by Neil Watson
“Jeez! What the . . .?” He stood there, staring at the woman’s body, sprawled out and face down on the floor in front of him. For what seemed like hours, but in fact were only seconds, the memories suddenly came flooding back, with the now familiarity of Sandy’s kitchen confirming where he was. He remembered when he almost fell out his truck, clutching his new prized possession to show off, then chasing the woman into the house, and he remembered raising his hand to her—but that was about all. The rest was now self-evident.
“Well, I’ll be a sonofa. . .” he thought. Staring around at the pieces of ‘his’ red and black radio, he looked up at the large wall-clock that told him it was 5.13a.m. Ozborn worked out his plan, and it wasn’t very complicated. “I’d better get the fuck outta here, hadn’t I?” he muttered under his breath as he finally fully worked out the potentially grave situation he was in. Noticing his hat, shoes and clothes randomly discarded around the room, he gathered them together and got dressed. Buckling his belt and telling himself to be smart and use his brain, he concluded that he mustn’t panic, but should instead look around carefully and make sure not to leave any incriminating evidence.
After all, he’d watched The Rockford Files, and he knew how the police liked dusting things down for fingerprints. Apart from the bike radio, there was nothing else that caught his eye that could possibly link him to ever being there. Very calmly, he began gathering all the small parts of radio from every nook and cranny, depositing them in a paper grocery bag he found on the marble counter-top. Convinced he’d retrieved them all, he scrunched the bag up, then casually stepped over Sandy’s body and the spread of blood, and left by the front door as calmly as if he were the milkman delivering two pints and a carton of juice.
Inside the cab, Ozborn donned his Stetson and tipped its brim just so. Then he carefully turned the truck’s ignition, just letting the engine tick over without revving it. He gently slipped the column-shift into gear and reversed the vehicle with a low growl, as quietly as possible. Once backed out of the drive, he lit a Marlboro and proceeded as slowly and quietly as he could, waiting until he was fully at the end of Sandy’s road. Stopping at the T-junction, he wound down the window to let in the balmy, early morning air, and switched on his favourite country station. A few miles later, as well as tossing his cigarette butt in the air, he also threw out the paper bag, aiming at a ditch, wriggled in his seat to make himself more comfortable, and sped off, thanking the Lord he’d been so smart.
If he’d noticed the twitch of curtains at Sandy’s neighbours, he may not have been so pleased with himself.
“He’s gone,” announced the kind but formidable lady known locally as Mrs. Baltop, as she pulled her curtains together with a gentle tug.
“That’s good, Han,” replied her husband, feigning interest. “Now best to come away from the window, my love, and try to get back to sleep. It’s still very early.”
The lady’s full name, Hannah Baltzwinik-Toporofski was a little too difficult and long-winded for most American folks to pronounce, so when she and her husband Daniel settled in America, she adapted the family name for ease, combining the first syllables from each part, but still preferring to at least keep using the name Toporofski whenever possible.
Daniel was usually the one to stay up all night, fixing sewing machines on the dining room table, and it had been his profession since entering the country, first getting an apprenticeship to learn the trade when they’d arrived. Like so many East European immigrants with similar work ethics and values, he eventually took the plunge and broadened out on his own with a little money borrowed from the National Bank and Trust Company, and soon he had a flourishing business. After being given the opportunity to sell his company many hard-working years later, mending sewing machines was now just a hobby to keep him occupied. Spending his retirement days on a golf course had never interested him.
It was Hannah who was still bringing in a tidy sum, thanks to her expert knowledge of the antiques trade. Regularly, usually the last Sunday of the month, she would hold yard sales outside their bungalow to sell off the unwanted pieces that held little value. That was how she first got to know Sandy, who would often come over to browse. The rather large, feisty lady, now in her early fifties, kept hold of the more valuable items to take into one of the Chicago auction houses a couple of times a year, and it was her meticulous attention to detail, and great observational skills, that helped her to be as successful as she was.
However, despite being rather good at what she did, Mrs. Toporofski’s real ambition was to be on television. She dreamed of being interviewed as an expert in her chosen category of antiques. Or, if not that, maybe a chat-show hostess. Alternatively, a newsreader reporting an incident. Anything would do—she wasn’t fussy, but she acknowledged that her age and white hair were now against her in this day when only glamorous models were chosen to present the TV shows. Standing at the window of her bungalow, she imagined what on earth the man in the pickup truck next door was doing so early. And why she’d heard shouts and screams the night before. But she didn’t want to cause a fuss with Sandy, so she blanked it from her mind, and got back into bed.
Although Mrs. Toporofski didn’t exactly approve of the various men-friends she saw coming and going next door, nonetheless she liked her neighbour, and thought Sandy to be a very pleasant, and beautiful, young lady. If only she had Sandy’s youth and good looks, the TV stations would be clamouring for her services for certain, she daydreamed.
Whatever had been going on next door was none of her business, Mrs. Toporofski concluded. Besides, Sandy was always very professional when it came to caring for her teeth at Mr. Edgar’s. She was due to have a check-up that very morning, so her neighbour could discuss it with her when she saw her at the practice if the appropriate opportunity arose.
CHAPTER 11
(TUESDAY, 14TH APRIL, 1981)
Moores’ Investigation
A lthough it was highly irregular for Sandy not to arrive punctually at the dental practice, Mr. Edgar wasn’t overly concerned. His first patient of the day was Hannah Baltop, and as it was only to be for a check-up, he could easily manage without Sandy’s assistance. He expected Sandy would turn up anytime soon, with a genuine reason for being late. Perhaps her car hadn’t started, or the washing machine man was coming, or she was simply feeling a little unwell.
By the time he had completed the routine examination of his patient, he concluded that she needed one small filling on her upper left molar, but because he had no one to mix the cement paste, he concluded that he’d have to ask Mrs. Baltop to return the following week. “Why, of course, that’s alright, Mr. Edgar,” agreed Hannah. “But I was sure Sandy would be here today. She only told me the other day that she’d be seeing me for my check-up.”
“Well, I expect she had good reason not to show. I am sorry to you, Mrs. Baltop, for the inconvenience this has caused you,” apologised Mr. Edgar. “Perhaps she had car trouble, or maybe she was feeling a little under the weather,” he went on. “But I must say that it is indeed somewhat unusual of her not to at least call.”
Hannah took the card that indicated the time and date of her new appointment, and suggested to Mr. Edgar that she pop round to Sandy’s later, just to make sure she was okay. “You do know that we’re neighbours, don’t you, Mr Edgar?” she said, by way of explanation.
Almost as soon as Hannah began driving home, her mind became distracted when she noticed a garage sale in full flow by the side of the road. Not one to risk missing some golden trinket that she might purchase for a song from a seller unaware of its true worth, she pulled over to have a rummage, spending an enjoyable half an hour there. She cannily picked up an item of jewellery that should easily make a ten-fold return on her outlay–and, very pleased with her lucrative bounty, she continued back to her house, thinking ahead as to which Chicago auctioneer would be best to sell it through.
It wasn’t until she pulled into her drive that she noticed Sandy’s Volvo next door. “
Oh yes,” she thought, as she remembered her intention to check on her neighbour. Before going into her own home, she went straight to Sandy’s front porch and rang the doorbell. She waited a minute before ringing it again, and waited some more. She tried the handle, but it was locked. She began walking around the path in order to try at the back. As she reached the patio, she heard her name being called.
“Oh, Hannah,” cried her husband. “It’s for you. The telephone. It’s Hindleman Auctioneers in Chicago for you, darling. Shall I tell them you’ll call back?”.
With Hindleman’s being the very dealer she’d considered using for today’s little windfall, she hollered back over the fence to Daniel. “Coming! I’m coming. Please tell them to wait.” A minute later, she was deep in conversation with Mr. Hindleman himself, completely forgetting what she was about to do earlier. While she was arranging to take a trip up to Chicago in the next few days, Daniel prepared the soup for their lunch. Today it was carrot and coriander with croutons, which they ate as they watched their favourite midday soap on TV. That always sent them to sleep after they’d finished. They’d grown accustomed to their little afternoon nap, and they rather looked forward to it every day.
(TUESDAY, 14TH APRIL, 1981)
Over at Route 40 on his way to crossing the state line into Missouri, Yushi was now having a much better time than the previous day. He’d eventually slept like a log at the De-Lux Motel, after tossing and turning for a while, mulling things over and over about Sandy’s change of heart, her peculiar note and what he’d seen in the house. While trying to get to sleep, he’d decided it best to put everything behind him, forget all about Sandy and move on.
He concluded that members of the opposite sex were just trouble, and he could do without that kind of trouble—at least until the next time.
Nevertheless, he acknowledged it was thanks to Sandy that he was now more worldly-wise, and he should always be grateful to her for that. And that waterbed sure was a lot of fun, he mused, smiling to himself. But remembering his last sight of that ugly old truck on her driveway, and what it represented, sent a shiver of disdain through him. Yushi was upset alright. But if Sandy had chosen to two-time him, then she didn’t deserve his company anyway. No, in hindsight she’d been right to suggest they shouldn’t see each other again.
Now feeling well and refreshed, he left his motel at a good, early hour. The perfectly flat road ran parallel to the interstate highway, enabling him to reach speeds of over twenty miles an hour for long periods. He focused on the practicalities of his journey. Probably at this rate, even after a Big Mac stop, he may even reach the outer suburbs of St. Louis by dusk. And then, if he made equally good progress tomorrow morning, he could be at the famous giant arch by midday—it was a landmark high on his agenda to visit.
Thinking about where to stay next, and thanks to last night’s free accommodation, courtesy of Sandy Beach, he didn’t feel too guilty about dipping into his savings and paying for another motel.
Perhaps tomorrow night he should be more frugal with his money, and go back to using the cheaper youth hostels instead. There would be plenty to choose from in the city, according to his national directory.
***
(WEDNESDAY, 15TH APRIL, 1981)
A whole twenty-four hours had gone by since Hannah Toporofski had last thought about checking on her neighbour. She glanced out of her window and noticed that Sandy’s car was still parked in her drive. It was a little odd, she thought, to see it in exactly the same position as yesterday. Then, she suddenly remembered about her auctioneer’s distracting phone call. “Silly me,” she scolded herself. “Daniel, I’m just popping next door to see if Sandy’s alright. Maybe she’s sick and needs something brought for her.”
“Okay, darling. Don’t be too long. We’ve got pea and ham soup today, and I’ll be pouring it out soon,” replied her husband.
Hannah didn’t bother trying Sandy’s front door bell this time, instead going straight round to the back yard. The patio doors were half open, so Sandy must be at home, she thought, but before Hannah reached them she was able to see that, rather strangely, the kitchen light was on, even though the dazzling midday sun was streaming through. She tapped on the patio door and called out.
“Sandy, dear, are you home? Can I get you anything? Sandy, can I come in, honey?” There was no answer, only the sound from the TV greeted Hannah as she stepped into the kitchen. A number of flies buzzed around her head, and, still blinded by the brightness of the sun reflecting on the shiny marble worktops, it took a while before her eyes could adjust. When they eventually did, the scream she let out could have pierced Daniel’s eardrums right across the yard fence. Hannah’s stomach churned violently, she gagged and choked, turning her head away towards the sink just in time to catch nearly all the jet of vomit as it retched forth from her mouth. Some also splashed down her fresh, pale-yellow blouse, clean on only that morning.
As soon as she’d recovered enough, she ran out of the door as quickly as her legs would carry her, not even taking a second look at the body and dark mess surrounding it. Having never seen what a pool of blood really looks like, except for the fake stuff on TV detective shows, Hannah couldn’t be sure it was in fact blood. She certainly wasn’t going to stay around to examine it further. Shaking hysterically, she stumbled over the ledge by the patio and fell flat on her face on the grass, shouting wildly for Daniel to come. And come quickly he did, almost dropping the saucepan of soup from his grasp.
“Oh my!” was all he could utter, as he took in the horrific scene in Sandy’s kitchen. He helped his wife to her feet and led her back to the sanctuary of their home, where first he tried to soothe her nerves with a glass of ice tea, before reaching for the phone and calling 911.
It seemed like only minutes before there was a cavalcade of three police vehicles, lights flashing and sirens blaring, pulling into the road and screeching to a halt outside both houses. An ambulance slowly reversed into Sandy’s drive and stopped next to her Volvo. Half an hour later, while various professionals milled about, in and around Sandy’s house, all doing their specialised jobs, an unmarked Buick sedan car arrived, and the fresh-faced police chief, with neatly cut hair and wearing a smart suit and tie, stepped out, steadily chewing gum.
“Okay, what do we have here?” John Moores asked, speaking to no one in particular. “Who found the body?” He knew these lines off by heart. They happened in the movies, so as far as he was concerned, they should happen in real life too.
Sergeant Graham Staples, who was one of the policemen closest, nodded with his head to the house next door. “A Mrs. Hannah Baltzwinik-Toporofski, Sir,” he offered, looking down at his notes as he did so. She’s the neighbour.”
“You don’t say,” retorted Moores. “Jeez, who has a name like that? You gotta be kidding me!” The chief shook his head as he walked towards the neighbour’s house.
As he rang the doorbell, he called back to the older and more weather-beaten sergeant. “What did you say her name was?”
“She’s also known as Mrs. Baltop, Sir,” Staples shouted in reply.
“Why didn’t you say that before? Jeez!” Moores mumbled under his breath. It was Daniel who answered the door and led the chief through to his wife, who was looking very pale as she sat on the sofa, still shaking.
Moores was well-experienced in dealing with homicides, having previously served in the Chicago Police Department for five years before he relocated the 200 miles south to the relative peace and quiet of the area he now worked. Thankfully, not a great deal happened here, at least not in comparison with Chicago. That suited him. Plain ol’, hard-working American farmland types were more his ideal.
Moores was a racist. The way he saw things, for too long he’d had to contend with an ever-increasing ethnic population back in the Windy City—although he reckoned the Irish weren’t so bad. He’d say at least you could understand them, just about, and their black beer with a frothy cream top was really good. But those Asians, particula
rly the Chinese, the Taiwanese, and the goddamn Japanese—well! “Jeez. What the hell’s gone wrong with this country? And now I’ve come all the way over here to interview someone whose name I can’t even say properly. Jeez!” mumbled the chief under his breath. But professional conduct ensured he kept his thoughts to himself. “There, Mrs, err…” he began, trying to recall the name that Sergeant Staples had told him.
“You can call me Hannah,” said Hannah.
Police Chief Moores liked his clichés: “Okay Hannah. Let’s take it from the top . . .”
CHAPTER 12
(WEDNESDAY, 15TH APRIL, 1981)
Police Hunt
A youthful and energetic Katie Copeland, with a clear complexion and infectious smile, was the recently-appointed head of the forensics team, and had been dispatched from the nearby city of Terre Haute, just across the Illinois state border with Indiana, and this was to be one of the first cases where she would be in charge.
What she was to deal with today was nothing out of the ordinary, according to her more seasoned colleagues, who Katie could sense were somewhat envious of her quick promotion since leaving university. For as long as she could remember, she’d had ambitions to work in forensics, and now her dreams had come true. But with any dead body, a search in and around the property, the collecting of fingerprints, with methodical photography and meticulous note-taking, Katie was also astutely aware that all victims were someone’s son or daughter, and she made it her business to treat the situation with great respect. And she’d leave no stone unturned in order to determine how any such tragedy had occurred.