Where the Sun Sets

by Ann Marie

  “Sharon, sorry to bother you. It’s me again.”

  “What can I do for you this time boss?”

  “Nothing probably, I’m not sure. Just a feeling, like I’m missing something.”

  “You OK, Harry, ya want me to run over to your place?”

  “No, no it’s nothing like that. It’s just; well it’s this Dal Santo thing.”

  “Listen, you have to let it go. What happened wasn’t your fault. Stop kicking yourself.”

  “Christ Sharon, if I wanted to have my ass wiped, I’d check myself into a nursing home. What I am trying to say is that I don’t feel as if I have what I need here. Instinct tells me this shooting has to do with her past. I have looked all through my files and, I don’t know, maybe I am just looking too hard.”

  “OK, boss, tell ya what. Meet me down at Joe’s in twenty minutes. You can by me a cup of coffee and you can tell me what it is you’re missing. How’s that sound Chief, you game?” Harold did a once over his desk before replying. “Thanks hon. Sounds like a good idea. I appreciate you taking the time.”

  It only took Harold ten minutes to walk to Joe’s, where he ordered the coffee and some sticky buns. He picked a booth by the front door. Not only did this allow Sharon to locate him quickly, but it looked less like a date. For some reason, the latter part was important to Harold.

  Sharon walked in, right on schedule. Harold stood up as she slid herself into the booth. She had her hair done in a loose Gerry curl. Her normal caramel colored skin had a darker tone that whispered ‘I spent some time on the beaches of Maryland not too long ago.’ “You look wonderful, Sharon, just wonderful.”

  “You look well Harold, like you haven’t slept in three months, but healthy.” And after several minutes of reminiscing Sharon questioned, “Tell me, what’s the thread that has you connected to this shooting. Where did it happen again? Connecticut? What makes you inclined to believe that it had anything to do with what happened here more than thirty years ago.”

  Harold scanned the tiny snack shop for intruding ears. “I’m not sure, like I said on the phone. Something doesn’t feel right. Like something was missing from the files. A report, a photo, anything, something, I don’t know.”

  Sharon knew her boss pretty well. There was a time when, if he felt something was missing, then you could be sure something was missing. But as she looked at him this morning, she was not so sure. Before her sat an old and withered man. His hair was greasy and looked as if it hadn’t been brushed in weeks. His shirt, which was covered by a suit coat that probably could have stood up on its own, was stained with an assortment of breakfast samples.

  Sharon glanced thoughtlessly at her watch. She placed a gentle hand on one of Harold’s. “Listen boss, if it’s your instincts talking, then ya gotta listen. But where would the missing piece be located? Could it be located in Connecticut? There was no other family right? And her father died in prison they said. I’ll go back to the station and see what I can find out for you. But I am pretty sure we have everything you have.” Sharon slid herself to the edge of the booth and started to stand up. “Have you tried calling Chester? He’s still stationed down at the prison. Maybe he could give you something more to go on.”

  Harold was gazing out the window. He turned to meet Sharon’s glance. Her eyes told him she felt sorry for him. This caught him of guard and upset him a little. He barely heard what she was telling him. “Chester, yeah, that might be a good idea.”

  “Boss, do yourself a favor and get a haircut and a shave. Call me if you need me. Thanks for the coffee. I gotta get back to the station.”

  Yeah, maybe Chester could be of some help. The fact that Harold’s stomach stopped hurting told him it was so. But why would he need a haircut and a shave before going to the house? Harold threw a couple of bills onto the table as he stood to leave. A younger couple, looking like tourists, passed him as he left the snack shop. He turned to watch them walk to their booth and immediately started missing his wife. As he passed the front of the shop, he caught his reflection in the chrome siding. He was stopped in his tracks. How had this happened? He looked like a street urchin. He pulled the collar of his jacket up, to hide his face. Tucking his chin to his chest he hurriedly walked home.

  Once inside his house, he locked the door behind him, and raced up the stairs. The image looking back at him from his bathroom mirror was frightening. It looked more like his father than Harold. He set himself to work, and thirty minutes later was on his way to Nick’s for a shave and cut.

  By the time he was at the Big House he looked and felt more like the Chief Inspector he had once been. Chester jumped to his feet the moment he saw the man. Extending his hand he patted Harold on the back. “Hello, hello, what is it that brings you all the way out here?” Chester continued without taking a breath. “My, but we don’t get many of your type out here. Didn’t you retire a while back? Three more and out the door for me here. Yeah, that’s right. Three more and out the door.”

  Still the rambler, Harold noticed. Chester always could talk you to tears. Harold had forgotten that fact; funny how Sharon hadn’t reminded him of it.

  “So, what will it be then? Huh? What could have you down this way? No, don’t tell me, don’t tell me, let me guess.” Harold had started to open his mouth to explain but closed it promptly. It was better just to let Chester finish talking. It was the only way you could count on him hearing what you had to say anyway.

  “Let’s see, you’re retired. Can’t therefore be a new case. Hmmm. You have a question. I can see that much, that much I do know. I got it, I know, you’re looking for something part time. Yeah, that’s it. They say lot’s of retired folks go out and try to find some part-time work. Not me, no sir, not me. Three more and out the door. Yep, no part-time job for me. No sir.” Chester let that sentence drop as he shook his head to himself.

  “No, Chester, I am not here to inquire about a job; thank-you very much. I need to talk to you about something that happened back in the seventies.”

  Chester let out a whistle. “The seventies you say, well hell that’s way back there isn’t it?” Harold took a deep breath.

  “Do you remember Salvatore Dal Santo? He was in here for murdering his wife.”

  “His wife you say? Dal Santo, hmmm. Can’t say as I do. What’s the scoop? Why you so interested in someone from the seventies. When did he get out or was he transferred?”

  “No, he wasn’t transferred. Someone stuck him a few times in a brawl here and he died before he could get parole. You sure you don’t remember?”

  Chester thought about this intently. He had been down here near forty years. Seen a lot of inmates come and go. Seen a lot of fighting and a lot of dying. ‘Dal Santo’, he thought to himself, as he tried to place a name with the face. “I dunno buddy, perhaps a little more information. My mind seems to be begging for a way out. Do you have a picture or a description?” Harold rolled his eyes. This wasn’t how he had hoped things would work out here. He felt as if he was being backed into a dark alley.

  “Look Chester, the guy punched his wife’s head in. He left her with no face. I know you would remember him. Don’t you guys keep records or something? Perhaps you could...”

  “Hey, now why didn’t I think of that? Sure we keep records. You got time or are you in a hurry?”

  “No, I have some time. Do you think you might have something?”

  “Well, why don’t we go and have us a look-see.”

  The two men had to walk for about ten minutes before they came to the records room. It was secured tightly with three locks. All of which Harold had the keys for. It was dank and dusty. From the looks of it, many years had passed since anyone had visited the room. Something scurried across the floor. Harold couldn’t see it, but from the sound of its claws scraping across the concrete floor, it had to be a large sized rat. The smell of mold and mildew intruded Harold’s nostrils and caught in the back of his throat. Chester inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma.

  “Yea
h, it’s been a long time since I have been in here. A long time indeed. Now that everything is computerized, well we don’t need to be doin’ all this paperwork. Everything down here is from twenty years back or more. Dal Santo came in the seventies you said? He should be over against that wall somewhere.” He started off in the direction in which he pointed, kicking something aside as he went. Harold followed behind him like a younger brother, not knowing where they were going but excited about the trip, afraid of the rat, but comfortable knowing that Chester was there with him. “Here we are the seventies. Watergate and Big Macs, oil shortages and Earth Day. Heh, that was some time huh, Harry? Exciting times. Yes sir, exciting times.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Dal Santo, the name was Dal Santo.” Harold wasn’t in the mood for reminiscing.

  “Right, right, Salvatore you said, right? Got quite a few Dal Santo’s believe it or not. Oh, well lookie here, we have two S. Dal Santo’s. Which one is yours, ya think?” Harold rubbed his temples with one hand while the other fought to keep him standing by holding onto the top of a filing cabinet.

  “Two? Shit, just what I need. What were they in for? Mine murdered his wife, remember?”

  “Ah yes, here we go. Salvatore Dal Santo.” Chester opened the correct file and viewed the mug shots. “I remember this one. Sure, I remember him. He had a nasty ass temper this one. Did a lot of time across the hall there.”

  Chester let his finger direct Harold’s eyes across the hall to a closed door. Behind the door was a hallway which led to the boxes. Four in all, two on each side. Solitary confinement.

  Chester finished reading the opening page and handed the file over to Harold. Harold, folder opened and held in both hands, went about finding a brighter area in the dark and dismal room. Finding a somewhat brighter spot, directly under the ceiling light, he read. He pulled a notepad from his left pocket and began to scribble. Jotting down names and dates of occurrences, still not feeling that gut pulling he needed to tell him he was going in the right direction.

  Chester meanwhile had been pulling out cardboard boxes and stacking them up on the side of a wall. After opening up one of the boxes, he started withdrawing its contents until he found what he had been searching for. A large manila envelope taped to a zip-lock bag. He tossed it on top of a filing cabinet and started to put everything back where it came from.

  After a few minutes, one would never have known anything had been disturbed. Chester was always very thorough. He picked up his find and walked over to where Harold was digesting what was in the folder he was studying. Without looking up he spoke his mind to Chester. “It’s a young man’s game. Not meant for us old timers to interpret I guess. There doesn’t seem to be anything in this here folder but bad memories. If only you had known what his wife had looked like before this.” He tapped his finger on the photo of the crime scene. “I can hardly stomach it now. Not that it had been easy back then, but I was younger. It’s a younger man’s game.” He closed the folder and stared out into space. In his mind’s eye he saw Antonia at the age of seven. So small and quiet. She was beautiful then, he could only imagine how she would look now.

  Without thought, he handed the folder over to Chester. “Maybe I am just an old man trying to hold onto my memories. Hell, I guess you have to have the bad ones if you want to keep the good ones.” He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed away his thoughts.

  “What’s eaten at you Harry, can’t be the age thing. Hell, you’ve been old for years now.” Chester always had a way with words. He tossed some comfort to Harold as he went about replacing the file. Turning his attention back to his friend, he was saddened to see the man slumping in his shoes. Harold seemed to have aged twenty years in a matter of five minutes. “Weren’t you the one they used to call Inspector Instinct? Hell, I say if something’s biting at you, you gotta swat at it. You gotta say what it is your thinking. If it’s just your imagination, make it real.”

  Chester tossed the envelope and bag onto the filing cabinet in front of Harold. Harold’s head snapped up as he claimed ownership of the envelope. “What’s this?”

  “Salvatore’s personal effects. What he had on his person when he moved in with us. He passed away, and since there was no address for his only living relative, we had no where to send it. It came down here. Anything you need? Will any of it help you?” As Harold removed the tape, holding the zip-lock bag to the envelope, Chester thought he saw some color and youth return to his friend’s face.

  Harold went through the bag first. Inside he found the under garments of Salvatore Dal Santo. A pair of white calve topper socks. One pair of brown and green plaid boxers. A tank style t-shirt. Also inside was an index card served as a receipt for one short sleeved cotton shirt. One pair of brown dress slacks. One pair of size ten leather loafers. A brown leather belt size 34. A silver wristwatch with large print face. Harold felt his stomach tighten with anticipation. He felt he was close to what he needed. But he still had no idea what that was. Salvatore’s clothes had been held as evidence in the murder of his wife. If they still existed they would be held somewhere else.

  Harold placed the index card on top of the under garments and pushed them aside along with the bag they were kept in. Chester began to re-fold and replace the items back in the bag and then squeezed out all the air as he resealed the bag. Harold held up the manila envelope. He shook it and listened to its contents. Sounded like four maybe five items were held inside. He tapped the filing cabinet with the corner of the envelope, while he thought of where the missing clothing might still be housed. Chester flinched with every tap, which had caused the corner of the envelope to be crunched. Chester would have preferred the envelope be returned in the condition with which it was removed. That was no longer going to be possible.

  “Sorry.” Harold offered as he came from his thoughts and took notice of the anxiety on Chester’s face. He carefully opened the envelope and extracted the contents. Laying the envelope aside, he sorted through its inhabitants. A half of a roll of peppermint certs. One twenty dollar bill, a ten, a five and two one dollar bills, all of which were paper clipped together. A book of matches from a local pub. Harold opened it up hoping to find a phone number or a name scribbled inside. It was blank, void of any markings. A piece of loose leaf paper, folded tightly into a finger football. Absentmindedly, Harold kicked the football, across the room, with his fingers. It fell in the darkness of the corner, passing through a thick, vacant, spider web.

  Harold looked up at Chester. “I guess this isn’t gonna get me anywhere. I’m going to have to find the suit.”

  “Are you certain it’s the suit? What could be the connection there?”

  “I don’t know, perhaps something as stretched as the tailor.” He looked again at the items from the envelope. “I was absolutely sure what I was looking for would be in here.” He followed Chester’s gaze to the corner housing the now destroyed web.

  “You want it, you go get it. Salvatore sure as hell isn’t going to complain about it being missing. And his daughter would probably want it burned. I ain’t going into that corner. Sorry buddy, no way.” Chester put the remaining items back into the envelope. Harry was right, who was going to miss the finger football. He refastened the tape, which held the envelope to its package and delivered them both back to the box they belonged to.

  “Sorry I could not be of more help to you Harry. Perhaps we can find one or two guys who were in with him. Maybe a chat with them might be just what the doctor ordered. Who knows right? Maybe someone who knew the girl?” Chester offered as he led the older gentleman out of the room and relocked the door. Together they walked another ten minutes of the prison to the upper floors where the main office was located.

  When the men had reached admissions, Chester led Harold to yet another set of filing cabinets. He started to open one drawer, watching Harold for some sort of reaction. He closed the drawer without retrieving any documents. Harold wasn’t even paying him the slightest notion. Mentally he wasn’t even in the bui
lding. Chester shook his head and went over to the computer, located on a desk in the far right corner of the room.

  After hitting a few keys on the keyboard, Chester managed to locate the attendance records for the year Salvatore was killed. He hit the print tab and waited patiently while the old IBM hammered out the document. He then went back to the keyboard where he punched more keys to retrieve the attendance for the past month. Again he hit the print key and waited for the document to come out of the printer. He glanced at his watch as he handed the documents over to the Inspector. “Look I gotta do the rounds, but you’re welcome to stay and help yourself to anything you might need.”

  “Thanks, but I am going to head over to the spot where the house stood. Perhaps there is a clue there.”

  “What if there isn’t? What if what you’re looking for is up there with her?”

  Harold looked up at the ceiling. He tapped Chester in the chest with the rolled up paperwork. “Thanks Chester, I appreciate your time and help. I will call you if I think of anything else.” With that Harold excused himself. It was a long walk from the main office to where his car was parked. Chester followed him with his eyes until he was inside his car and pulling away. Then Chester turned to walk back to the records room, where he retrieved the finger football that lay abandoned in the corner of webs.

  Chapter 17

  Josephine picked up her cell phone as she pulled out of the hospital parking lot. The sun was peeking through the clouds just enough to squeeze a squint from her eyes. A sharp pain shot across her forehead. She didn’t need to see to dial the number she needed. Speed dial number five connected her to Chloe. The phone rang three times before it was answered. “Hello Ms. Ferrero, how is she?”

  “Anthony? Anthony is a tough cookie, she’ll be just fine.” Oh how she really wanted to believe this. “Listen Chloe I need to find a Doctor Carides, any idea where I might look?”

  “Yea, Carides, he’s Antonia’s Doctor, right?”