Murder in a small town by anonymous

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What started out as a funeral for Steve Carson's father turned into forty-five days of hell. He learns an old friend was killed, and an old girlfriend and late husband's coffee and breakfast shop is threatened by a New York City Mob. He has to deal with a determined Mafia type, a frustrated police chief, a pissed off prosecutor, and a cousin a burned out lawyer. Welcome home son.

1.

Standing in the middle of the old farm yard that Darryl Walker's, an old boyhood friend had rebuilt on his father's old farm several years ago, I looked the scene of the murder over with a critical eye to detail. I never heard anything about Darryl's murder until I got home. My mother, distraught over my father's recent death never told me about it until much later. I had to hear about it from an old friend of my father's, Bob "Smitty" Smith, the chief of township police. And that was because I was sitting with him at the breakfast counter owned by my former girlfriend and lover Maryann Dally (nee) Foster and her late husband Rick.

The ground of the rebuilt farm buildings was all tore up. What little I knew of police forensics any possible evidence was compromised or contaminated. And this was supposed to be the east coast, the sophisticated method to police work. 'Okay if they say so.'

The twelve head of cattle and ten head of sheep were auctioned off by the county before I got home.

Yellow POLICE LINE tape flapped and snapped in the wind. I was intent on studying the ground, the blood was still evident where supposedly Darryl was killed. I looked closer then saw the casing for a nine millimeter. 'Somebody is cheap if they can't afford anything better than a nine millimeter. Hate the damned things.' I always took my service .45 semi-automatic with me when I went to the field. Caught more flack about it. I had more faith in the stopping power of a .45 then a measly nine millimeter, just like I can't stand the 5.56x52 millimeter rifle. Give me a good Ruger 7.62x51 with 30 round banana magazines and I'm set for the duration.

The flapping of the police line tape, the old crows, starlings, squawked and chirped, the tree squirrels chattered and june bugs made their noise. The sounds that I often associated with my childhood I ignored as I studied the scene. If the police and nosey reporters left anything intact it was hard to tell at that point. The sound of a car engine straining against the ground made me look up.

"What the hell ...?"

Somebody obviously didn't know what they were doing, driving a cross country from the lane that led from the main house to the barn was a hefty walk. I parked my big black 4x4 Chevrolet Suburban near the barn. This person cuts across country and bottoms out their car.

I stood up to see the driver, a good looking woman's eyes round with shock as the off-road lights on my Suburban. I started to walk over to see if she needed help. Rather, she managed to pry the door open and climb out.

"What are you doing up here?" she demanded in an angry tone still trying to get the door open. "Who gave you authorization to be here?"

I stopped feet away from the car placed my booted foot on the old weed infested brick foundation of the milk house. Pushed my black Stetson back taking my buck knife out, snapping the blade open to pick at my teeth. The woman had a shocked look on her face watching me. I said with an aggregated Texas drawl, "Well now ma'am, two weeks ago I coulda been yer best buddy, but well, seeing as you want ta' be such a hard case about this, I'll be yer worse nightmare by tomorrow morning."

"Who the hell are you and where do you get off like that?" she screamed at me.

I damned near laughed at her but that would have pissed her off even more and I was fast getting tired of her high handed attitude anyway.

"Lady you don't want to know." I walked away from her which pissed her off even more.

"I'm calling the police." She yelled as if that would do any good.

"When you do say hi to Chief Bob Smith for me."

She stopped in the middle of dialing 9-1-1. "Smith? Bob Smith, You know Bob Smith Chief of Police for Hazelwood Township?"

I think the name dropping suddenly made her think. I don't think she was a stranger to the name of Carson. I was the proverbial prodigal son of the three siblings.

I was walking away toward my truck not paying any attention to her which was getting her even more pissed at me.

"Wait a minute!" she yelled waving at me. "Hoa!"

I think that's when she noticed the Colorado plates and the Fort Carson post sticker on the truck. She fought her way out of the car rushing through the dried grass and weeds to me as I pulled the door open. I looked at her coldly with a fifty mile stare that could have chilled a bottle of beer.

"You aren't Steve Carson are you?"

2.

Funerals were not one of my better past times, I had better things to do then stand around a funeral home and look like I knew what I was doing. I was living off-Post in Colorado Springs, Colorado stationed at Fort Carson and looking forward to getting west of the Mississippi again and staying there. I had not been west of the Mississippi since 1982. And now, 2010 I was forced - the way I saw it, to come east. My father was in the hospital, I was gassing up my monster Suburban in Easton when Dad passed away. Today was the funeral. I felt about as out of place as a square peg sticking out of a round hole.

My problems started on a Friday close to six-thirty. I was in a sour mood when I got home from Post and when the phone rang it did not help my disposition any.

I grabbed up the receiver: "Sergeant Carson speaking ..."

"Steven ...?"

It was my mother's voice.

"Yeah, Mom...?"

"It's your father, he's in the hospital extremely sick ..."

My mood changed in less than a couple seconds. All I could muster was: "Oh."

There was a sudden knocking at the door. Grumbling I set the phone down opened it to a woman in a light blue uniform. "Mr. Carson?"

"Sergeant First Class Carson, yes?"

"Sorry. Amy Howell from Red Cross."

Later the First Sergeant looked at my LES (Leave and Earning Statement) to see I'd handily racked up forty-five plus days of leave. The First Sergeant said, "Use it or lose it. Take Forty-five days leave. You're a mental case. See ya when ya get back."

I was unceremoniously pointed to the door.

I had not been east of the Mississippi since the summer of 1982. The last time I saw anyone was my brother Keith at the Fort Knox, Kentucky at the NCOES (Non-Commissioned Officer Extension Course) for Armor.

2.

The day of the viewing and funeral which was the day after I arrived home an unexpected soft satin smooth hand touched mine. I looked down to see a dark haired brown eyed petite woman standing beside me, Elaine the only cousin I bothered to talk to. "How are you holding up, cuz?" She asked in a low voice. "The only way I recognized you was by the uniform."

My heart stopped. A girl with long black hair, the face of a doll, the sensuous voice of an angle in a little black silk dress was standing beside me.

I found my voice.

"Not bad," I replied looking around the room as people filed in taking a seat my back to the casket. "I've seen friendlier looking firing squads at Fort Leavenworth."

"Take it easy," said Elaine holding my hand giving it a slight squeeze. "Try to smile at them at least."

"Who? You and your parents are the only ones here I know."

She slipped a business card in my hand with a date and time to see her. "A lot has happened since you've been gone, Steve. We need to talk."

"I'll be there," I said softly slipping the card into a pocket.

Elaine tucked a lock of her dark hair back. "I know you will."

The funeral director nodded to me and Elaine it was time to begin. Keith and our sister Lindsey in uniform too were already sitting down beside Mom, Elaine and I beside her, the minister stepped to the podium to begin the service.

Six o'clock in the morning the mid-weekday morning rush was on. The door to the Gibson Town General Store was opened and closed several times for customers entering and leaving some wanting a quick cup of coffee and maybe a donut or pastry to go. They had the commuter train into Jersey City and New York City to catch. Some people may order a whole breakfast, those were the ones who worked in the area and had time to sit and read the New York or a Philadelphia newspaper before heading off to work.

When I opened the door a middle aged woman leaned over the stacks of newspapers and magazine rack straightening them up. Leaning over she was fixing the papers as I entered the coolness of the store, the smell of breakfast assailed my senses, eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, biscuits and gravy brought back ancient memories of a time that was long past. The place smelled better than the mess hall. I was the 'stranger in a strange land' in what used to be my hometown. The prodigal son comes home but does he fit in?

Glancing to her right the woman was looking at my highly shined pair of Army boots. The grey-green pants creased razor sharp. Taking the black beret off I leaned down for a newspaper our eyes met. Years suddenly fell away, our teen years came back like the rerun of an old TV show. Neither of us could help but stare at each other for a second. The woman felt her breath taken away; I was puzzled. I should remember this woman. After all I once swore as I left for the Army I would never forget her, nor she forget me. She cried as the Greyhound took me north to Newark and the Induction Center.

"Steve?" She said in a soft voice. "Steve Carson?"

Straightening up I looked at the woman momentarily puzzled anyone would remember me. I glanced down at the name tag on my gray-green dress uniform jacket then returned my eyes to the woman.

"Excuse me?" Our eyes held each other for those few minutes I was still puzzled that I should remember her name nineteen years later.

"Maryann Dally. High School? Rosedale Central? Well yes, Dally was my maiden name, now its Foster."

"Oh..." There was not much I could say to that as I was left speechless.

Maryann moved behind the counter again. "Coffee? I know you guys like coffee."

Sitting at the counter I opened the paper. As far as I was concerned what they had in the paper was nothing compared to what I'd seen and done the year and a half I was in and out of Iraq and Afghanistan. And I was still scheduled to go back the end of the month for a two or three month mission. Yeah they had journalists embedded with some outfits, I know my last tour there I had to put up with the clowns. They were more dangerous to themselves them the Taliban and Al-Qaida put together.

"Thanks. And just black." I looked up meeting Maryann's weary smile. "Black as the slate boards when we were in school."

"You do remember."

"Now like it was yesterday." I looked up smiling at her. "Talk to you when you have a chance."

I could not help but glance at her left hand. Yes she was wearing a ring and married probably a jealous husband. I went back to reading the newspaper ignoring stares from customers having never seen me I in there before, much less someone in uniform.

She poured the coffee. "What else, Steve?"

"Full breakfast. Creamed beef and biscuits?"

"Bobby can make it up."

"And add home fried potatoes with four eggs sunny side up on top and sausage all on one plate, please."

Maryann raised a brow as she passed the order back to the short order cook. "Big breakfast."

"That's nothing. Ask my favorite waitress at the IHOP in Colorado Springs about what I normally eat on the weekend" I let the coffee cool Maryann passed the receipt in through the serving window.

"Order Bobby!"

"Right Mom."

I looked up with mild surprise. "Mom?"

I just could not picture Maryann as "Mom" she just did not fit the image. At least to me it didn't.

Maryann moved on to her regular customers along the counter. The door opened again another customer entered taking another stool. The man glanced toward me then seemed to do a double take.

"Steve?" he asked.

I looked over to the other then I realized who was sitting next to me.

"Smitty?"

Maryann grinned as she poured Chief Bob Smith a cup of coffee. "That's getting to be a popular question around here."

We shook hands.

"Home for long?"

Folding the paper to an article I wanted to read later, I said, "'Til next month. The First Sergeant said I had forty-five days leave, use it or lose it. That's the nice thing I don't have to be back to duty until next month - nothing to do but figure out what civilians do for a living."

Six o'clock in the morning the weekday morning rush was on. The door to the Gibson General Store was opened and closed several times for customers entering and leaving some wanting a quick cup of coffee and maybe a donut or pastry to go. They had the commuter train into Jersey City and New York City to catch. Some people would order a whole breakfast, those were the ones who worked in the area and had time to sit and read the New York or a Philadelphia newspaper before heading off to work.

"Keith and Lindsey going to be here?"

"They're here, just ahead of me by a day. They came in by way of Chicago's O'Hare. Keith is in from Fort Riley and she's coming up from Fort Polk. They came in to Philly the other night just before the viewing. They'll be here just for the funeral than back to duty. They both told me - talked to them via cell phone on my way here Keith has a field problem to get back to by next week. And Lindsey has the dreaded AGI to look forward to next week. Forget the reading of the will, they don't have time for it -so that leaves big brother to handle the rest of this. And I - the First Sergeant said I have forty five days to burn - use it or lose it."

Smitty glanced at the tabs on Steve's right shoulder, Ranger and Air Assault one over the other. He wasn't familiar with military insignia and had only seen me in uniform one other time sans all the decorations.

Maryann moved back up the counter with Steve's order I asked, "So how's your husband?"

Smitty grit his teeth, Maryann was quiet a second then said, "He - he passed away two years ago."

She moved back along the counter leaving with uncomfortable feeling I stuck my foot in my mouth. Smitty leaned toward me, I was feeling embarrassed and at a loss for words. "Come on up to the Township Building and I'll tell ya the rest of the story."

Breakfast was finished in silence, Smitty was the first to leave.

Thinking a minute, I looked around at the old store that went back to the 1870's at least. I finally got Maryann's attention. She moved back up the counter. I pulled the money from my pocket. I always had a soft spot for her and women especially. Pressing the money into her hand I leaned over to kiss her and turned to leave.

3.

Pulling in the parking area of the Hazelwood Township building I parked my big old Suburban between two Township police cars. I stepped inside the cool interior of the police station stopping at the front desk that was like walking into a glass booth. The desk sergeant looked at me in uniform surprised.

An audio devise clicked on. "Yes, may I help you ...?"

"Sergeant First Class Steven Carson to see Chief Robert Smith."

"Yes. Um ...Yeah certainly."

I suppose he didn't know what to make of the uniform and somebody from the service calling on Bob Smith. A minute later Bob came out opened the door for me and I entered. The police on duty looked at me wondering what this was all about.

I sat down, Bob leaned on his desk gazing at me across the clutter. "To put it plainly, Steve this is not the town you left fifteen years ago. You haven't been back since - what, seventy-two?"

"Eighty-two."

"Anyway a lot has changed since then - and not necessarily for the better either. Maryann still thinks it was just a random drive by shooting that her husband was killed."

"It wasn't."

Bob shook his head. "No. It was planned. A Real Estate mogul out of New York wants to open a convenience store there. Tear the old general store down and build an ultra-modern one - in the middle of town no less. He wanted the Fosters evicted so he could get the land. I said no but hell no."

"Murdering her husband was his answer to the problem." The MO was a familiar one of the mobs', their favorite.

"Yes. He set one of his least important people up as the fall guy who I arrested."

"Gee, nice boss. And Darryl, I understand is dead. Mom told me yesterday."

"Same way. That was easy to figure out but apparently he got some smarts after the last incident with the General Store he's lying low on this one. I figured out what his game is. He wants Darryl's land to build luxury homes up there. And your Mom's place too. Darryl was of the same opinion I was. 'No but hell no' on the condos or luxury homes idea.

"So what is the town council doing about this? By the way, who is this ass hole anyway?"

"Nothing. A mobster by the name of Billy Jo De Martino. And the County? Just sitting on their fat asses. Wouldn't doubt taking bribes too while they're at it."

That gave me something to think about. "I gotta see my cousin this morning before the funeral. I'll talk to her."

"No heroics and none of the commando stuff either. And I'll be at the funeral this afternoon."

"Gee Bob, you just spoiled all my fun."

3.

By the time I'd made my rounds of the funeral home and cemetery I killed two hours before I had to be to Elaine's office. One of the stops I had to make was to the cemetery. I parked my big old rig and walked to the plot but I was interested in a certain site which was not far away. A cement bench set close to the grave site. I sat down staring at the head stone. I asked myself a popular question, How many wars does it take before there has been one too many; how many deaths before there has been too many; how many lives must one live before living too many?

I pulled out Elaine's business card, checked the address and walked over to her office which fortunately was not that far from the newspaper office where I had to post some legal paper work there about Dad's passing to be published three times for the next two weeks. The obituary would be taken care of by the funeral home.

I first stopped at a telephone kiosk to have the area code changed on my cell phone which I hadn't done yet; I dropped fifty cents in to the telephone change box and called a special number for my cellphone service to change the area code from 719 to 908. Then I called Mom but Lindsey answered the phone.

"Where are you?" Lindsey demanded sounding just like Mom. For a moment I could not tell who I was taking to, Lindsey or Mom.

"Lindsey?" I said surprised at the response. "I'm in Rosedale finishing up preparations for this afternoon."

"Well Mom's wondering where you are."

"I'm stopping by Elaine's office. She wants to talk to me."

"Alright - make it quick."

Mom's daughter all the way around. Always was. She gave Keith and me more problems and arguments as kids growing up. I felt sorry for the poor guy she corralled. That done I walked over to Elaine's office. I still couldn't believe my favorite cousin was

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