by W.H. Harrod
Terrance experienced no difficulty securing sleeping accommodations at a small motel close to the interstate, right inside the Harmony city limits. As he sat, blurry eyed, on the side of the bed the next morning, he fervently wished he’d been more discerning when choosing a place to rest for the evening. There must have been a parade lasting most of the night outside his door. Loud people, coming and going, and even louder vehicles, driving in and out aimlessly, sabotaged his efforts to get much needed rest. Based on the way he felt this morning, he estimated he slept no more than a couple of hours the entire night. He felt exhausted and his mind labored as if it crawled through mud. He checked the time; the clock read 8:45 a.m. He somehow had to pull himself together if he expected to be downtown when the library opened at 10 a.m. He reluctantly pushed away from the side of the bed towards the shower. A hot shower and several cups of truck stop coffee offered his only hope.
After securing a community map from a rack at the truck stop and purchasing the largest, hottest, blackest cup of coffee he ever hoped to find, he drove towards the center of the city. Cautiously, he sipped the steaming hot liquid. “Next time get a lid, you idiot,” he said aloud between sips. “If a semi broadsided this car right now, I guarantee this scalding hot coffee will do more harm than the truck.” Still, he sipped the liquid as quickly as possible, trying not to burn his tongue. He needed the caffeine to stimulate his brain by the time he reached the library.
Fortunately for him, traffic consisted of only a few cars heading into the center of town, one of the numerous benefits accruing to the residents of communities of this size. The community had almost everything here that could be found in one of the huge metropolises but without the hassles of never-ending traffic jams. Momentarily, his thoughts returned to Lawrence, a city of similar size, and to Jess and how much he missed both of them right now. But just as quickly, he forced his mind to return to the immediate matters at hand.
Arriving at the library, Terrance parked close to the entrance in the adjacent parking lot and prepared to head inside. Glancing at his watch, he read 10:11 a.m. He recalled Mrs. Bidwell’s admonition to be discrete as he exited the auto and headed for the door with his backpack containing all the supplies necessary to accomplish his mission. From all appearances, he fit the description of any of a million graduate students wandering the hallowed halls of learning institutions all over the country.
Once inside and after a brief conversation with a volunteer guide located in the foyer who gave him directions to the newspaper archive section, he made straight for that area of the building. He felt excited again. The coffee had worked. “Okay, Mr. Howard Douglas aka Joseph Right, here I come.”
Moments later, he entered the spacious, well-lit room where they allowed access to archival information. A solitary, matronly librarian sat behind a counter, oblivious to the world’s activities, gazing out a large window at the nearby schoolyard filled with noisy children enjoying their recess. Terrance’s sudden appearance caught her off guard.
“Oh, good morning; may I help you?” Her pleasant tone of voice helped to put him at ease.
“Well maybe,” responded Terrance, attempting not to seem too eager in his quest for information. “I’m conducting some personal research, and I wonder if I could look at some local newspapers from your archives?”
“Certainly,” said the librarian. “What issues are you interested in seeing?”
“Well, let’s see. I hope I can find what I’m looking for somewhere in the September, October, November period of 1981,” said Terrance, again making sure he didn’t sound too eager.
Hearing Terrance’s request, the librarian’s eyebrows arched. “Oh, are you another of those researchers doing work on the Whiting case? If you are, we can save you a lot of time. We have a complete file of all the stories that the local paper has published since the very first day. That will save you the time of having to look through all those papers for the individual articles.”
Terrance’s eyebrows arched revealing his surprise at her offer. “I’ve never heard of the Whiting Case, but apparently, it must be a big deal around here if you have a special file on it. However, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to go ahead and look through the individual copies for the information I hope to find.”
Likewise surprised by his negative response, the librarian set out to retrieve copies of the newspapers available for the dates requested. As Terrance stood waiting, checking out the entire room, the librarian returned pushing a metal cart carrying three large bound folders containing the newspapers for the three months Terrance requested. She parked the cart beside him and returned to her position behind the counter.
“I’ll need your driver’s license. I’ll return it to you when you’re finished. You may use any of the tables in this room to view the information you’ve requested.” Having said this, she waited while Terrance retrieved his fake identification card and handed it to her. “Thank you, Mr. Walker. Please let me know if you need any additional information.”
After thanking her in return, Terrance turned to walk away but instead stopped and turned back to the counter. “By the way, what was so important about the Whiting case?” he asked, surprising himself that he made the inquiry.
The librarian looked up at him from a document that lay before her. “Mr. Richard Whiting was a prominent local businessman until they found him brutally murdered in his home on October 2, 1981. To this day, the case has never been solved.” Receiving no additional inquiries, she returned to her business.
A slight chill ran down Terrance’s spine as he considered the potential ramifications of this unexpected information. As the librarian went on with her duties, he stood in place thinking to himself. Regaining his composure, he started pushing the cart loaded with the bound newspapers over to the table farthest away from the counter. All during the time it took him to reach the far corner of the room, he whispered to himself, “Ho-ly crap! Ho-ly crap!” All of a sudden, he had a really sick feeling in his stomach. “Ho-ly crap!”
He deposited his backpack in a chair and reached for one of the huge folders, the October edition. Turning to the first page of the first paper in the folder, he began to scan each and every page in succession. Within a few minutes, he finished the October 1, 1981, edition. He found nothing of interest in it, likewise the next day’s edition. But, as he prepared to turn the last page of the copy for the second day of the month, his heartbeat quickened. He knew that if they discovered the Whiting guy on the second day, the story had to come out on the third. This next page is where it all started. What shocking information waited for him on the succeeding pages? Did his guy have any part in this? But then, he remembered what the librarian said, “To this day, the case has never been solved.” So they don’t even know who did it. Becoming irritated, Terrance admonished himself to settle down, read the papers, and let the information speak for itself.
Turning the page, his eyes opened wide at the amount of space devoted to the Whiting story, the entire page. PROMINENT BUSINESS LEADER MURDERED. Information pertaining to about every part of the murdered man’s life followed. The story began with the grizzly details to the extent known. The maid found Whiting the morning of October 2, 1981, flat on his back in a pool of blood in the basement of his palatial home located on his fifty-acre estate north of town. Someone shot him in the head so many times that even the police officers who knew him found it hard to identify the body. Living alone without any nearby neighbors, no one heard or saw anything. The case mystified the police. Why did this happen? Whiting’s reputation described him as a fine, upstanding citizen and community leader who attended church regularly. Not one time during the entire forty-two years he lived in the community had he ever been part of any trouble.
The entire community saw this as a great tragedy. Subsequent articles recounted his numerous civic activities over many years as well as his numerous business activities. He owned much of the land in the county. He also maintained extensive commercial property investments, whic
h included shopping centers, office buildings, warehouses as well as several large apartment complexes. Most of his business activities operated through his corporation, RTW Holdings, Inc., a local company.
The requisite comments from other civic leaders gushed forth. “It’s a tragedy,” “A great loss,” “A great friend of the community,” “An irreplaceable leader,” “Who could possibly do such a horrible thing?” “No effort or expense will be spared in bringing the murderer or murderers to justice.”
Taking a break for a moment, Terrance pondered the situation. Should I be taking notes on this guy? Was Howard Douglas aka Joseph Right somehow mixed up in this? A decision must be made before he went further. He didn’t want to have to retrace his steps later if it turned out that a relationship existed. Nor did he want to be seen lugging these big books up to the copy machine or going back and telling the librarian that, in fact, the Whiting case did interest him and could he look at the file after all. He went with his hunch; he began taking copious notes.
Every day for the next week produced a recapitulation of the first day’s information. The authorities added nothing new to the case. By the time he reached the middle of the second week’s editions, he conceded this had nothing to do with his case. Without knowing exactly why, this came as a relief to him.
He finished scanning the local newspaper for October 12, 1982, and made another decision. One more day. I’ll keep making notes on Whiting for one more day, and if nothing conclusive comes up to connect my guy, I’ll forget about it.
As he expected, the next day’s paper gave him nothing new, so he ceased taking notes. He had to get moving. Pushing his pens and notepads aside, he quickened his pace to make up for the time wasted to this point.
Okay then, let’s look at day number thirteen. Terrance flipped over to the next day’s front page. The headline confronting him had a difficult time penetrating into his consciousness. RTW VP MISSING—WANTED FOR QUESTIONING. His thoughts began to race. Richard Whiting owned that company. A vice president is missing? Who is this vice president? They’re only now finding out this person’s missing? What’s going on here? Hurriedly shifting his eyes to the article located below the headline, he scanned the sentences without taking time to try to comprehend their meaning. He only cared about one thing right now—the name of the vice president. When he caught sight of the name, he, at first, didn’t trust his eyes. He looked away from the paper before turning back. “HOWARD L. DOUGLAS, VICE PRESIDENT, RTW HOLDINGS, INC. is wanted for questioning in relation to the Richard Whiting case. He has not been seen since leaving for vacation on October 1, 1981. Expected back from vacation this past Monday, to date he has not been seen. Anyone having any information pertaining to the location of Mr. Douglas is requested to contact the local police department.”
Terrance’s heart pounded so hard it almost beat a hole in his chest. What do I do now? All of a sudden, his earlier plans didn’t seem to make sense. He didn’t know what he expected when he started this crazy trip, but in his wildest imagination, he never expected this. He was sure of that. He might very well know the answer to this twenty-year-old unsolved murder mystery. Where’s his picture? I need to see a picture of this guy.
Terrance shifted his gaze to the lower part of the page. The vice president’s black and white photograph left him with no doubt. The unmistakable face of a young Joseph Right stared back at him. “Ho-ly crap!”
He realized he needed to take a time out, to walk away for a few minutes to get his thoughts together. His head spun with so many thoughts circling furiously in his mind. Getting up from the table now covered with all his personal materials, he walked over to the counter and spoke to the librarian.
“Excuse me, ma’am, would it be all right for me to take a short break while leaving all my gear on the table? Would you keep an eye on my things for a few minutes?”
The librarian barely glanced up as she nodded her consent. Outside the main entrance he took a deep breath in appreciation of the cool fall air.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE