by Rich Foster
After thirty-five minutes they finally stood beside the victim.
A ghostly and desiccated face, was visible beneath the filmy layers of yellowed plastic.
“I can tell you one thing, that sheeting is old, look how brittle and crumbling some of the edges are, but the tape holding it closed appears new. If we’re lucky we might pick up prints from the plastic or inside of the tape.”
“How long will it take?” Gaines asked the M.E.
“It will be slow work, Sheriff. I’ll need to dust each layer.”
“Do whatever you need to do but get the body out first. Can you do that?”
“Sure, it looks like someone was already in there. We’ll remove the body and then process the wrappings in the lab.”
The corner of Gaine's mouth twitched as if something troubled him.
“I want to ID her as quickly as possible.”
*
The Canaan County Morgue was part of the jail complex. The next day Gaines stopped by. On a stainless table lay a mummified corpse.
“Where are we at, Doc?”
“Female. I’d estimate weight before death about 100 lbs. Height 5’ 4”. Brown hair bleached blond, evidenced by the roots. Probably 16 to 17 years old.”
“She looks like King Tut. How long has she been dead?”
“Minimum ten years, but probably more. It’s not an exact science.”
“Any identification?”
“She had on a blouse and a skirt. No panties or bra. The lab will take a closer look. I have a complete dental set if you want to try the local dentists. I can guarantee this; she hasn’t been on the beach for long.”
“Well obviously she hasn't pulled a Rip Van Wrinkle on the beach for ten years.” said Gaines.
“No, I mean it rained hard the evening before last, yet the plastic layers were dry, despite being cut open. Someone dumped the body after six or seven o’clock the night before she was found.”
“Narrows the window. I’ll have the men ask around the campground. Maybe someone noticed a car. I better get a deputy on it soon, before they all move on.”
Gaines was about to leave.
“Another thing, Sheriff. The package with the body was never buried. There’s no trace of earth on it except for the bottom. However there is a dusting of gypsum on the outer shell.”
“Gypsum?”
“Drywall dust. She’s been kept somewhere dry, probably in a house.”
Gaines looked at the girls face. Dried and shrunken, it was marginally human. The blond hair might have been horsehair. He slowly stroked his mustache, a long formed habit when deep in thought.
“This doesn’t make sense. Why keep a body for years and then suddenly dump it where it will be found?”
Dr. Lang shrugged, “Maybe the killer was in prison? Maybe it’s a Norman Bates thing and he decided to clean house.”
“Very funny, Richard.” Gaines nodded at the corpse, “Could this go back twenty years?” he asked.
“Sure.”
The corner of the Sheriff's mouth twitched again. “I may know who she is, a runaway named Alison Albright.”
“Who was she?”
“My first case as Sheriff back in 92. Everyone thought she was a runaway, until her suitcase showed up at the bus depot. Then a bum was arrested with her panties in his pocket.”
“Anyone convicted?”
“Nope, it’s a cold case. We thought the bum might be good for it, but he was doing thirty days for public intoxication when the girl disappeared. Technically she’s only a missing person. We never found evidence she was dead. On the other hand, she’s never turned up in any database and I’ve checked a dozen times over the years.”
The Sheriff looked silently at the body as if expecting answers. “What did the clothes look like, Doc?”
“Plaid skirt, Ivory or yellow button down blouse.”
“It’s her,” Gaines said. Wearily he shook his head. “I always hoped she hadn’t come to this.”
“Are you sure about the ID?”
“Like I said, it was my first case and I failed. I recall the details very clearly.”
“Well if she ran away she didn’t get far. What now?”
“We re-activate the case. Have your assistant send over to Records for the dental, I’ll bet my badge there’s a match.”
Gaines appeared older and more burdened than when he entered.
“Do this ASAP. Her parents still live in town. I don’t want them learning about this from a reporter.”
Chapter 3
Harry Grim sat at his desk and read the Red Lake Clarion. Alison Albright was the front-page story in the paper, Lou Harding wrote the copy.
Twenty years ago, Alison Albright told her friends she was leaving Red Lake.
One afternoon in June of 1992 she packed a suitcase and disappeared. Where she hoped to go was never determined, but in the weeks before her departure she possessed an inordinate amount of spending money.
“She was a good girl, the light of our lives,” her mother, Carole Albright said. “It is hard to accept she is gone. However after all these years of wondering it is a small comfort to be able to lay her to rest.”
Her father, Jack Albright declined comment. The Albrights divorced several years after Alison’s disappearance.
At first, the Albrights chose to not report her missing. She was sixteen, old enough to leave school under state law. Though apprehensive the Albrights believed she would shortly return. After not hearing from her for three weeks they went to the police.
Investigations by the Sheriff office failed to produce any witness’s who saw her leave town or had knowledge of when she left.
Thirty days after she was last seen a suitcase with her belongings was found as unclaimed checked luggage at the old Oak Avenue Greyhound Station. The bag was initially overlooked because it carried the name of another Red Lake resident who told the investigating officer that she donated the suitcase to a local thrift store.
At the time, the late, Charlotte Dawson, recalled selling the suitcase to a girl matching Alison’s description two months prior. The contents proved to be Alison’s, the clothing bore her name, placed there by her mother, prior to summer camp the year before.
This in itself was not considered conclusive of foul play, in that Alison reportedly possessed a substantial amount of money.
Fear for her welfare increased when a local indigent, arrested for public intoxication, was found in possession of undergarments belonging to the missing girl. Carl “Boxcar” Calhoun claimed he found them in a trashcan in the downtown area. This was a claim police could never refute nor confirm.
Now twenty years later, Alison Albright has come home, though under mysterious circumstances. Her remains were found at Rocky Nook Point. Officials state this was of recent circumstance, but as to where the remains have been for the last twenty years they are at a loss to say.
Sheriff Gavin Gaines said, “We have instituted an active investigation. If anyone has information regarding Alison Albright, please come forward.”
Harry tossed the newspaper onto his desk. He glanced out his office window; Boyden Street was busy with local commerce. People came and went from shops. Harry watched as Abner, an area wino, toddled up the sidewalk, muttering unintelligible words and searching for smokeable cigarette butts in the gutter. He bent over and retrieved one. Harry couldn't help but recall how the year before he shot a man on that exact spot.
The Fat Man was a CIA agent who foolishly tried to ambush him and his friend Barton Dirk. He hit Harry once before dying on the pavement. Harry’s single shot struck the Fat Man in the gut. Barton Dirk left a neat circle of six shots in the Fat Man’s chest.
Harry brought his thoughts back into the office. “What do I have to do?” he asked, looking over to where Paula filed her nails. Her long hair successfully covered the small patch where the doctor shaved her scalp and put in a dozen stitches.
“Clean out the file cabinet. No calls, no cases.”
“Then I think I’ll go fishing.”
“Gee Harry, don’t you get tired of killing little fish?”
“I only kill big fish; the little ones I catch and release.”
“So what was that we ate for supper last night?”
“An unlucky one.” Harry walked over and kissed her, then executed another longer one.
“Maybe we should…?” He arched his eyebrows ala Groucho Marx and looked toward the office sofa.
Paula pushed him away. “Later Romeo, I like a bed,”
Harry picked up his keys and was almost out the door when the phone rang.
“Harry Grim Investigations,” Paula’s silky voice often won over clients business before they even met.
Beside the door Harry pointed at his chest and shook his head, no.
“Sure, he just came in.”
Harry took the phone and put his hand over the receiver, wiggled a finger at Paula and said, “Just for that you aren’t getting it tonight.”
Paula laughed, “You’ll forgive me.”
“Hello, Harry Grim speaking.”
A half hour later Harry was heading south toward Beaumont over the Lazarus Mountains in Parsons County. The trip required crossing the pass. Route 218 snaked up to 8,500 feet then descended through curves that were treacherous during the winter. At the base of the mountains the road ran straight and flat into Beaumont.
Red Lake was a small resort town, but Beaumont was a city where the county’s commerce took place. Decisions made there, reverberated up to the state capitol, unlike decisions in Red Lake that were more likely about the size of a sign for a new bait shop or whether the fee for the public beach should be raised a quarter of a dollar.
Harry did not fight the traffic that was heavy through the downtown. He relaxed until he found a place to parked on a side street. There seemed fewer pickups and more sedans each time he came to Beaumont. The area had shed its cowboy origins as commercial complexes sprang up, and businesses moved in that embraced paperwork and software production rather than hay and feed.
He moved along the sidewalk until he found 312 Harrison, a three-story brick building with signs of diligent care. The ground floor windows were framed by wood not aluminum, the paint a clean, crisp white. Across the glass, a dozen campaign posters formed a paper curtain,
“Vote for the Future! a handsome, face graced the center and smiled congenially. Below it read, “J. Travis Parks for 12th District”. On the other side of the glass a half dozen desks showed signs of activity.
A perky girl with hair as long and dark as a mare’s tail strode to greet him.
“Are you here to help?” she asked.
“I hope so, Mr. Parks wanted to see me.”
“Oh!” She said, as if surprised this battered fellow might have business with her candidate. “I’ll see if he’s free.”
A phone rang, causing the girl to canter, more than walk to pick it up. Her hips rolled. Harry watched her move.
The office space was stark except for posters stuck to the walls and precinct maps with markings across them.
“Can I give you a button?” asked a red haired girl with enticing freckles who materialized at his elbow.
Harry shook his head no and she slunk away, rebuffed by his rejection. He was beginning to understand how politicians ended up in trouble. The campaign office seemed to be a magnet for good-looking girls.
The thoroughbred hung up, held up one finger, calling for Harry's patience and then disappeared into a back office. Five minutes later she opened the door and nodded for him to come in.
“Better fix your lipstick,” Harry whispered as he passed into the room.
Travis Parks rose from behind a broad oak desk, his hand outstretched. Harry said nothing, though the pink gloss clinging to his lips told him something about his client.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Grim. You have quite a reputation.” Parks pointed to one of two blotter green leather chairs, “Coffee?”
“Sure, black, please.”
Harry settled into the chair. Parks remained behind the desk, buffered from intimate contact. Harry knew the name. Parks was locally renown for his role in the Chandler case. Though not the lead attorney, he assisted Channing Webster in his murder defense of Lilly Chandler. Their defense became a case study at numerous law schools.
The girl returned with coffee, her face repaired. As she left she must have signaled Parks because he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth as if spittle was escaping.
“I am running for elected office.”
The obvious did not require comment. Harry waited, he was willing to let the man work up to what he wanted. Sometimes not even his clients knew. But two things they all had in common, it took them time to get talking and he would never be given all the facts.
“Our county is growing. We are in transition from an agricultural community to one based on service and information technologies. We need strong leadership during these times...”
Harry let his mind go blank. It was standard drivel, building up to how Parks got his ass into the wringer. And how much the community would lose if Harry did not bail him out. Finally he interrupted.
“Do you have a problem with some woman?”
“What makes you ask that?” Parks attempt at indignation failed.
“The lipstick on your handkerchief perhaps? And the fact that the girl whose color it matches is probably 20 years younger than you.”
Parks shifted uncomfortably in his chair as if seated on a sack of rocks. “This has nothing to do with Lindsay, she was still in diapers when what I want to discuss occurred. There was a girl who disappeared twenty-years ago in Red Lake.”
“Do you mean Alison Albright?”
“Yes.” Parks fell silent, as he look at something unseen in his past. Then he continued. “I am afraid my name will be linked to events surrounding her disappearance. That would be deleterious to my campaign. I have a great deal to offer this community, I would not want it thwarted by irrelevant and distant events.”
“Did you kill her?”
Parks head snapped up, the shock on his face was a credible copy of guilt or dismay that Harry might even think that.
“Certainly not. I haven’t seen Alison since that night.”
He spoke with emphasis on the word; that.
“Which night would that be?” Harry asked non-judgmentally.
“We graduated in June 1992. After the ceremony was over and everyone had cake with their own families. Later, a group of us got together for a party, there were perhaps fifteen or twenty of us there. Alison Albright was one of them.”
“Albright was in your class?”
“No, she was two years behind us, but she showed up. Somebody invited her.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Whose house was the party at?”
Parks grew nervous, again. “I don’t know. We were kids. Red Lake has a lot of vacant vacation homes. Most people hide a key in case they forget to bring theirs. When I was in school kids would borrow houses to party in.”
“And left the mess for the owner to find?”
He squirmed sheepishly. “We were kids.”
“But it would not play well with your constituents.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No. But I can survive that; however, being linked to the Albright girl is more problematic.”
Verbally, Parks put a distance between himself and the dead girl. Harry suspected there was more to tell.
“Tell me about the party.”
“She showed up with a friend. People danced, we drank, there was some pot; just kid stuff. About one in the morning the cops showed up. Everyone took off running. I never saw her again.”
“Did anyone?”
“Not that I know of.”
Harry let his eyes rove around the Spartan office before they settled on Parks. “What do you want me to do?”
“Look into the Albright disappearance
. Ideally you would solve the case. But anything you can do to move the investigation away from that night would be useful.”
“Twenty years is a long time to pick up a trail.”
“Find somebody who saw her after that night and the story moves on.”
“What did happened that night?” Harry asked.
“Nothing! It was a party. A few alcohol and pot laws were broken. We were all underage. Without the Albright disappearance it is a non-story.”
“So, who was there?”
Parks pushed a piece of yellow legal paper across the desk. Harry picked it up.
“Dave Barnes, Mitch Conners, Anders Schmidt, Phil Quelan maybe. There were other guys but I don’t recall who they were. The girls I recall are Vicky Mills, Becky Garner, Rachel Sylvester, and the Albright girl who came with a friend.”
Invariably, it seemed, Parks referred to Alison as the Albright girl. It annoyed him.
“Are they still around?”
“Sure, some of them. Conners is a deputy. Dave Barnes has a company up there. I think Anders moved to New York.”
“What about the women?”
“I couldn’t say. I suppose most got married. You might try the high school’s alumni association. I don’t get up to Red Lake much.” Then upon reflection said, “Almost never.”
Harry named his price and Parks wrote out a check for a retainer. The check was drawn on his campaign fund, on the bottom it was noted: security.
“I’ll see what I can learn.”
Travis stood up. A smile spread across Parks' face, one that drew one in and made the recipient feel he were the best and most important moment in Parks’ day.
No wonder people like him, Harry thought.
They shook hands.
“Nice to meet you Mr. Grim.”
Harry nodded.
“By the way, if you find anything that might hurt me, you will let me know, won’t you?”
“Sure,” said Harry tapping his wallet. “You’re writing the checks.”
Chapter 4
The sign read, Red Lake High School home of the fighting Lumberjacks. Harry pulled into the parking lot Near the front doors of the school stood a twelve foot tall statue of a bearded, flannel clad, wood chopper, with an ax over one shoulder. It was gifted to the school when the Paul Bunyan House closed its doors. The restaurant may have failed but its roadside advertisement lived on.