The Silver Lake Murder

by Gregg Matthews

  “You are all done, my friend,” Blake says.

  “Two hours goes by fast when you are having fun,” the woman being tattooed says, winking to the woman holding her hand.

  “Check your new tattoo in the mirror. I will be over by the register,” Blake says.

  After processing his customer, he watches the two friends giggle as they walk out the front door. Some time passes and he is relieved he made it through the day and all of his appointments.

  He shuts the shop down for the night. He reaches into the refilled Styrofoam cooler and pulls out an ice-cold can of beer. He moves to the back of the shop and steps outside into the alley. He sits on an old crate relaxing his mind and body for a few minutes, drinking his beer. The sounds of the summer night are relaxing to him.

  The heat and humidity cause his eyelids to become heavy. He makes his way back into the shop to the makeshift bed. Quickly he falls asleep, knowing tomorrow he mustfind Pete for the details of the rest of the story. The makeshift bed in the back of the shop is where he will rest tonight. He tries to process everything Kelly told him. What Cindy must have gone through that night. He falls fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  The next day. The buzzing sound of the tattoo needle stops. Looking at the clock on the wall tells Blake it is 9:00 p.m. The workday is over, the last customer is complete. He needs to get everyone out of the shop and lock the doors. He prepares himself as best he can, for the drive to the Worthey Tavern in Lowell.

  Walking across the crushed stone parking lot to his car, he gets in and starts the engine. He pulls out of the parking lot and turns left onto Route 38. He drives in the direction of Lowell, MA.

  A couple of lefts and a right, he can see the sign, Worthen House Cafe hanging on the old multifamily house turned commercial real estate years ago. Pulling into the parking lot, he has to look a couple of times but sees an old beat-up brown pickup truck matching the description Kelly gave him. The pickup truck is parked off to the side next to the dumpster in the back of the parking lot. Parking his car, he walks over to the truck. He feels the dent in the hood. He wonders if this is where Cindy’s head made contact.

  Walking into the Worthen, he can see the patrons have been there for a while. Everyone at the bar area is drunk. Off to the side in a quiet corner, an older man with gray hair and a gray beard sits talking to himself, drinking a beer and what looks like whiskey. Pete.

  Blake stands over Pete with a controlled stormy rage in his eyes.

  “Are you Pete?”

  “I killed that girl,” Pete says, lowering his head and crying.

  “Come with me,” Blake says while grabbing the back of Pete’s T-shirt.

  “Okay, I am so sorry,” Pete begs.

  Some of the patrons and people who work there turn and look at what is going on. But most of them could care less. He and Pete walk outside to the parking lot. He walks to Pete’s truck.

  “This your truck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what happened the night of July 4th?”

  “Yes.”

  He and Pete unhitch the back gate, and both hop up to sit on it. Pete has a disheveled look in his eyes. The odor of alcohol from him is prevalent. He listens while Pete begins to unravel the story of what happened July 4th.

  “I sat back in to my old pickup truck after a brief shouting match with the man I was working for. I was told to leave the job site because I was a danger to myself and my co-workers. Using the power tools when you are drunk was a safety issue, and I knew better. The lunch I had that day consisted of a six-pack of beer and a flat bottle of whiskey. I sat in my truck and drank my lunch by myself. The boss didn’t like my behavior after lunch, so he paid me in cash and told me to go home for the day. The workday was over anyways. It was July 4th,” Pete says with slurred speech.

  “Keep talking,” Blake says with trouble in his eyes.

  “As I sat in the driver’s seat, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw I am not a young man anymore. My hair was long, messy, and gray. I had a full gray beard for years. My skin from working outside in the variable temperatures of New England is like leather. I have been wearing work boots, jeans and a T-shirt to work my whole life. I reached into the small cooler in the passenger seat and felt the cold water at the bottom of the cooler and nothing else.

  Reaching forward, I pressed in the cigarette lighter on the old dashboard of the truck. Retrieving a cigarette from the pack in the top pocket of my T-shirt. Turning the ignition key to the on position, the old pickup truck struggled to start, but after some time, it did start. I pulled away from the job site and began to drive the back roads towards Silver Lake.

  The cigarette lighter popped out and caught my attention. I looked down and reached forward to retrieve the lighter. When I did that, I swerved the truck into the lane next to me. I could hear the horn in the car next to me, letting me know my mistake. I waved my hand up in the air, letting the driver know I acknowledge my mistake. Taking a long drag off the cigarette, I blew the smoke out the window. As I crossed the state line of Massachusetts, coming from the job site in New Hampshire, I was swerving within my own lane,” Pete says, taking another swig from a small flat bottle of whiskey.

  “Keep talking,” Blake says angrily to the ground.

  The truck seemed to be on autopilot. I was stopping at the same places on the way home for years. I took the exit for Lowell. Up ahead, I saw the sign for here, Worthen. Pulling the truck into the parking lot of Worthen, I was relieved I made it without incident.

  The Worthen has a long history dating back to 1834 with some connections to famous writers like Edgar Allen Poe and Jack Kerouac.

  The crushed stone parking lot felt familiar to me. I was comfortable where I was. The city of Lowell has lots of bars. I have been to them all but was comfortable at the Worthen for now. Shutting the driver’s side door, I walked across the parking lot to the side entrance. Stepping into Worthen, I walked across the floor, my tired old body collapsed into one of the bar stools.

  “Hey Pete, happy July 4th. What can I get you?” the bartender said cheerfully.

  “Thanks. Can I get a draft beer and a whiskey, please?” I said.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks!”

  I acknowledged some friends and continued drinking into the night. The conversation, beer, whisky, and cigarettes kept flowing. Late into the evening, I saw Sam, the bartender walking towards me with a sad look in his eyes.

  “Pete, no more beer and whiskey. You are cut off. It’s 12:00 a.m., go home to your wife,” Sam said.

  “Yes, my wife was waiting for me,” I said, not wanting to go home.

  Leaving the Worthen, I stepped back into the truck. I took an hour to gather myself for the thirty-minute ride home to Silver Lake. Reaching forward, I pressed in the cigarette lighter on the old dashboard of the truck. I retrieved a cigarette from the pack in the top pocket of my T-shirt and lit it when the lighter popped out, I looked at my wristwatch and saw it was 1:00 a.m., the early hours of July 5th. I needed to drive south on Route 38 to get home to #8, North Shore Drive. I was going to be home by 1:30 a.m. if all went well. Turning the ignition key to the on position, the old pickup truck started on the first try. It must be my lucky night!

  The truck I was driving seemed to be on autopilot again; I was close to home. I made it back to Silver Lake safely.

  As I reached the front of the lake on Route 38. I saw a young woman running in my direction on the sidewalk. She was running from the sidewalk onto the streets of Route 38 in front of the lake near the new, Welcome to Silver Lake sign.

  I flicked the nub of my cigarette out the window. Reaching forward, I pressed in the cigarette lighter again on the old dashboard of the truck. Retrieving a cigarette from the pack in the top pocket of my T-shirt. The cigarette lighter popped out and caught my attention. Looking down, I reached forward and retrieved the lighter to meet the end of the new cigarette I pulled from the pack,” Pete says, looking sid
eways to see if Blake is listening to him.

  “Keep talking,” Blake says angrily to the ground.

  Standing up, Blake takes a couple of steps and stretches his arms and legs. Pete’s back makes contact with the bed of the truck. Some cars drive by with music blaring from their windows. Looking out at the city streets, he tries not to attack Pete. He needs Pete to tell him the rest of the story.

  “Come on, Pete, sit up and keep talking,” Blake says quietly.

  “Okay, Blake, one minute,” Pete says, taking another swig from the flat bottle of whiskey.

  CHAPTER 15

  Pete swigs his whiskey and continues talking.

  Luke came here to find me. He told me everything that happened leading up to the collision. Luke gave me some money to keep my mouth shut. But I don’t care anymore. I want to tell you what happened. You have the right to know.

  The four waitresses Cindy’s friends also came here and found me. They told me everything that happened from their perspective leading up to the collision as well.

  Cindy was running down the dirt road of Shady Lane with the Lakeview Lounge fading in the background. The lake was quiet and peaceful. She looked at her wristwatch and saw it was 1:30 a.m., the early hours of July 5th. A couple of leftover skyrockets raced across the front of the moon. She was running for her life.

  Running north onto Route 38, she was pulling at her clothes, trying to recover. She was running for her life, and no one seemed to care. Most of the local people have gone home.

  There was an old Lakeview Lounge pickup truck with Luke and Pierre in it behind her. The truck was quickly catching up. She could not see but thought there was a trail of people on foot chasing the pickup truck, trying to figure out what was going on. Shawn, Caleb, and Dylan must have been following the pickup truck on foot. Kelly, Tracy, Shannon, and Megan must have been running as fast as they could behind them.

  Cindy was running as fast as she could. Luke and Pierre were determined to catch her. Cindy knew too much about Luke’s Jackal operation, and tonight’s meeting did not go well for her. She knew the violent slashing with a razor blade made Luke and Pierre want to silence her.

  Bleeding and bloodied from the punches to her face from Pierre caused her to cry; the makeup, blood, sweat, and tears all mixed together on her face made her unrecognizable.

  Luke and Pierre were close behind her, and they were about to catch her. She was winded and desperate for help. She would have done anything to avoid another beating. She turned her head and body and could see Luke and Pierre in the pickup truck close behind her.

  “Help!” Cindy cried out.

  Knowing they needed to catch her and keep her contained in The Devil’s Den made her want to run faster. Out of breath, gasping for air, she continued running down Route 38, along the front of Silver Lake, towards the large white sign.

  She looked up while she was running and saw the headlights of the oncoming pickup truck. I was driving towards her. She stepped out in front of my pickup truck more than she should have, but she must have been sure I saw her. She must have been briefly relieved to frantically wave her arms over her head, hoping I saw her. She was hoping I would stop and help her.

  She must have recognized the pickup truck from next door and at the bar. She continued waving her arms and yelling for help. She must have been relieved at the sight of the truck.

  She must not have been able to see what was going on in the cab of the oncoming truck. She may have wondered why the truck was not slowing down and why she could not see anyone driving the truck. I was looking down at the popped lighter.

  “Pete!” Cindy shouted desperately into the empty night.

  “Pete!” Cindy shouted again, waving her arms over her head desperately.

  Cindy met the hood and the grill of the pickup truck I was driving that night. She must have had a flash memory of her neighbor, me and my five Driving Under the Influence convictions. She must have squinted her eyes to see the top of my head. She must have realized I was looking down and not looking in the direction I was driving.

  The last thing she must have seen was the horrified look in my eyes when I looked up and realized what I was about to do.

  Cindy’s face made contact with the hood of my pickup truck. Her midsection made contact with the bumper. I saw her body go flying in the air in the opposite direction she was running. I saw her body when it landed on the pavement, skidding along the street with a thud and a moan of pain, not heard by anyone. Her body was tumbling out of control. Her broken, beaten body rolled over a few times and came to a complete stop right under the sign with blue lettering reading, Welcome to Silver Lake. Some of her blood was flying through the air, trying to catch up with her body. The fresh human blood sprayed viciously across the front of the sign.

  Before she went unconscious, she must have seen Luke and Pierre in their pickup truck twenty feet from the sign. She looked up the road in the opposite direction and saw me, the driver of the truck she made contact with. I was standing outside of my truck, showing a look of horror. She thought I was going to rescue her.

  The problems she was having taking care of her mom. The amount of money she needed to make to pay her tab at the Lakeview Lounge and pay her bills at home was too much for her. The amount of drugs and alcohol in her system. The way Luke set her up to meet the bikers, the beating she received from Pierre, the crushing impact she received from my pickup truck: these things were too much for her to overcome.

  I watched as her eyes rolled back into her head for the last time. She took her last breath of fresh air. She was lying beaten, bloodied, and dead under the new sign.

  I was standing ten feet from Cindy, in front of my truck with a look of horror on my face for what I did. I saw Luke and Pierre standing twenty feet from Cindy, in front of their truck with a look of horror on their faces. The rest of the people from The Devil’s Den meeting, Pierre, Shawn, Caleb, Dylan, Tracy, Shannon, and Megan were all running to catch up and see what is going on.

  While I was standing there, I saw a wisp of steam rise from Cindy’s bloodied, beaten, body as if her soul was separating from her body,” Pete says, crying with his head down.

  “Oh man, what a mess,” Blake says into the night air.

  “What's going to happen to me?” Pete cries out.

  “I don’t know, Pete!” Blake shouts angrily, walking back to his car.

  Getting back into his car, he drives quickly back down Route 38 from Lowell to Silver Lake. He pulls into the crushed stone parking lot on Shady Lane. He exits the car and goes into the shop for the night.

  CHAPTER 16

  The next day. Blake is working on the last customer of the day. The hands on the clock have moved slowly throughout the day. He presses on the wad of cash in his front pocket. Some of the older customers still like to pay in cash. The younger customers all pay with credit or debit cards.

  He thinks about calling in a couple of more local tattoo artists tomorrow. Rivers Tattoo shop is up and running, making a lot of money. He needs some help.

  The muscles in his back, legs, and neck are letting him know the end of the day is close. His eyes are void of any moisture. The last time he looked in one of the many mirrors on the walls, his eyes had red lines racing across the white base. Around the edges of his eyes, there were traces of red also. His eyelids seem to have a weight to them.

  The noise of the tattoo needle stops, he wipes the blood and ink off the shoulder of his customer.

  “It’s going good. Are you OK?” Blake says.

  “Yes, I am good,” the young woman says.

  “Great, we are close to the finish.”

  The noise of the tattoo needle begins again.

  A little while later, he finishes the tattoo and processes the customer. Taking a minute to straighten up the shop after a long day, he does the best he can. He thinks now is a good time to have someone come in and clean the shop. He makes a note.

  The sound of the bell ringing over the front doo
r gets his attention. Turning his head, he can see Ray McCrery has walked into the shop calmly. Shifting his focus to make eye contact with Ray. He can see Ray has a toothpick in his mouth. He is wearing tan work boots, jeans and a T-shirt.

  He nods his head to Ray, acknowledging he sees him. He flips the sign on the door from Open to Closed.

  Pointing to one of the couches in the waiting area for Ray to take a seat. He and Ray sit down at the same time.

  “How are you, Ray?”

  “I am good, Blake.”

  “I know I asked you before, but I have to ask you again. Have you seen any sign of Rose?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, next topic. What do you know about Luke?”

  “He is a bad guy. He is bad for the people of Silver Lake. I need to take him out of the picture. I have been trying to lock him up over the last few years, but I can never get enough evidence to charge him with anything tangible.” Ray says, frustrated.

  “I have been learning a lot about Luke over the last few days. I think he is responsible for what happened to Cindy Flynn.” Blake says, lowering his head.

  “Evidence, my friend.”

  “I understand.”

  “I have a judge in the city of Lowell that will prosecute him. I have to make sure I arrest him in Lowell. I would do anything to take Luke down,” Ray says.

  “I have an idea,” Blake says, standing up showing Ray to the front door.

  “Let me know if I can help.” Ray says.

  “I will be in touch.”

  Leaning into his smartphone and sending texts makes Lester appear at the front of the tattoo shop. He locks the door and steps out of the shop into the night. He is carrying an orange-colored backpack. He and Lester walk down the front of the commercial buildings. There are no lights on in any of the shops. The area is void of any people. Midnight has come and gone. Early morning hours are in play.