by Rose Young
“I think that’s something my grandmother drank,” Roxanne noted, “but all I have is honey right now.”
She carried two cups over to a small side table, and then knelt by his chair putting her hand in his. “Listen dear,” she said softly, “there is a method to my badness, I mean madness.” She giggled slightly, he watched her eyes twinkling. “I do believe someone may come forward with something. But we have to get the word out, about the reward. Do you think people on the street read the paper? Of course not,” she answered herself.
Watching her beloved listening attentively, she continued, “This could shift Georgi off the detective’s radar! And help catch whoever mugged me! Then if, the murderer happens to be someone possibly with money, who isn’t a low-life and who knew Mitch, they might go to this memorial event. And here is where we'll have the detective and his guys watching, listening and questioning people discreetly.”
Sam did not respond. “Come on, it’s not that bad an idea, is it?” she cajoled, looking up at him dramatically.
He paused, and then laughed, and she did too. He patted her head, and said lovingly, “Not bad Miss Marple, not bad. Go over the idea with Morrison, as he is in charge of this investigation. And you do know he will be checking in with me. So, don’t get any more crazy ideas.”
“Yes dear, I’m never crazy, I’m just enthusiastic! Once you understand my method, everything makes sense,” Roxanne asserted, now emboldened.
“Yes, the method of your badness!” he teased, as he gently took her chin and kissed her sweetly. She replied, “My grandfather always said, if you can’t be good, be careful.”
“Ha!” Sam sounded, “I don’t think your grandfather was talking about muggings and murder! No wonder your grandmother drank hot toddies, with a husband like that.
She smiled and gave him a hug and a kiss. “Thanks for being understanding,” she whispered.
“My sweet,” he said, holding her close, “I don’t understand you. But that’s all right with me.”
Chapter 21
Day 3 – 5:00 pm
Roxanne called Detective Morrison to discuss the memorial event and the reward ideas. “Did Mrs. Stockman approve funding the reward, Dan? Georgi and I would like to put up posters around town.”
“Well, I did talk to Mrs. Stockman,” Morrison answered, “I explained to her that since you and Georgi were both mugged, you asked if a reward could be offered. I told her you were willing to fund it but only if she agreed. And I was glad to hear that not only does she agree, but is offering a $5,000 reward!
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” declared Roxanne.
“But,” Morrison emphasized, “and this is a big but, I will let you hang posters only with one of my officers escorting you and Georgi. And let’s keep it down to ten, please. I can’t spare a man all day.”
“I'll make the posters up on my computer, right now!” Roxanne said enthused.
“The memorial event should wait, in my opinion,” Morrison added.
“But Dan, you might unearth more leads,” Roxanne protested.
“Yes, Miss Secret Agent,” he said in a teasing voice, “but I’d really like to do some more investigating. Just hold your horses, please. I heard from the coroner that Mitch died between 11:15 pm and 12:30 am. Mrs. Wolcott confirmed Georgi’s alibi and arrival time at home. But he could have gone back out that night, so Georgi is not off the suspect list yet.”
“Detective, you are just doing your job,” conceded Roxanne. “I’ll make the reward poster and pass it by you first. Georgi and I will put off planning the memorial event. Thank you for all you’re doing, and I know you will catch the guy sooner or later.”
“We will and hopefully sooner, goodbye Roxanne.”
Putting her artistic scrapbooking computer skills together with a poster program, Roxanne added a nice photo of Mitch that Georgi gave her. She stared at the handsome face of a man around fifty and wondered, why did this happen? He looks so vibrant and full of life… Did he have an argument? I wonder how much money he loaned the different vineyards? Did they reason getting rid of him they would be rid of their debt too? Hhmm, anything is possible.
***
In front of Sarge's Comics on State Street, J.J. slid into his boss’s car. He held his skateboard between his knees. His boss admonished him sharply with perfect English highlighted by an Italian accent.
“What’s the matter with you? I don't like meeting. No one should see us together. I told you the first time we met that it would be the last and all our business would be on the phone. What is so 911 urgent?”
“Hey man, this is important. You're gonna thank me when you hear what I know, and you’ll never see me again.” J.J.’s bold declaration included his own type of body language and slang common to a 16-year-old skate-boarding dude on the streets of New London.
In an adverse tone, the boss asked, “What do you have for me?” The suave hair, cologne, Bulgari sunglasses and expensive Italian suit were lost on J.J., who only noticed the boss’s ride, a luxury car.
“Man, I got something that helps me and helps you. They're planning to put up a reward for at least a thousand bucks on information leading to that murder. You know the one that happened there at that statue of Columbus,” J.J. was quite pleased with himself at figuring things out, and his undercover work.
The boss turned in his seat to face J.J., “Are you sure?” Com Aggia fa? (What am I going to do?)
“Yeah, and Blondie came up with the idea to start putting reward posters up everywhere. So, I figured you’re not having me watch Columbus Circle for nothing so I put two and two together and what I’m thinking is you're gonna to want to pay me a $1000 bucks for all this information, you see. Cuz I'm gonna go collect it from them if you don’t pay me. I see it as a win/win either way, man.”
“Stupido imbecile,” the boss spat in his native Italian and motioned with his hands, “Where do you get off telling me what I'm going to do? Chi troppo voule nulla stringe.” (He who wants too much gets nothing) The boss threw the car in gear and sped off and murmured disgust, “Che Cazzo,” (What the hell).
“Hey man, don’t get all mad on me dude. I just need to help my momma with the rent. I appreciate you paying me a hundred bucks and all but this is business we’re doing, right? That’s why you hired me. It’s business.”
In silence the boss headed past the ferry docks, took a right under the Gold Star Bridge past the Old Mill and drove to the entrance of an abandoned park. It was a hilly haven of overgrown green, situated by the Thames River. Where are you going, dude?” J.J. asked, “I don't live near here.”
The angry boss man pulled over and grunted, “You do now.” He punched J.J. in the head so hard the kid was knocked out in an instant. He then snapped his neck with a swift twist. The iTunes cord was still hanging below J.J.’s ears. The well-dressed killer drove to the river’s edge where thickets grew high by the old train tracks.
He opened the door and dragged J.J.’s limp body into the gully toward the shore. Grabbing a thick bittersweet vine, he finalized his wrath by wrapping it around J.J.’s neck and with ceremonial indifference, he gave J.J. a swift kick, and watched his body roll beneath overgrown brambles. The tune, ‘Take Me to Church,’ by Hozier, played out of J.J.’s earbuds.
Lontano dagli occhi, lontano dal cuore, (Out of sight, out of mind.) grumbled the conspirator as he sped out of the park.
Chapter 22
Later in the day, Diego took his German Shepherd, Max, on their ritual drive to Riverside Park. He placed the car at the base of the hill, by the water of the Thames River. Max broke into a gallop making his rounds sniffing out any new scents, and making a few of his own.
Diego smoked a cigarette and stared out at the fast moving tidal current that travelled under the expansive Gold Star Bridge. He leaned against his blue vintage Mustang, handed down to him from his Dad. The heartfelt music of Luis Fonsi, echoed from his sound-box. The instrumental guitar and island beat of the song, ‘Despacito,’ h
onored his home country of Puerto Rico, and had him dreaming of dancing with his girl.
Max was sniffing by a tree then trotted the degraded asphalt road toward the fence of the Coast Guard Academy. He disappeared into the overgrowth of plants by the shore. Diego let him be for a while, eventually, he called out, “Max, what are you up to? Max, come here.” There was no response. “Max!” he yelled.
Diego knew his dog; he always returned unless he found a dead fish. He certainly didn’t want him rolling in the stink and carrying it into his 1969 classic.
Diego whistled and called, “Max, where are you?” Finally, he spotted the dog’s hindquarters and tail wagging furiously. “Come, come here you,” he commanded.
Diego edged closer as Max ignored him. “What have you got there?” Diego inched down the steep incline carefully grabbing onto the weeds. “Mierda!” he swore, stunned by the vision of a boy staring up at him with vines wrapped around his neck.
“Get out of there Max! NOW!” he yelled. Max listened to the panic rising in Diego's voice. “Come on Max, we’re out of here! Ahora! Mierda! Acho men!
Diego loaded Max into the car and sped off. Banging his fist on the dashboard, he cursed again, “Mierda!” He raced to the top of the hill, past the gates of the Park, and stopped. “Mierda!” he swore, again and called 911.
“9-1-1 what's your emergency?” asked the dispatcher.
“There is a guy that looks dead here at Riverside Park.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Diego, my dog found him.”
“Stay right there. I’m sending over an officer.”
The Emergency Response Services arrived and Detective Morrison followed them in with the police and his team of investigators. They questioned Diego, and had the forensic officer analyze his shoes, tire treads and check his dog. Upon having all his contact information, they released him.
Observing the body, Morrison noted: male teenager, recently dead, still warm, no defensive wounds, iTunes still playing. The bruising to the face is recent with blood pooling and color near the surface of the skin. He was most likely rolled out of a car, based on the bent vegetation and it wrapped around him.
Next to Morrison was a uniformed policeman. “What do you think, Officer McNamara? Do you know him?”
“It’s J.J., Sir. We all know him. He’s usually downtown skateboarding like many of them, by the State Street skate shop. This is not his neighborhood. It’s unlikely he skated over here.” The officer collected his thoughts and considered the scene. “He was harmless, detective. Someone dropped him here.” McNamara looked around, “Where’s his board? He’s never without it.”
Morrison scanned the overgrown site, and spouted to his team, “Put a dog on this scene, see if there’s any evidence we can work with, and tape off the park entrances.” The team went to work.
Morrison questioned, “What’s going on, McNamara? We have two bizarre murders in three days.”
McNamara remained quiet, knowing he didn’t expect an answer. Together they walked along the edge of the chain-link fence placing colored markers upon any possible clues.
The detective pulled a stick of cinnamon gum from his pocket and offered it to McNamara who rejected it. Morrison removed the wrapper and folded the gum into his mouth. “Listen Mac, ask the guys at the HIVE Skate Shop on State Street, about J.J. and if he was involved in something. And check-in with the owner at Whaling City Boxing. You know him, Mac? He trains a lot of the youth and he might have overheard their talk. The kids may be aware of these activities happening on the streets. See if you can find me a lead. And bring Peabody in on it with you.”
“Sure thing, detective, I'm on it.” McNamara made arrangements with the Assistant Detective, Jack Peabody, and left.
Morrison pulled a contact card from his inside pocket and proceeded to call the number. “Agent Koster, this is Detective Morrison, I just want to notify you that there has been a murder at Riverside Park, next door to the Coast Guard Academy. I don’t think there is anything you need to be concerned about here, but I’m just following protocol and letting you know.”
“So, you don’t feel it has anything to do with the president’s upcoming presence at the Academy?” Koster asked.
“No sir, at this time there is no indication that it connects with the president’s visit, as you said last month at the briefing, no surprises and no snafus.”
“That’s right, Morrison. Keep me posted if anything comes up.”
Pacing the crumbling pavement, Morrison considered the abandoned area and the old bathhouse. It was a derelict and forsaken building covered in graffiti and vines. He recalled the once-upon-a-time stories of when families gathered here, picnicking and swimming in the Thames River.
Crowds from as far away as New York would off-load from the trains that ran along the shoreline. Now the tracks were unused and blocked from the rusted out ramps and a six-foot, chain-link fence barred today’s visitors from accessing the water.
Morrison was hard pressed to imagine how this location was one of the yearly outlooks for the famous Yale-Harvard Regattas. They had started in 1878. The popular attraction was the competition and the buff athletic men racing their crew boats.
A huge grandstand was erected to seat 3,000 fans on the Thames, and an overwhelming crowd of 25,000 showed up. Over the years the crowds grew so large that notably in 1925, an estimated 100,000 attended the race, including two packed observation trains of 32 cars. On that day, they witnessed Yale roaring from behind, upstream on the Thames, breaking a record of 20:26.
While Morrison waited for the coroner, he noted the only thing lurching forward at Riverside Park were the over grown weeds and the time on his clock, counting two murders in three days.
Chapter 23
Day 4 – 7 am
Marissa Stockman sent the signature red, Realty envelope, with $10,000 in cash, in assurance of her daughter’s safety. It was now in the large canvas mail sack on the ferry. She had left the house early to guarantee it would be on the 7 am Sea-Jet departing Orient Point to New London. Today the red envelope was for the transaction of life, it held the promise of a safe future for her daughter. Just as instructed, she addressed it to, ‘Johnson Jones, for Pickup Only, Ferry Office, New London.’
The Sea-Jet made the quick trip across the Sound and arrived on schedule at 7:45 am. The large bin on wheels holding the mail was taken off the boat. A man in a grey suit watched the activity from across the parking lot and waited for an opportunity. After the passengers disembarked, he attempted to coax a deckhand to pull the envelope for him but the guy wouldn't take the bribe. “Goody two shoes,” the thug snarled under his breath.
The mail bin was wheeled inside to Sandy, the office clerk. She lifted out the presorted mail and put it in a cubby hole below the service window.
New London’s newspaper, The Day, was on the counter. While taking a sip of coffee, Sandy saw the front page headlines about another murder. Oh dear! First Mr. Mitch and now someone else! What is this town coming to? She glanced at the details, “Johnson Jones known to family and friends as J.J., 16 years old was found deceased at Riverside Park. Please contact the police with any information.” Wow, the poor parents, she thought. She imagined her nephew, who was the same age. I wonder if he knew him.
Sandy went through her paperwork and record keeping when a man came to the counter. “I have a package to pick up from Long Island.” She looked him over, noticing his expensive suit and tie.
“Sure, your name, please?”
“Johnson Jones,” he said tapping his fingers on the counter.
Sandy peered at him over her eyeglasses. A four-foot-tall counter was between him and her. Her muscles tensed. She had been working there for 23 years and suddenly this very moment was the test of her people skills. Stay calm, she said to herself, Time to put on an act, Sandy. You can do it. Just pretend you’re on a bad date and be nice until it’s over.
“Just a minute,” she said calmly. Below his view beh
ind the counter, she sorted through the box of mail. “Let's see,” she murmured out loud, “Julie Morgan, Connie Chance, Robbie Sturgeon, Rosemary Moore, Deonn Dyermejian, Paula Masterson,” and then she saw his name. The red envelope blared at her senses. Her hands shook as she put it under the pile.
“Nope, nothing. It’s probably coming in on the 3:30 ferry. Come back at four o’clock,” she announced with a very matter-of-fact tone.
“Are you sure?” the man asked clearly surprised. “They told me it would be here.”
“Of course, I’m sure,” she said, “four o’clock.” The man turned around, obviously very disappointed. As soon as he left, Sandy called the police.
“I have an emergency at the Cross Sound Ferry office. It has to do with the murder of Johnson Jones. Come quickly before he gets away!”
“Who?” asked the 9-1-1 operator.
“The murderer! Goodness me! Hurry, hurry! I’m going to watch him until you get here.”
She saw the man approach a silver sedan and speak to someone through the passenger window. Sandy attempted to read the license number but it was out of sight and the car sped off quickly, leaving the man standing there. He walked toward the train station, passing the long car lines to board the ferry. Crossing an expanse of tarmac, he then darted through the Coast Guard museum construction site.
“Oh no!” Sandy made quick moves from window to window, peeking through the blinds, “He’s going to get away! What do I do?”
“Whatever are you talking about?” her boss yelled from his back office.
“I’ll be right back,” she returned. Sandy ran out the door and leapt down the back stairs, just as the police pulled up.
“There he is,” she whispered into the car, “that’s him in the gray suit, and black glasses.”
“What about him”” the officers asked.