A Cincinnati Cold Case

by R. W. Nichols

  A woman carrying a small notebook, wearing a long dress coat over slacks and a turtleneck sweater, approached. Sharp eyes made short work of categorizing him, although her face revealed no expression. He couldn’t tell if he’d passed inspection or not and for some reason this left him feeling lacking, as if he were back in school and it was time for a history test. He’d always hated history.

  “Mr. Hasty? Sean Hasty?” she asked, reading from the notebook.

  “Yes, call me Sean,” he said, the old well-rehearsed line coming out automatically. Sean was an office supply rep. Being on a first name basis with his customers helped insure sales. They were more apt to call someone they were friendly with when they needed supplies than a dealer who was standoffish. His outgoing, sociable behavior was better for business and helped earn him a respectable living.

  “All right, Sean. My name is Sandy O’Malley. Detective Sergeant Sandra O’Malley. I’d like you to go over everything you saw during the night.”

  Sean realized he had been wrong when he’d assumed that the second detective was a man. That had been stupid. This woman’s no nonsense manner, her purely business, short hair style, and even the way she held her pen, ready to quickly scribble anything he said, told him she knew her job and managed time efficiently. He hoped so and was suddenly confident he was going to be allowed a couple of hours sleep this horrific night. This detective would get her part over with quickly. Realistically, two or three hours sleep after all that had happened was more than he should hope for.

  “About 1:20, a dark-colored car pulled up next to mine. That silver one right there.” He pointed at a small, compact that couldn’t be comfortable, but probably got good gas mileage.

  “How did you know the time?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I was just watching the clock.”

  She nodded and wrote it down in her ledger. “Did you see who got out of the car?”

  “Yeah, a tall man in an ugly checkered jacket and a black girl. She wore a fuzzy sweater and short skirt.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about either of them?”

  “Other than her skirt being extremely short? Not really. Oh, yeah, come to think of it, there was something. She had purple stripes in her hair. The moon was brighter then and I could just make out the odd color.”

  Det. O’Malley noted this in her notebook. She had already noticed the coloring of the deceased’s hair, although she hadn’t taken time to look closely. She would do that as soon as she finished with the witness. Streaks either dyed in or hair extensions were the current fashion trend among young women, and some not so young who thought they were. Purple-red was a favored color for the fashion, blonde and platinum having long since gone out of style. Some used black streaks against lighter hair, or dyed all their hair black. Blonde hair and the wholesome look were no longer the look to have. To her this new style appeared harsh and brash. She guessed today’s young women wanted to look that way. Whatever floats their boat. As for her, a short simple do for ease of maintenance was what was ordered. She didn’t bother curling it, just blew it dry and went on with her day. She didn’t have the time or inclination to make herself more attractive. Sandra O’Malley was much more interested in solving murders than messing around with a curling iron.

  “Did you notice anything else?”

  Sean shook his head no.

  “What happened then? Try to list what you saw and heard in order; I’m trying to establish a time line.”

  Sean thought for a second and then began, his words sounding rehearsed, as they were beginning to feel like they were. “They went inside. It was quiet for a few minutes and then I heard the shower running next door. That lasted quite a while. I was just starting to doze off when there was a loud commotion, crashing and banging like they were out to destroy the room. I should have called management then, and I’m sorry that I didn’t. That woman might be alive if I had,” Sean said this last part slowly, regretfully. It had just occurred to him that he was partly responsible for a woman’s death. He should have gotten involved sooner. Whether from exhaustion from the long sleepless night or from remorse, tears came to his eyes. Embarrassed to look so weak before this strong, capable woman, he quickly wiped them away.

  The detective said nothing; not feeling it was her job to console people. In fact, it was an accomplishment to just hide her impatience. Checking in what she hoped was time; she’d stopped clicking her pen open and closed on the tablet. Hopefully, the witness hadn’t noticed. Patience was not one of Sandra’s virtues. But tenaciousness was.

  “What did you think caused the ‘crashing and banging’?”

  “It sounded like they were fighting. I heard someone moan like a hurt animal. It sounded pathetic, hopeless. That scared the shit out of me.”

  “Where did it sound like the noise come from?”

  “From the back of the room. The bathroom area. I assume that room is laid out like the one me and my wife are in.”

  This was scribbled quickly into the notebook.

  “And then what?”

  “Then it was quiet for quite a while. I was so shook up from the crashing and that horrible moaning that I got out of bed and sat in the dark in the chair by the window. I didn’t want to wake up Samantha. My wife slept through the whole thing. I don’t know how, but she did.”

  Det. O’Malley nodded as if this was perfectly normal.

  “I heard the door open to the room next door and then close again. After a few more minutes, the door opened again and someone went out. I peeked out the window and saw the man go to his car and drive out of the parking lot. He didn’t turn the headlights on until he was out on the street, which I thought was suspicious. I couldn’t get a plate number. I tried, but it was too dark.”

  “Could you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “No. Too dark.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “I couldn’t tell. Just a dark-colored sedan. I didn’t pay attention when they first arrived. When the man left the sky was cloudy and it was pitch black outside.” Sean looked up at the sky, wondering if it was going to rain again. Just like the day before. This had been a lousy vacation.

  “Is that when you called the manager?”

  “No,” Sean said guiltily, brought back to the subject at hand, his voice strained. “I went back to bed. But I couldn’t sleep. It was about an hour later that I called the office and woke the guy up. He wasn’t real happy with me, but twenty minutes later he finally showed up and beat on the door to that room. I’d gone outside and stood there with him. He didn’t want to use his key to get in, but I convinced him. When he opened the door we found her like that in the bathroom. Then he called 9-1-1. You know the rest.”

  He watched the detective shake her pen irritably and then scribble hard on the paper. When she tried again, she’d succeeded in making the ink flow. Then she asked, as if there had been no interruption, “Anything else?”

  “No,” Sean said, hesitating, unsure about saying more. He didn’t want this tough, professional woman to think him incompetent or weak.

  The detective knew there was something he wasn’t telling her. “What?”

  Sean nervously jammed his hands into his pockets before asking, “Is it always like that? Murder? That girl seemed to be staring right at me. Her dead eyes were locked on mine when I looked in. It was horrible. Is that the way it always is?”

  Det. O’Malley was aware of the position the girl was in. In fact, she suspected that she had been posed. Those eyes were meant to stare straight into your own. And that wasn’t something that happened without being contrived. She felt a bit of compassion for the man before her. It had to be a shock for someone not experienced in murder. It had been more than enough even for her. For him, it had to be traumatic.

  “No, it’s not always like this. This is a bad one. Are you going to be okay?” she qu
estioned, surprising herself with how gently she’d asked. She must be getting soft.

  Sean nodded his head.

  “When do you plan to leave town?”

  “Monday, early.”

  “That’s fine. We have your name and number?”

  Sean again nodded.

  “Okay, we’re through here,” Sandy said. “Why don’t you go see if you can get some sleep? We’ll call you if we need anything else. Thank you for responding, most people wouldn’t have.”

  Sean’s smile was bittersweet. He knew most wouldn’t want to get involved, but the fact that he had didn’t comfort him. His involvement had accomplished nothing.

  His help had been too little, too late, and a woman was dead.

  Chapter 17

  As Jimmy Warren pulled out of the supermarket lot he debated whether he wanted to drive the few streets over to interview Mason’s girlfriend, even though he’d come to this side of town specifically for that purpose. When he’d spotted a Latino market, he’d spontaneously pulled over and went inside. There, he’d happily shopped for the ingredients to fix the Cuban-style pulled pork he’d craved for the last two weeks. Nobody could cook that specialty better than Ada, but if he ever wanted to eat it again he would have to learn how to prepare it himself. He’d hung around the kitchen often enough in the past to know what seasonings she used; he’d just have to guess on the amount. If it were too spicy, then he’d know better the next time. It was funny that what he missed the most about being married was the food. Which was an understatement, he really missed Ada’s cooking. In fact, he was sure he knew the pain of withdrawal. Between the lack of good food and the lack of sex, he was definitely feeling deprived. On a better note, at least his headache was gone and when he’d shaved this morning he’d noted that his face had begun to lose some of the outlandish color it had worn for the last few days, which wasn’t surprising. He’d always healed fast.

  Donna Bradbury lived five blocks away. Or she had when Mason took off. Izzy (or Abby, or whatever name she was going by) had asked him the day before if he planned on questioning her. And she’d said she’d like to be in on it. Jimmy had said no. He had no intention of getting in the middle of a catfight between two women. Take the cheated-on wife to meet the woman her husband had been running with? Not hardly! No, Jimmy Warren wasn’t born yesterday and that sure didn’t sound like fun. It was true that Izzy had seemed more interested in the investigation than in clawing out Mason’s girlfriend’s eyes, but he wasn’t going to agree to it. He’d found out lately that women were not trustworthy.

  And he wasn’t sure what help the interview would be; what Ms. Bradbury could contribute. She had been investigated and cleared of any involvement in Janet Hilton’s murder. In the months that followed she hadn’t left town or done anything that would be considered suspicious. She’d given birth to a baby boy, continued her job at the supermarket, and, even though her phone had been tapped, she’d not been found to be corresponding with Mason. But you never knew; some people were exceedingly clever, waiting years to contact a fugitive. Although Jimmy had been hired to find Janet Hilton, he knew that if he could locate Grant Mason, there was a chance the man would lead them to the girl’s body. Just in case they weren’t lucky and didn’t find her on the grandparents’ farm, he wanted to be sure he’d dotted his I’s and crossed his T’s.

  Waiting another day for Det. Paul Lewinski to return, and then waiting until he got around to calling back was frustrating. It was like he was merely spinning wheels and not getting anyplace. He needed to actually do something, even if nothing came of it. With that thought in mind, Jimmy turned left out of the parking lot, the opposite direction from his apartment. It wouldn’t hurt the groceries to wait in the car for the few minutes he would spend on the interview and then he would settle down for the rest of the day and slow cook the pork brisket. Thinking of the delicious aromas and flavors that waited made his mouth water. He almost hoped Ms. Bradbury wasn’t home.

  ***

  Georgie Bradbury was an active child. At ten months old he was tall for his age, blonde, and remarkably strong. He was curious about everything and for some reason that curiosity led him to demolish whatever caught his fancy. Donna thought he was the smartest, most perfect child on the face of the earth. She overlooked his destructive ways. That’s because his faults weren’t faults to her. They were talents that had yet to be discovered. He was going to be an engineer or designer. That was the way it was. She knew she could guide him along that path. He would go to college. He would be successful.

  A knock on the door caused her to stop what she was doing, which was picking up the pieces of a cell phone. How one small child could have broken it was beyond her. Not only had he broken it, but he’d broken it into several pieces. And it was the second phone he’d destroyed. All he’d done was thrown it. The boy had quite an arm. Maybe baseball? She’d better add major league pitcher to the list of possible careers. The minor league was not something that even crossed her mind.

  “Who is it?” she asked from inside. She had no intentions of opening the door without knowing who was standing on the other side. Since Grant had run out on her, and, let’s be honest, since she finally believed the evidence that he had killed that girl, she didn’t trust people as much. But it wasn’t just for her that she'd become wary; she had a child to protect now.

  “Ms. Bradbury? My name is Jimmy Warren. I’m a private detective, investigating the disappearance of Janet Hilton. Could I have a few minutes of your time?”

  Donna hesitated. Janet Hilton had disappeared in 2008. Five years ago. Why did this guy think she knew something about that? She didn’t. In fact, she’d never met the woman. What Grant, the creep, had done back then had nothing to do with her. She hadn’t even started seeing him until 2010. And then had come the pregnancy and the ass had took off.

  She opened the door a crack, just enough to see the heavyset man in the wrinkled suit standing outside. He looked tired and kind, although his face showed the remnant of a black eye. He was holding up an I.D. for her to inspect. It featured his picture and had the state seal proving the license was legal in the state of Ohio.

  “Okay, but you’ll have to talk quietly. I just put Georgie down for a nap.”

  He followed her inside to the kitchen table where she motioned for him to take a seat on one of the low-slung maple chairs.

  “Georgie? That must be your son?” the investigator asked.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling, her pride easily apparent.

  “Yours and Grant Mason’s?” he asked, although he was fully aware of the answer. He looked down at the notebook he’d pulled from his jacket pocket, rather than her face, she supposed in an effort not to be judgmental.

  “Yes,” she said again, this time defiantly. “He’s mine and Grant’s. My husband is not the father.” She stared directly at the man seated on the other side of the table. Her attitude showed that she wasn’t embarrassed. She was implying that the pregnancy might have been planned. It hadn’t been. But she wouldn’t let him know that. Besides she wouldn’t change a thing; she had Georgie, the first true love of her life.

  “You’re married? I thought you’d divorced.”

  “I intended to file, but Dale came back after Georgie was born and we reconciled.”

  The PI seemed to find that interesting. He wrote it down in his notebook. Donna didn’t know what her comment had to do with anything. She scowled as she watched him write.

  “I only have a few questions,” he said soothingly.

  He must have picked up on her irritation. Donna consciously composed herself and nodded at him to continue. The quicker he asked his questions the faster he would be out of here. Hopefully that would be soon. Georgie’s nap was the only time she had to herself.

  “Have you heard from Mason since the night he left?”

  “Not one word.”

  “Why
do you think that is? Did you have a fight?”

  “No, detective. We didn’t have a fight. I don’t know why he left. At the time I thought something bad had happened to him. I was positive he wouldn’t abandon me. He’d seemed so thrilled that he was going to be a father, and for him to just take off like that was unreal.”

  The P.I. nodded like he believed her. Donna wondered if he did, or if he was merely trying to placate a dumb woman. She would have had to be dumb to get pregnant by a married man. Wasn’t that what he was thinking?

  She wasn’t sure she liked this man. She’d had enough holier-than-thou do-gooders that said they wanted to help, but never stepped up to the plate. None but Dale. It had been tough raising her brothers and sisters when her dad had taken off and her mother going through a nervous breakdown. But she’d done it without anyone’s help and she’d fully intended to raise Georgie on her own. But then Dale had come back. And she’d remembered how good he was. Georgie loved him and she did too, in her own way. Dale was Georgie’s father in every way, except blood. And few people knew that. She intended to keep it that way.

  “How long is this going to take? I don’t like my neighbors seeing a strange man here when Dale’s not home.”

  “Not long, just one or two more questions.”

  The sound of a key in the lock made them both turn toward the door, as an older man with white hair and a slightly stooped posture came in carrying a bag of groceries. He stopped in surprise when he saw the P.I. sitting in his kitchen.

  “Dale, this is Jimmy Warren. He’s a private investigator, investigating Janet Hilton’s disappearance,” Donna said, explaining quickly as if she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. Jimmy wondered if the old boy was the jealous type.