Secret Keepers and Skinny Shadows: Lee and Miranda (15 page)

CHAPTER 28

Present Day

T
he trail was growing cold, as Lee was left wondering if he was headed in the right direction. Digging and scratching beneath the surface he gathered clues that made no sense. He wanted information that would lead him forward, not stop him at a brick wall. Staying the course he continued to press forward pulling down the wall, brick by brick, until at last he saw in front of him clues that at first glance lied to him, but as he persisted in his search laying out all the information like pieces to a big jigsaw puzzle, they were starting to fit together and the picture crystalized in front of his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the picture he expected to see.

They had a few minutes before their appointment with the police chief, so Lee and Miranda stopped at the Coffee Grind. Miranda pulled into the parking lot.

Inside they found an empty table.

At the appointed time they were sitting in the police chief’s office.

Chief Williams, a thick-bodied man with thinning sandy hair, was soft spoken but authoritative, he said his pleasantries and seemed anxious to start.

With thick, stubby fingers he reached down into a side drawer of the desk he was sitting behind, coming up with a twelve-inch-thick manila file folder brimming with papers, and placed it on top of his desk. After a short pause, he looked first at Lee then Miranda, while pointing to the folder.

“The department spent many months investigating the Grayson murder talking to everyone who had anything to do with the case, we think this folder speaks for itself showing the department spent a lot of time on this investigation.”

“Excuse me, Chief,” Lee said, “but you could have stuffed old papers in there knowing we were coming for this meeting.”

The chief held his gaze as his eyes narrowed, pointing his index finger at Lee. “A murder is always open until it’s solved.” He looked at Miranda then back at Lee. “Before we begin, I have message for you from the district attorney. If you write a book about this murder, you’re not to use the name of Bridgetown or the Bridgetown Police Department in a negative way. If you do, we’ll sue you. You’re not to contact anyone involved with this case, and that includes the detectives who worked it. They don’t want to talk to you. Do you understand what I’ve said?”

“Now wait one minute,” Lee said as he started to stand, pointing his index finger back at the chief. “Are you threatening us?”

“No,” the chief said as he raised both hands in front of his chest. “Not at all, that was a message from the district attorney, not me.” Lee sat down and exchanged looks with Miranda.

“So are you saying the district attorney told you to point your finger at me as you spoke?”

The chief glanced up at the ceiling behind Lee, he turned to see what the policeman was looking at, when he saw the camera. The officer turned his gaze back on Lee.

“If we’re clear on that issue, why don’t we get started?” Lee nodded in agreement, as he opened the folder starting with the top paper.

“I’ll only use first names, that way you won’t know who I’m talking about and the people involved will be protected.”

One hour later, they left the office but not before Lee was handed a copy of the autopsy report as he walked out the door. Lee’s head was swimming with information; some of it he already knew from the newspaper accounts of the murder and Lilly’s letters, some of it was new. Walking toward the elevator, Lee glanced around the halls noticing cameras everywhere.

“After that message from the district attorney, I believe Lilly was right,” Lee said. “The police were corrupt then and are still running roughshod over the people of Bridgetown. I took what he said as a threat, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. The whole interview was tense. Did you see his reaction when I asked if they had interviewed any of the family members and he had to tell me no? That was amazing all by itself. When I inquired about the young historian’s death, he fumbled around for his words?”

“Remember his comments about Lilly?” Lee said. “She was crazy, someone who would read about a high-profile murder case in the newspapers, then try to inject herself into it. Trying hard to discredit her he pushed that line of thinking a little too much. He was trying to control what we thought about Lilly and this case by meshing together what they wanted us to believe instead of what the reality was.” Lee held the door for Miranda.

“Yes Lee, they were trying to shape our line of thinking rather than look at the facts and the evidence. Speaking of evidence, there was precious little of that to look at. This is crazy. It’s like we’re trapped inside one of Lilly’s letters.”

When the elevator stopped at the bottom floor, Lee, followed by Miranda, walked to the front of the building. As they approached the glass doors, Miranda said, “Look at my car there’s a white paper flapping in the breeze on the windshield. Did someone give me a ticket?”

They hurried toward the car. Miranda pulled the paper from under the wiper, unfolded it, read what it said, and then without a word handed it to Lee.

He took the typewritten note, and read it out loud.

If you’re still alive to read this, you’re one of the lucky ones. It means they haven’t found you yet, or they haven’t figured out a foolproof plan to get rid of you. But you can bet they will. They always do.

Lee was familiar with the look in Miranda’s eyes.

“Don’t let them scare you, Kid we’ll get through this together.”

She was half listen to him as she opened her door to get in.

Lee folded the note, put it into his coat pocket, then turned around and scanned the area. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he could sense they were looking back at him. He glanced in the direction of the police station everything seemed ordinary, people were flowing in and out, glancing at the windows he could see men and women working at their desks. Everything looked normal—whatever normal was anymore or had grown to be in this crazy investigation Lee had allowed himself to be drawn into.

He wondered how a few pieces of black print on white paper could put such fear and suspicion into his heart and mind, after all, they were only words.

“Someone is trying to scare us off. I get that. But why? After all this time, it doesn’t make sense. Could the killer or killers still be alive? Can it be the second generation in a clumsy, but desperate attempt to protect the people who were involved in the murder?” Lee said.

Miranda shrugged as she slid into the seat. “I don’t know, but now more than ever I’m determined to find out. They aren’t going to scare me off. I faced more formidable forces than this when I worked in the field with Ridgeway. We’re going to get these cowards.”

The thoughts rolled around in Lee’s head as he slid into the car seat and closed the door, but this time it was different. This time Miranda wasn’t tapping her fingers and humming to the sixties music playing on the radio. Her jaw was set and Lee could see she was deep in thought as the car headed in the direction of her house.

                   
CHAPTER 29

Present Day

“
Before we go back to the house, we should stop at Jane’s farm to see if Johnny is there. I’d like to pick up the gun and send it off to the FBI to check for fingerprints.”

“Good thinking, Miranda. Do you mean after all this time and the condition of the gun they can get fingerprints from it?”

“Lee, with today’s technology, it’s amazing what they might be able to find on that gun.”

He patted Miranda on the leg. “If I were you, I wouldn’t worry too much about that note.”

“If I didn’t have you with me at the house, I might be a bit frightened, especially since Adrian is gone. Anyway, I think they’re only trying to scare us off. So, you know what that means, don’t you?”

“I think it means we’re starting to get close to exposing the killer or killers.”

“Yes, Lee, and I also think Jane may be in some danger. They have to know she’s connected to all this in some way.”

“When we visited her yesterday, I could sense she was holding back on information, but I didn’t know why, so I didn’t press her,” Lee said.

Lee’s phone chirped.

“Hello, this is Lee.”

“Who are you and why do you want to know about Bert Grayson’s murder?” Lee hit the speaker-phone button so Miranda could listen as she drove.

“Who is this? Why do you want to know who I am?”

“I want to know who you are and what’s your connection to Bert Grayson?”

“As the ad in the newspaper reads, I’m doing writing research for a possible book about the murder. I’m willing to listen to any information you’d like to share, and as the ad reads, my name is Lee Perkins. Do you have any information you’d like to share with me?”

“My name is Roger Grayson. Together we that is my grandfather who was Bert’s older brother, Donna who was my cousin have extensively investigated the murder and we know who did it.”

“You do? Well, what did the police say when you told them you’ve solved the murder?”

“They just ignored what we had to say because the guy who killed him works for the police department. They take care of their own and protect them. It doesn’t matter what crime they commit.”

“Do you know the man’s name who committed the murder?”

“His name is Hank Cranston. He is a black man who worked in the police department and ran a tavern up on Jew Hill by the bus station. Bert loved black women, and he got Hank’s daughter pregnant. Hank was so ashamed he sent his daughter away for the remainder of her pregnancy and the birth, then sold the baby on the black market. Before Hank joined the police force he worked as a butcher at a local shop.”

“How did Hank commit the murder?”

“The night of the murder, Hank was tipped off that Bert was in town and pretty liquored up. He got together about twenty guys who he knew where holding grudges against Bert. A couple of the men lured him into the alley where the rest of them were waiting. Hank slit my uncle’s throat while all the others stood around and watched.”

“Wait a minute, Roger, are you saying around twenty people were involved in the murder?”

“That’s right. That’s what we came up with,” Roger said, then he paused for a few seconds. “Propane Bill,” Roger continued, “was one of the men who was there that night. He went to prison for robbery a month after the murder. While he was in prison he told a couple of fellow inmates that he’d murdered Bert Grayson in the alley that night. Propane Bill didn’t do it, we know he was trying to cover for Hank, nobody believed he committed the murder.”

“How do you know the others stood around and watched while Hank slit his throat?” Lee interrupted.

“We know because the police said there were at least twenty sets of footprints around the body.”

“What’s Propane Bill’s real name?”

“I don’t know. That’s the only name I knew him by. We know it was Hank Cranston, because sixteen years after the murder, me and three of my friends were in Hank’s bar one night to drink a few beers. Hank sat in the corner at a table just as he always did, watching what was going on. We finished drinking our last beer and were getting ready to go home for the night, when Hank let out a loud blood-curdling laugh that sent chills through everyone. We stood outside a few seconds and looked at one, then the other. We were trying to understand what just happened. Then we went to our cars and drove home. We knew then that Hank had killed Bert by the sound of his laugh.”

“So let me get this straight. You know Hank committed the murder by the way he laughed?” Lee looked over at Miranda and twirled his index finger at his temple. She nodded in agreement.

“That’s right. I guess you had to be there to understand what I’m saying to you.”

“You have a point, Roger,” Lee said. “Say, could I call you if I have any questions later?”

“No, I don’t think I have anything else to say about the murder.”

“Okay, Roger, thanks for calling.”

Lee closed the phone and for a few silent minutes stared at Miranda as she drove.

“That guy was something else. Joan never mentioned him to me. Maybe that’s why,” Lee said.

As Miranda drove, Lee was rehashing in his mind everything Roger said.

Miranda turned onto a single-lane blacktop road. There was an abandoned ranch house on the right. On the left was a rundown two-story farmhouse with some acreage. The road made a sharp left, and on the right was a two-story clapboard house being remodeled. Just past the house stood an aluminum-sided three-bay garage. A man stuck his head around the opened door as the car came to a stop on the driveway. He was younger with dark hair. He waved and smiled.