With His Dying Breath (13 page)

             
For the first time, Wilson noticed a change in her expression. “Samantha, you have nothing to be sorry about. No need to apologize.” He saw the beginning of a smile on her lips but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

             
Wilson turned his car into the subdivision and Samantha marveled at the cherry trees in bloom. She loved this street this time of year. Neighbors planted the cherry trees right at the curb to form a canopy for cars driving down the street. It was beautiful. The air was crisp with a touch of warmth hinting at how hot the south would be in just a few months, possibly weeks. She wished Blake were there with her. They both loved this time of year.
Oh, Blake, who did this to
us?

             
Wilson turned on to Sleepy Meadows Court, and there it was her house, no longer a home. The police crime tape stretched around the entire yard as neighbors continued to gawk and take pictures. The dried blood on the front door looked like New York’s inner city streets where kids spray-painted graffiti on vacant buildings. Wilson eased the car around to the back of the house trying to keep her gaze from the front. “Wait, here, Samantha. I need to go through the side door and open the garage from the control box.”

             
“Okay, Wilson, I’ll be right here.” She scanned the grounds.

“It will take just a second.”

              “I’m okay, thank you.” Samantha opened her door and stood outside. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty” She smiled as she saw her two tuxedo cats and the playful tabby running toward her familiar voice.

* * *

              Hilda pulled out of the Jones’ driveway as a silver sedan pulled to the curb. She recognized Samantha Brockton but could not see who was driving. She stopped the car to see what was going on. Wilson introduced himself and Hilda told him about the events of the previous evening. Samantha captivated, as a small child, walked up the drive to pick up her cats. Hilda observed her body language and the girlish voice in speaking to them. Her sleuthing instincts told her this woman is not a murderer. She knew it was someone calling himself Jonas Attaway but chose not to reveal this to Wilson Lopez not yet. There was still the recording of Blake Brockton’s final words pointing the finger at his wife!

             
Samantha reluctantly entered through the back door of the house. Her anticipation scanned the room looking for the culprit that killed her husband. She smelled leftover fear and felt the hair on her arms stand. The kitchen was dark and cold and smelly. There were dying flowers in a vase on the dinette table and coffee grounds spilled on the kitchen floor. She saw two empty glasses and pencil shavings in the sink. She slowly walked into the dining room where two Chippendale chairs were upside down and the china cabinet beveled glass was cracked. Items missing from the mantel included a photo of her and Blake on their first date. 

             
“Wilson, what was, the person who did this, what were they looking for?” Then she spied the dining room table. Something was missing from the table.

             
“It wasn’t like this Thursday?” 

             
“No, well, I didn’t get into the dining room, but look at this mess, coffee grounds, dirty dishes, no, Wilson, this is different.”

             
Staring at the table for a moment, she said, “Blake’s keys! I remember seeing them because he would never drop his keys on that cherry table. Never!”

             
“Where did they go?” he asked, scanning a sheet of paper. “No mention of keys here.”

             
“And also, Wilson, Blake always had a pad, you know a little booklet type pad with him. He carried it in his shirt pocket mostly to remember a meeting or somebody’s name. He was forever talking to people and then making notes of those conversations. I saw it that day, too and it’s not here either.”

             
“No mention of that either, Samantha. Are you sure?”

             
“Yes, I’m sure. Blake always, I mean always, left that on his desk when he emptied his pockets.”

             
“Wilson, what if the intruder was in the house when Blake got home? He would have come in the front door and maybe sensed something. His keys jingled you know. He had so many on that ring of his. His car key was on a single ring. But, he carried a lot of keys on another ring. I’m not sure what they were for. So he put them on the table to be quieter.”

             
“Maybe, Samantha. Could be one theory. Let’s go through the rooms and look for them. Look under furniture, too, just in case they were knocked off and kicked in the traffic through the house.”

             
“Wilson, where is Blake’s car?”

             
Cain and JJ pulled into the Monitor parking lot about two forty after the meeting with Everett Christian. She left Chip a message, and said she would call him later. She chatted with the security guard while signing the visitor’s log, and they took the elevator up to his office. Cain opened the safe and spread out all of the notes from the day before.

             
“OK, baby, here you go. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. You keep your cell phone handy. Call me if anything suspicious happens. I’m going to tell the guard to not let anybody up here. OK?”

             
“OK, Daddy, I’ll be fine.”

             
JJ went right to work. She made huge labels of each clue by date and time and taped them to the wall above the worktable. Two hours later, she was still studying her findings. She shuffled the timelines into categories and discovered nothing. She put everything in alphabetical order and found nothing. Then an idea! She took the comic strip and broke each frame down picture-by-picture and word-by-word. The dog’s name Gumdrop stared her in the face. Gumdrop had to be the link. She scrambled the letters and a few words popped out — proud, gum, dog, grump, up – nothing but words with no connection to Mr. Brockton’s murder.

             
She scrambled Skinmore and got monikers which meant nothing to her. Smaller words were sermon, miners and a few other words she didn’t know. Nothing of the words meant anything in the comic strip.

             
She wanted so badly to help her dad, now she had failed him. He wouldn’t think so but she knew she had failed him. Staring out the office window, wallowing in her disappointment, she watched cars turning around to keep from waiting on the train, which crawled through this section of town. Me too, people. Who has the patience to wait on a three-mile freight train through the middle of town? The parade of tourists walking through the park mesmerized her on this Sunday afternoon obviously sightseers out snapping photos of the gorgeous cherry trees and tulips in full bloom. Oh, I wish Chip and I were out there!

             
As she turned back to watch the train pass by, her heart rate picked up a little. Oh gosh! She said as boxcars crept by. She went to her worktable and looked at the individual comic strips mounted on construction paper.

             
She gathered each comic strip with Gumdrop and enlarged them on the copy machine. In every frame, where he was near a trashcan or a dumpster, graffiti was somewhere in the frame.

             
Five days before the murder the graffiti simply said, BB2DY, written with very small and crooked letters. The next issue Gumdrop was trying to stop a garbage truck with the numbers 911 on the door. Nine eleven could be emergency, could be the New York towers, 911 was in 2001 almost eleven years ago. Could be anything, oh well she thought and went to the next one.

             
Another issue showed four frames — city workers emptying the garbage, and then pouring the garbage as a strong wind blew the trash around. In the third frame, they all have a puzzled look. The fourth frame showed the garbage truck riding down the street with trash blowing everywhere and Gumdrop peeing on a fire hydrant. Looking closer with her magnifying glass, she noticed the papers flying down the street had crooked letters written upside down or backwards on each of them.

             
JJ wrote the letters N O R L E B on a sheet of paper. She Googled norleb. Several hits brought up nothing pertinent—a sportswear line made in England, a bicycle touring company, a publication for the space industry. Nothing that meant anything to her. She scrambled and unscrambled the letters and got nobler boner, loner, noble. Again, nothing that really rang a bell.

             
“Hi,” she said as her dad entered the office. “Dad, do these letters mean anything to you and she showed him the cartoon.

             
He called off each letter, “No, to you?” He laid the paper down.

             
“No, I’m afraid not, I did an Internet search but didn’t come up with anything.” Still staring at the letters, her excitement rose. “Wait a minute, they’re backward.” She flipped it upside down, “Dad, what about BelRon. That’s where Sarah’s dad works, that new plant. He was sick the night of the fire. Thank goodness! Dad look at this cartoon.” She picked up the sheet with the fire hydrant.

             
“Slow down, hon, what you got here?” JJ spent the next thirty minutes going through the graffiti that was readable once enlarged. For the first time, Cain thought they were on to something. BB2DY surely meant that Blake Brockton was going to die only the person responsible for his murder would know that. The BelRon plant had exploded in a massive fire. Now the cartoon two days before the fire shows the dog at the fire hydrant.

             
“You think it means something?”

             
“Of course, it does! Honey you may have just solved the mystery?”

He
stared at her board with all of her detective work as his cell phone rang.

             
“Yes, right now is perfect. I’m in the office…thanks Detective Marabell…Hilda…see you in a few minutes.”

             
“Dad, do you mind if I leave now? Sara and I talked about going out to the airport. Her mom’s working at the FBO.”

             
Cain asked, “What’s an FBO?”

             
“Daddy,” she laughed, “You know, the people who run the airport.”

             
He smiled. He knew exactly what the FBO was, and he knew of her love of flying. “Ok, hon, you gotta promise me to be careful. Is someone taking y’all flying?”

             
“No sir, not today, probably too windy.”

             
“Well, call me later. Be careful out there.”

             
“I will daddy, love you.” She pushed the button for the elevator having heard that warning before!

             
Hilda arrived at the Monitor’s parking lot just as JJ was exiting the building. They had never personally met although JJ recognized her from newspaper clippings.

             
“Detective Marabell, hi, I’m JJ, Cain Matthews’ daughter.”

             
“JJ, so nice to meet you. What’s got you down here on this beautiful day? And please, call me Hilda.”

             
She smiled, “Oh, I’ve just been going over some stuff with dad, the clues he’s been getting about Mr. Brockton’s murder. I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation before. I like to watch the shows on TV, you know, CSI, and all that, so I find it all pretty interesting.”

             
“JJ, I’m sure your dad appreciates your help but remember this is no TV show. You be careful what you do and who you talk to about it.”

             
“Oh, I will. I don’t talk about my dad’s job. And I even have strange calls warning me to be careful but I haven’t told my dad about them. He would worry too much.”

             
“What? What do you mean strange calls?”

             
“Miss Hilda, I’ll go back up with you to Dad’s office. I guess I need to tell him, I just need to call my friend, Sara.” She punched “3” on her cell phone and left her best friend a voicemail that she was running late. Jasper Nelson pulled in and parked beside Hilda. They all rode up to the third floor together. 

M
onday, March 19, 5 a.m.

             
For once, I’m glad today is Monday, Hilda thought, as she stumbled to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee almost tripping over her cat’s food dish. Sunday was wasted as far as detective work went. Neither she nor Jasper could get in touch with anyone. \

             
The meeting with Cain Matthews went well, she thought. Although, there are twice as many questions now. She may not have given the meeting about the clues as much attention as she should have. How does the Jonas Attaway character fit into the fire she kept asking herself? She needed to hear the 911 call on the bomb threat. That wasn’t her case but she needed to hear the voice behind the call. “All of this is tied together, I just know it,” she said to her elderly cat as she poured out more food.

             
Today she would reach Lois about the bowtie, the Jonses, the Youngs and the, uh, the vet about the dog, she asked herself. No one could be reached on Sunday.

             
Hilda waved to her precious tabby at the window and backed out of her garage at five forty-five heading for the office. She was aware of the stranger watching her from behind a neighbor’s car. While appearing to be on a regular patrol, another police nabbed the lurker, put him in handcuffs and into the backseat of the police car. Hilda had noticed him as she picked up her morning paper and again from the kitchen sink and called it in.

             
“Okay, guys, thanks, let me know what you get out of him,” she said and headed out for the station.

             
The day was crisp with shallow ground fog moving across the river. She made a mental comparison that the murder’s identify was obscured in a fog bank. Tuning into the early morning news shows, she prepared her to do list.

             
At nine fifteen, she checked the first item off her list. A vet in a nearby town reported that a client brought in a basset hound with a cut foot. In fact, they had just left about fifteen minutes ago. At least the client thought he was injured because of the blood. After an examination, he found one foot had dried blood in the toes and the other had dried blood on the pads. The vet found nothing, no glass, no thorn, and no broken skin. He deduced the dog had caught a rabbit or something in his back yard not suspecting human blood.

“Looks like him to me,” the vet said about a
photo of Jonas Attaway’s basset hound.

Next was to visit the dog’
s owners in Barnesville. He gave Hilda their address knowing the couple would not mind. I hope they drove home, she mumbled.

             
Hilda pulled into the drive and could see the basset hound at the fence gate. He is a pretty dog and so friendly. Be easy for someone to load him up and take it somewhere. The owners expected Hilda after a call from the vet and invited her inside.

             
“We’ve been out of town,” the husband said. “Sunday night, we noticed dried blood on his front feet and his left ear. The neighbors across the street fed him for us but they had no knowledge of him being hurt.”

“He wasn’t limping or anything, they said, they Friday morning he didn’t come out from under the house for his food. Then F
riday night, he was asleep under a tree. He just seemed to be acting peculiar though especially around noises.,” the wife said.

“Do you know much about River Town or the Macon area? Know many people there?
Hilda asked. The wife worked in Macon for a small law firm, so, yes, she knew tons of people but no one that would come get her dog.

             
“Who knew you would be out of town, say last Thursday?” Hilda asked.

             
“Why is our dog so important?” the couple asked.

             
Hilda showed them the photo of Jonas Attaway with the basset hound. “Is this your dog?” she asked.

             
“Well, sure looks like him.”

“
Yes, it is, hon, look at the collar,” the wife said.

             
“Who’s that man?” they asked in unison.

             
“We had a murder last Thursday, a Mr. Blake Brockton, local businessman, and this is the man who phoned it in. He told the 9-1-1 operator that he always walked the dog at the same time every day.”

             
“Our dog? I read about the murder online. But why would he say he walked our basset hound every day,” the young husband said.

             
“Well, that was a ruse. He even gave a false address.”

             
“Goodness,” the wife said. “Honey, we need to just board him next time we take a little trip.”

             
The husband agreed. Hilda continued. “He used the name Jonas Attaway. Does that sound familiar?” Hilda asked.

             
“No, can’t think of anyone with that name. I’ve heard of Mr. Brockton, though. The lawyer I work for did some work for him, I think,” she said.

             
She thanked the nice young couple even though their answers seemed unimportant and headed back to River Town with her car radio off and the police radio turned down. She needed to think.

             
At ten o’clock, Hilda went to the consignment shop and talked to Lois about the bowties. The purchase was made off an eBay site. Lois said a woman had purchased three or four for a school play but she wasn’t sure which school or maybe it was a church skit. She just didn’t remember. Hilda, I’m just so forgetful these days.” And, of course, she did not know the woman who paid cash for them.

             
“Do you have any remembrance of what she looked like?”

             
“You know Hilda. Now that you asked. She seemed to be very nervous. Wouldn’t look me in the eye, and talked a blue streak with some kind of accent. I couldn’t really understand her. And she seemed to be apologetic on why she was buying them.”

             
“What do you mean apologetic?”

             
“Well, now I remember her. She was dressed very unusual. It was about two weeks ago, I guess when she came in. She wore pants but they were obviously not hers. They were much too tight showing every bulge. She had a man’s figure, you know, no real shape.”

             
“What else, Lois, think!”

             
“She giggled a lot. That’s what I mean about seeming nervous. She had a silly giggle and giggled all the time telling me about the play and Hilda, it was a high school play or, no I think, it was the community playhouse but I don’t remember which one. I remember now. She said her son was in a play for the church youth department and she was getting his outfit together! They were having the play at one of the local theatres.”

             
“Thanks, Lois. Great job!”

             
“But Hilda, something else. She had a very high- pitched voice, really grated on my nerves. Didn’t help my headache much.”

             
Hilda wrote all of this on her pocket pad.

             
“Oh, oh, and something else, Hilda. Funny how things come back to you!”

             
“Yes, Lois. Go on.”

             
“She bought a jacket that Sammi Brockton owned. It was a size six, much too small for this woman, but she said, she could let the seams out.”

             
“What size was she?”

             
“Hilda, the woman must’ve been at least a twelve maybe a fourteen. No way could she make that jacket fit!”

             
“Thanks, Lois.”

             
“What does all this mean? Am I or my employees or the store in danger?”

             
“No, Lois, I don’t think so. I’m just running down leads. Probably won’t amount to much.”

             
“Well, I certainly hope it does and helps you catch whoever you’re after.”

             
“Thanks, Lois. Here’s my card. If you remember anything else, no matter how insignificant, or if the woman should come back in, would you give me a call? Just say something like you just got some new stock in, and it’s selling like hotcakes. Then, I’ll hurry on over.”

             
“I definitely will. I’ll caution all my employees to watch for her.”

             
“Lois, I need to run. I’ll be back in a couple of days and see your new stock.”

             
“Great, see you, Hilda.”

             
Hilda stuck her head back in the shop. “Lois, did Mrs. Brockton shop in here, too?”

             
“No, I don’t think she ever bought anything but she sure left a lot of clothes for me, you know on consignment. They sell like hotcakes, too!”

             
Hilda knew the bowtie purchase was another ruse but added it to her list to rule out. First to call the four playhouses to see who had the theatre booked and, hopefully, eliminate forty-two of the forty-three churches in the area to find the purchaser of the bowtie. High schools were having their senior plays this time of year so she added the five area high school drama teachers. Someone might recognize the woman by description, but I doubt she even exists. She scanned the small parking lot and pulled out into heavier than normal traffic, south on I-75. Oh shoot, she thought, this will take forever, calling all…..             

“His phone,” she said as she notice
d three cellular towers in the distance.

She punched in the River Town police station’s speed dial code again. “Hey,
it’s Detective Marabell. I need a warrant as general as possible. Need to know about any calls made to 9-1-1 made from the two numbers on Thursday about the Brockton murder. The phone Brockton used and the one Attaway called in from. Meet me at the River Town call center. Hurry.” She turned into the Burger King drive-thru, ordered a number one, no cheese, large Coke, and headed toward River Town.

             
Hilda took the first parking spot where the officer with the warrant was waiting and hurried inside the building, flashed her badge, and signed the visitor’s log noticing how clean and shiny the walls, floors, and ceilings were. All offices had glass walls and solid wood doors. The lobby was well lit without being too bright on your eyes. It was her first trip to the new River Town call center and, frankly, was impressed with her tax dollars at work.

             
The shift manager retrieved the archived logs for Thursday, March 15 from noon through one thirty. Blake’s body was found at one ten according to the phone call by the Jonas Attaway character. A call from 478-555-0011 lasted seven minutes and eight seconds logged by Operator 41.

             
“Can you identify the phone number,” she asked the manager.

             
“I can unless it’s a disposable phone. Technology isn’t that far along yet. Plus, you don’t have to have ID to buy those. Let’s see,” as he punched in the numbers. “I don’t know who owns the phone, but the number is registered to Brockton Real Estate.”

             
“Brockton Real Estate?” It can’t be. Let’s listen to it.” Hilda identified the caller as Jonas Attaway’s voice.

             
“Are there any other calls by this phone made to 9-1-1?”

             
“At twelve fifty-eight,” he punched it up to play. “That’s Blake Brockton reporting the shooting or is it?” Hilda realized she had never talked to the victim on the phone so she wouldn’t recognize his voice, but it wasn’t that British accent. “I need help on this.” She knew the Attaway caller had used Blake’s phone to report the murder. Had he also used the phone to accuse Sammi Brockton?

             
“Will you make me a recording of both of those? You can put them on this flash drive,” pulling the small device from her pocket

“Sorry, Detective, I can’t if it’s going to be used for evidence. But I’ll make a CD for you unless you want a DVD.”

“Whatever’s the fastest? Thanks.”

“Just for the heck of it, will you see if any more calls
came in from this phone, say, within the last week?”

             
Expanding the search parameters, the archive listing showed a call Wednesday evening at seven fifty-two and another Thursday morning at five twenty-three. Both calls lasted twenty seconds. “Let’s listen to those, can I?”

             
The only voice on each of these was the emergency call center operator. 9-1-1, what’s your emergency?……9-1-1, hello, anyone there? What’s your emergency? Then the calls were lost. “Where did they originate from?”

             
“Well, just a general area is River Town. I’m sorry, Detective. We can’t get the actual address yet on a cell phone. We couldn’t dispatch a vehicle.”

             
“Okay, will you make me a recording of those, too? I didn’t hear any background noises but our lab might be able to pick up something!”