Off the Beaten Path. John Schlarbaum
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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