Roses, Wine & Murder: In the City of Steeples

by Rose Young

  In recent times, it was authentically refurbished, and the handsome water wheel continues to splash into the brook. Its elevated flume, wheel pit and tail race, are still a masterpiece of timber and iron construction, though they no longer grind the grains.

  Morrison thoughts were gnawing away at the killer’s motives. Why devise such a travesty. Reaching into his pocket he fingered the 1964 Kennedy half-dollar his father had given to him as a teen. Always with him, it was part of his morning regimen, like his badge and his gun, with him every day.

  Jack Peabody joined him. Morrison acknowledged his presence, “There was some planning in this, Peabody. Charlie Brass was set up to be the key player in this scene with the plant, the location, and the positioning. This was staged. This guy is one crazy son of a gun. And where is the envelope and the tracking device?”

  “The officer who discovered Charlie said they haven’t found it yet,” Jack reported.

  Carolena Sanchez, the forensic officer, had been examining the scene and identified the plant as a poisonous water hemlock. The weed was growing to six-feet tall. “Detective, this is one hell of a killer, she said. “The plant is common near fresh water and can take down a cow! This guy knew its deadly qualities. He purposely had Mr. Brass meet him here for his demise. He’s a cocky bastard!”

  “Carolena, your right, he’s showing off. Look, there is a lot of information to tag and review here, when you’re team is finished see that he’s delivered to the medical examiner. Tell the M.E.’s office to call Peabody as soon as they know the time and final cause of death.”

  Addressing everyone on site, Morrison announced, “The rest of you officers, back to headquarters now. I’ll be holding a meeting in half an hour.”

  Trudging to the vehicle Morrison lamented, “Damn it Peabody, this is not how I thought the day would go. You drive. I need to think.” He reached into his pocket for his nicotine backup of cinnamon gum, which kept him off his once comforting vice of cigarettes. Peabody silently drove to police headquarters.

  Chapter 35

  After a half hour passed, Peabody accompanied Morrison into the briefing room. It was full of officers. There were thirty men and women. The second shift had come to relieve the first, but no one was going home. They were being held over for special duty.

  “Alright,” Morrison began, “We have some nut job, having a grand old time, toying with us. He’s not a street urchin or a common thug. I believe he’s a professional, with a strong motive, playing a twisted cat and mouse game with us.”

  “The perpetrator killed and possibly poisoned Mitch Stockman. He’s blackmailed Mrs. Stockman and their manager Georgi Algarve, so it seems. He has mugged and harassed both Roxanne Samson and Georgi. He killed J.J., Johnson Jones. And at this time, Charlie Brass is in critical condition.

  “Our suspect has been paying the youth and out-of-work men in New London to do his bidding. After interviewing these men, that he has dressed to look like himself, the only thing we do know,” Morrison thundered loudly, “ARE THE PARAMETERS OF OUR IGNORANCE!” Several officers flinched.

  He brusquely went on, “This guy is meticulous, and one step ahead of us. He is a planner, but we don’t know his motive. I want EVERY detail from the hotel, the car rental dealer, and the barbershop owner. I want every shop owner and individual on the street to be interviewed again. You know the drill, knock and talk, door to door. When this guy makes his next move, I want to be there!”

  Visibly red in the face and with indignation, he added, “Folks, what we have here is a man hunt,” Morrison slammed his fist on the table. “Our city center businesses are hounding me. The Long Island Ferry owners are furious. The mayor and now homeland security are breathing down my neck, and to top it all off, the president will be here in two days. The Secret Service know of our efforts, as we attempt to quell this situation promptly.

  “I know how time consuming this will be! I am instructing you, good men and women, to get me some leads, to apprehend this killer!

  “ASSUME NOTHING!” he ordered. “You know the adage.”

  Morrison paused for a breath. “I do not want the TV news outlets to grandstand these deaths. I don’t want to hear the words serial killer, yet. We will have the whole Associated Press down here if they get a whiff of this. DO YOU HEAR ME?”

  “Yes, sir!” came the unanimous response, knowing full well how the press would interrupt their work.

  Morrison continued, “This guy is a chameleon, he has mugged, harassed and blackmailed to accomplish an agenda of which we have not yet determined. He has plenty of funding, as he is renting premium cars, has a collection of expensive suits and bribes people easily. He is a generous smooth operator, whom people believe and trust. I don’t care what you have to do, bring him in! You know what to do people, for God sakes, GET IT DONE!”

  Chapter 36

  Day 4 - 5:30 pm

  The Mary Ellen, a 260-foot multi-decked car ferry left its New London terminus and motored at 15 knots through Long Island Sound. Marissa Stockman and her attorney, Jonathan Blum, caught the 5:30 pm vessel to Orient Point, Long Island. They sat in the small twenty-seat bar, by a window at the aft.

  “I’m so glad Vanessa is safe,” she whispered to her attorney, “I can't wait to give her a hug and know that everything will be alright.”

  Attorney Blum empathized, but warned her, “Now that they have the criminals in custody you can rest a little easier, but the detective still has plenty of unanswered questions. And consider what Roxanne said, why did the killer go after her and Georgi? And what was he looking for at her house? Lastly, I want to know, why he killed that 16-year-old boy.” Blum paused to make his next point.

  “Since you addressed that envelope to Johnson Jones, it made you look really bad. But worse, how could you bring a gun, no less, to an interrogation?” Blum huffed with exasperation, “Why didn't you call me when you were blackmailed? Honestly, the detective could have booked and held you for twenty-four hours, if I hadn’t been there.”

  With a hopeless tone, she conceded, “I know that now, I was afraid. All I could think of was Vanessa. It’s beyond reason to think logically when you’re frantic about your child’s welfare. I wanted to protect us, and make the blackmailer go away. In hindsight, I see it was stupid.” She sighed, “But now I’m in more trouble with Detective Morrison,” nervously she played with her wedding ring and her voice quivered. “I never thought it would make me look involved with Mitch’s death.”

  Trying to comfort her Blum put his arm around her shoulder and whispered, “That’s enough, they have the man and his minions. We’ll get beyond this. Don’t worry, Marissa.”

  ***

  Detective Morrison attempted to reach Marissa Stockman and her attorney by cell phone. He wanted to warn them, but the ferry was in an area out of signal range. He changed his strategy and contacted the Captain.

  One of Griswold’s officers called him to the radio room, “Sir we have an urgent call patched through to you from Detective Morrison on the secure line zero-one-niner.”

  “This is Captain Griswold on the Mary Ellen, calling Detective Morrison, over.”

  “Captain Griswold, it’s good to hear you are in charge. We have a bit of a tangle here in New London. There has been another murder and it looks like the killer has escaped us. I feel there is an excellent chance he could be on board your ship, sir. Do you have enough men to keep an eye on Marissa Stockman and her lawyer? Over.”

  “Copy that. Yes, I do detective. What shall I tell the men to do? Over.”

  “Keep a lookout for a man of muscular build, over six feet, mild-mannered, well-dressed and friendly. Someone you wouldn't suspect. That's how he's been so successful, but he can flip like a switch. He has dark brown hair and wears sunglasses, Italian descent with a slight accent, over.”

  “I will inform my crew. The bartender will have eyes on Mrs. Stockman. I'm not equipped for much else, over.”

  Morrison added, “Listen, I've decided that you no
t tell Mrs. Stockman or her lawyer. See if anyone approaches them. If so, it's possible she is in danger, unless of course, she hired him, over.”

  Griswold returned, “Copy that and why don’t we have the police in Long Island meet the ferry and check everyone’s IDs? I can also put the Coast Guard on alert if needed, over.”

  “Copy that and good luck Griswold, I'm counting on you, over.”

  “I've got your back Morrison, over and out.”

  Captain Griswold informed his crew on the top decks one by one, ensuring no undue attention. His crew was well-trained but this, was unusual. Griswold went to his duffle bag and slipped a Taser gun inside his jacket pocket. He had it onboard unofficially, for scenarios like this. Deciding he also should patrol the ship, he had his first and second in command at the controls in the wheelhouse. He stationed the bartender Marty on Mrs. Stockman.

  Marty Lamont had worked on the ferry boats for many years. He was muscular, a weightlifter at about 225 pounds, and had boxing experience, too. Griswold had always thought he was a good guy to have around in a pinch.

  The captain made his rounds graciously greeting the passengers. It looked routine, yet he utilized his peripheral vision to observe those around him. Situation Awareness, he thought. In other words, watch your back and the full 360. When he was a kid, he intuitively learned it on the streets, but when in the military, he learned it was a term that had a name. He had memorized the definition:

  Situation Awareness: observing your surroundings as far as you can see and feel in order to understand how information, events, and one's own actions will affect goals and objectives, both immediately and in the near future.

  He moved from stern to aft of the ship, from dinghy to dining area. He nodded at Marty, Marty nodded back. Griswold went to the upper exterior deck and saw a man leaning over the rails. “Excuse me,” the captain said. The man turned and appeared bleary-eyed. He was clutching the rails, his knuckles were white. Suddenly Griswold realized he would be sick! The man turned back to the rails and vomited into the sea. Griswold left him. He didn’t fit the description.

  Radioing the helm, he announced, “I’m going into the cargo hold now. I’ll have my radio on, over.”

  “Copy that, Cap., Chip is taking his dinner break down below, you'll find him there.” The captain went down the narrow metal stairs and lit his LED flashlight to scan the cargo area. The vessel was full, a typical big haul of agriculture, fish and quarried material. Today there were 66 cars loaded. He walked up and down the makeshift aisles scanning the pallet bundles, the car cargo and construction equipment being transported. He entered the room where Chip, who manned the cargo area, was eating his dinner.

  Chip jumped, “Cap. I didn't know you were down here.”

  “It’s okay, I'm just taking a walk, sit down.” Chip sat and chewed what was left in his mouth.

  “We may have an unwanted passenger onboard,” the captain confided.

  Curious, Chip asked “Do you mean a raccoon? A cat? A weasel? You know weasels are going all over the place now. If people don't like them as pets, they let them off in parks or wild areas.”

  “This is a different type of weasel, it’s a man,” Griswold said somewhat darkly.

  “Oh?” Chip asked surprised, “Is it the one in New London?”

  “Yes, we've been asked to keep an eye out. Have you seen a guy over 6 feet, dark hair, muscular build, Italian and friendly?”

  “No sir,” Chip assured. “No one is down here except Johnny and me. He was emptying the dumbwaiter.”

  “Okay, keep checking this floor and use your walkie to contact me, if you see anything suspicious.”

  “Yes sir, I’ll get right on it.” Chip put away his food and started walking among the cars.

  It was another 35 minutes to their destination dock. In 20 minutes, Griswold would head to the bridge to take the ferry into port. He was looking forward to his evening dinner break, and his stomach grumbled in agreement.

  Griswold repeated his rounds through the engine room and checked each floor once more. Without any incidents, he returned to the wheelhouse. His helmsman was maneuvering through Plum Gut, a major fishing area with strong currents, around 5 knots. The areas off of Plum Island and the Race were where the water from Long Island Sound flowed heaviest. This day was mild with plenty of fishing activity, but on days with rough water and the winds against the current, you could find eight-foot to ten-foot standing waves.

  Griswold took the helm, and on approaching the dock, he turned the vessel and inched it astern until it could be tied up at the berth at Orient Point, New York. Just as promised, the homeland security police were there to check everyone getting off the ferry. Since they knew who they were looking for, they bypassed all the women and children.

  Marty, the bartender, reported to Griswold that the trip was uneventful and Mrs. Stockman and her attorney had no visitors or distant admirers.

  The crew was preparing to disembark with the leftover passengers when Chip reported to Griswold, “It's probably nothing but Johnny didn't empty the dumbwaiter and I can’t find him. The dock men are nearly finished unloading the cargo bay. I took one last look around and have not seen him, have you?”

  “No, I’ll use the PA.”

  Chip offered, “Maybe he had a hot date, and left early.”

  “It's just not like him, Chip,” countered Griswold.

  The captain announced on the PA system a request that Johnny come to the bridge. Then he asked Chip, “Let's quickly look for him again.” As they descended the stairwell they heard pounding sounds from one of the large life jacket bins.

  “Get me out of here,” a muffled plea was heard.

  The captain flipped the latch, and out popped Johnny all tangled in life preserver straps.

  “How did you get in there?” asked Chip, completely bewildered.

  “I don’t know,” answered Johnny, “but I have a massive headache. I noticed the latch on this cargo hold was open. I looked inside and that’s all I remember. Maybe the lid hit me on the head and I fell in and the jolt locked me in.” The Captain and Chip looked at each other, and then hauled him out.

  “Johnny, have your head checked at the First Aid station with Chip.” Griswold reported the incident to Morrison and have the police continue to search the ship. He considered the likelihood of Johnny falling into the bin. His situation awareness was telling him, Too much of a coincidence. It feels like a shark is circling us.

  Chapter 37

  Marissa Stockman was at the end of the ramp waiting for her attorney. All the men were detained while women and children waited off the ship. Since she couldn’t see him, she felt nervous. It had been a long day and she wanted to get home to her daughter.

  “Dear me, what's the hold up?” she said under her breath.

  The woman next to her said, in a strong Long Island accent, “Oy! What’s the hold up? My husband was saying they’re asking for passports to keep the New Londoners out of Long Island. Hah! I said, honey, forget about it. Go to the bar and have another Long Island ice tea.” She fluffed her bouffant hairstyle with her wickedly long manicured nails. Her twanging continued, “Then he ran to me and said people were talking suspicious like. I said honey, we’re in Long Island, everyone here yaps like those little pocketbook dogs, don’t you pay any attention to them.”

  Marissa smiled, and then laughed aloud finding it all bizarre. She simultaneously realized it was the first time she had laughed since the news of Mitch’s death. A surreal, momentary suspension of reality, much like when you’re on a roller-coaster and gravity releases its hold on you. For a few precious seconds, you’re weightless, and you breathe deeply. Then just as suddenly, it drops you back into your seat, back to reality. Her memories came back. Back to what she knew was true: Mitch was dead.

  The men waited in line to disembark as the police crew systematically searched the Mary Ellen, opening every door and locker. A man, finally released from the line, came through the gangway and yel
led to his wife as he held up his ID, “See, I told you. They let me in because I’m from Long Island.” The wife standing next to Marissa shook her head.

  Several of the female passengers started asking questions, ‘What’s going on? Where’s my husband? How come we must wait so long? I have to pee!’

  The wife whispered to Marissa, “Doesn’t it remind you of yapping?” Marissa laughed again. Then in the next moment she saw her attorney, and a broad smile of relief crossed her face. He looked at her surprised and was quite amazed to see her smiling at him.

  “Let’s pick up Vanessa,” he offered, “Dinner is on me, tonight. You deserve it.”

  Surprising him, Marissa took his arm, “I think that sounds delightful,” she grinned, feeling a sudden relief from fear and hopelessness.

  Captain Griswold was pacing the deck. The whole transition of searching and checking IDs was taking up a lot of time, with no results. He radioed Detective Morrison with his suspicious incident report. After completing the call he realized it was so late he ran out of time to heat up his meal. His stomach grumbled again. That does it for my sunset dinner on the upper deck. I’m resigned to Captain Crunch in a bowl of milk.

  ***

  An elderly, white-bearded man with thick eyeglasses limped off the gangplank with a bag and cane in hand. A police officer assisted his descent and checked his identification, which he presented from the inside pocket of his tan trench coat. The gentleman tipped his hat and maneuvered his way past the crowd to an awaiting taxi.

  He silently chuckled to himself, It’s simplistic to create an illusion, and throw off suspicion. The infamous chameleon, Mr. Silver, had transformed himself on the ferry. No one would suspect a weak old man gingerly going about his business.

  Chapter 38

  Day 4 – 5:30 pm