Mercy Killing

by M. Glenn Graves

  Rosey was the first to see the file cabinets behind the curtained off closet. It was an extremely large closet, more like a small room, and it housed seven wooden filing cabinets.

  We searched each file cabinet under the watchful eye of Roscoe Tanner. To our surprise, we did find drawers and drawers of files on Cranebottom’s patients, but nothing on Colby Johnson. We opened desk drawers, looked through some stacked boxes neatly piled in various corners of the office, and searched in vain nearly every corner of the place without finding anything related to baby Colby.

  “It seems so undisturbed,” I said. “You would expect to find something on a case like that.”

  “I agree,” Sheriff Tanner said. “Maybe he kept it...in a safe place,” he said and walked to the bookcase directly across from the doctor’s desk.

  Tanner scanned the shelves as if looking for a particular book. Finally, he moved a group of books and revealed a wall safe that had been hidden behind those volumes.

  “Shrewd of you to think of such a thing, Sheriff,” I said.

  “Oh, not so shrewd. It’s just knowing the people. Comes with the territory. People back then, like my father and grandfather, believed in placing important documents in secure places. Before the days of safety deposit boxes. Just following my instincts, and my heritage,” he said.

  “Now all we need is the combination,” I said.

  “I’m afraid Dr. Cranebottom took that to the grave with him. It is highly unlikely that he would have written down the combination for someone to find and open up his treasure trove,” Tanner said.

  “Don’t need a combination,” Rosey said.

  He crouched to the eye level of the safe and began turning the dial.

  “You crack safes?” I said.

  “Vigorous training,” Rosey said.

  “Perhaps I need to investigate your past,” Tanner said.

  “Just pretend you don’t know I’m doing this,” he said, probably to both of us.

  “You expect the law to turn a blind eye?” Tanner said.

  “Well, I could give you the combination code once I get it, you could write it down and tell anyone who asked that we found it hidden in the desk drawer under some papers. Or, we could leave now and never know the contents of the safe,” Rosey said as he stood up waiting on Tanner to answer.

  “Okay,” Tanner said, “forgiveness over permission. Go ahead. Tell me the code and I will write it down. Besides, I’m not sure that John Boxley would give us permission to open this safe.”

  “He gave us permission to enter the building,” I said.

  “Yes, but that was because he didn’t expect us to find anything, I’m sure. If he learned that there was a safe, he would begin to see green and think that we had unearthed a veritable Fort Knox right here in Riley Corners,” Tanner said.

  “You must know the man pretty well,” I said.

  “Not as well as I would like, but, yes, I know him well enough. He’s a sly old fox, that’s for sure. Owns a lot of real estate around town, and in the county. Why, he even owns the Morning Glory Nursing Care Facility,” Tanner said.

  “You’re kidding,” I said as I raised my eyebrows for Rosey.

  “One does not joke about one’s wealth in this town,” Tanner said.

  “I thought your cousin Mary owned that facility,” I said to see if Roscoe would tell me more.

  “She did, in fact. Owned it for a number of years. Made a lot of money from that place, as you might imagine. But she was weary of owning it and having all the responsibilities of making sure that the place was operating for the good of the people. Mary really didn’t run it for the profit. So, she got out. John Boxley was more than a willing buyer when I told him that Mary wanted to sell it. Not often you have a resident of a facility like that with enough money to buy the institution in which he lives.”

  “Not often,” I said.

  Rosey bent down and proceeded to open the three foot square wall safe. It took him about a minute to listen to the clicks and to decipher the combination. With each click, he provided Tanner with a number. Tanner wrote it down on an old envelope he found on the desk. Tanner then opened the bottom desk drawer on the right hand side, found a small index card and copied the combination onto the card. He folded the envelope and put it into his shirt pocket. He then placed the index card in the bottom of the open drawer, covered it over with some papers, and shut the drawer.

  “If I were a suspicious person, I would say that you had done that before,” I said.

  “If you won’t tell about my forged index card, I won’t investigate your friend and his skill at cracking safes,” Tanner smiled at me.

  “Seems we have reached a compromise,” I said.

  “I think you two will want to see this,” Rosey said as he pulled out a large stack of papers and files from the wall safe.

  Rosey handed me a file. The name Colby Seth Johnson was typed on the file label. It was old typewriter that had been used because the C and S and J were all higher than the rest of the letters on the line. Reminded me of the kind of machine I had typed on in high school. My father had one at the house as well, one that I used to type my first high school term paper.

  I opened the file and began reading. There were two medical reports inside the file. Both of them were coroner’s reports. The first one was dated April 24, 1933. It listed the cause of death as unknown but suspicious. It was signed by Dr. Robert Cranebottom, Coroner. A paper clip attached a second sheet to that document that provided Dr. Cranebottom’s typed observations and opinions based upon his findings after examining Colby’s body. It detailed the fact that some goose down was found inside the nasal cavity of the child as well as in his throat. There was also a notation that this goose down was first detected by J.B. Johnson, Sr. while examining the corpse at the funeral home. It said that the undertaker notified him of his findings and they checked the body together. He concluded that it was likely that Colby suffocated because of a feather pillow.

  The second report was dated April 25, 1933. It listed the cause of death as natural, but unknown. There was no second page attached. This document was also signed but had the official seal embossed on the lower right corner. There was a short, written explanation at the bottom of the sheet that said that Colby Seth Johnson likely died because of his asthma condition.

  “Two forms, both official looking, but only one signed and sealed,” I said. “Wonder why he kept both of these?”

  “Also wonder why he changed his mind from one day to the next?” Rosey said.

  “More examination of the body?” Tanner wondered out loud.

  “Maybe, but he didn’t have the body for very long, only a few hours,” Rosey said.

  He handed me another piece of paper. It was an unofficial document that said Colby’s body was to be cremated. It was signed by Joseph Johnson. I handed it to Tanner.

  “This is really unusual,” he said. “Folks around here don’t do cremation very often. Consider it suspect, and it goes against their religious upbringing. Back then it would have been practically taboo. Fire is demonic, you know, and, I think, connected with the end of the world. Cremation would have raised some eyebrows.”

  “You think the town knew?” I said.

  “That the baby was cremated?” Tanner said.

  I nodded.

  “How would you keep that a secret?” Tanner asked.

  “Don’t tell anyone and buy a coffin for display,” Rosey said.

  “Place the ashes inside the coffin,” Rosey said.

  Tanner’s color began to change slightly as he thought about our speculations.

  “Sheriff, I wish you would do me a favor?” I said.

  “Do you a favor?” his tone suggested a heightened degree of sarcasm.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, since you are so enamored with my snooping around your town and county.”

  “I’d say. Whattaya want?”

  “Do some digging on Mr. John Boxley.”

  “What’s o
ld John got to do with anything?” Tanner said.

  “He has been entirely too helpful,” I said.

  “That’s a crime?” he said.

  “It is if you are bent on hiding something.”

  “And just where would I begin this digging?”

  “I’d recommend that you procure a search warrant for this entire building and go from there.”

  “Procure?” he said.

  “It means –,” I started to explain.

  “I know what it means,” he said showing some slight offense at my assumption. “Just not used to people around here talkin’ like that. And what is it I would be digging around for?”

  “Whatever you find.”

  “Might need more than that to get a judge to agree with the search document,” Tanner said.

  “Show the two corner’s reports and tell them what we can prove so far,” I said. “It might be enough to get a search of the premises. Makes it all legal just in case Boxley changes his mind about letting us look here.”

  42

  I called Rogers and provided every tidbit, pertinent or otherwise, which I had exposed, trying not omit anything. I have learned that the smallest fact often is the very one which she uses to discover what we need to solve difficult cases. Her microprocessor was faster than any over-the-counter machine one could buy, or at least any computer I would have access to. Plus, I had the added benefit of her highly inflated opinion about most things. That was the secret ingredient that made her unique, and difficult. Blessing and curse. Life with Rogers.

  “What do you want me to do?” Rogers said.

  “Work your magic.”

  “It’s not magic.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Credit where credit is due, that’s all I’m asking.”

  “I need to know who, in your data processing opinion, killed Colby Johnson.”

  “You have a suspect?”

  “I have several, but I have a favorite. I just need to know if you think what I am thinking.”

  “Perish the thought. However, for the sake of candor, it is highly probable that we both could be way off base because of so much conjecture in your findings,” Rogers confessed. This surprised me.

  “Not used to you having doubts.”

  “Not doubts. The information is tangible, but sparse. It is full of conjecture from the sources. Allowing for that, I think the ideal suspect is Beth Anne, the mother.”

  “Reason?”

  “Well, I will espouse the most obvious scenario for you. First, she was likely jealous of her son, Colby, because of her husband’s strong affection toward him. Some speculation in that; but, he was the male heir, the line of Johnsons continues through young Colby, the bonding of father and son, you get it, all that stuff is embedded. Second, because of the abuse she suffered through the years, and because she feared that her son could grow up to be just like his father, she decided that it was too much to bear. It is possible she thought it better to end it before it began. More speculation, from a highly intelligent entity, namely me, but reasonable.”

  “That’s what Rosemary Jenkins thinks.”

  “She might be right,” Rogers said.

  “She alone in this?”

  “You mean, did she have any accomplices?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “She was probably crazy enough by the moon glow to do it herself.”

  “So why is the daughter so caught up with her nightmarish visions that come to her in bits and pieces?”

  “You want me to be a psychiatrist now,” Rogers suggested.

  “I want you to evaluate what I have given you.”

  “Psychiatric training notwithstanding, it is highly likely that the daughter saw it happen from underneath the bed. She saw her mother smother her brother.”

  “My thinking as well.”

  “On both counts?”

  “Yeah, I believe the mother did it. And I think the daughter saw it. But I have a bad feeling about the rest of the story.”

  “The rest of what story?”

  “The rest of what happened to Mary Elizabeth Carpenter.”

  “Since you and I do not adhere to coincidences, then there is no way that Robby Carpenter died in the same crib, in the same house, at the same age, under a full moon phase, and of the same mysterious type of death without a connection to Colby’s demise. That’s too much to swallow. You think Mary Carpenter killed her son as well,” Rogers said.

  “I do.”

  “Well, it is logical,” Rogers said.

  “But only in a weird kind of way.”

  “Weird or not, the logic exists; however, that does not make it a fact.”

  “I’m actually listening to you discount logic, your whole premise for being,” I said.

  “I have no premise for being. I was brought into this world to do your bidding. Logic is the way I function; but, as you already know, when it comes to human beings, logic is not so logical.”

  “I’m talking to R2-D2.”

  “That’s a fictional character. I am real. You might want to consider what I am offering you as an insight on a very old murder based upon the facts you have learned, albeit limited facts.”

  “So you think Mary Carpenter did not kill her own son as a result of watching her mother kill Mary’s brother?”

  “Watching such a horrible act alone would not be sufficient to cause Mary to kill her own son. There likely needs to be another trigger.”

  “Likely?”

  “Most likely.”

  “You’re hedging.”

  “I’m considering more options than you.”

  “It is always so much fun, and so stimulating to have these conversations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That was sarcasm, Rogers.”

  “I know what it was. My thank you was sarcastic as well.”

  “Let me know if you deduce anything else with your superior logic.”

  “You’ll be the first.”

  Rosey and I were sitting with B.C. and Rosemary enjoying some after dinner tea and cookies. I had told Rosey before our tea-and-cookie gathering with the ladies the gist of my Rogers’ conversation. He had no response.

  During the tea time, I told the ladies about our visit to the old office building of Dr. Cranebottom.

  “You find anything of interest?” Rosemary said. “I’m surprised John Boxley allowed you to go into that building without supervision.”

  “The sheriff was with us,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean that kind of supervision. Boxley has his own supervisors.”

  “The old man in the nursing center?” I said.

  “Don’t let that old coot fool you. He still runs his businesses.”

  I recalled Boxley’s wry smile and his comment about never really knowing folks. Maybe that old fox was toying with me.

  “We found some documents that indicate Dr. Cranebottom had some questions about the death of Colby,” Rosey said and brought me back from my wondering about John Boxley.

  “Specifically?” Rosemary queried.

  “How did they dispose of the body?” I asked her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, since you were there, I figured you either heard what they were planning to do, or you were suspicious about what they were doing.”

  “They had a funeral,” she said.

  “And they had a casket at that funeral.”

  “Yes, I remember a casket. A small one. It made an impression, you know. For a child.”

  “But was there a body in the casket?”

  “What are you gettin’ at?”

  “Rosemary, I figure you know a lot about what happened on that day. In fact, I think you know more than you have been telling us. You have told us what you thought was safe, but you are still protecting yourself.”

  “You think I had something to do with that child’s death?” her tone changed dramatically.

  “No, I do not. I think you were the ch
ild’s protector for most of its young life. I think you were shocked by what happened and I think you know that the family had the child cremated, that the casket contained no physical body.”

  Rosemary was speechless. Her old, brown eyes watered and tears found their way down the crevices on her aging face. She wiped her eyes but remained silent. The pain was obvious. Her daughter put her arm around her and stroked her gray hair.

  After a few moments, B.C. kissed her mother on her head and spoke softly to her.

  “You can tell them, Mama. I think we can trust these two by this point.”

  It naturally crossed my mind as to whom she could not trust.

  “I tried,” Rosemary began, still sobbing softly.

  I have learned along the way while interrogating someone, it is sometimes best to give a person time to say what they need to say, especially when they are emotional. The emotion will generally bring the buried story to the surface.

  “I lied to Mr. Washington a little bit. I told him some, but not all. You know, earlier when we talked about that bad day. I was busy cleaning up in the kitchen, washing dishes and silverware, but when I heard Mary squeal, well, I couldn’t tell whether she was in real trouble or just playin’ around. I went to investigate.”

  She looked at me as if to beg some comment. Tears were still flowing down her cheeks. Her agony was real.

  “Go on.”

  “When I entered the nursery room, Beth Anne was leaning over the crib, you know, like hovering over and she had both hands in the crib. Mary was standing beside her and then Beth Anne glared at her, I mean some kind of stare like I ain’t ever seen in my whole life, up till then or since. It was awful. Such a look she gave that child. So, I walked over to the crib and asked her if everything was alright. Then I saw what was happening. She had a pillow over the face of Colby and she was pushing down on it, you know, pushing on both ends of the pillow, holding it down so to suffocate that child. I yelled out, ‘What on earth you doin’ to the baby.’ And I grabbed at her hands, and she flung me away like I wasn’t anything at all, you know, just like you would throw a rag doll across the room. Such strength like I never felt from a man before. She just took one hand and pushed me away, like I was nothing...but she held on tight to that pillow with the other hand. I can still see it, plain as day. So, I tried to stop her again, and then she turned her head and glared at me just like she had been a-glarin’ at little Mary. Why that look would have scared a ghost! I never seen anything at all like that. And all she said to me was ‘Leave.’ She said it clearly, firmly, and with every intention that I should get out of that room. But it was a strange voice coming out of her mouth.”