The hardest part of the day to get through after a person’s heart has been broken is when one tries to fall asleep at night. Their eyes are closed tight, yet the imagined light still seeps through to the brain. The silence of the night is as noisy as the busiest highway. Sleep is almost impossible as the brain goes into a frenzy of calculations as to why the breakup was all your fault. In the end, sleep comes only out of sheer exhaustion, and every night the mind’s calculations are different, confusing, yet so important.
The mind seems keener when my eyes are closed on this evening’s torturous battle, trying to forget and fall off to sleep. I was analyzing my self-destructive decline after that woman left my life. I realized just how little life really meant to me. Oh, sure, I got up and went through the motions: the shower, the shaving, the smelling good, and trying to work a normal day. But it meant nothing. In fact, no one and nothing meant anything to me. I went to work, ate lunch, and went home, but in reality I was like a zombie just faking his way through the day, only to punish himself when his eyes closed tightly against a bright light of guilt.
In reality, everyone knew I was a fraud of a person. I was trying to scam everyone into thinking that life was good and I was still a caring person able to produce quality work on a daily basis. My boss was right. I had been a disaster for a while. Sure, he was still an ass and always had been. A robot had more compassion than he did, but he was right: I had crashed and burned as a productive professional. My heart had suddenly become frozen after the breakup. Frozen to life, love, everyone, and the world around me.
On this night, the torture went on forever. Then finally, there was the hallucination that the mind does for a few minutes, and then the bright seeping light finally dimmed into the blackness of sleep.
“Hey, nipple head,” I heard as I picked up.
“Who? What? Who is this?” I said, half awake.
“This is your worst nightmare!” he blurted.
“Oh, Harold, how are you?”
“Evidently, better than my newspaper reporter, who can’t cross a street. Were you drinking? ’Cause I’ll fire your sorry ass right now!”
“Boss, someone tried to scare me. And no, I wasn’t drinking. I’ve been good as gold.”
“Gold is crap lately; don’t count on gold.”
“Harold, I told you I was onto something with this 1923 murder investigation here.”
“The only thing I know is you are pissing off the Hagerstown Police Department, and it’s about time someone other than me wants to kick your ass all around town. They want you out of their town. Funny thing is, I don’t want you back. Why don’t you find a job on a farm somewhere near Hagerstown; you’d fit in real good with the cows and pigs.”
“Thanks for your support, boss.”
“Don’t mention it, hammer-head.”
“I can’t hear you too good,” I lied.
“Well, hear this!” He screamed so loud I could have heard him from DC without the benefit of a phone. “I want a positive and full report of activity tomorrow evening, and don’t pull any of your shit! You hear?” He slammed down the phone so hard it hurt my ear.
“Bastard!” I shouted loudly, just as the nurse entered my room.
“Excuse me?”
“No. I was just yelling at my boss . . . .”
A short time later, I fell off to sleep. It had to be the drugs. Finally, sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
We know it sometimes when we are dreaming; we remind ourselves that we are asleep as the visions pass quickly through our brain. Problem is, many times we forget our dreams after we wake up. The ones I usually remember are the weird dreams, the ones where someone is shooting at me or chasing me with a baseball bat, or I’m drowning in the ocean somewhere. I usually wake up full of sweat, almost certain that I’m bleeding profusely. Of course, it takes me a full five minutes to realize it was only a dream.
But this night was different. This night was as real as could be—eerily real. It was scary, because it was so unique.
I had learned through my research that Miss Lolita’s uncle was a very wealthy man, a doctor named Walter Klug. The entire hospital wing I was in had been financed with a bequest from the hospital many years ago by the good family doctor, who was loved by all the Hagerstown natives.
Lolita’s uncle appeared to me that night in my sleep. I was sure it was Dr. Klug because a large painting of the doctor is on the wall right next to the elevator on the floor I was on. In my dream, the doctor looked much like he does in the portrait: tall, slim, with a full white beard, and a full head of white hair. He appeared to be in his late eighties and was smoking a pipe. Appearing with him in my dream were three young women—the murder victims, I reasoned, although upon waking up, I couldn’t remember their faces. Dr. Klug was showing me some items, such as a large, bloody knife, a red brick with a chunk missing from the middle, and a dark-colored women’s scarf. He said nothing; just looked at me as he smoked his pipe.
Lolita’s uncle was smiling, wordlessly inviting me to help uncover the killer. As quickly as the vision appeared to me in my dream, I was awake again, lying in the hospital bed in the dead of night, staring at the ceiling. I was wet with perspiration, even though the room was rather cold, I believed the perspiration was from such a deep sleep and the visions I had experienced. I stared long and hard at the ceiling, trying in vain to make sense of all I had seen in the dream. I made sure to replay every second of it in full detail because I was certain it would be forgotten if I didn’t plant it firmly in my brain, frame by frame. The faces of the girls were already a blur, but I decided that their faces were not important at this time. Uncle Walter had shown me all I needed to know for the time being: the deformed red brick, the large, bloody butcher knife, and the dark-colored women’s scarf. I wondered how these details could help me. I realized then that there was a real purpose for my being in Hagerstown, Maryland, and Miss Lolita’s uncle had made sure I realized it.
The next morning I was released from the hospital after what the hospital called a full and nutritious breakfast, but what I called “punishment food.” It was oatmeal that had dried up, toast that could be used as leather soles for shoes, and coffee that could wake the dead. If my body had complied with my intention, I would have run for the exit, but I was sore all over. My scraped hands, arms, and legs hurt, and my body ached all over. As is customary, I was wheeled out of the hospital to a waiting taxi the hospital provided, which took me to my car across from the Hagerstown New News building.
I reported in at the Washington newspaper. Gloria Finn, Glavin’s assistant, was her usual sarcastic, smart-ass self. She insinuated that I had asked to be hit by the car and fired upon by a crazed gunman. I was sure Glavin was sleeping with her, though it turned my stomach to picture them being romantic in any way. She said that Harold Glavin had instructed her to confirm my appointment to interview Lolita at one p.m. that afternoon. She passed on a message from my boss: “Screw this one up and you might as well leave the country for good.” Gloria laughed a long, sinister laugh as she said, “Check in later, Lou, or you’ll be shining shoes in the subway on Monday as your new career.”
It bothered me a lot that no one seemed to have confidence in my ability to investigate and report a story. I realized that for months I had let people down and been off my game. But now, with my back against the wall, I was motivated to show everyone what kind of newspaper reporter I could be. This was my chance to shine again, even though it had been a long time since I had last shined at anything.
My cell phone had a couple of messages on it that I needed to get back to. One was my buddy Graham from the office; another was from Fred, the barber; and finally, there was one from my bartender friend at my favorite watering hole. Clearly, people were concerned that I might be screwing up the assignment. They knew this was my very last chance to prove myself, as I had been on the road to hell for some time.
My body was sore and dragging, and in need of its usual caffeine fix. So I fo
und a Starbucks coffee shop. They sell the freshest, most powerful coffee I know of, just what I needed to kick-start the long day ahead of me. I would return the calls as I sat in the coffee shop some three blocks away.
The first new message was from the newspaper’s secretary, Gloria. Her voice on a phone message grated on me, like scratching one’s fingernails on a blackboard. She had further informed me that she had adjusted my stay at the hotel in Hagerstown and informed them about the night before, and had kept the departure date open for as long as I needed. Also, I was pre-checked in, and only had to pick up my room key at the front desk.
The coffee was hot and as strong as ever. Maybe it had been sitting for a long time, as there were no other patrons in the Starbucks but me. The quaint town of Hagerstown was growing on me.
I returned my buddy Graham’s call, and then Fred the barber’s. Both went to voice mail. I basically told them both the same thing: that I was doing well, that Hagerstown was a quaint little town, that there had been some gunfire but I was fine, and that today I would interview the older woman my story was about. I let them know I would be staying on longer in Hagerstown, investigating another story for the newspaper, and that I would contact them once I returned to Washington.
My stomach churned, and I knew it wasn’t the crappy breakfast the hospital had served or even the motor oil they call coffee at Starbucks. I was still uneasy about my job, my newspaper, and my boss, Harold. I was also very uneasy about getting a good story out of Miss Lolita. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I had a target on my back. Sure, I was probably just paranoid, and my very active imagination was now in overdrive, but something deep inside was tugging at my brain, making me believe that the 1923 murders were still bothering someone in Hagerstown. Of course, the killer (or killers) from 1923 couldn’t still be living now, could they? No, they would have to have been dead for a great many years. But someone somewhere was spooked, or at least that was what my gut was telling me. In any event, I downed a couple of butter cookies to calm the acid, or the coffee, or the worry.
From now on, I planned to observe my surroundings and the people in this town just a little more closely than I had done before.
My next stop was the Hagerstown Library on East Washington Street. As I had learned from Loretta, the redheaded girl I spent time with under the police station table, the library was a good source of information. It had just been remodeled and updated on the inside, but the exterior was retro, looking the way it must have a hundred years earlier. I pictured Lolita in her twenties, coming to the huge brick building to borrow some books. As was the case with most buildings in Hagerstown, this one was old and well preserved. Evidently, brick could last forever. And just then the brick from my dream once again entered my mind: old, red, and with a chunk missing from the center. I stopped and stared for a moment at the exterior brick of the library, wondering if it matched the brick that Lolita’s uncle had shown me in the dream. I shook my head and continued into the library. Its tall ceilings and huge rooms were overwhelming.
Immediately, I recognized Emily Swift, the woman Loretta had told me to look up. She was about eighty-five years old, slim, and good-looking, with glasses and long gray hair. Loretta had told me that Emily had worked at the library some fifty-five years and knew many things about historic Hagerstown.
As soon as I approached her desk, Emily looked up, smiled a friendly, almost motherly smile, and said, “Well, let me guess. You are Lou, the man Loretta has been talking about. You’re the newspaper reporter, aren’t you?”
“Yes. And you must be Emily, the well-respected librarian who knows all about Hagerstown and its history.”
“I can help you with some information,” she said.
“Great! As you’re probably aware, I am here for the most celebrated resident of Hagerstown, one Miss Lolita Croome.”
“Well, yes, Miss Lolita is very famous these days. She was born a Klug. Her father owned a huge farm on the hill and raised some cattle. Her uncle was a well-known family doctor. Walter Klug was a very wealthy and respected member of the community. Miss Lolita was a teacher for a few years until she married her childhood sweetheart, D. K. Croome, an auto mechanic. They had one child, a daughter.”
I smiled at such a trove of information in one sentence. “Loretta said you were like a historian of Hagerstown.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but here is a little-known fact about Miss Lolita: She has a special trait that most people don’t have. It’s called hyperthymesia.”
“What is that?”
“Hyperthymesia is the ability to recall all memories from her past, including early childhood, in complete detail.”
“Amazing! Even at her advanced age?”
“Oh, sure! She can recite full verses, poems, and speeches she heard as a young child. It is fairly rare that a person is born with this gift.”
Emily was indeed quite knowledgeable about the town, the nursing home, and even Millie’s Diner. Emily told me that Millie’s was founded in 1930 and was known as the best pancake house in all of Maryland. “It was started by Mildred Farner and sold in 1980 to Sy Trylan, who refurbished the restaurant. Now it’s a popular eatery of Hagerstown. Many old timers frequent Millie’s.”
I asked Emily about Sy, the owner I had seen at Millie’s.
“Oh, good old Sy? He’s all right, just has a tough exterior, but he’s harmless once he gets to know you. He just barks a lot, like an old pit bull.”
“So, his father is the minister of the church?”
“No, his father was the minister of the church. He died some thirty years ago, and Sy’s older brother, Mitchell, is the current minister. Sy and Mitchell’s father, Seymour, and Seymour’s father before him, were ministers of the oldest church in Maryland for many years. Miss Lolita was a parishioner, as were her entire clan, and she even sang in the church choir for many years. Miss Lolita also was very active, dancing many times a week as a teen after school, and even as a young teacher she would dance with other female teachers and the students. Dance was very popular in the 1920s, as was going to the movies. Lolita was a movie fanatic and used to receive the movie magazines on a regular basis. There was no television, so dancing, clubs, movies, and soda fountains were very big with young people, as was canoeing and swimming, or just plain sitting on a backyard swing. Every home had a piano, and Lolita entertained her immediate family as well as uncles, aunts, cousins, and friends by playing the piano.
“The families would bake all kinds of breads, pies, and cakes regularly, and everyone would visit one another’s homes and sit around the piano, singing and playing games. It really was a pleasant time to be a child. Of course, the drawback of the time was sickness. Many people died far too early from various viruses—or even from colds and fevers in those days. Sicknesses we have basically eradicated in today’s society would take the young and the weak. It was very common to bury many family members. And if you were fortunate enough to beat the latest virus strain, you might still be laid up for weeks at a time, requiring daily visits from the doctor, who made house calls.”
In a half hour or so, I received an in-depth education about the life and times of Miss Lolita Croome during the 1920s. Emily’s insight was far better than any book or DVD. She made me feel like I was alive in those days as she laid out what life was like back then. It sounded so much simpler than the high-tech, fast-paced world we live in today. For a while, as she spoke, I wished I had been alive back then, or at least could be transported in time for a week or so, like in the Star Trek shows.
The microfiche gave me even more insight into Hagerstown in the 1920s, including the murders of the three young women, but it shed no light on any new leads. To me, it seemed like a dead end. But to someone out there, it was still alive. Someone was clearly nervous as a result of my visit, which I thought was somewhat comical. After all, what could a simple newspaper reporter uncover, compared to the town’s police department, which, since the 1920s, had been followin
g and investigating the cold case?
Still, I felt a weird connection to the 1923 murders, as I had when I first started looking into the information Gloria had given me about Miss Lolita and what I had found on the internet. I felt a strange bond, as if I were supposed to care and be affected. And something told me to keep digging, though my better judgment told me to get a story about the wonderful old lady and tear ass out of the old town that had been nothing but painful headaches for me, in more ways than one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was eleven o’clock when I pulled into the parking lot of the Hagerstown Home for the Aged. It was a huge horseshoe-shaped one-story brick building, modern with many windows, and several people were sitting on the front lawn and around the sides, some by themselves in wheelchairs and others with aides or family members. The air was warm and inviting, and the sky was a picture-perfect blue.
I had the strange feeling that I had been followed and observed from a distance. But every time I looked around, there were no cars or people who appeared to be tailing me. My imagination was working in overdrive, and had been ever since the glancing blow I had taken from that car and the nice egg of a bump I had received. Everything still hurt, and I took some more of the pain medication the hospital had given me. I was to take no more than three of the horse pills per day, as they could make me drowsy. They were strong enough to ease my worst pain.
Defying Death in Hagerstown Page 8