“We’re hoping you can tell us that,” Horton said, as he removed the photograph of Shawn Dempsey and showed it to her.
“His eyes…yes, can’t mistake them. He’s a lot younger there, and not so rough-looking, but those are the same eyes. Definitely him, I’d say. But you might want to show it to Dixie Bauer in the café over there,” she pointed. “I was over there this afternoon for dessert and she said he was in her place also. She almost called the police on him, thinking he might be stalking someone.”
“Yes, Ma’am, we’ll do that. Thank you so much. I hate to tell you, but we’ll have to keep your vase a little longer in case it is needed somewhere down the line,” said Horton.
“Oh, I hate to think about that, it’s my most valuable piece. Do be careful…but if it helps convict a murderer…” she answered, lifting her cap to tousle her hair.
Horton and Jankowski thanked her, excused themselves and walked across the street.
“Gentlemen, welcome back. Need some coffee and another dose of Southern comfort food?” the owner-hostess greeted them.
“Not this time,” Horton said, “I try not to eat in the same restaurant twice in the same day, although I might be back sometime for those great sausage and biscuits–that sticks to my ribs!”
Jankowski told Dixie Bauer they needed a quiet spot to show her a picture. She led them behind eye-level swinging doors into one end of the Dixie Café kitchen. At the other end, a twenty-something, heavily tattooed cook handled several grill orders simultaneously, while moving to unheard music bleating into his ear from a device Mark didn’t recognize. Steam rose and a burger sizzled as the young man lightly touched items with his spatula. Mark sucked in the aroma permeating the small room, but concentrated on the business at hand.
“Do you recognize this man, Ma’am?” Horton showed Dixie the picture.
She shrunk back a step, then leaned her head forward to look more closely. “That’s him–the guy who’s been hanging around here. But he’s older than that…and grungier…and looks more like a skinny junkyard dog. Sorry, but he’s one bad character in my book. He must be in your book, too, since this is a police photo isn’t it? What did he do?”
“We’ll have to figure that out, but we thank you for the information,” Horton answered, tucking the picture back into its envelope. “If you see him again, please call 9-1-1. We need to talk to him. Good evening, Mrs. Bauer.”
“Dixie, please. And do come back. I’ll keep an eye out, but hope I don’t see him.”
Darkness was setting in on the return trip to Woodstock. Mark drove while Horton called in a statewide BOLO, Be On the Lookout, for Shawn “Skip” Dempsey. He asked headquarters to retrieve copies of the picture, Dempsey’s record and fingerprints from Devereaux and pass the BOLO on to Philadelphia and Pennsylvania agencies.
Horton and Jankowski had no idea whether he was still hanging around Connecticut but, if so, he probably was in violation of his probation. If he had returned to Pennsylvania, he could be arrested and held, perhaps long enough for them to decide whether they needed to go question the shady mystery man.
When they reached Woodstock, Mark dropped Horton at his unmarked car, smiled and said, “See you tomorrow. Nothing like an ex-con to add to our growing cast of characters. Now to find out if he’s our murderer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Of course, we’d love to sit in on your questioning but it’d be quite a drive, Captain,” Greg Horton told Philadelphia Police Department’s Joe Reeder, whose noon-hour telephone call came as a welcome surprise. The BOLO had been broadcast for Shawn “Skip” Dempsey only twenty-four hours earlier and they’d already picked him up for violating parole.
Captain Reeder explained that the department had a team conducting regular searches of known homeless camps, mostly to check for sick people who needed a hospital evaluation and a decent meal.
They knew where to find him because Dempsey had told his probation officer he had no permanent address but intended to change that soon. He planned to contact an old Army buddy who would lend him some money to get an apartment and probably even set him up with a job.
Meanwhile, Dempsey had said, he spent his nights in Outtatown, a large, wooded homeless encampment in the Frankford area. Each person had his own small slice of ground for a tent, large box, sleeping bag or just newspapers spread over a leafy bush. Small clusters of men and women huddled together and shared whatever food each brought to a central campfire, kept lit around the clock during winter months.
“They practically have mail service out there, like a real community,” Reeder said. “We had no trouble finding your Skip Dempsey. He’s not in hiding, by any means. His PO already had been there once to check it out, so he told us exactly where to go.
“You know, these people–yep, I think of them as a group–they all tend to be optimists who think their lives are going to turn around any minute. Well, that’s what Dempsey told his PO, but he didn’t have his positive attitude showing when we arrived,” he continued. “He probably got high yesterday, but wasn’t carrying when we found him.”
“I hope you kept him guessing about why you were looking for him,” Horton interjected.
Captain Reeder assured Horton his officers did not say anything about a Connecticut murder case. They told Dempsey they heard he had been out of the state, a violation of parole terms, so they needed to talk to him at the precinct.
“He was very casual, said he just hitchhiked up to–his words, ‘Essex-by-the-sea’ to visit an old friend,” Reeder said. “I can’t imagine anyone giving this guy a ride; he wears a scruffy little sandy-gray beard and is so skinny he looks like a strong wind would blow him over.
“He plays the role of Vietnam veteran to the hilt–black combat boots, camo flak jacket, matching baggy pants and the biggest Army tattoo I’ve ever seen. Of course, the men who served in that horrendous war have every right to be proud of their service, but he doesn’t present a good impression of the breed.
“The officer who found him says his patrol car needs to be fumigated to remove the marijuana odor, but Dempsey was sober when he got here. Guess he’s like that little guy in the Peanuts cartoon strip who walks around with a smelly dirt cloud surrounding him.”
Reeder told Horton they’d kept Dempsey in a cell overnight to let him wonder what was going on. Reeder offered to set up a conference call in the interrogation room, so Horton could participate in their questioning.
“Great!” Horton said. “My associate, Trooper Mark Jankowski will be here soon. We’re not ready to tip our hand until we decide if we need to confront him there or try to bring him here. So we won’t jump right in, maybe you could just forget to mention the open line.
“We know he was in the Essex area for several days and we want to know where else he might have gone, who he saw and what he wanted.”
“Got it.”
Mark returned with their Chinese takeout lunch soon after Captain Reeder’s initial call and quickly set up to record the conversation, take notes and eat while they listened. Horton smiled when Mark unwrapped chopsticks from the takeout bag and opened the several cartons of food. He chose a fork.
When the telephone rang, Captain Reeder announced the date, time, personnel present and interview purpose before Shawn Dempsey was escorted into the room.
“We know you went to Connecticut recently, in violation of your parole,” Captain Reeder began quietly. “We’d like you to tell us the location, purpose and who you saw on your trip.”
He might have uncorked a champagne bottle and less explosion would have occurred.
“You gotta be kidding! Did my old friend Hiram rat me out again? What’d he say, I scared his lady friend at the store–or did I scare him? He deserves it. He’s such a jerk.
“You know I was in prison almost ten years because of him, right? Well, another guy and I learned a lot about the Internet and I spent hours looking for Hiram Lazarus ’cuz he owes me. You know how many Lazaruses there are? I do–
about a kajillion. But I pored through a few million and found his fancy store up there in beautiful, touristy Essex, Connecticut so I went to see him. He owes me, big time!
“I went to prison, almost for life, just because I hit a drug store. And it was all his fault. We became buddies in ’Nam. He and Lieutenant Litchman were dealing drugs and got me hooked on them to help them peddle. Back home, I was in business on my own but I wound up using more than I could sell, so I kept getting busted.
”The third time was when I hit the drugstore with a gun in my hot little hand and couldn’t even break open the narcotics cabinet. I had to run when I heard sirens. He dropped a dime on me the next day when I begged him for a fix–I made the mistake of telling him about the drug store. You see, I thought he was a friend of mine.”
Captain Reeder told Dempsey he could skip the life history and just tell about his recent trip to Connecticut. Where did he go, who did he see, why did he want to see Hiram Lazarus?
“Aren’t you listening? You don’t get it–he ruined my life and he owes me!” Raising his voice, Dempsey started to rise but Reeder warned him with a wave of his hand.
Horton and Jankowski, stared at the speaker phone, wondering what the commotion was. They could hear chairs shuffling.
“You’re not going anywhere, Skip. I won’t cuff you to the chair if you promise to just sit and talk to me.”
“Okay, when I got up there, a little lady at his antique shop said he was only there on Thursday so I just hung around town and went back. He didn’t even recognize me–I could tell by the look on his ugly face. He looked the same as the Internet picture of him in an antiques magazine.
“I told him I knew he had ratted me out on the drugstore job. He said he’d already left town, but I knew better. I told him I needed him to help me get back into the drug business. I figured he probably still has contacts in Philly besides whatever drug business he’s doing traveling around the Northeast.
“I need Lazarus on my team…to get back on my feet and make up for all those lost years. I didn’t deserve that long term. Luckily I found a lawyer who does pro bono work and thought I got a bad deal, since I hadn’t used the gun. There wasn’t even anyone in that store.
“Lazarus needs to help me, but he flat-out turned me down. He says he’s not into drugs any more. I don’t believe that for a minute. He just wants it all to himself. I told him I knew a few things about people he sold drugs to way back when, other people ruined by him.”
Listening in while they chowed down, Horton and Jankowski nodded approval of Skip Dempsey’s talkative nature. The Philadelphia officer’s approach, to let Skip rattle on, seemed effective.
“I just want to get back into the Philadelphia scene, I need to make a living,” Dempsey continued. “But Mr. High and Mighty says, ‘You’re pathetic’ and tells me to get out of his store, he’s not going to help me a bit.
“He said he wouldn’t tell anyone what I wanted–he musta told somebody, eh? So much for camaraderie. What a jerk! What’s a few days in Connecticut gonna cost me now?” Dempsey sighed.
Captain Reeder tried to sound casual, “Say, when did you come back home? Where were you this past Sunday night?”
Skip smiled. “I left Connecticut the day I talked to Hiram, that’s ancient history–two weeks ago? Three? I’ve lost track–you can probably tell me ’cuz Hiram probably wrote it down someplace.”
Reeder waited for Dempsey to continue. Finally, Reeder repeated, “This past Sunday, did you go back to see Hiram again?”
“Naw. I’ve written him off. He’ll just make trouble for me if he gets the chance. Is that why you picked me up? Does he say I stole something? I didn’t touch him. Let’s see…Sunday night. Hard to tell the days apart. Oh, I got it! A couple guys got in a fight and one of them fell in the fire. I rode in the ambulance with him–Frankford Hospital has good food and I knew they’d let me stay with him. They weren’t too busy, so they didn’t kick us out when we both fell asleep.”
“That’s a good one, Skip,” Reeder laughted. “You sticking with that? You know we’re going to check it out.”
“What’s up here? You tryin’ to trap me into somethin’? Yes, it’s true–call the ER. They didn’t like us much, but they let us stay in the warm building for the night,” Dempsey answered.
Horton decided he needed to jump into the interview. He signaled for Mark to take notes, in case Skip tripped himself up.
“Shawn Dempsey, this is Detective Horton in the Woodstock State Police office. Trooper Jankowski and I have been listening to you rant about Hiram Lazarus and I wanted to ask you if your Internet research showed where his house is?”
“What? Have you been listening all this time? I didn’t know I was on the air. Is that legal? Don’t I have rights here?” Dempsey stopped. “No matter. Yes, I went up there after that woman said he wouldn’t be at the store for several days. But no one was home, so I just stuck out my thumb and went back to Essex the same day. I knew when I’d catch him there.
“Why all the big deal about me going to Connecticut to look up my old drug pal? I know he’s got to be dealing, but he wouldn’t admit it. He can’t do this to me–it’s his fault drugs is the only thing I know about. I was just a kid. He ruined me. He has to pay.”
Horton didn’t intend to get into a discussion with Skip Dempsey about rights, parole rules, Hiram Lazarus or anything else.
“Did you threaten Hiram, Skip?” Horton asked.
“More like he threatened me! Threatened to throw me out of the store right then…said he’d call the cops if I ever showed my face again…swore he’d ruin me if I told anyone about his drugging past in Pennsylvania. He threatened me up one side and down the other. You betcha!”
Horton turned down the volume on the speaker. Dempsey’s shouts probably could be heard way down in the break room.
“Captain Reeder, I believe we’ve heard enough for now. Thanks, I’ll be in touch,” said Horton, signaling for Jankowski to turn off the tape recorder. They knew Reeder could hold Dempsey long enough for them to know if they needed another grilling or try to extradite him for the murder of Hiram Lazarus.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tom Litchman stomped into the State Police office, sending sprays of water over the entrance mat. “If it isn’t snow, it’s rain,” he grumbled. His reddish-brown hair was plastered to his head and his gray hooded sweatshirt jacket was soaked. Detective Horton and Trooper Jankowski looked up in surprise.
“It must have just started,” Jankowski said. “Wasn’t raining when we came in. Here, take your jacket off and hang it on a coat hanger, so it will be dry by the time you leave.” He offered a hanger to him.
Tom shrugged off his jacket and carelessly hung it up. A faded shirt was stretched tight across his beer belly, his baggy jeans were faded and worn. “Well, what’s this all about?” he asked. “You took my statement, got my fingerprints and I’m sure you called Trip Beck about my alibi. What else do you want?”
Horton pulled out a chair for Tom and said, “We just want to confirm a few facts today. So, let’s go over things again, okay? You said you visited Hiram two weeks ago asking for a loan for your business. And he said…”
Tom snorted, as he dropped into the chair, “He said NO! He had other things on his mind and said he had helped me enough. He had to remind me of my other attempts to start a business. I guess he forgot how hard it is to get started.
“He really got to me. I bombed out of there just as Mom came into the house and I pushed right past her. I was so mad, I probably spewed a lot of the gravel drive into the yard but I didn’t care.” He stopped and fidgeted.
“And I haven’t been back until Mom called me Monday. I didn’t get that message right away–the cell phone doesn’t work everywhere, you know, not many towers in Vermont. She didn’t tell me Hiram was dead until I called her back, then I hit the road as soon as I could.”
“Tell me about this business you want to open.” Horton said.
Tom
relaxed a little. He sat up straighter and pulled in his head, showing the beginning of a double chin, trying to appear pompous. “I found a nice storefront in Putney that didn’t charge too much for rent, right off Interstate 91–you know–location, location, location. It was a truck terminal long ago, but the town transformed the building into small shops. There’s a restaurant there already.
“At any rate, I thought about this for a long time and figured people always need furniture so I’d specialize in good quality Vermont pieces and some antiques. So naturally I went to Hiram for help. But that guy…”
Jankowski interrupted, “Yes, you said he wouldn’t help you, but couldn’t you get a loan from a bank?”
Tom shook his head. “Naw, I’m in default on a loan now.” He looked away from the two officers and rubbed his deep-set pale gray eyes.
After a pause, Horton asked, “What do you do for a living, Tom?”
“I’m an insurance adjuster, specializing in car wrecks. Covering a large territory, so I have time to check out the area.”
“And you’re a frequent customer at Beck ’n Call?” Horton continued.
“Oh, yeah,” he grinned. “Trip’s a friend of mine.”
“Funny, this friend of yours. When we sent our constable to Putney to get a signed affidavit, your good friend Trip refused to sign it. All of a sudden he remembered you were there Saturday night, but not Sunday night!”
Tom paled, a startled look in his eyes. “What?” He sucked in his lip, trying to think what his options were. He gulped, looking from Horton to Jankowski. He had counted on Trip. “Man, I don’t need friends like him!”
“Listen closely, Jonathan Beck, the third, would not back up your alibi,” Jankowski shouted, drawing closer. “Your friend Beck is a better friend than you deserve. He’s smart enough to know that he shouldn’t lie on a sworn statement, which is what an affidavit is. It could become perjury in court.
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