by John Holt
“It appeared to be an accident, yes,” he said. “I grant you that, Mr. Kendall.” He paused for a moment, and looked at his mother. “That’s how it was reported, and that was the police verdict.” He paused once again. “The hospital and the coroner both agreed it was an accident.” He sighed and shook his head. “It was thought that he tripped on the curbstone, fell and hit his head on a low wall close by, and died shortly afterwards. Actually there were two witnesses, who apparently saw the whole thing.”
Kendall nodded at the mention of the witnesses. It was beginning to come back to him. “I remember.” he said. “They declared that just a few inches either side, and he would almost certainly have survived, if I remember correctly.”
Peter nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “That was their opinion.” He took a deep breath, and then continued with his narrative. “Part of the curbstone was slightly raised you see, and could easily cause an accident, if you weren’t careful. The thing is Mr. Kendall, my brother Richard was a very careful man. He was always on the alert for possible danger. He would not have tripped as they said he did.”
Kendall sighed. Naturally he would expect him to say something like that, wouldn’t he? It was entirely natural to protect your own family. They can do no wrong, can they? Obviously there would be no possibility that on this one occasion he merely had too much to drink and was a little unsteady, or that he just didn’t see it. Or he wasn’t watching where he was going, maybe. Had his mind on other things perhaps, not concentrating maybe, that kind of thing. It happens all the time.
Well it certainly did to Kendall anyway. He was always tripping over things, or bumping into things. It wasn’t that he was accident-prone, because he wasn’t. It wasn’t that he was particularly awkward, because he wasn’t. He was just a normal everyday kind of human being, and accidents happened to normal everyday kind of human beings. He shook his head, and looked at the lady. Tears were running steadily down her cheek. The young man placed his arm around her shoulder, and tried to comfort her.
“So what exactly do you want from me?” Kendall asked, trying to sound interested, but not entirely succeeding.
“Mr. Kendall my brother was very much into extreme sports. You know what I mean?”
Kendall shook his head. No he didn’t know what he meant. The only extreme sport that he knew was watching the Dolphins playing a match in the rain, and he was getting soaked, and they were losing, which was common.
Dawson took a deep breath. “My brother loved sky diving, snowboarding, rock climbing, deep sea diving, that kind of thing, anything to get the blood pumping through the veins, and the adrenalin flowing.” He paused and shook his head. Then he smiled. “He took risks certainly, but they were all calculated risks, he was not foolhardy. He never took un-necessary risks. He never took risks lightly, and he never took them without a thorough assessment of what was involved, and what could possibly go wrong.”
He paused for a moment and looked at his mother. She nodded her head slightly. Dawson turned back to face Kendall. “As I was saying, Richard was a very careful man. He would take every possible precaution that he could. Safety ropes would be checked, and double-checked, and then checked again.” He paused once again and placed his hand on his mother’s arm. “Equipment would be inspected. Anything found to be worn, or slightly damaged, or inferior in any way, would be thrown out, discarded.” He shook his head. “Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “No matter how new.”
Kendall shook his head. Who said anything about skydiving, or rock climbing? All we are talking about is walking across a car park area, and stepping on to a footpath, something done by someone, somewhere, every day of the week, hundreds and hundreds of people, probably thousands. Does that really need a full-scale risk assessment? Does that require specialized equipment, or special training?
The lady looked at Kendall, and smiled through her tears. “Mr. Kendall,” she said. “Let me tell you a little story if I may.”
Kendall heaved a sigh. He really didn’t need this. He was tired from his morning jog. He casually glanced at the sofa. All he really wanted to do was to have a nap.
“My son broke his arm once,” she continued. “He was just seven years old at the time, and he had fallen from his brand new bicycle. He had been careless you see. He had taken his hands off of the handlebar, showing off to his friends, and he had driven straight into a wall. He broke his arm in two places, and the bicycle suffered a buckled wheel, and a twisted handlebar.” She paused, and started to smile. “For eight weeks his arm was in plaster. For eight weeks he could not go out to play with his friends. For eight weeks he had to just sit at home, in his room, and do nothing.” She looked at the young man sitting next to her.
He smiled at her and tapped her hand. “Go on,” he whispered gently.
She turned and looked back at Kendall. “Richard vowed there and then never to be careless again. He never wanted to be encased in plaster ever again. Never again would he be cooped up inside whilst his friends were out enjoying themselves.” She paused for a moment, staring across the room. “Whenever he got onto that bicycle afterwards he would check the wheels, handlebars, brakes, whatever, for damage, before he went for a ride. He would wear padding to his knees, gloves, and a safety helmet.” She heaved a sigh and looked back at Kendall. “I can assure you that my son’s death was no accident,” she continued. “He was murdered.”
Kendall had heard it all before. Not exactly the same words maybe, but similar enough. He looked at the young man, and then he turned and looked at the lady. “Murdered, you say,” he repeated. He shook his head. “Why would anyone want to murder your son?” he asked.
The lady looked at Kendall for a few moments. She took a deep breath. “Why does anyone murder anyone else Mr. Kendall?” she asked. “Maybe something they are doing that they should not be doing, or maybe not doing something that they should.” She paused. “Jealousy, greed, or maybe money, all possible motives wouldn’t you agree? I believe he was killed.” She paused and looked at her son. “That is, we believe he was killed because of something he was working on for the newspaper.”
The young man looked at his mother, she smiled at him, and then he looked at Kendall. “Something that he had found out perhaps,” he suggested. “We would like your help in finding his killer, Mr. Kendall.”
Kendall looked at Mollie, and raised his eyes towards the ceiling. Here we go again, he thought. The guy was a newspaper reporter. Several people might not like what he was reporting, but would they resort to murder? He didn’t like everything they said in the paper, but would he set out to kill the reporter. He shook his head. It was more than likely that this was just a simple, dreadful accident, just like the police had said. The police were usually pretty good at that sort of thing. They didn’t normally make mistakes. He shook his head once again. Well they did occasionally, he thought. It had been known. In fact it happened quite often.
“Do you know what he was working on?” Kendall asked.
“This Rican flu business,” replied Alan. “That’s why he was at the Trenton Tower.”
Kendall nodded. “So he was investigating this current virus outbreak?” he replied.
“That’s correct,” said the young man. “The virus, and Trenton Pharmaceuticals’ involvement with it.”
What could be so important about that, Kendall wondered. What incredible discovery could there be that would result in his death? Sorry, his murder. Kendall was unsure. “Why come to me?” he asked.
The young man smiled. He shook his head. “No real reason, I’m afraid. I mean you didn’t come highly recommended or anything like that.” He raised his eyebrows and looked over at his mother, and then he returned his gaze to Kendall. “We just found your name on the Internet. We did a Google search for Private Detectives. You were local, and that was all. Why do you ask?”
Kendall smiled and shrugged. There was something odd, he thought, something not quite right. They weren’t being entirely straight
with him. Why? If they really wanted his help, then why not be up front?
“Oh, curious, that’s all. Professional pride,” he replied. “I just thought that maybe you might have read something about my last case perhaps.” He glanced over at Mollie and smiled. He then turned back to face his visitors. “The so-called Marinski affair?”
The young man smiled and shook his head. “Oh no, nothing like that,” he replied. “As I say we saw your name on the Internet, and that’s all.” He shrugged. “So here we are.”
Kendall looked at the young man, and nodded his head. They are looking for my help, depending on it. They are desperate. Those were their words, exactly. So what do they do? Do they look around carefully, carrying out checks here, there and everywhere? Do you try to get a recommendation from someone? Look for someone qualified, and suitable for the particular purpose? Answer no, to all three. They do a Google search, and pick someone out at random, because they are local.
Then the truth suddenly dawned on him. He shook his head and grinned. They WERE desperate! They had looked around! They had tried everywhere else, and everyone had turned them down, turned them down flat. He started to laugh. I’m their last resort, their only hope. He sighed. Thanks for the vote of confidence, he murmured.
“So here we are,” he repeated. He looked at the lady. She saw him staring at her, and smiled. Her smile reminded him of somebody else, not so long ago. Mrs. Shaw, he murmured, Anthony Shaw’s mother. Kendall smiled. He had been murdered, hadn’t he?
Kendall didn’t know the exact numbers, but he guessed that there were at least one hundred private detectives in the Greater Miami Area. All right, let’s say fifty. He shook his head. For the sake of argument, and further consideration, let’s say there are thirty. He stared at his two visitors. These people sitting in front of me have been to thirty other detectives before they got to me. Obviously those thirty were not interested. Why not? Because they all accepted the obvious conclusion that it had been nothing more than a simple accident, just like the police said. There was no murder.
So why was he going to be different? Why, for a single moment, contrary to everyone else, would he seriously consider the possibility of it being murder? Kendall sighed. Well he didn’t have to think differently, did he? No one was forcing him were they? He had a mind of his own, didn’t he? He could think for himself. He could just turn them down as well. Just a shake of the head was all it took, a shake of the head, and “I’m really not interested, sorry.” That would do it. So!! Where was the shake of the head? Where was the “I’m not really interested.”
He sighed and took a deep breath. Suddenly he heard a strange, detached, voice speaking. “All right,” it said. “I’ll investigate this for you, but I have to say that I am extremely doubtful about the outcome.” Kendall paused and looked at his two visitors. He shook his head. He could not believe that he had just said that. He glanced at Mollie. She smiled at him. “I can make no promises you understand,” he continued. “It is more than likely that at the end of the day my findings will merely agree with those of the police, the hospital and the coroner.”
The young man smiled. “Mr. Kendall, whatever you find we will be satisfied.”
“Even if I conclude that it was an accident, like they all say?” said Kendall. “Even then?”
The young man hesitated for a moment. Then he looked at his mother. She smiled. The young man turned back to face Kendall. He nodded his head slowly. “Even then,” he repeated. He paused and then smiled once again. “As unlikely as that conclusion will be, we will accept your decision as being final.”
Now it was Kendall’s turn to smile. That almost sounded like a challenge. I dare you to conclude that it was an accident. “All right,” he said. “We’ll do it. My fee will be …”
The young man sat forward. “You’ve no need to worry about the fee, Mr. Kendall,” he said. “We received a substantial payment from Trenton Pharmaceuticals. Compensation they called it. They accepted that it was their fault you see, the so-called accident, no argument.” He paused for a moment and shook his head. “I call it a pay-off to keep us quiet, to stop us from being a nuisance.”
Kendall looked at the man. The venom in his voice when he said that was totally unexpected. Kendall took a deep breath and looked at Mollie. She smiled at him, and nodded. “Right,” he said, trying to sound authorative. “I shall want a number of things. “Firstly I shall want full details about your son. Details of his bank accounts, credit cards, things like that.”
The young man sat forward once again. He looked at Kendall and shook his head. “Why do you need all of that?” he asked. “What possible connection can there be between his bank account, and his death?”
Kendall smiled. It was a fair question, and truthfully he didn’t know why he wanted it all, but it sounded good. It sounded professional, dependable, and thorough. “There is possibly no connection at all, but there might be something there to show a reason for murder,” he said. “At the start of any investigation I need to look at everything we have, no matter how trivial, or insignificant. I gradually eliminate things that are not relevant.”
The young man nodded. “Anything else?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Kendall. “I shall need his diary, both business and private. I shall need any keys to his house, his car, and his safety deposit box, anything like that. I shall also need a list of his friends. Oh and enemies, if he had any. Lastly, a photograph would be useful.”
* * *
Chapter Ten
A Mother’s Love
“The New York Herald,” Friday – “The Health Department of the United States today announced that following extensive tests it has been confirmed that an un-named six-year old boy has contracted Rican flu. The boy was admitted into San Francisco’s General Hospital late last night, where he is being kept in an isolation ward. His condition was said to be critical but stable. The Centre for Disease Control, in Atlanta, Georgia, has announced a number of measures today, designed to limit the effect and spread of the virus.”
“The Boston Globe,” Saturday – “Betty Chandler, a thirty-four year-old Boston woman died during the early hours of this morning. She had been suffering from the so-called Rican flu virus, public health authorities announced yesterday afternoon. She is the first person in Massachusetts to die from the virus. The woman was hospitalized three days ago, and results confirming that she had the Rican flu virus came back late Wednesday evening. She died in the early hours of Friday morning, according to the Boston Public Health Commission. So far there have been one hundred and ninety-four cases of Rican flu confirmed in the United States, resulting in fifty-four hospitalizations to date. Massachusetts has had twenty-three cases of the disease confirmed. Across the United States, there have been thirty-two deaths in fifteen states attributed to Rican flu. It is understood that urgent talks between the Federal Health Authority, the Centre for Disease Control, and Trenton Pharmaceuticals, commenced today in the search for a vaccine.”
* * *
After his visitors had left, Kendall went into the kitchen. He opened the medicine cabinet, reached up and took down a bottle of aspirin. He turned the bottle over, and smiled. It had been manufactured by Trenton Pharmaceuticals. Next in line were indigestion tablets, also manufactured by Trenton. Next was a tube of antiseptic cream, manufactured by Brandon, a subsidiary of Trenton. He took two of the indigestion tablets, and went back into the office. No more of those cream doughnuts for him, he decided. Then he shook his head. Well, certainly no more than two at a time.
Mollie was at her desk, already typing up some notes.
“What do you think?” Kendall asked her.
Mollie smiled. “I think that despite how it seems and whatever others say, Richard Dawson was murdered,” she replied. “Murdered by persons unknown, for reasons currently unknown.”
Kendall shook his head, and sighed. “How can you possibly come to that conclusion? All of the reports say otherwise, the police, the coroner.”
He paused trying to think of what other reports there had been. He couldn’t think of any. “All of them,” he simply added. “I mean it’s so obvious, the evidence, the witnesses. It adds up to one thing and one thing only. It was an accident, a dreadful accident, but an accident nonetheless. What makes you think it was murder?”
Mollie looked up at him and smiled. “Because his mother thinks so, that’s why,” she replied. “And mothers should know, shouldn’t they?”
“And that’s it,” Kendall said, quite amazed. “It couldn’t be an accident because his mother said it wasn’t.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe this,” he said, wringing his hands. “Everything points to it being an accident, but you insist that it was murder. You weren’t there, were you? You didn’t see it, did you? His mother wasn’t there by any chance?” he continued. “There were two witnesses. They saw the whole thing.” He shook his head once more, and sighed. “How do you know that it was murder? I mean what makes you so sure?”
Mollie just glared at him. “Have you forgotten Mrs. Shaw, and her son, Anthony?” she asked. “She was right, wasn’t she?”
Kendall hadn’t forgotten Mrs. Shaw, or her son, Anthony. He shook his head, and threw his arms into the air. “That was completely different and you know it,” he said. “Anthony Shaw had definitely been murdered. There was no argument about that. There was no disputing that fact. We all agreed that he was murdered didn’t we? We knew that from the very start.”
“Yes we did,” Mollie agreed angrily. “But Mrs. Shaw knew that he hadn’t been murdered for the reasons that the police had come up with. Mrs. Shaw and Anthony’s brother were right, then,” she continued. “And Mrs. Dawson and Peter are right this time. Richard Dawson was murdered too.”