Lady Justice and the Mysterious Box

by Robert Thornhill

  He exited the freeway in downtown Kansas City and headed south on Broadway. He needed to find someplace to stay while he located his sister.

  He had turned onto Linwood and driven a few blocks when he spotted a sign in front of a ram-shackle building. The inscription above the door said the place was the Three Trails Hotel, and the sign in the yard read, ‘Sleeping room. $40.00 per week.’ It sounded perfect.

  He parked, climbed the steps onto the front porch, and knocked on the door labeled ‘Manager.’

  A robust elderly woman answered. “Yeah, whadda you want?”

  Oliver pointed to the sign in the yard. “I’d like to rent your sleeping room.”

  The woman looked him over. “You running from the law?”

  “No, Ma’am. I just got into town.”

  The woman obviously liked the ‘Ma’am.’ “Polite! I like that. It’s forty bucks --- cash. I’m Mary. What’s your name?”

  “Roger,” Oliver lied. “Roger Wilson.”

  “Okay, Roger. Here are the rules. No cooking in your room, no overnight guests, and no loud music. There’s twenty rooms up there and four bathrooms. If you take a shower or a crap, clean the place up. Got it?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he replied, handing her two twenties.

  She handed him a key. “#9, upstairs and to the right. If you want to stay another week, put your money in an envelope with your name and room number on it and poke it through the slot.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Oliver could sense it would be wise to stay on this woman’s good side.

  He climbed the stairs, then taking a right turn, almost collided with an old gent.

  “Sorry,” Oliver said, apologetically.

  “Nothin’ to be sorry for,” the old gent replied. “Nobody’s hurt. My name’s Feeney. You rent #9?”

  “Yes,” Oliver replied. “I’m Roger.”

  “Glad to met you. A word of warning. You might want to avoid the #2 crapper for about twenty minutes. Give it some time to air out.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  Oliver opened the door to room #9. I doubt I’ll be staying another week, he thought after surveying the twin bed, dresser and chair. It’ll do for now.

  He was drained from the long drive from Los Angeles and the close encounter with the Asian agents. He stowed his bag under the bed, collapsed, and fell into a deep sleep.

  The sun was casting shadows on the wall when he awoke the next morning. Rested, he thought about his plans for the day. He would shower, find a place to get a good breakfast, then give Carmine Marchetti a call.

  He grabbed a towel from his bag and stepped into the hall almost running into Feeney again.

  “We gotta stop meeting like this,” Feeney said, grinning. “People are gonna start talking.”

  Oliver liked the old man. He was funny.

  “I’m new in town. Where’s a good place to get breakfast?”

  “Mel’s Diner over on Broadway,” Feeney replied without hesitation. “His biscuits an’ gravy are the best in town. It’s not far. You could walk if you were a mind to.”

  “Thanks. Sounds perfect.”

  Oliver showered, dressed, and headed to Mel’s Diner. A walk in the fresh morning air was just what he needed.

  Ivan Kozlov and Alexi Ivanov, parked across from the Three Trails, saw Oliver leave the building.

  “Looks like our source was right,” Ivan said. “That’s McDermont.”

  “What’s our plan?” Alexi asked.

  “We can’t just snatch him off the street. No doubt he has the box stowed in his room.”

  “Yeah, but which room?”

  “Let’s go in and see what we can find out. If we know which room is his, we can wait until he returns, then take him there.”

  “If we find out which room, why not just break in and take the box?”

  “Because he knows what’s in it. Our orders are to get the box and eliminate anyone who has seen its contents.”

  When Oliver was out of sight, the two Russians entered the building and headed up the stairs where they encountered an old man in the hall.

  “Mornin’ gents. Can I help you with something?”

  “Uhhh, maybe,” Ivan replied. “A friend of ours moved in yesterday. We wanted to surprise him.”

  “That’d be Roger,” the old man replied.

  “Uhhh, yes. Roger. That’s him.” Ivan figured that McDermont wouldn’t use his real name.

  “Number 9,” the man said, “but you just missed him. Said he was going to breakfast.”

  “Thanks for your help. We’ll come back later. Oh, yes, if you see him, don’t tell him we were here. We want it to be a surprise.”

  The old man made a zipper movement along his lips. “Mums the word.”

  The Russians returned to their car and waited for Oliver’s return.

  Mr. Feeney was right, Oliver thought as he headed back to the Three Trails. Those were definitely the best biscuits and gravy he had ever eaten.

  As he entered the hotel, he didn’t notice the two men watching from the car across the street.

  He unlocked his room, retrieved his bag from under the bed, and pulled a slip of paper with a phone number from a pouch on the side. It was time to call Carmine Marchetti.

  He grabbed his cell phone and was about to dial when he heard the sound of two car doors shutting. He casually glanced out the window. Panic seized him as he saw two men walking to the hotel entrance. It wasn’t the Asians who had accosted him before, but he instinctively knew they were after him and the box.

  There was no way he was going to get past them out the front, and he hadn’t been in the hotel long enough to know if there was a way out the back. He only had a few minutes and he had to act fast. The important thing was to make sure they would not get the box.

  He pulled the box from his bag and opened the door just as Mr. Feeney was coming down the hall.

  “Mr. Feeney! Come quick!”

  “I can’t dawdle,” Feeney replied. “I’m on my way to the crapper and it’s kinda urgent.”

  “Please!”

  The tone in Oliver’s voice made Feeney hesitate. “What’s so important?”

  Oliver shoved the box into Feeney’s hands. “Take this and hide it. Two men will be here any moment. Don’t let them find the box. It’s a matter of life and death. Do you understand?”

  Feeney was shocked. “Uhhh --- sure. I’ll hide it, but what then?”

  “I don’t know yet. Just hide it --- and one more thing --- promise me you won’t look inside the box.”

  “Sure, whatever you say.”

  Feeney had just slipped into the bathroom when the two men turned down the hall and spotted Oliver.

  “Mr. McDermont,” Ivan said, brandishing a gun, “going somewhere?”

  Ivan and Alexi pushed Oliver inside his room and threw him on the bed.

  “Where is it? You know what we’ve come for.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oliver muttered through clenched teeth.

  Ivan pointed to the bag. “Check it out, Alexi.”

  The Russian emptied the contents of the bag on the floor. “Nothing here.”

  “Check the dresser and under the bed.”

  “Nope, not here either.”

  “One more chance, McDermont,” Ivan said, pressing the barrel of the gun against his forehead. “Where is the box?”

  “Why should I tell you anything? You’re just going to kill me anyway.”

  “You got that right,” Ivan replied, and pulled the trigger.

  “What now?” Alexi asked. “It’s obviously not in this room. Maybe he left it in his car.”

  “Not likely,” Ivan replied. “I don’t think he would let it out of his sight.”

  “And I doubt he would give it to anyone else. What should we do?”

  “Someone might have heard the shot. Let’s get out of here. We’ll report to our handler and go from there.”

  Feeney had his ear to the bathroom door
and heard the gunshot and subsequent conversation. He held his breath as he heard the two assassins walk by and head down the steps. He waited ten minutes to be sure they had gone, then retrieved the box from behind the commode where he had stashed it.

  He took the box to his room, slid it under the bed, then returned to Oliver’s room.

  “Holy crap!” he muttered, seeing Oliver’s body and the gaping hole in his head. “I gotta tell Mary,” he mumbled, racing down the hall.

  He banged on Mary’s door. “Mary! Mary! Open up! We got a real problem!”

  Mary opened the door and seeing Feeney, rolled her eyes. “Please don’t tell me you stopped up the crapper again.”

  “I wish that was it. You know the new guy --- the one in #9?”

  Mary nodded.

  “Well, he’s deader than a doornail. Two guys come in and shot him dead.”

  “Look Feeney, I’m in no mood for jokes.”

  “Ain’t no joke. I swear!”

  Mary could see he was dead serious. “I better call Mr. Walt.”

  I was at my desk paying bills when the phone rang. It was Mary and I could tell right away that something was wrong.

  “Mr. Walt, you better get over here fast! Feeney just told me one of our tenants was shot upstairs.”

  Great! Just what I needed.

  “Call 911. I’m on my way.”

  I grabbed Willie from his basement apartment and headed out. I arrived first, but I heard sirens in the distance. Mary and Mr. Feeney were on the front porch.

  “Tell me what happened. Who got shot?”

  Mary spoke first. “It was a new guy, Roger Wilson. He just moved in yesterday. I can’t believe it. He was so polite.”

  At that moment, two squad cars pulled up to the curb. Detective Derek Blaylock with the Homicide Division stepped out of one.

  “Walt Williams and The Three Trails Hotel. Why am I not surprised?”

  Unfortunately, my little hotel had garnered quite a reputation over the years.

  “Well, what’s the scoop?” he asked.

  “Looks like we have a shooting on the second floor,” I replied.

  “Any witnesses?”

  Feeney raised his hand. “Me --- sort of.”

  “What do you mean, sort of?”

  “I was in the crapper when it happened, but I heard everything. Two men came upstairs, saw Mr. Wilson, and shoved him in his room. They argued, and then I heard a shot fired. I waited until I was sure they were gone, then checked on Mr. Wilson. He was dead.”

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Did you ever actually see the two men?”

  “Nope, I just heard their voices. They talked funny --- with some kind of accent.”

  “Accent?”

  “Yeah, you know, like the bad guys in a James Bond movie.”

  “Maybe Russian,” I suggested.

  “You said you heard their conversation. What did they say?”

  “I only heard what they said out in the hall. I couldn’t hear what they said in Mr. Wilson’s room.”

  “Great! So we have no idea what they were arguing about. What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Roger Wilson,” Mary replied. “He just moved in yesterday. He seemed so nice.”

  “Well, somebody didn’t think so,” Blaylock replied. “Let’s go take a look.” He turned to Feeney, Willie, and Mary. “You three stay here. I don’t need people messing up my crime scene. Walt, you’re with me.”

  We climbed the stairs to room #9. Roger Wilson was lying on the bed in a pool of blood. His things were scattered on the floor.

  “Jesus!” Blaylock muttered, surveying the scene. “Looks like whoever popped him was looking for something.”

  Just then, the crime scene guys and the Medical Examiner arrived.

  “Go through this place with a fine-toothed comb,” Blaylock ordered. “Fingerprints, the works.”

  Then he turned to me. “Let’s go back down. I need to get statements from everyone.”

  Two hours later, the lab guys had finished processing the room and Wilson’s body had been hauled to the morgue.

  Blaylock handed out cards to everyone. “If you think of anything else or those two men show up again, give me a call.”

  When everyone was gone, Willie and I headed upstairs.

  “Damn!” Willie said, looking at the crime scene. “I got me a real mess to clean up.”

  He pointed to the blood-soaked mattress. “Wot should I do wit dat?”

  “Toss it in the dumpster. I’ll get a new one at the Salvation Army Thrift Store.”

  “Dis is gonna take a while to clean up,” he said. “You go on an’ I’ll give you a call when I’m done.”

  I had just gotten home when the phone rang. It was Detective Blaylock.

  “Got a news flash for you, Walt. We ran the prints on the dead guy and guess what? His name’s not Roger Wilson. It’s Oliver McDermont, and the guy has a rap sheet as long as your arm. Nothing serious, but the guy’s definitely been a busy boy over the years. He must have gotten into something over his head and paid the price.”

  Oliver McDermont! I’d heard that name before, but I couldn’t remember where. Then it came to me.

  “Uhh, Derek, you’re not going to believe this. Oliver McDermont is Bernice Crenshaw’s younger brother.”

  “Holy crap! You mean the old lady who lives in your building? The one who has the hots for your dad? This just gets weirder and weirder.”

  I told him about the visit from the Homeland Security agents who thought McDermont might be heading to Kansas City to reconnect with Bernice.

  “Oliver was much younger than Bernice, the black sheep of the family, so to speak. She said she hadn’t heard from him in nearly twenty years.”

  “Nevertheless,” he replied, “she’s probably his next of kin. Do you think you can get her down here to identify the body?”

  “I’m sure I can, but she probably won’t recognize him. I’s been so many years.”

  “I understand, but we have to follow procedure.”

  “I’ll get her there.”

  I hated what I had to do next. I knocked on Bernice’s door. Thankfully, Dad was there.

  “Bernice, I have some bad news. You’d better sit down.”

  Bernice was confused. Dad was curious. “What’s going on, Son?”

  I took Bernice’s hand. “There was a death at the Three Trails today. I’m sorry to tell you that it was your brother, Oliver.”

  I could see she didn’t quite comprehend. The lights were on, but nobody was home.

  “Oliver? At the Three Trails? What was he doing there?”

  “We don’t know. He just got into town yesterday.”

  “And he’s --- dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh, my! What happened to him?”

  “Two men accosted him in his room. He was shot.”

  “Oh, dear! Can I see him?”

  “That’s another reason I’m here. Detective Blaylock would like you to go downtown and identify the body. Are you up to it?”

  She nodded. “Let me get my purse.”

  “I’m coming too,” Dad said. “Let me get some pants on.”

  The morgue is my second least favorite place, right after hospitals. It always smells funny and nothing pleasant ever takes place there.

  Detective Blaylock met us there. After introductions, he motioned to the attendant. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Oliver’s body was laid out on a slab and covered with a sheet. We gathered round and the attendant pulled back the sheet.

  “I know this is difficult, Ms. Crenshaw,” Blaylock said. “Is this your brother?”

  Bernice had been hanging onto Dad for dear life. She stepped forward and looked at the man she hadn’t seen for two decades.

  “That’s Oliver, all right. He’s the spittin’ image of my dad.”

  A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Can I go now?”
/>   “Certainly,” Blaylock replied. “What would you like done with the body after we process it?”

  I saw the blank look on Bernice’s face. “This has been quite a shock. Can we get back to you on that?”

  “Of course.”

  It’s hard to imagine, but Bernice looked a few years older as Dad led her away.

  On the way back home, my cell phone buzzed.

  “Mr. Walt, I’se done cleanin’. Can you pick me up?”

  “Sure. As soon as I drop off Dad and Bernice, I’ll be right over.”

  Willie was waiting for me on the front porch.

  “Come on up,” he said. “I got it as respectable as I could.”

  We climbed the stairs to room #9. Willie had done a fine job.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket. “I found dis under de bed. I guess de crime scene guys missed it. Thought it might be important.”

  A phone number was scribbled on the scrap of paper. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  At that moment, Mr. Feeney poked his head in the door. “Mr. Walt, we need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “About what happened to poor Mr. Wilson.”

  I didn’t bother to correct him about the name. “What about it?”

  “I shoulda said something when the cops were here, but with everything going on, I just forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “Just before those guys took Mr. Wilson, he gave me a box and told me to hide it and not let anyone see it. He even told me not to look inside.”

  “So where’s the box?”

  “In my room.”

  I followed Feeney to his room. He pulled a box from under his bed and handed it to me. “I did just as he said. I didn’t even look inside.”

  I was dumfounded. Whatever was in this box was undoubtedly what the two men were after and why Oliver was killed.

  “Thank you, Mr. Feeney. You did good. Can I ask you to do something else?”

  “Sure, Mr. Walt. Anything.”

  “Good. I want you to promise me you won’t tell another living soul about this box. In fact, I want you to forget you ever saw it. Do you think you can do that?”