Shadow by the Bridge

by Suzanne Zewan

  He picked up the newspaper again and read. “It happened at about 7:30, so it was just getting dark. A few of the people on the train said that they saw a dark figure step from behind the huge signboard along the tracks. They saw the flashes from the gunfire. One woman sitting at the back of the train mentioned seeing the figure running toward Linden into the trees, not far from the bridge.”

  Leaning back on the sofa with the glass in my hand, I closed my eyes for a moment and saw a shadow by the bridge, a fiend that tormented and killed for amusement—and thatfigure looked just like Leon. I opened my eyes as the bourbon melted away the images of the shattered skulls, the charred bodies, and the shadow.

  Twenty-Eight

  1985

  The warm, moist breeze brushed past me and gently swayed the wooden blinds that were hanging on the side of the porch as my granddaughter, Jenna, pulled into our driveway. Noise blasted from her 1978 burnt orange and white topped Thunderbird.

  The sound stopped, and she smiled, waved, and stepped out of her car. She was wearing frayed blue jean shorts and a tight, black T-shirt with the word “Scorpions” written in metallic silver across the front. Her long blonde hair caught the breeze as she walked up the front sidewalk.

  “What’s that racket coming from your car?” I asked, shaking my head with distaste.

  “Racket, what racket?” she asked, and then began to laugh as she ascended the porch steps. “That’s the Scorpions, Grandpa. That was my favorite song, ‘The Zoo.’” She shook her head with a grin. “I just saw them in concert.” She pulled on the side of her shirt. “I bought this shirt there.”

  I nodded. “Never heard of ’em,” I said. “So is that what you kids call music these days?”

  “Yep! It is,” she replied with a lively grin, and sat down on the white wicker chair to the right of me.

  “You shouldn’t drive with your music blaring like that; you won’t be able to hear an ambulance or fire truck coming.”

  Jenna smiled. “I only turned it up for that song.”

  “Song? I didn’t hear any singing.”

  “Oh, Grandpa,” she sighed. “Where’s Grandma?”

  “She’s in the house making cookies,” I said, looking over at her pretty face and sparkling blue eyes. I noticed how much she was beginning to resemble my daughter, Christine, and Valerie when they were younger. “You know, you’re looking more like your mother every day.”

  Jenna laughed a little. “I’ve heard that a lot lately.”

  “So, are you all done with college?”

  “Yep, I handed in my last paper today. I’m all done!” she replied happily.

  “So then, you’re all done with GCC now?”

  She nodded. “Yep!”

  “Well, congratulations!” I nodded. “That’s a big accomplishment. You should be proud of yourself.” I knew that I had said it before, but it deserved to be repeated.

  “It does feel good to be done,” she said with a grin.

  “Your mom told me that you’re not transferring anywhere?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to take a year off and just work at La Ponta’s until I can decide what I want to major in.”

  “That’s probably a smart idea.” I nodded. “So what brings you over here on this nice afternoon?”

  “I came over here to talk to you.”

  I gazed at her for a moment with curiosity. “Oh, yeah, about what?”

  “When I handed in my last paper for my American Lit course, I ended up talking to my professor for a while. She started telling me about the research she’s doing for a novel that she’s going to write.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, it sounded really interesting, and I thought you may remember the news stories when you were young.”

  “I might have… So what’s her novel about?”

  “The Linden Murders,” she replied with enthusiasm.

  I sat there speechless for a moment, frozen as an icy chill hit the center of my stomach. It was not the reply I was expecting.

  “She was telling me that they were never solved,” Jenna continued.

  Feeling a bit taken aback, the images began to flash in my head. The dust-covered trunk—filled with all that needed to be forgotten, pushed back to the deepest part of my mind—slid forward.

  “I can’t believe that I’ve lived in Batavia all my life and never heard anything about them until today.” She fixed her attentive eyes on me as if I had more to add to the story. “Where’s Linden, anyway?”

  “It’s near Bethany—not far from the Genesee County Park… Your grandmother and I grew up in that area,” I replied, wondering where this conversation was going and how far I was willing to take it. Valerie and I had agreed to leave what had happened buried in the past. It was too painful for us to talk about, especially for me. After moving to Batavia, we’d married and had three children: Marianne, Jimmy, and then Christine. After our wedding, we never talked about the murders again.

  I turned to my inquisitive granddaughter, who was wide-eyed and attentive. “Jenna, you have to remember that was back in the twenties. Most of the people involved have been gone for years, so I’m not surprised that you never heard about it. I’m sure you’re not the only one.”

  “Yeah, I sortafigured that. It was a long time ago… But my professor knows a lot. She told me that there were five murders, and one of them was a triple murder—howtotally awful!”

  I nodded as the image of the three charred, bloody bodies on the bedroom floor flashed in my head. I placed my hand on the arm of the wicker chair and uneasily adjusted my position.

  “So, I figured that you’d probably remember hearing about them.”

  “What’s your professor’s name?”

  “Professor Hollenbeck. She’s really nice.”

  “She must be new. I don’t remember anyone by that name working in the department.”

  “Grandpa,” Jenna said gently with a slight grin. “I’m sure there’re several new professors working in the department since you retired. You retired ten years ago.”

  The screen door opened. Valerie walked out, wearing her house dress and floral apron, which was covered in flour. “Jenna,” Valerie’s eyes brightened. “I didn’t know you were out here. This is a nice surprise.”

  “Hi, Grandma!”

  She strolled over to Jenna; she leaned over to hug her, and then kissed her cheek. “You’re just in time. I’m baking some chocolate chip cookies. The first batch will be done in about ten minutes; you can take some home with you.”

  “Thank you! I’ve always loved your chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Would you like something to drink, Jenna? Lemonade or ice tea?”

  “I’ll have a glass of lemonade with lots of ice, please,” Jenna replied.

  “Fritz?”

  “I’ll get my own drink.” I stood up from my seat. “I’ll be right back,” I said to Jenna and stepped into the house.

  Valerie headed into the kitchen. I headed over to my desk. My hand began to tremble as I opened the drawer and grabbed my bottle of bourbon that was lying next to my tarnished pocket watch that had died decades ago.I never expected to be having this conversation with my granddaughter.Beads of sweat began to form on my forehead as I prepared myself. I heard Valerie turn the faucet on as I wandered over to the hutch in the dining room and reached for a rock glass that was sitting on the bottom shelf. Trying to stay out of her view, I set the glass on the dining room table and poured the clear, dark amber liquid into my glass.

  With my glass in hand, I quietly placed the bourbon back into the drawer. I took a sip and set my glass down next to my electric typewriter before opening up the bottom desk drawer and lifting the lid of my wooden box. The one I found in my attic before I moved to Batavia in 1924.

  I stared at my cherished fox trap for a moment; my last birthday present from my father. Luckily, I was able to retrieve it from the woods after the snow melted back in 1924, after my mother and I moved in with Joseph’s paren
ts. I had to drink a few glasses of bourbon before I could enter those woods again. I dug around for a little while and finally found it. It was rusted and buried in the brush, still sitting next to the rock I hid behind. Quietly, I shut the box, pushed it to the back of the drawer, and grabbed the manuscript that was lying beneath it, the one I had spent years laboring over and had long since tried to forget. As I picked up my glass, I held the draft of my novel in my hand.Today or never… Sipping my drink, I headed back outside. I opened the door and saw Jenna sitting patiently. Feeling my heart racing, I set my manuscript down on the small table and set my glass down next to it.

  Valerie opened the door. “Freshly squeezed,” she said cheerfully as she handed Jenna a glass of lemonade that was filled to the top with ice, as per her request. “I’ll be right back with the cookies.” She turned and her eyes locked on my glass of bourbon. Then she gave me a heated look.

  “Where did that come from?” Her tone was serious.

  I shook my head. “Not a word,” I said quietly.

  She looked over at Jenna. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you two talking about, anyway?” she asked curtly.

  “The Linden Murders,” Jenna replied with eagerness and innocence.

  Valerie nodded slightly with her eyes fixed on mine. “Fritz, can I see you for a minute? Inside?”

  I took a sip of my drink and set it back down. “I’ll be right back, Jenna. Sit tight.”

  As I stepped inside the house, Valerie shut the door and looked directly into my eyes. “You told me that after you finished your manuscript there would be no more drinking. I’m not going to put up with it again! Do you understand, Fritz?” Her eyes were angered and moist. “I’ve had enough.”

  I took a deep breath and shook my head, thinking of what to say.

  “After living through all the pain, I never understood why you wanted to relive it.”

  “I had to!’ I said, slightly raising my voice while trying not to let Jenna hear me. “You’ll never understand.” And I knew she never would. “I had to relive those horrific memories to deal with them, sort through them, and finally put them to rest on paper. It was my way of metaphorically removing them from my head. And it has helped me. It has helped me a lot.”

  “Really? It has helped you?” Valerie asked in a loud whisper. “I don’t know how drinking yourself into a stupor and sitting in front of your typewriter, crying at times, has helped you!” She stared at me with reddened, pain-filled eyes. “It makes no sense!” She leaned over and looked out the front window. “Can’t you talk to Jenna about it without the drinking?”

  I stared directly into her eyes. “No!” I grabbed the doorknob and opened the door. “It’s the only way I’ll get through the conversation.”

  With her arms folded and shaking her head in disgust, I stepped out the door and looked over at Jenna, who was patiently waiting.

  “What did Grandma want?”

  “Nothing that you need to concern yourself with,” I replied and sat back down.

  “So do you remember anything about the murders?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I remember them.”

  “How old were you back then?”

  I thought for a moment. “How old are you now?”

  “I’ll be twenty this fall.”

  “I was a little younger than you. They happened over a period of a few years.”

  “It must have been a huge news story around here.”

  “It was.” I nodded as I grabbed my drink and took another sip. Jenna was eagerly listening to every word. “My stepfather actually worked as an attorney in the Genesee County District Attorney’s office. He worked for Keller: District Attorney Keller was his name. He was in charge of the case.”

  “Your stepdad worked there?” Jenna’s eyes widened. “So you must know a lot about the murders then.”

  “Well, he wasn’t the attorney on the case. He was fairly new when the murders happened. Keller was a seasoned attorney; he handled the big cases.”

  “Did he ever talk with you about the murders?”

  “We had some conversations, but they were mainly about what was in the newspaper.”

  “So the murders have gone unsolved all these years?”

  I nodded as the screen door opened. “Here you go.” Valerie set the plate on top of my manuscript. The aroma of the moist chocolate chip cookies filled the warm air and hovered next to me. She gave me a quick check with her narrowed eyes as I held my drink.

  “Thank you, Grandma.” Jenna sipped her lemonade and grabbed a cookie off the plate.

  I brought the glass to my lips and nipped on the bourbon.

  “So they were never solved?” she asked again.

  I shook my head and swallowed. “No, they weren’t. And people were upset, scared, and angry.”

  “I would be, too.” Jenna bit into the cookie, leaving a trace of warm chocolate on her top lip. “So did they have any suspects?”

  “Yeah; they ended up putting your grandmother’s step-brother, Junior, who you may remember us talking about on occasion, in jail for a couple of weeks, but then they had to let him out because the officials didn’t have any evidence to hold him on.”

  I glanced over at Jenna. Her eyes were wide. “I had no idea,” she whispered.

  I nodded. “I know you didn’t.” I sipped my drink. “People liked to single him out because he kept to himself. Also, he didn’t attend any of the victims’ funerals. So they thought they had their man—but they didn’t.”

  “At least they let him out. Once in a while you hear about innocent people spending years in prison.”

  “Then there was a confession. It was all over the newspapers and the radio that a man confessed to the murders.”

  “Someone confessed? Really?”

  “He was one of the professional confessors. The officials had to actually convince him that he didn’t do it. He wasn’t even in the same city when the murders were committed.”

  “I never heard of someone confessing to a murder that they didn’t commit.”

  “Oh yeah, there’re people out there missing a few marbles up there.” I pointed to my head and took another swig of bourbon.

  “More like missing a whole jar full of marbles,” Jenna said and started to laugh before taking another bite of her cookie.

  “And years later there were the suicides,” I said softly as my thoughts began to flow more fluidly from the smooth bourbon. After I said it, my last memory of Leon and Felix standing on the Morgans’ store porch flashed in my mind.

  “Suicides?” Jenna’s eyes widened.

  I nodded and held two fingers up. “And they were brothers: the Chapman brothers, Leon and Felix… And Leon was once a friend of mine. Well, they were both friends of mine, but Felix was older, and I didn’t see him as much as I did Leon.”

  “That’s terrible! Did they do it at the same time?”

  “No, several years apart. In the mid-1930s, Leon Chapman shot himself. He was young… I think he was in his thirties when he died.”

  “Do you think he had anything to do with the murders?”

  I pressed my lips together and nodded. “My gut feeling was that they did… As it turned out, Leon bragged about being the last person to see Travis Wilson alive on the night of the triple murder. But what makes it even more suspicious was that his older brother, Felix, also shot himself. That happened in the 1970s—forty years later. It leaves me with even more suspicion about them.”

  “Did they leave notes confessing to anything?”

  I shook my head, “No. I think Leon left a note as to who would get his money. But that’s it.” I finished my drink and set it on the table. “There was some talk about them. The Chapman family didn’t like Helen Wilson because she was a busybody. She was one of the victims of the triple murder—Travis Wilson’s wife. Travis was also one of the victims. The other victim was Martha Morgan. The officials figured that she walked in on the murderer or murderers.”

  “I wonder if
my professor knows any of this. She showed me a stack of files that she had—copies of the newspaper articles, court transcripts, a bunch of stuff—and she also said that she had photos from the murder scenes.”

  “Did you read any of it, or look at the photos?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t even think to ask. She must have had between fifteen and twenty files stacked on her desk. I’ll just wait to read her book.”

  “I would imagine there is a lot to go through.”

  The screen door opened again. “Can I get either one of you a refill?”

  I picked up my glass and nodded. “I’ll take another. It’s in the top right desk drawer.”

  Valerie came over to me. I felt the heat from her stare as she grabbed my glass.

  “I’m all set, Grandma. Thank you anyway. Your cookies aretotally awesome!”

  “Thank you, Jenna. So, was your grandfather able to tell you anything interesting?” Her eyes rested on me as she spoke.

  “Yes: he told me about the false confession and the brothers that committed suicide.”

  Valerie turned to Jenna. “The reporters kept the news story going for years. People connected to the case would end up in the newspaper on occasion. The reporters would always make connections to the murders with the officials involved every chance they could for the readers because it was such a big news story. And it was a constant reminder to everyone. But over the years, the news stories slowly stopped.”

  “I can’t believe that I never heard anything about the murders. My mother never mentioned it. Did you ever talk about it with my mom?”

  Valerie turned to me. “I don’t recall the kids ever asking about it. Do you, Fritz?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t either.”

  “And it’s not a pleasant subject, so it wasn’t something we would have brought up. My timer will be going off any minute. I better get back in there.” Valerie looked at me. “Another? Are you sure?”

  I nodded, pressing my lips together. I lifted up the plate of cookies so that I could pick up my manuscript from underneath, and then handed it to Jenna.

  “What’s this?”