Murch scratched his head. “Tell you what I’ll do,” he said, “I’ll keep this under my hat, for now, as long as I get to release it before the TV guys. And, I want to be kept in the loop during the investigation. Down the road, I see a book in this and I want the inside scoop on how it plays out.”
Clipper hesitated. He was not fanatical about keeping information from the press, but he was also very reluctant to expose the inner workings of an important investigation. “I’ll keep you updated as much as I can,” he said finally, speaking slowly, “but if I get ambushed in the paper, you and I are going ‘round and ‘round.”
Murch grinned widely. “I promise,” he said, holding out his hand, “nothing gets printed without your knowledge.”
Clipper heard the ring of truth in the young reporter’s voice as he gripped his hand, but in the back of his mind, he knew it couldn’t be this easy.
Murch sat back at his desk and brought up a folder of text files. “Let me show you what I know,” he said.
An hour later, Clipper shook his head, impressed and intrigued with the depth of the mystery Murch laid out. Pages of eye-witness interviews Murch had collected, transcribed by researchers in the forty’s and fifty’s brought the shootout into sharp relief and, from the vantage point of history, it seemed possible that Bangor was more than just an arbitrary last stop on the Edgewink tour.
“They were here for a reason,” Murch had argued. “That F.B.I. agent, Sloater, came back here three times and ended up committing suicide here. Someone killed Lester Edgewink here and none of his loot has ever been found. He had a brother who was never found either. If I can tie it all together, it’ll be Pulitzer time.” Murch danced a little jig and Clipper laughed.
“I’ll tell you something else,” Murch said, serious again, “the jewelry they stole would be worth millions today, and Lester Edgewink was too smart to have let it out of his control. People think he was shot up and crazy, but I do some volunteer work at the hospital, historical research and press stuff, and I’ve seen his old records. He spent a couple of months working with the maintenance crew on the hospital grounds, that was their idea of therapy in those days, and I’m betting he had those jewels when he died.”
Chapter 2.8
The next morning found Thomas Clipper still in bed at 8:30, moodily considering his options for what was forecast as a rainy weekend. He finally decided to start with breakfast at Cleo’s on his way into the station to check on the night’s activities.
The little diner was crowed when he arrived, but he spotted John Peters at a corner table and slipped into the empty chair.
“Good call on the trench knife,” the sergeant said through a mouthful of pancakes. “I got a picture off the net and showed it to Adams. He said it looked like a perfect match.” Peters paused. “There’s something else,” he said, lowering his voice. We got nothing with the search warrants on Mrs. Owens last night, but afterwards I took a look through Owens’ house. Just wanted to make a last check before we release it, and I’m pretty sure someone’s been through it. There were a couple of things moved from the last time I was there, one door open that I’m positive was closed, and Adams says his people haven’t been back.”
Clipper considered. “Do you think it’s worth setting up a stakeout?” he asked.
“No. I think it was probably the wife and if we do catch her in there, she’s just going to say she needed some clothes or something.” I… huh, speak of the devil.”
Clipper followed Peters’ gaze to the front of the diner where Janice Owens had just entered and was standing with an older distinguished looking man. Though neatly dressed in slacks and a pretty top, she looked tired and worn standing with her hand on the man’s arm, but when she spotted Clipper across the room, she lifted her chin and color flared in her cheeks. She spoke to her escort who glanced briefly at the corner table before turning to guide her to a table across the room.
Peter’s snorted. “Mathers must have called in some high priced help from out of town,” he said, “I don’t recognize him.”
Clipper watched the pair walk away, still somehow unable to imagine Janice Owens wielding a deadly weapon. He shook off that thought. “No luck at all with the warrant, huh?” he asked, wrenching his attention back to Peters.
“Nope. House and car were clean, but we sure pissed her off,” Peters chuckled.
After breakfast, Clipper headed to the station and spent an hour and fifty rounds of service ammo on the basement firing range. Later, he sat at his desk cleaning his .45 and thinking, the concentration of practice having cleared the final rainy morning cobwebs from his mind. He reassembled and reloaded the weapon and pulled out the folder of Edgewink gang lore he had borrowed from Colin Murch, determined to learn all he could to assist in the reenactment.
He was an hour into the fascinating realm of Boston’s 1930’s underworld and Edgewink gang history and beginning to think about lunch when his desk phone rang.
“Must be your lucky week,” said the dispatcher with the cheerful insouciance of one who has heard it all. “Got another body for you.”
Fifteen minutes later, Clipper pulled up behind a cruiser in front of an older, two-story brick building at the edge of the downtown business district. The overhead sign read J. & O. Associates. He nodded to the officer standing at the open front door and paused expectantly.
The officer responded. “Hi, Clip. Dispatch got a call from a woman saying her husband didn’t come home last night. Sent me here to check and I found the door unlocked and a body in the backroom. I waited on the I.D. so’s not to disturb anything. It’s pretty messy in there.”
Clipper went into the building pulling on a pair of surgical gloves he had brought from the kit in his truck. He noted an overturned chair, some pulled-out file-drawers and mounds of papers scattered on the floor as he made his way through a small, carpeted front office. From the doorway to the back room, he could see the body of a man clad in tan slacks and a blood-drenched white shirt lying face down in a puddle of rust brown blood. There was another overturned chair between the body and a large, cluttered desk and more papers scattered on the floor of the large space. Work cubicles stood against the perimeter walls and a large conference table dominated the center of the room. Clipper could imagine the victim at work at the desk when he was attacked. He stepped gingerly around the blood and squatted, and edged closer until he could make out the waxen features and unwavering dull stare of Rupert Jones.
Janice Owens sat in her car and watched the police coming and going from her husband’s shop from across a vacant lot. He and Rupe had bought that building in the first flush of their businesses’ success and she was as familiar with it as she was her own home. Unnerved by the police presence, she drove away to consider her next move.
Doc Church made some notes in a battered ledger. “Judging by the body temp, rigor and the dried blood, I’d say he died sometime early last evening. Looks like maybe the same knife, but this one wasn’t so quick.” He looked piercingly at Clipper. “In fact, I think this man was tortured before he died.” Chase had rolled the body up on its side, and he stooped to point out small wounds on the arms, hands and torso. “Some of these are defense wounds, but a few of them look more precise, like they were carefully placed. Another difference; the fatal wound was in the heart, but from the back this time. I think this guy was being tortured, broke loose and was trying to get away when he was killed.”
Clipper had called Peters to the scene, and now they stood watching Adams and his evidence team in their practiced dance around Jones’ body.
“She’s the only common denominator,” said Peters, forcefully. “She must have come here and killed him right after we served the warrant last night, but I can’t figure out why.”
“And I can’t figure out how she could have taken him one-on-one, even with a knife.” Clipper frowned. “I wonder...” he mused. “Maybe we’ve been coming at this from the wrong angle…” He looked back into the office. “As soon as
Adams is done in here, get a couple of the guys on this office. I want them to check every file and every piece of paper. Get a warrant for the financials. Get a list of employees and get them in for statements; find out what happens now that both owners are dead. And, speaking of that, let’s find out who inherits in both cases.”
“Ok, but, but either way she’s still got to be in the middle somehow.”
“Unless it’s something connected with the business.”
Leaving Peters to handle the scene, Clipper drove to the Jones residence. Clara Jones was a tiny blond woman in a wrinkled housedress whose reddened eyes and bleak expression proclaimed her pessimism.
She nodded dully when Clipper broke the news, and answered his gentle questions in defeated monotone.
“He was depressed because of Bill’s death,” she said, “but other than that, everything seemed ok. He and Bill had some sort of research project going, I don’t know what it was, but they were excited about it. He said he’d have to put in some long hours to keep up with the business, but I talked to him at supper time last night and he said he’d be home by eight o’clock. I called at ten but there was no answer. I didn’t want to panic, or bother any… any…” she gulped, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t call the police until this morning.” She looked at Clipper beseechingly. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. “He might still be alive if I hadn’t waited.”
Clipper managed to get the name and number of Clara’s brother who lived in town, and did his best to console the distraught woman until the brother arrived with his wife. Before he left, Clipper took the older man aside. “I don’t know what’s going on, yet,” he said, handing him a business card, “but, it seems to be centered on Bill and Rupert’s partnership or business. We’re going to be looking at that and I’ll need a statement from Clara as soon as she’s able, but if she mentions anything that might be pertinent, or you notice anything unusual, please give me a call.”
Clipper drove back to J. & O. Associates and found Peters working on a notes for an affidavit for warrants that would give them access to all of the businesses’ records as well as the financial records of the owners.
Peters closed his laptop and stood up. “Clip,” he said seriously, “we need to bring her in again.”
“Doc Church thinks the vic was being tortured before he died,” mused Clipper. “I wonder how she would have managed that.”
Peters frowned. “Maybe Mrs. Butler’s right and she’s got a lover helping her out,” he said as though testing the theory.
“Huh. Well, I guess you’re right. We’d better find her and ask her,” said Clipper, with a feeling of resignation.
They drove to Janice Owens’ mother’s house, but Janice’s car was not in the driveway and her mother was little help.
“I don’t know where she is,” she said, staring coldly from behind her screen door, “and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. Why are you hounding her like this?”
John Peter pressed closer to the door. “Ma’am,” he said evenly, two people close to your daughter have been murdered in the last three days, and like it or not, she’s a part of it. We know she knows more about it than she’s said, and it’s in her best interest to come forward and level with us.”
Mrs. Thompson sagged. “Two… who… I, I really don’t know where she is. She was gone when I got up this morning,” she said, twisting her hands forlornly.
Clipper opened the screen door and handed the woman a card. “Last night, Rupert Jones, Bill’s partner, was killed in their office,” he said. “I’m not sure how Janice is involved, but I am sure she needs help. If you see her, have her call me, or call me yourself.”
Clipper drove to his office to begin the never-ending task of writing the reports the system demanded. He managed to catch the Assistant Attorney General at home and updated him on the new developments and then put in a reluctant call to Chief Norris.
“We’ve got a second homicide,” he said when Norris came on the line. “It’s Owens’s business partner and it looks like he was killed with the same weapon. I.D. is on the scene, happened last night, no witnesses, and I’ve advised the A.G.”
Chief Norris was not an experienced investigator but, with a bureaucrat’s instinct for self- preservation, he unfailingly read every report generated by his department. “Well, it’s obvious who did it,” he snapped. “Why haven’t you arrested her?”
Clipper swallowed a hot bloom of anger. “I’ve discussed that with the A.G. and we just don’t have enough. He’s going to try to talk to her lawyer.” Clipper felt only a little guilty about omitting the fact that Janice Owens was currently nowhere to be found.”
“Well, you’d better come up with something before the press makes us all look like fools.” The Chief hung up abruptly, and Clipper slammed his phone down in frustration. After a moment, he found Caleb Mathers’ office number and dialed on the off chance that the lawyer would be in on the weekend. When the answering machine picked up, he left a message, and then stopped by dispatch to let them know he was going home.
Chapter 2.9
Focused on the mission, the intruder strode boldly through the darkened house, childhood teachings lending purpose to the hunt. ‘We earned it and you have to go get it. It’s your birthright and your responsibility’. A litany of imperatives become intrinsic, fueling steely determination. This was the third visit, the first one cut short by ‘a witness and the second hurried and unsuccessful. This one would not fail.
The phone shattered the thin membrane of a restless sleep and Clipper answered groggily, squinting across the bed at the blurred numbers of his alarm clock.
“Yeah, Clipper.”
“Dispatch, Lieutenant. We just got a report of a disturbance inside the Owens house on Broadway. The officers are off there now.”
“Ok, thanks. I’ll be on my cell and headed that way.” Clipper rolled out of bed and into a pair of jeans and running shoes. He shrugged on a black tee shirt and slid his .45 into a comfortable nylon inside-the-waistband holster as he trotted out the door.
Ten minutes later, Clipper pulled in behind two marked cruisers at the curb in front of Owens’ house. At three thirty AM, the neighborhood was dark except for the single streetlight on the corner and the lights of the house across the street. There were two officers standing by the cruisers.
“The place is empty, Clip.” said one of the officers, anticipating the question. “Neighbor across the street heard a commotion and saw some movement inside, but the place was empty when we got here. Kane’s getting her info now.”
“Clipper nodded and walked to the neighbor’s house where two figures stood on the porch, lit by a spill of light from the open front door.
“Hello, Mrs. Butler,” he said with a grin. “We’re going to have to put you on the payroll if you keep this up.”
The elderly lady did not smile at the attempted humor. “When are you going to arrest that woman?” she demanded pulling a thin brown robe tight across her shoulders. “We’re not safe in our own homes with her on the loose.”
“Did you see Janice Owens over there?” asked Clipper.
“Well, there was a man and a woman in the house. I could see them through the window.
Clipper turned to look at the dark picture window across the street. “I can’t see through that window now,” he said. Were the lights on when you saw them?”
“Well, I heard a man’s and a woman’s voices, and there was a quick flash of, like a flashlight, and she screamed and they were thrashing around in there.”
“Did you see them come out?”
“No, they must have snuck out the back, but they were in there, all right. It was her and her lover, I bet. Up to no damn good!”
Clipper smothered a grin and turned to the patrolman. “Get a good statement,” he said. “I’m going to take a look in the house.”
Clipper walked across the street and into the Owens house through the open front door. Turning on lights as he went,
he moved from room to room, trying to remember the house as he had last seen it. He noticed a dining room chair on its side, an oval woven rug crumpled against the wall in the main hallway, and saw that the back door was unlocked and ajar. By the time he walked out of the house, locking it behind him, the sun was painting the eastern sky in shades of gray and pink and he was sure, at least, that someone had been in the house, and they had been searching for something. Clipper had seen bedroom closet doors standing open, furniture moved and drawers pulled out.
Clipper sat for a while in his truck, watching the brightening sky and thinking, before going home for a quick shower and shave. Begrudging the time to make coffee, he opted for breakfast at Cleo’s again and took his time over the lumberjack’s platter and an entire pot of French roast, scanning a newspaper someone had left behind. The Owens murder was front page, but they didn’t have Jones yet.
Clipper drove back to Broadway for a look at the ground around the house in the daylight, found nothing, and then swung by the Thompson residence before going to the station. Janice Owens’s car was nowhere in sight.
Clipper stopped by dispatch and put the Owens house on the house-check list. The officers working that beat would swing by and give it a look as often as they could during their shifts. He also left word to be on the lookout for Janice Owens and Peeps Pelky with instructions that they be detained and he be called if either one of them were spotted.
Clipper went to his office, and tracked down the home number for Caleb Mathers. Getting an answering machine again, he left his cell phone number and asked Mathers to call him. Clipper made one last call to bring John Peters up to date, and then headed home for at least a partial day off. He spent a relaxed afternoon, mowing the grass and slapping a coat of white paint on a pair of old Adirondack chairs he kept under a maple tree on the side lawn. After a cold beer and a shower, followed by an early supper of broiled rib-eye, baked potato and supermarket fiddleheads, he took a big glass of ice and a bottle of Glenlivet into his den, put in a cd of violin classics and settled into his favorite leather recliner.
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