by Rose Young
“This killer is deadly serious. I believe what you have here is a devil of death, an assassin. I have studied much about this type of personality profile, but never dealt with their carnage directly, as in this case.”
Morrison put his hands in his pockets and shrugged, “What do you mean by taunt, exactly? Taunting who?”
“Why, taunting you, of course,” she said in a matter of fact tone.
Morrison’s eyebrows rose. He looked at Dr. Storm with sincere curiosity. Her eyes were direct beacons staring at him and her even-toned voice conveyed undeniable intelligence, yet he now wondered if she was slipping into another realm.
“Why on earth do you think he is taunting me?” He stared at her in disbelief with a look saying, You’ve got to be kidding.
“Oh, not you personally Detective Morrison, but you as ‘the cops’,” she explained, as her fingertips put quotes in the air. “As I said, he is brazen. He knows that if you investigate the properties of the yew shrub, Taxus baccata, and the second plant, water hemlock, Cicuta maculata, that was found on Charlie Brass, and you discover these are poisonous, you will wonder, who is this guy with knowledge of the plants pulled from the garden of his kill?
Morrison thought, Yes, who is this guy? A hunter in a concrete jungle?
Dr. Storm went on, “I believe he is answering you back.” Morrison looked at her as if she had read his mind. “He is saying, ‘I’m the smartest mother-effer you are never going to meet!’ This man is a classic narcissist. He thinks so highly of himself and his intelligence that his behavior will most likely remain cocky and extreme to the end. From what your Detective Peabody told me, this mastermind sounds like a diabolical James Bond.”
Morrison’s mouth hung open for a second, then he reached for a stick of gum in his pocket while his thoughts took over, Damn, who is this woman? This dame is something else.
While he considered all she said, he offered her some cinnamon gum, which she declined. She didn’t realize it, but Dan Morrison was doing something else. He was pausing. He had learned from his Irish grandfather that pausing was a honed trait which must be timed perfectly, a tool to use, even if it made the other person uncomfortable.
Pausing, his grandfather said, gives you the time to assess your own thoughts and consider the other person’s point of view. Sometimes if there is enough dead air, they will squirm or offer more information. Pausing always tells you more about them.
“Detective,” she said lifting her hand, “please don’t mind me, I say what I think, and you can take it or leave it.”
“No, no,” he responded, “I don’t mind your candor. It’s refreshing, actually. You have a profiler’s method to your thinking.”
She offered, “Since I was young, I would voraciously read murder mystery stories. I’ve always wanted to know the why, the reason behind a mysterious death. I wanted to know the motive. Some are obvious crimes of passion that you can see in how someone is stabbed. These three killings are crimes of determination. For him, a job, a paycheck. Let’s hope he has completed his mission, so to speak, with no further reasons to kill. That receipt may lead you to him.”
Morrison held up the baggie. “Dr. Storm, you are an intriguing weather system, a real wellspring of information. I’ll let you know how your theories turn out.” She smiled and offered her ungloved hand, which Morrison shook. As he was leaving he turned to glance at the plaque again.
Let conversation cease, let laughter flee, this is the place death delights to be, to help the living.
Dan smiled to himself, Well, Mitch Stockman, the avenging angel of death has come to our aid, and her name is Angela Storm! Now let’s catch your killer!
Chapter 42
Day 5 – 8:30 am
After his informative encounter with the M.E. Angela Storm, Morrison returned to police headquarters. Peabody had a lead. A merchant on State Street, at Thames River Greenery, had encountered a man of Mr. Silver’s description. The two detectives left quickly, arriving at the establishment in five minutes flat.
Thames River Greenery was a successful European-style storefront, selling chocolates, cheeses, coffee, fine wine and spirits including a beautiful selection of flowers and full-service floral design. The owners were Fred and Charlotte and they knew Mitch and Georgi as downtown business peers.
Over the years, Thames River Greenery had renovated adjoining turn of the century buildings and recently had finished the second floor of their establishment to add a cigar lounge. Charlotte’s brother, a cigar enthusiast, persuaded them to cater to the smoking admirers in town. Fred, a gentleman with fine tastes, and a wine and liquor aficionado himself, soon acquired a penchant for cigars also.
It didn’t hurt that, historically, Connecticut was known worldwide for fine shade tobacco wrappers. Cuban tobacco seed was brought here in the mid-1800s and grown here ever since.
Upon their arrival, Fred escorted the detectives to where they could speak privately. They passed through the old world ambience of the tasting room. The dark wood interior enhanced a wall full of fine wine, champagne, port, brandy, whiskey, rum and scotch. Candelabras were placed among the tasting tables creating a cozy atmosphere. The men climbed the staircase to the second-level smoking lounge.
The tall, wood-paneled room had vintage art and furnishings of club chairs, game tables and a small self-serve bar which recreated a bygone era of the men’s club. Contemporarily, women also frequented the traditional smoking room to enjoy a good cigar. Private boxed humidors were available, under lock and key, for the recurring visitors. The time-honored scent of cigar tobaccos imbued the pores of every surface in the comfortable room.
Detective Morrison had known Fred for several years. He often had asked his advice for the occasional gift or proper wine for a dinner party. Upon entering the relaxed manly getaway, he drifted on the cigar scent to a fond memory of his father and grandfather.
Often, the three would take a long drive. Young Dan would sit between them on the bench seat of his grandfather’s old-time Cadillac. While the men smoked cigars with the windows down, Dan would snack on his grandfather’s unusual treats of Necco wafers, confectioned orange Circus Peanuts, or toasted coconut marshmallows.
Taking a deep breath the detective returned from his fleeting recall and began asking questions. “Fred, tell me about this man in the grey suit that matches our person of interest.”
“It was the Gurkha that caught my attention, really. The scent of a Gurkha is impossible to ignore. We sell several of the daily smoking variety, but as soon as I caught the aroma I complimented him on his excellent taste and asked where he had acquired his. He replied in a slight Italian accent that it was a gift from his business partner, an advance for an upcoming job. I was astounded and commented that it must be some job for such a fine gift. He laughed and said, “Oh it is, my man, it is.”
Morrison questioned, “Excuse me, but what is this Gurkha?”
Peabody was taking notes while leaning against a club chair and looked at Fred with a furrowed brow. The latter raised his eyebrows for emphasis and asserted, “This particular one is only the finest cigar in the world, my friend. When you catch the exquisite scent you know you are among royalty.”
Perplexed the detective asked, “Royalty, why would you say that, Fred?”
“The one he was smoking is, His Majesty’s Reserve Gurkha Cigar. They are the single most expensive line at $2,000 dollars!”
Stunned, Peabody lost his balance and slid off the chair as Morrison exclaimed, “What! $2,000 dollars, a box?”
“Oh no, that is $2,000 for one cigar!” Fred explained then proceeded to educate, “His Majesty’s Reserve, is an aged 18-year-old cigar, infused with Louis 13th de Remy Martin Cognac. So an entire bottle of Cognac is infused into a single box of cigars!” Fred mimicked a royal gesture for effect with a wave of his hand and continued, “They are wax sealed in a glass tube to preserve their freshness. There is no imitation.”
Fred, added with sincerity, “This man w
as well dressed and similar looking to the men in your photos here, but more refined. He also requested a fine Rum to enjoy with his Gurkha. I suggested the best I had on hand at the time, a 12-year, El Dorado Rum. Your man was quite pleased. He remained for about an hour, sipping the rum and enjoying his cigar.”
“When was this Fred?” Morrison pressed, “he sounds like the elusive, Mr. Silver.”
“Oh, it was last Thursday afternoon around 3 o’clock.”
Peabody deduced, “Why, that’s the day Stockman was killed. This wise guy might have been following him all day.”
“It’s obvious this Mr. Silver is very comfortable with himself,” Morrison declared, “and that is exactly why he will make a mistake and we will be there when he does.”
“Fred, if you see him again please call me.” Morrison put out his hand, “Thanks Fred, I didn’t think I’d be learning about cigars and rum today, but you’ve given me fresh insight into your wonderful world of decadence.”
Fred smiled and shook the detective’s hand, “Anyone who can afford a Gurkha can afford pretty much anything, anywhere at any time. If this is your guy, he is high priced. Maybe there is more to him than just a local murder.”
Heading toward the door, Morrison nodded in agreement, “Thanks for the info Fred, I’ll see you soon.” He turned to his colleague, “Come on, Peabody, we’re on the hunt.”
Once out the door, Morrison said, “Fred hit the nail on the head with that one, Jack. So what does a hit-man, of that caliber, have to do with a Long Island wine aficionado?” Deep in thought and fiddling with his keys, Morrison added, “Dr. Storm found a receipt from a vineyard Stockman visited the day he was murdered. Let’s get on the road and talk to these people Stockman met with that morning. With any lucky, maybe Silver was seen there too. We’ll start in Ledyard.”
“Good,” stressed Jack, “I’ve been itching to get off of the desk work. My eyes were aching from sitting in front of that computer.” Then with a nod and a grin he added, “And boss, I always wanted to try vineyard hopping, I just didn’t think it would be with you.”
Morrison gave him an impish sideways glance, “Who did you plan to go with? I could set you up with Mabel. I don’t think she’s had a date in all her sixty years. She could use a bit of dusting off.” Rather stunned, Jack returned, “Dusting off! She needs more than that,” he shook his head, “I don’t want those images, boss, let’s focus on work.”
Chapter 43
Morrison drove across the Gold Star Bridge into the town of Groton. After traveling ten minutes, they saw the blue Connecticut Wine Trail sign on Route 117. An open flag waved them into Maugle Sierra Vineyards. Ahead of them was a picturesque timber-framed building nestled under towering pines and beyond was a manicured vineyard that swept into a valley toward distant hills.
The detectives strode into the tasting room. The interior had high post and beam ceilings with a fireplace hearth made of large local stones. Several cozy seating arrangements offered views out to the deck and into the vineyard. A friendly looking man was at the wine bar setting up glasses for tastings.
“What can I offer you, gentlemen?” the middle-aged man asked from behind the bar, “You’re my first patrons today,” he smiled graciously.
Morrison presented his badge, “We are here on police business, Sir. I am Detective Morrison and this is Detective Peabody. Can you tell us about your association with, Mitch Stockman?”
The man stopped what he was doing and placed both hands on the table. “Yes, I can.” The stocky, bright-eyed vintner was visibly upset. He composed himself and continued, “God bless him. Mitch was a good man. I’ve known him for several years now. Last Thursday we chatted and he tasted several of our wines for an upcoming dinner event. We discussed which foods would pair well with the wines he selected. He seemed to be his jovial self.”
Morrison asked, “And in your conversation, did you discuss his other business ventures?”
“Oh, no,” he replied, “We discussed wines of the world, but not my direct competitors or his specific business dealings. He was a comrade in wine. I will miss him,” he said sadly. “I would ask his opinion on our wines and suggestions for my business. But that was all. He was always a gentleman and offered ideas that might improve our standing. I truly respected his input, his worldly view of wines, and his spirited friendship.” The man visibly choked up again, “We made arrangements to deliver the cases of wine that afternoon. He had several more vineyard stops and needed the room in his vehicle.”
The detective showed him photos of the men in custody. “Have you seen any of these men or someone who looked like them?”
“No, I haven’t” the vintner replied, quite shaken. “So, you believe his death was intentionally planned, detective?”
Peabody replied, “At this point it seems like no accident, Sir.”
Morrison was disappointed. He had hoped the receipt, found by the M.E. Dr. Angela Storm, would be the ember needed to ignite a firestorm of action. But now he realized the bereft winemaker had nothing new to offer. The detectives gave him their calling card and left the vintner in his peaceful setting, adrift in a fresh fog of mourning his friend.
Morrison and Peabody’s footsteps crunched across the graveled parking lot. A stiff breeze picked up and the 60-foot-pine trees groaned overhead. They both looked up and watched the top of the pines sway in circles.
“Jack, we’re like fishermen in the open sea pursuing a predator, like in the movie Jaws.”
“Or is he circling us?” Jack countered. “This has been a strange case.”
Morrison stopped gazing up at the trees and eyed Jack, “After days of tracking this land-shark, all we have are his flotsam and a situation that stinks like last week's chum.” He exhaled and shook his head, “You know, maybe all the answers are in Long Island.” With hands on his hips he mulled over his predicament.
Jack kicked a stone across the parking lot, “These murders, muggings and blackmail seem like a game to this guy. What is the point of it all? Nothing adds up. What is his motive?”
“What we know is this, Mr. Silver has a mission,” Morrison responded. “Dr. Storm said he broke the necks of all three men with precision, as a professional killer would do. Who would orchestrate all this? Money has to be the motive because there’s someone spending lots of it trying to pull this off. Stockman’s wife is loaded and I don’t trust her.”
Grabbing the SUV door handle, he said, “Come on, let’s get back on the trail. We just have to keep talking to people. What’s the next location on the list?”
Jack pulled out his phone for a map program, “The next stop is in Stonington.”
Chapter 44
Meanwhile in New London on Bank Street, Reginald Crumberton, a.k.a. Reggie the Crumb, was manning his bench and minding his own business. Although it was a warm June day, he was wearing layers of clothes. His matted hair, scruffy beard and missing teeth masked the fact that he was only thirty-six years of age. His disheveled appearance gave one an instant impression of his station in life.
Suddenly a kid swept in on a skateboard close to Reggie. “Hey, watch what you're doing, will ya!” Reggie yelled, and spat to mark his territory.
The kid swirled round and came back landing next to Reggie asking slyly, “Hey man, want to make a fiver?”
“What for?” Reggie asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Just watch that statue over there, while I get something to eat at Eddie's.”
“No!” Reggie barked.
“Come on, you can use the money, can’t you?” Reggie’s homeless status was clear.
“Of course I can, but I'm hungry.”
“Then I'll get you a sandwich and soda too,” promised the kid.
“Plus the fiver?” demanded Reggie.
“Yeah, alright,” the skateboarder conceded.
“Okay, but hurry up, I haven't got all day!” Reggie pushed his agenda.
The kid swung his hair back and looked at him inquiring, “Wher
e you gotta go?”
“None of your bleeping business, Skater,” Reggie thundered, then mumbled profanity under his breath. The kid sped off.
Reggie’s daily circuit started under the Gold Star Bridge near Mill Street, where he slept nightly in good weather. He would walk each morning to the local community center for free coffee and breakfast, and then he would sit on his bench petitioning his case to passersby. Often he collected enough change to buy some scrap of food. Later he would walk to the soup kitchen on Montauk Avenue for supper. Reggie hummed to himself, Lunch and a fiver, this is a good day.
Reggie watched the Columbus Circle statue. Beyond it was the small bistro restaurant with a constant stream of customers stopping in for their favorite lunch. Reggie started stretching, yawning and dreaming of the lunch he was having delivered. Then unexpectedly, someone caught his eye.
It was a petite blonde woman who jumped out of a large black truck. She looked around suspiciously, and then surprising Reggie, she slipped under the police crime scene tape. She huddled behind a shrub for a minute or so, then crept and crouched low again. Reggie stood up, Where did she go? What is she doing?
He stretched and leaned to see her, but no sign. Well I'll be… Reggie scratched his head then tugged on his whiskers. That woman is up to something.
Roxanne had snuck in to water her charge, the Columbus Circle garden. She opened the green trapdoor to the water spigot and pulled out an expandable hose from under her shirt then proceeded to attach. It was her mission to not allow these plants to die. One death in the garden was enough. I have my priorities straight, she told herself. Dan may want me to wait, but these flowers can’t.
Meanwhile, Reggie started to wonder and mutter to himself, Why is this kid watching the statue? What is this woman doing hiding in the shrubs? Who’s the son of a gun behind that murder? Dag nab it! All flustered, he balled up his stuff and stormed off mad as the devil. Just then the kid skated over. “Hey, you’re leaving?”