by Ray Flynt
“Two-story.”
A gust of wind shook the windows in Brad’s office, and outside mini-tornadoes of fallen leaves swirled on the cobblestone drive. About half of the leaves still remained on the beech tree and they glowed golden yellow in the sunshine.
The rattling windows pulled Rachel’s attention away for an instant before she resumed her story. “After he checked the lock, Dad stared out the window for a long time. Finally, I asked him, ‘Is everything all right?’ He apologized for waking me—I never told him I was already awake—and then he bent down and kissed me on the forehead. ‘No worries,’ he said, and those were the last words I ever heard him speak.”
Rachel told her story earnestly, Brad thought, but without much emotion. It had been nearly fifteen years since his own mother and sister were kidnapped and murdered. He had recounted the details of those events many times; even if his own story now sounded well-rehearsed, deep down he still felt the ache. Brad suspected Rachel did too.
“You didn’t see him on the morning he died?” Sharon asked.
Rachel shook her head. “I heard him go out the front door the next morning, but I must have fallen back to sleep. Then I heard Mom calling, ‘Rachel, breakfast’.”
“What time was that?” Sharon asked.
“I only know from reading the news reports that my mother was notified about the crash at 9 a.m., and the police arrived at our front door just as I sat down to eat breakfast.”
Brad laced his fingers together as he listened.
“There were two police officers, a man and a woman, I don’t remember their names. Mom went into the living room to answer the doorbell, and I was still at the kitchen table. I couldn’t make out their conversation, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Then I heard my mother scream.”
Brad saw Sharon scribbling a few notes. As he turned his attention to Rachel, he noticed the camouflaged cap was back in her hands, and she tightened her grip on the bill.
“After Mother screamed,” Rachel continued, “I jumped up from the table and ran into the living room, still wearing my pajamas. The female officer was helping my mother to a seat. But when my mother saw me, she leapt up from the sofa and ran toward me. I remember that she kept saying ‘Oh baby… oh baby,’ and she hugged me so tightly it hurt. The police never sat. I remember thinking, why are they staring at us? I still didn’t know what had happened. Finally, they asked my mother if there was anybody else they should call. Mother told them to call my Aunt Kaye—that’s her sister. The male police officer used the phone in the living room, and that’s when I heard him say that Martin Tetlow had died. I started crying.”
An eerie silence settled over Brad’s office, located in a wing of his Bryn Mawr estate. A log on the fireplace crackled, and the resulting shower of sparks drew Brad’s attention.
“When did you learn the cause of your dad’s death?” Sharon asked
Rachel puckered her lips. “It was a blur after that. All I knew was that he’d been killed in a car crash. For the next three days people were coming and going at our place, neighbors bringing food, friends stopping by to offer their condolences. Grandma and Grandpa came and stayed in my room, and I slept with my mother. Of course, there were the hours spent at the funeral home. I… can’t…” For the first time that morning words caught in her throat. “I can’t get the image of that gray metal casket out of my head. His injuries were so bad that they couldn’t have an open casket.”
Sharon coughed.
“I’ll get to your question,” Rachel said.
“I’m not rushing you,” Sharon apologized. “I’m getting a cold.”
“The day after the funeral, a Friday I think,” Rachel continued, “was very quiet, especially after all the activity over the previous few days. It seemed like my mother never left my side after the news about Dad, like she was trying to be strong for me. I remember sitting in the living room watching TV. Ironically, the O. J. Simpson trial pre-empted All My Children, which my mother watched religiously. She loved Susan Lucci, and was upset she couldn’t watch the soap. The doorbell rang and it was a police officer. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he showed his badge. Mother offered him a seat, and pulled me onto her lap.” Rachel smiled. “It’s funny what I can recall, like it happened yesterday. The officer pointed to the TV and said, ‘Could you turn that off?’ He seemed gruff to me.”
From her brief description Brad wondered if the plainclothes detective might have been his mentor and business partner Nick Argostino. If so, it might offer them a head-start on the investigation.
“The officer told Mother that they’d been examining the car in which my dad died, and that it appeared that the brakes had been tampered with and that his death had not been an accident. He asked her if she knew anybody that might want to harm him.”
Sharon took more notes as Brad asked, “Do you remember the specifics from that day or a later re-telling?”
Rachel sighed. “I can’t remember much of what the officer said, except for him asking her to turn off the TV. But I can still picture my mother’s face—shifting in slow motion—as she absorbed what he told her. She looked apprehensive, then surprised, shocked and finally like she’d seen a light bulb lit, when she said, ‘It must have to do with that jury he was on’.” Rachel pointed to the newspaper articles.
Brad figured there was a reason Rachel had shared the story of her dad visiting her bedroom and double-checking the window to make sure it was locked. “Had your dad received any specific threats?”
“Back then I never heard. By the time I was thirteen I started investigating. I found a box with the newspaper stories my mother had saved. I practically memorized them. I started questioning my mother, and she shared her own memories about Dad’s death. At family gatherings I’d ask questions—made a pest of myself really—getting everyone’s theories.” Rachel laughed. “One day I asked my mother if Dad had ever been threatened. She hemmed and hawed a lot. Finally she told me that during a break in the trial Dad wanted to go outside for a smoke. He got on the elevator, and another man followed him on. Dad hadn’t paid attention to what he looked like, but just before the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, the man said, ‘I hope Rachel sleeps well tonight’.”
Sharon took a sharp breath.
“Did your mother say any more?” Brad asked.
Rachel shook her head. “Whenever I’d ask her about it after that she’d say, ‘I already told you’.”
Brad leafed through the clippings Rachel had brought and spotted a story titled, Juror’s Death Prompts Mistrial in Drug Kingpin Case. He scanned the lead paragraph before passing the article to Sharon just as Rachel consulted her wristwatch.
“Are you pressed for time?” Brad asked.
“I’m on duty this afternoon,” Rachel said. “When I requested last Thursday and Friday off the tradeoff was that I would work a shift on Veteran’s Day. It’s a two and a half hour drive from here to Fort Meade, Maryland where I’m stationed. I have to be back by 2 p.m.”
Brad hadn’t considered that November 12th was a Federal holiday when he scheduled the meeting, and Sharon never complained when he added it to her calendar. He’d watched a story on the news that morning showing the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns in Arlington Cemetery, along with the announcement that the president would lay a wreath at the tomb later that morning.
“We won’t keep you. I’ll go through all this material,” Brad said, as he rose from his chair. “I’ve been summoned to jury duty myself tomorrow morning, but they don’t pick detectives like me for a jury, so I’ll probably be home in an hour. And then we’ll get working on your case. I just want to make sure we have your e-mail and phone information, since I’m sure we’ll need to talk further.”
Rachel stood. “My contact information is on the envelope with the newspaper articles.”
“Great. One more question. Is there a real estate agency handling the sale of your mother’s home?”
“Yes, Woodbine
Realtors in Manayunk.”
“I’ll want to visit,” Brad said, “just to get a feel for the place.”
“Thanks for your time.” Rachel extended a firm handshake and snugged her cap onto her head. She left the office and walked stiffly toward her Ford F150.
Brad continued to watch through the windows until the gates of his estate had rolled closed behind her pickup. Then the swirling leaves in his driveway caught his attention, and he made a mental note to call the grounds keeping service.
When he turned around, Brad noticed Sharon standing next to the fireplace. She’d draped a throw around her shoulders and appeared engrossed in the newspaper clippings.
“There’s one thing she never mentioned,” Sharon said, her voice raspy.
“What’s that?”
“Martin Tetlow was the second juror killed during that trial seventeen years ago.”