Читать книгу Off the Beaten Path - John Schlarbaum - Страница 6

Arranging personal time off is a chore. When panicked clients reach out at 5:00 p.m. on Friday, they’re not accustomed to hearing that I can’t do surveillance on a so-called injured employee. “I overheard he’s going to be playing shortstop in a baseball tournament tomorrow and Sunday! Please, I beg of you, Steve.” Depending on the sport, I might work out some deal. Baseball, yes. Hockey, maybe. Soccer, probably not. As a one-man operation, there are only so many hours in a day and as it is, I work seven of them each week. If I only clocked in the standard 40 hours, my take home pay would be halved.

Dawn’s restaurant schedule is infinitely more flexible. She waitresses during the day Monday-Thursday and Sunday evening. So for us to get away means finding someone to take the short Sunday dinner shift and presto, a long weekend!

The Tour of True Terror was written up in the You’re The Man, Man! men’s magazine I read during stakeouts. Like the infamous S.S. Minnow trip, the tour lasts three hours aboard a snazzy bus and on foot. There’s even a Master of Ceremonies to guide us down the true crime memory lane of the mid-sized metropolis known as Dannenberg. A short jaunt from our own City of Darrien, it’s far enough away to constitute a mini-vacation and close enough not to waste much time driving, which could be more wisely used in our hotel room.

“What’s the deal with Dannenberg anyway?” Dawn asked as she replaced my Springsteen disc with her Sex At Seven CD in the van’s stereo. “Is it like the murder capital of the region or just a really poor choice to call home?”

“A bit of both,” I answered as the first guitar chords of Dawn’s new favourite song, The Trouble With Lies, kicked in. “It’s always been a rough industrial city, full of factories, especially during wartime, making tanks, planes and ammunition.”

“There isn’t much need for that today.”

“Exactly, at least not on that scale. When the last two recessions hit, the first casualties were manufacturing plants. Now instead of producing cars or clothing or canned goods, Dannenberg produces the unemployed, and as witnessed with Broker Boy Corwin, anger is the number one by-product.”

“Followed by crime. I gotcha.” Dawn sang along to the chorus before saying, “I’m surprised there’s even a tour like this. Who thinks this stuff up? A couple of drunks sitting around the bar trying to find a get-rich-quick scheme?”

“You’re close. Two Dannenberg police detectives got bored and thought they could use all their experience to make a buck or two.”

“Still . . . ”

“It does seem a bit macabre, but it’s really no different from the Criminal Hall of Fame wax museum we visited in Niagara Falls.”

“I guess. That was kinda cool.”

“Plus, at the end of this we won’t have to exit through the gift shop,” I said with a smile.

“What, no I Almost Died on The Tour of True Terror t-shirt or keychain or magnet?”

“Sad but true.”

We checked into our hotel suite and spent the afternoon sightseeing a few of Dannenberg’s attractions, albeit only through our bedroom’s bay windows overlooking the city square.

“You really are fun in bed,” I said with a satisfied grin, “although I need to get into better shape ’cause I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack.”

“My dad used to say the same thing and then he’d pop a nitroglycerine pill.” I slowly turned my head to be able to look Dawn in the face. “What?” she asked innocently, adjusting her head on the pillow.

“I need to clarify something. When I said you were a fun lover and I felt like I was about to have a heart attack, then you said, ‘My dad used to say the same thing,’ you were talking about having a heart attack, not making love to you, right? Because, you know, that would be a really awkward situation we’d have to further discuss.”

Dawn didn’t immediately react to what I hoped was a funny joke.

“Did I say dad? Sorry, I meant step-brother,” she deadpanned, before we both broke out in laughter, an occurrence that almost always happens before, during, and definitely after a lovemaking session.

“Why do I keep you around?”

I smiled. “I have no idea.”

We arrived 15 minutes early at the tour kiosk where the bus was parked on the street. It was more of a people-mover type vehicle, the kind used by wedding parties to get to and from the church. “Comfortable and equipped with a bar. I like it,” Dawn said. “I hope the walking parts are short distances.”

“From the curb to the front door of a murder scene?” I asked.

“Something like that.”

“Don’t worry, the walking is minimal. I walked the beat for years. I’m too old for that kind of thing now,” a gruff voice declared from behind us.

We turned and were greeted by an extremely fit, silver-haired man, who was the size of a small car.

“Rodney Dutton. Are you here for our tour or to cause trouble?”

“Both, maybe,” Dawn replied as she placed her tiny hand into Rodney’s huge mitt-like grip. “We tend to behave ourselves until we get bored and decide it’s time everyone around us needs to lighten up.”

I offered my hand to our host and calmly said, “My name is Steve Cassidy and I have no idea who this woman is or why she keeps following me around. So far, she hasn’t become violent, but who knows when she might become a stop on your tour.”

Rodney let go of my hand and assessed the petite firecracker in front of him. “I’m thinking along with the other passengers, we can deal with any trouble that comes our way.” He paused and then asked, “Isn’t that right, Miss . . . ”

“Dawn.”

“Miss Dawn and Mr. Cassidy, I believe we’re going to have a lot of fun tonight.”

We nodded in agreement with Dawn lightly hitting my chest with her hand as Rodney left us to attend to new arrivals.

“Are we even now?”

“Even how?” I replied.

“For my insignificant other intro at the stockbrokers’ dysfunctional social gathering last night.”

“That old line? Do I look like someone who holds a grudge until I see the perfect opportunity, like just now, to get my revenge?”

“You totally do.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

“I’m sorry I called you insignificant,” Dawn ‘fessed up.

“Sorry you said it out loud or because it was a complete and bold-faced lie?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it!”

“If you two are done, they said we can board the bus now.”

Dawn and I pivoted toward this new voice that belonged to a kindly-looking woman in her early sixties who wore a wry grin. “I was young and in love once,” she stated grumpily as she walked past and entered the bus.

“Ah, she thinks we’re in love,” Dawn said softly. “What do you think?”

“Two things,” I began, having had this non-starter conversation with Dawn a few times. “One, I think l-o-v-e is a grown up term that should only be used by responsible adults, which obviously excludes us.”

“And two?” Dawn asked as we made our way up the bus stairs.

“Did you catch a whiff of her coat? I firmly believe she said the same exact thing to her 17 cats before leaving the house tonight.”

***

These types of tours attract a very eclectic group of people, from basic mystery fans to serious scholars of true crime, to those bored with what’s playing at the multiplex to lonely widowers, and, of course, a few wanna-be killers looking for pointers. Our group consisted of four university students on a double date, two female friends in their forties, a couple in their fifties who were married (although not necessarily to each other), the cat woman I’d nicknamed Ms. Vittles, and two solo thrill seekers, both in their early thirties. The driver was a kid I assumed to be the son or nephew of tonight’s guide Rodney, who now stood at the front of the bus talking into a microphone.

“The cases you’re going to hear about are real. They all happened during the past 100 years. People died. Their killers were tried and sentenced for their special crime. Most went to prison for very long periods of time, while a few were executed—an eye for an eye and all that. Some escaped to kill again or vanished into thin air, their whereabouts unknown.” For dramatic effect, like a campfire storyteller, Rodney let that fact hang in the air for a moment. “My business partner Lawrence Ingles and I worked together in the Homicide Unit for ten years, personally investigating a few of these files. Unlike the older cases, we can vouch 100% that the right man or woman was convicted.” As if on cue, the bus began to move and we were on our way. “The first stop is several minutes away, which gives us enough time to consume a beverage from the mini-bar. What can I get you?”

“He seems like he knows what he’s talking about,” Dawn said in a low whisper, motioning to Rodney who was in conversation with the married-unmarried couple.

“All Homicide investigators come off like they know what they’re talking about,” I laughed. “It doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Next thing you’re going to tell me is that the guys in Vice have superior intelligence.”

Without hesitation I replied, “Who do you think gives the Homicide guys all their facts?”

A short time later, I raised my plastic tumbler of whiskey to Dawn’s small plastic flute of wine. “To a night of murder and mayhem.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. “I couldn’t have said it better myself, Steve,” Rodney proclaimed to everyone present. “Please, let’s raise our glasses. To murder and mayhem and not necessarily in that order. Cheers!”

***

The tour was a well-oiled machine. Rodney was the perfect host with an encyclopedia-like recall of facts and figures and an answer to every question we threw at him. I would have expected no less. Regardless of their rank or experience, cops have a gift for retaining details of any crime, petty or otherwise. Names, dates, addresses, licence plates, physical descriptions, cigarette brands smoked, the name of the family pet that happily met them at the front door. I believe the often quoted statistic that people use only 10% of their memory capabilities is a low estimation when it comes to officers. Then again, that may just be my brain pumping up its ego.

The evening’s ten stops were mapped out chronologically, with the oldest murder taking place in 1898 when two brothers duelled it out over the beautiful neighbourhood harlot. The winner: the much sought-after woman, who consoled and then shacked up with the third brother. The hit parade continued with revelations of flapper-era fatalities, depression-era dirty dealings, cold war-era offings, hippie homicides, disco-era deaths, yuppies slaying preppies, and more.

“We conclude tonight’s murderous adventure with a case in which I take personal pride,” Rodney said with a wide smile. “This particular incident happened on my watch and was my last investigation with the department, as I took an early retirement due to a medical issue. My partner Lawrence and I were determined to get a conviction before I hung up my badge and I’m proud to say we did.”

“Nothing like going out on top,” one of the university students spoke up.

“You got that right,” Rodney agreed as the bus stopped in front of an ancient Victorian-style house located on the river that divided the city’s haves and have-nots. “This is the McDowell Mansion. That’s not its official name, but one everyone around here knows it by. Built in 1902 by one of the most powerful men of his time, Theodore McDowell saw this grand dwelling as the ultimate symbol of wealth and stature. The owner of the city’s only bank, he was a major financial and political player, as well as the land owner of much of the area’s prime real estate parcels. Envied by the upper crust and equally despised by the working class, he was very much like the Mr. Potter character in the Christmas classic It’s A Wonderful Life.”

“So why isn’t the city named McDowellville?” I asked kiddingly. “Did he have his own George Bailey to deal with back then?” I looked around and saw all except the university students smiling at the reference.

“That I don’t know. I promise I’ll look into it for tomorrow night’s group though,” Rodney acknowledged. “Keeping with the movie theme, like George Bailey, it was the stock market crash that did in Moneybags McDowell. He lost everything.”

“If only he had a guardian angel like Clarence or more friends,” Ms. Vittles snickered.

“I’m not sure about angels, but he did have plenty of friends. The difference was, they decided to join forces and picked over his troubled empire one business at a time, paying pennies on the dollar, bankrupting him overnight.”

“And out of anger he killed one of them and you had to investigate?” a female student asked eagerly.

Expressions of What are they teaching students in History class these days? registered on the older riders’ faces, including, thankfully, Dawn’s.

“Just how old do you think I am, young lady?” Rodney replied with a nervous laugh. “In 1929, my father wouldn’t have been old enough to join the police force, unless they were signing up children to fill some bizarre hiring quota.”

Good-natured laughter filled the bus as the student playfully hung her head in shame. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That was a dumb question.”

“Nonsense,” Rodney said with a wave of his hand. “As my Chief used to say, ‘There’s no such thing as a dumb question, only dumb answers, especially when dealing with a crime.’”

“Decades later, did one of Mr. McDowell’s grandchildren extract revenge in this house?” one of the solo females asked, glancing out the bus window toward the dwelling’s huge porch. “Is this a museum or does a McDowell family member still live here? There are lights on in the upper rooms.”

As we craned our necks to check out the second floor windows, Rodney answered, “Yes, no and yes. Yes, a murder took place here, no it is not a museum, and yes, there’s one person related to the McDowell family presently residing here.”

“When did this murder take place?” the other solo female friend asked. “Obviously, within the past decade.”

“It will be six years next month,” Rodney said reflectively. “We received a 911 call at 11:37 p.m. from a distressed female who was hiding in her bedroom closet. She said a man was downstairs, first in the kitchen smashing stuff on the floor, and then overturning furniture in the living room.”

“Did she know who it was or have any idea why someone would be so angry with her?” Dawn asked, enthralled by the tale.

“Why would you say angry with her?” Rodney asked. “Couldn’t the burglar just be trying to scare her with a lot of noise?”

Dawn thought for a moment. “Robbers don’t want you to know they’ve broken in. They’re all stealth-like. This guy made sure she knew he was in the house. Plus, breaking kitchen items, probably off the counter, is in itself like a personal psychological attack. The toaster, a blender, the coffee maker, maybe a dish or cup and saucer, are things this woman uses and will miss if they’re broken.”

“Wow, are you a government profiler?” Rodney inquired, genuinely impressed by Dawn’s deductions, all of which I wholeheartedly agreed with and wished deep down I’d voiced.

“I’m a lowly waitress,” Dawn demurred, turning to me. “I guess by living with an ex-cop and current P.I., a few investigative traits have rubbed off on me.”

In almost every other situation, I have no problem with Dawn telling people what I do for a living. I’m not ashamed of my profession, although my profession may not always have the same warm gooey feelings. Tonight however, I was striving to be a regular fellow, a happy-go-lucky passenger on this magical murder mystery tour.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you from the start, Steve,” Rodney declared. “You should have said something earlier. Maybe you could have brought another perspective to some of these cases.”

“I’m only along for the ride, Rodney,” I admitted, “and have thoroughly enjoyed not being on the clock tonight. It wouldn’t have been much of a holiday if I brought some work along with me, right?”

“I understand. Still, if you want to jump in anytime with thoughts on this last stop, don’t hesitate.”

“From what you’ve told us, this was a slam dunk. I doubt I can add anything to your finest hour. Please continue, as Dawn is tired of hearing me talk.”

“I get enough of that at home,” Dawn said with a grin. “I’m on vacation too.”

There was a polite round of laughter from the others before Rodney continued on with his McDowell Murder Mansion speech. “Where was I?”

“A toaster was being beaten to within an inch of its life,” Ms. Vittles said.

“Yes, right,” Rodney began. “So, the next thing the woman on the phone cries out is, ‘He’s yelling something! Wait. He’s coming upstairs!’ Tragically, those were her final words. When we replayed the 911 call, in the background you could faintly hear the killer taunting the soon-to-be victim, ‘Come out and play, Lucy. You’ve had your fun, now it’s my turn. School’s out forever.’ A short time later, we heard a struggle as 24-year-old Lucy McDowell, the wife of Theodore’s great grandson Eric, was dragged from her bedroom closet. By this time, we’d dispatched officers in four cruisers to the residence. They arrived within minutes of the call coming in and were still too late to save her after being stabbed once through the heart with a kitchen knife.”

The bus was silent as we hung on Rodney’s every word. Somehow, this crime was more real than the others he’d talked about during the night. There was an edge to his voice that gave each detail extra weight. Maybe it was the brutality of the killing or that a young woman lost her life. I examined Rodney’s stone-etched face and saw an expression that wordlessly conveyed the truth of the matter at hand: this was personal.

“Was the killer in the house when the police arrived?” Mr. Married-Unmarried asked.

“I wish. It would’ve made this last case that much easier to close,” Rodney responded. “No, the killer escaped out a back patio door, presumably as the officers arrived on scene. There were a few drops of Lucy’s blood on the stairs and on the kitchen floor near the door.”

“Was Lucy a teacher or an Alice Cooper fan?” I said, taking up Rodney’s request to participate. “The School’s Out reference seems pretty specific.”

“As a matter of fact, she was an assistant at the nearby Dannenberg Public School’s kindergarten class,” Rodney answered.

“Huh,” Dawn said, glancing at me with a quizzical expression.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Rodney stated slowly.

“I guess I find it interesting she worked with little kids, instead of older students. I’ve always associated the song’s title and the phrase school’s out as being connected to high school or later years, not grade or pre-school. It would also date Lucy’s attacker age-wise.” Dawn paused, then asked, “Thoughts?”

Amazed again, Rodney said to me, “Does she help with all your files or just the tough ones you can’t figure out?”

Somewhere in that question was a backhanded compliment that didn’t sit well with me.

“Trust me, she will from now on,” I said as I put my hand in Dawn’s, now wishing to have this tour end sooner rather than later. I had no interest in getting into some stupid ex-cop pissing contest with Mr. Know-It-All here.

“What about Lucy’s husband? When did he arrive?” one of the solo unattached passengers asked. “Was he ever a suspect?”

Rodney flashed a thoughtful smile. “About an hour later, he did eventually come home, freshly showered and looking like a million bucks. He valiantly tried to portray himself as a grieving spouse and actually fooled quite a few people.”

“But not you,” the other solo passenger said.

“Not by a long shot. Steve can back me up when I say there are people in specific situations whose actions and words don’t line up.” I nodded in agreement, keeping my new vow of silence. “People with a guilty conscience either act too calm or too out of control, which in most cases comes back to bite them. You can’t blame them for trying. The problem is they’re not trained actors. They’ve never done this type of deception on such a large scale. Getting caught stealing a dollar from your mother’s purse isn’t in the same league as being a suspect in the coldblooded murder of your sweetheart. Dear old Mom will likely forgive you, regardless of what wild excuse you spin. That’s a parental job requirement. Unfortunately for Eric McDowell, I was his mom’s stand-in that night, and my job requirements are a bit different.”

“You said he arrived freshly showered? That was his first mistake,” Dawn commented, having taken no such vow of silence.

“One of many,” Rodney agreed. “Having the mistress secretary providing your alibi also didn’t strengthen his case for acquittal.”

I was going to jump in with a sarcastic, “Really?” when I noticed the married-unmarrieds catch each other’s eye and hold their gaze longer than normal.

Busted.

“Nothing too cliché about that scenario,” a male student scoffed.

This tawdry morsel of information unleashed a torrent of questions by the group:

“When did the affair begin?”

“Did Lucy know about the affair?”

“Were they getting a divorce?”

“Was the secretary arrested?”

“Did the mistress end up testifying against Eric?”

And lastly, from the other male university student came the gem, “Was the secretary hotter than Lucy?”

This abruptly ended question period, that and the fact that a distraught middle-aged woman was on the sidewalk screaming at the top of her lungs, while banging on the bus door with something metal.

“I’ve called the cops, Dutton! The real cops! The ones who know how to investigate a crime, unlike you and that moron Ingles!” We all slid to the right-side windows in time to see this loon using a can of spray paint to deface the large Tour of True Terror logo on the side panel. When the can was empty, she threw it against the bus and continued to yell at Rodney, and by extension, us. “Everyone in there should be ashamed of themselves, especially you Dutton, you money-grabbing sleazeball! How dare you bask in the glory of a case you got wrong? Eric is innocent. You knew it six years ago but railroaded him anyway!” As a police siren cut through the night air, our attacker kicked the door. “Get out of here and leave us alone!” she cried out, before stomping back to the mansion and slamming the front door behind her.

“You know the drill,” Rodney said to the driver. “Go up a block and park. I’ll smooth everything over and we’ll get everyone back to the kiosk as soon as we can.” He directed this last sentence to his stunned, yet still captive audience.

“Friend of yours?” I inquired, knowing our blue brotherhood connection allowed me to bust his balls without fear of any repercussions. As I expected, he laughed off my comment.

“I apologize for what happened back there,” Rodney said composing himself. “Although you were never in any real danger, I’ll gladly refund your money if you want. That woman is Debra Stanfield, Lucy’s mother, Eric’s mother-in-law. We have a troubled past that flairs up every once in awhile.”

“His mother-in-law believes he’s innocent? That’s got to be rare,” a female student commented. “Usually they hate their daughter’s husband.”

“I know, my mother-in-laws hated me,” Mr. Married-Unmarried chimed in, breaking the tension. “Together they would’ve found a way to plant that bloody knife in my work locker.”

“Again, I’m sorry you had to be part of this tonight,” Rodney said. “I’ll just be a minute with the officer and then we’ll get you back to civilization safe and sound.”

The moment the bus door closed behind Rodney, our group exploded in chatter, like a bunch of fifth graders whose teacher steps into the hall to speak with the principal.

“What’s your take on all of this?” Dawn asked me above the din of the other participants.

I glanced out the window to watch Rodney and the officer discussing the vandalized logo. “In every trial, there’s a winner and a loser,” I said. “The term sore loser wasn’t coined because some guy turned his back and said a few bad words under his breath about his opponent. Violence usually enters the equation in some form. Tonight it was a spray can and a boot.”

“Didn’t you find Rodney’s non-reaction reaction odd? I thought he’d have flipped out and called the police himself,” Dawn speculated. “He must have a few friends left at headquarters.”

“He reminded me of an embarrassed parent whose young child throws a tantrum in the grocery store checkout line. There are only two options at your disposal: The first is to make an even bigger scene, damn the consequences. Unfortunately, shrieking at your former bundle of joy, ‘Shut the hell up or else,’ risks a home visit from Child Protective Services.”

“I take it Rodney chose the second option, which is what?”

“Which is full denial a situation is taking place a few feet away from you. To yell at the kid only lowers you to their immature level. The other shoppers, regardless if they’re parents or not, would look at you with the same scorn as they do your little brat.”

“But if you ignore the screaming kid,” Dawn began, realizing what I was trying to say, “they’ll respect and maybe sympathize with your predicament.”

“Seriously, are you taking psych classes on the side that I don’t know about?” I asked in wonder.

“Maybe.” Dawn playfully smiled. “I’m right though, right?”

“You are. What I saw tonight was a man genuinely mortified by this woman’s physical attack and verbal accusations that he’s a fraud. Plus, I don’t think this is the first time this kind of incident has occurred. I’d bet dollars to donuts Rodney and his partner have an arrangement with a local auto shop to do quickie clean up jobs when needed.”

“The officer is leaving without going to the house,” one of the single females said in astonishment.

“That’s because Rodney doesn’t want any charges laid,” I whispered in Dawn’s ear. “In this case, bad publicity is simply bad publicity.”

Rodney re-entered the bus, gave the driver a sign to start driving and addressed us for the last time.

“Most nights, I take a few more minutes at that last stop to go over the case. In a nutshell, Eric McDowell claimed he didn’t kill his wife, although all the evidence pointed to him and only him. It was a circumstantial case, but one which a jury of his peers took only two hours of deliberations to find him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.” Rodney turned to look out the front window as the tour kiosk came into view. “This concludes our tour. I hope you enjoyed it and will tell your friends and family about us.” He bent forward to open a cardboard box that had been sitting on the seat behind the driver. “At this point, I usually try to sell you this book that goes into more detail about the crimes we visited tonight.” He held up a small paperback titled Tour of True Terror – The Book. “But after what we put you through, I want to give each of you a free copy as a way to again say how sorry we are.”

Rodney handed out our complimentary souvenir and we soon found ourselves at the kiosk saying our goodbyes.

“We had a really good time, Rodney,” Dawn said. “Steve tells me stories of his past cop life, but doesn’t take me on a tour of the best crime scenes.”

“Maybe he will now,” Rodney responded with a smile. “Just promise me you won’t take her to any spots where crazies still live.”

“That would only leave a visit to the mall to recount shoplifting incidents,” I said as I shook Rodney’s hand. “I’ve had my share of Debra Stanfields in my day. I know what you’re going through. Maybe one day she’ll come to her senses and see the truth about her killer son-in-law.”

“We can only hope.”

“Thanks again,” I said, taking Dawn’s hand in mine as we walked to the van. “Now you have something to read.”

Dawn looked at the cover. “It was written by Rodney and his business partner, so I’m thinking it should be pretty good.” I opened the passenger door and as she entered Dawn asked, “You know what?”

“I do not,” I admitted.

“I think this is even better than some old magnet or t-shirt anyway.”

“I agree,” I said, closing the door and making my way around the front of the van. “Plus,” I said to myself, “it was free and free is always better than an overpriced trinket.” Starting the van’s engine, I asked, “Feel like getting a bite to eat?”

“I was thinking of skinny dipping at that secluded beach we saw on the tour earlier,” Dawn said, never taking her eyes off the book’s back cover.

“The beach where the arthritic Italian woman killed her husband the chef with a frying pan, as her busboy lover watched from the woods?”

“Yes, that one,” Dawn said in a sly tone. “Surf, sand, a full moon, a forbidden love triangle and a fry pan to the skull.” Dawn turned and fixed her eyes on my face. “Now that’s amore.”

“I’m not sure where you’re going to hide a fry pan while skinny dipping, but I’m 100% for seeing you try.”

I pulled out of the parking lot and glanced over to see Rodney and the bus driver examining the destroyed logo. As they grew smaller in my mirrors, I was relieved I’d have no further contact with this troubling situation and thought, Good luck with that boys. You’re going to need a lot of it.