. I’ll be peeling carrots, and I’ll see her face. I know exactly what she looks like or at least, what she looked like then.”

  “Good.” He opened the book and held it in front of her. “Do you see that woman in any of these photographs?”

  She looked down, her eyes scanning the page again and again, until they finally settled. Her lips parted open. “Oh, my God.”

  “You see her, don’t you?”

  She pointed. “That’s her.”

  Rowan looked down at the photo under her finger. His face went slack.

  “As sure as we’re in Baraboo, that’s the woman I saw.”

  Mrs. Ber was not pointing at either of the Pluviams, nor any other student on the page. Her finger was pointed at the top row of teachers. She was pointing at Christine Filius.

  CHAPTER 14 doctor brown

  10:19 p.m. Monday, April 16th

  Officer Young adjusted the rearview mirror. “Grady told me I’m to drop you off in Adair and then stay to make sure you can drive your partner’s car back.”

  Rowan said nothing.

  “I said I’m responsible for getting you back to Chicago.”

  “You may leave as soon as you drop me off. I will have no need for you then.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened. Walt was a good guy. It’s got to be rough. I hope they catch the bastard who did it.”

  “I will catch him.”

  “You should get to sleep. It’s about two more hours and you’re going to be exhausted when we get there.”

  “In which direction are we headed?” asked Rowan.

  “To Adair.”

  “I mean on a compass.”

  Young thought for a second. “Southwest.”

  Oh, Walter.

  The sheriff slid his glasses into his shirt pocket. “I understand you were friends with the deceased.”

  Rowan’s voice cracked a bit, so he lowered it. “Yes, to tell the truth, my only friend.” His bottom lip stuttered up and down. He was terrified he was going to cry.

  The sheriff lowered his head, “I know this’ll be hard for you. So, I thought we’d go in there together, and I could lead us in prayer? Was Walter a God-fearing man?”

  Rowan nodded politely. “He was Baptist.”

  “Here in Adair, we’re mostly Methodist. I don’t think that’ll make a bit of difference though. It don’t matter the sect.”

  Walter’s pale corpse lay atop a white sheet on a patient bed. The slash at the throat began as a high curve on the left side and then followed a slight dip as it traveled to the right.

  “In your hands, oh Lord, we humbly entrust our brother, Walter Williams. In his life you embraced him with love. Deliver him now from every evil and bid him eternal rest where there will be no sorrow, no weeping or pain, but fullness of peace and joy with your son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Blood under one cracked nail. The bandage completely bloody from grasping at the throat, the other just under the nail, chipped on the dash. It was from the backseat. “Where was the car found?”

  “On Main Street. It’s a small strip, about two blocks. He was parked in front of the mechanic’s. I think Walter was killed while sitting in the front seat and then dragged into the back.”

  “Any witnesses? Anyone see another car? Perhaps a blue Auburn sedan?”

  “This town only has two hundred and thirty people. No one sits around Main Street after dark, everything’s closed. Would you like to go have a look at the car?”

  “In due time.” He fumbled for a cigarette. “I will arrange for the body to be driven to Chicago in the morning. Right now, I need to find Dr. Edmund Brown.”

  “That’s easy. Doc Brown will be at the laboratory.”

  Rowan checked his pocket watch. “At this hour?”

  “He works overnight with his secretary. Do you think he had anything to do with the murder?”

  “Not directly. Also, if you would be so kind, I’d like a list of theaters near here. Perhaps a fifty-mile range.”

  “That might take a bit of time.”

  “Whenever you can. I will call you in the next few days.”

  “I’ll do my best. Well, I’ll wait outside and give you a moment alone.”

  Rowan took a drag. “Why?”

  The sheriff played with the brim of his hat. “I think you should say something to him. How long did you two fellas know each other?”

  Rowan froze. “Fifteen…no, sixteen years. We met at the annual Policeman’s Ball. I was in the corner nursing a drink and praying no one would talk with me. Of course, he walked right up and introduced himself. Williams could talk with anyone. He had that gift. He enjoyed people.” He turned to the corpse. Walter’s face was pained, the shock carved into the cheeks. “I was thinking in the car ride here, what my last words to you were. I could not recall. I know I hung up the phone on you.” The last word choked in his throat. He pinched the bridge of his nose, desperately holding on to his composure. “Do not worry, my friend. You may rest easy now. I will catch him.” He bent down and kissed Walter’s forehead and stroked back his brown hair. “He will pay for this.”

  Doctor Brown’s lips rubbed against each other when he wasn’t speaking. A rhythmic sort of tic, it came across as wholly unnatural. “I reckon I remember Mr. Williams. It were only two nights ago. Ain’t that old yet.”

  “I need to know exactly what he asked you and what you told him.”

  “Now looky here, Mr. Williams done give me assurance no more trouble was coming my way. It’s not two days later, and another detective is here asking me questions. What good’s anyone’s word if it gets broken so quick?”

  “If my friend made such an assurance to you, then I am certain the assurance will stand.”

  He tapped a shaking finger on the page of an open tome. “Then what are you doing here? What did this Williams fella tell you?”

  “Mr. Williams told me nothing. He was found on Main Street Sunday morning with his throat slit. You were one of the last people he spoke with, and you will tell me what it was you spoke about. Currently, I would prefer to keep the police out of this, but if you give me no choice, I will break Mr. Williams’s word, and in two days time, some extremely clumsy, accident-prone Chicago cops will search your building, and they will find something incriminating whether it is here or not.”

  “Good Lord! I…” Brown stood up and walked to a propped globe in the corner of the room. He slapped at it, spinning it around a few times. “Well, this is a right mess, ain’t it now?”

  “What did you and my friend discuss?”

  “I asked him what he was doing here. Then he asked me what I thought he was doing here. I told him he was probably here on account of my son.”

  “Timothy.”

  Brown nodded. “I’ve made mistakes in my life. Show me one man that didn’t. None have cost more than my boy. It’s too late now.”

  “What did Timothy do?”

  “The pyrotol.”

  Rowan lit a cigarette. “What pyrotol?”

  “It’s a—”

  “I know what it is.”

  “I keep it at my farm. When the government sold off the last batches, I stockpiled it.”

  “Timothy stole it.”

  “Some of it, aye. There was that explosion up in Chicago and I read that they used pyrotol. I didn’t think too much of it at first. It ain’t gold for Christ’s sake.”

  “Keeping this information to yourself is a serious offense.”

  “Walk a mile in my shoes. Wouldn’t you protect your boy? He was always different, Tim. Aimless with idle hands. You know what they say about idle hands?”

  “Do you kn
ow Timothy’s current location?”

  “Yeah. He’s at his sister’s, 1422 Montrose. The house is in her husband’s name. They went to France for the summer. He called me from there. The boy is scared, Mr. Manory. I think he’s done strung out on something.”

  “Is Timothy a communist?”

  Doctor Brown sputtered with indignation. “Ridiculous. Timmy’s too stupid to have views. If it were political, then he musta been coerced.”

  “What else did Williams ask you?”

  “We talked about how awful Chicago was. He said he was going to California. He was sure of it now.”

  “When did he say that?”

  “I reckon it was right before he left.”

  “And what were you talking about just before.”

  “I told you—”

  “Specifically, what were you discussing the moment before he was sure about going to California?”

  “Well, Mr. Williams was a big talker. Talked a whole bunch. Uhh…I told him that this was just offices and laboratories and the plant proper is in Glenview.”

  “And?”

  “And that Glenview ships medical supplies to hospitals in Chicago.”

  “And?”

  “And we recently sent a new drug for testing. Curare.”

  Rowan took a long satisfying drag of smoke. “That is…How would you call it?”

  “A powerful muscle relaxant. You find it in South America. The natives use it to hunt black buck and wild boar. It’s been around for a long time. In the 1840’s, civilized people discovered it. We’ve been experimenting and, it’s just about done ready. I reckon five years before we can use it on patients.” He chuckled. “Another fine example of how the empirical knowledge of them backasswards rainforest Indian tribes can be made useful by Western science and the pharmaceutical industry.”

  “Curare is mentioned in a few stories of Sherlock Holmes. How does it function precisely?”

  “It acts upon the voluntary muscles ’stead of the nerves or heart. The subject feels everything that’s happening, but can’t move. It’s completely safe, except you need artificial respiration. I told that sumbitch up at Garfield to get himself an iron lung before I’d think about sending it to him. What was his name?”