Mimosa was hit by three bullets. She lay inert, hunched in a pool of blood. Fallen face up, Jonass stared at the sky and resembled a puppet.
When police arrived, they found the killer still kneeling on the ground. Sobbing and moaning, he was handcuffed and driven away.
* * *
January 28, 1983. Alone in his living room, Graham watched the television. In the morning, after reading the Bible, the disabled veteran got breakfast and watched TV. That day, the routine was the same. He prayed, read the Bible, got breakfast, and watched TV; then, the telephone rang. It was Canamera. The two friends talked about the quarter of million dollars offered for the bandits’ capture. Jonass was on the loose and the managers refused to give a nickel before his arrest. Interventions from both Jamaican and Trinidadian governments could not bend them.
The two detectives deplored the managers’ hostile attitude.
They thought it could create a dangerous precedent. They believed it would have been wise to share half of the prize
between Joshua and Bonny. Canamera hung up after promising to call back in the afternoon.
At the end of the conversation, Graham took the Conway brothers’ pictures and looked at them. He kept the photos close, as if he did not want to let the case fade away.
At about eleven o’clock, he wheeled his chair outside and picked up the newspapers left daily on his front door; he then went under the harbor, in the backyard. Putting the papers on a stool, he pulled a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. At this moment, the maid showed up through the side door and asked if he needed anything. He waved impatiently, meaning he needed nothing. The servant nodded and said she was going to the corner store.
The former detective wore his glasses and selected among the papers. First, he chose the New York time, took a quick look, and put it down; he then picked up the World Sentinel, a weekly published in Miami. After reviewing the headlines, he scrutinized the news summary.
He read a piece about the civil war in El Salvador and was looking at some related pictures when he stopped nervously. His attention aimed at a note published at the bottom of the page, he stayed agape for a moment. His face turned pallid and he remained motionless, apparently aghast.
A couple of pictures were on the skirt of the page and represented two lovers killed by a jealous husband. The author of the article was Gothama Aghy, pen name of an American correspondent in Monrovia, Liberia. Concentrating on the pictures, Graham appeared incredulous. Finally, he relaxed on his seat and mumbled in a deep tone, “Oh Jesus... This is Jonass…”
He rotated his chair and went in the house. Feverishly, he
grabbed the Conway’s pictures, taking out those representing Jonass. After looking at them for a moment, he cried exultantly, “Oh, God, that’s him…”
Picking up the telephone, he was dialing Canamera’s number when, suddenly, something cracked inside of him. Struck by a heart attack, the ex-FBI agent died instantly, carrying his discovery into eternity.
Nobody ever uncovered the true identity of Adolphus Constantine, killed with his mistress by an outraged husband. On his grave, in Monrovia Central Cemetery, one could read those words carefully carved by faithful Admoss: “Here is buried Adolphus Constantine, millionaire with a heart bigger than the world.”
* * *
December 6, 1997: A wintry morning, gray and cold. As usual, in Florida state prisons, inmates woke up early and waited for jailers to open the cells for the first roll call. The sliding of the bolts on the iron doors, the yelling and cursing created a gloomy atmosphere. With an iron fist, the guards quickly lined up the prisoners.
The rows being set up, a deputy proceeded with the roll call; the Warden then ordered his subordinates to thoroughly search the inmates. This work done, he pulled a paper from his jacket, paused for a moment, and called Jonathan Conway, asking him to step out of the line. “Joe, good behavior saved your life... It’s time to get out…”
Hearing those words, some prisoners waved and applauded, showing great joy for their fellow inmate. Jonathan hugged a few among them and shook some hands. The
guards took position and brought the prisoners back to their cells, except for Jonathan. A moment later, the baby followed the Warden to the administrative unit.
After eighteen years in prison, at last, the conspirator was free. At the age of fifty-six, the world had forgotten about him. In 1992, Galiss Vaughan had died of a lung cancer. Canamera lived in Puerto Rico.
In the Accounting Office, a clerk gave him a dirty package containing some pants, a bloody shirt, and a pair of shoes. The employee counted one thousand seven hundred sixty-five dollars and forty cents, fruit of eighteen years of labor. Jonathan took possession but stayed motionless on the spot. Panic-stricken, the last Conway brother could not move away. Suddenly, he started sobbing. A Sergeant entered and asked him to leave. He obediently complied.
Standing in the alley leading to the main gate, the Warden observed him silently. After so many years in captivity, Joe reluctantly reentered the free world.
“Don’t worry, my man…” the Warden patted his back. “You still can be a good member of society. Go ahead… Take back your life!”
Jonathan nodded and took place in the bus. The iron door opened and the vehicle disappeared in the cold morning.
As stipulated in his parole, Jonathan stayed one year in Miami. On January 22, 1999, he took an Air-Jamaica plane and returned to Montego Bay. After searching for a few hours, he found the little house bought for Bogarr Coloriss, twenty-two years earlier. The property was in total ruin. There were no doors and snakes and rats lived in the basement. The accumulation of taxes had allowed the municipality to take possession of the house. It was now city
property.
Jonathan loitered around and inspected the place. As Jonass did in 1982, he went to a store and bought several plowing instruments. So armed, he slipped in, in the middle of the night, and settled in the basement. After cleaning up a large space covered with garbage, he used a piece of chalk and drew a line in a corner; he then dug up.
About thirty minutes later, the pickaxe hit a metal. Jonathan jerked and shivered like a leaf. In the dim light created by the flame of a candle, his face appeared enormous. Streams of sweat streaked all over his cheeks. He dug even more ardently.
Soon, a container emerged from the dirt. The ex-maintenance boy pulled it up. Using an iron bar, he opened it and extracted a small safe.
Jonathan had spent twenty-two years pondering about the combination: 1-2-3-4-5-0. Taking a deep breath, he keyed the numbers and exerted a slight pressure on the lever. There was a creak and the minuscule door slid open. The baby looked inside and his whole body quivered. Four military belts were in and, on top, a sheet of paper.
Jonathan took the belts, opened the pockets, and saw packs of 100-dollar bills, as they were wrapped by his brothers on that memorable morning of April 17, 1977. Aptly, he fastened them around his body. He then held the paper and read the following words:
“Jonathan, I wish with all my heart that you will find this note, as well as three million five hundred thousand dollars, your take of the booty.
Here, I keep the promise of our fraternal alliance, honor- ing our sacred union. It is and will always be my ultimate
reason to live and to die.
If you ever get out of jail, you must lead a legitimate life. Terrible experiences had taught us that crime is almost always a route toward death and desolation. Our brothers’ horrible demise is proof of it.
I know your courage and the priceless virtue of your tenacity. Be good for yourself and humanity and never let the past shadow your future.
I am here sobbing and agonizing... I long to help you; but it would be a suicide. I can’t say anything or reveal my project but I will when the time is right.
Joe, I hope to live old enough, so, I can enjoy the happiness of our reunion. It is my dearest wish and the principal reason motivating my perseverance.
Oh, my brother,
may God help you!”
Jonathan left Montego Bay the next day and went to the Bahamas. Emerging from Freeport International Airport, he smiled to the blazing sun. The flying birds and the seesaw around the airport made him feel young. With a briefcase in his hand, he crossed the street and stood for a moment on the sidewalk. Raising his head, he looked at the sky, and, suddenly, started sobbing and wailing.
“Hey, sir, how can I help you?” a taxi driver had stopped and looked at him in amazement.
Eyes in tears, Jonathan smiled, stretched out his arms, and screamed vibrantly, “Oh Bahamas… At last…”
Laughing like a happy toddler, he entered the taxi and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
* * *
[1] Terms used by the author to characterize evidences found on a crime scene.
The Conway's Conspiracy Page 19