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Fiction
“The house where the body was found hadn’t been lived in for at least 15 years, police said.” That first line in the paragraph below the headline in the evening newspaper drifted off the page and wrapped itself around me like a shroud. I felt a cold chill soak into me and leave me shivering.
My eyes shifted to the headline: Hill House, Scene of Mystery. I scanned the entire article to see if there was any chance the body would be identified or that it might be considered a natural death. I looked around to see if anyone was interested in me. I would need a new place to stay. I’d only been gone a little while and in that short time, someone found their way to my hide-away, reported a body and the reporters got into the evening edition. The first time in four or five years I’d been away that long. It was probably that same bunch of kids who kept coming to the house, prying, digging and making noise. They weren’t all that bad and on occasion I left clues to lead them to the basement.
The setting sun cast long shadows and I felt safe enough to trek up the steep hill to the house at the top. I loved living in Hill House. Located on the highest lot on Hill Street, the house commanded a view of the town below. The huge lots set them aside as the most affluent section of our city. Close enough to walk to the town center, and removed enough that the industrial grime couldn’t reach us. At the tope of the hill, there was always a cooling breeze even on the hottest summer night.
I wasn’t surprised to see yellow crime scene tape looped from tree to tree roping the area off from the curious. Two trips around the perimeter of the lot satisfied me that no one was in the house. I doubted that anyone discovered my private entrance, so I decided to slip into the house. At the rear of the house I could smell the wisteria and lilac – always pleasant aromas
At the bottom of the cistern, I pulled away the fake wall and crawled along the tunnel to the ladder at the far end. I reached the top and pushed the trapdoor open about an inch and listened. My eyes were adjusted to the dark and I saw nothing. No sounds came to my ears. I felt safe as I pushed the entry all the way open and climbed into what I called the mud room near the rear door.
In my stocking feet, I made a circuit of the entire house and found nothing. In the basement, the dirt floor was disturbed and smelled of old musty earth. The shallow grave was empty. It would have been an easy job to pack the small bag of bones out of this part of the house. A whistling sound startled me. It took a moment to recall the sound, one that I should have been used to. A northeast wind always pushed open a vent in the attic and caused the noise.
I moved to the living room and sat in front of the large bay window thinking. How did they make the discovery? What should I do next? Where can I go? I decided I couldn’t stay in the house any longer. The police were sure to return looking for whatever they could find. There was another abandoned home one lot downhill from here. The old Smitson place. There wasn’t a secret entrance like I had here, but I could stay warm and dry there. Better yet, I could keep an eye on the activity here at Hill House.
Before I left, I needed to leave something to help the police. In the basement, I located the loose block in the foundation wall and struggled to get it out. Behind it was a black box with the rusted hinges. I would have been afraid to unfold the yellowed newspaper inside. The police would have better methods of examining the article. I managed to get the stone out far enough to be noticed before I was exhausted.
I saw the paper in my mind’s eye. Inside was a story about a local person, and the story had nothing to do with the body. But, the picture was circled in pencil and the words “he did it” scrawled in a child’s handwriting. I smiled. Starting for the mud room, I stopped. No need to sneak out the secret tunnel, I thought. It’s too dark for anyone to see me. I’ll go out the front door and head down the hill.
Sunlight streamed through the attic window in the Smitson house and warmed this area under the eaves. I stirred and looked out. I could see the activity at Hill House. Policemen were milling all around the yard when another of them ran out of the house. Even from this distance, I could see the black box clutched in his hands. The sounds of their voices carried to my place of concealment, though I was not able to distinguish the words.
There was enough frenzied activity up there; I knew my clue was discovered. I took it as confirmation when the man with the box in his hands jumped into a police car and it careened away. If only I could go along with them and watch the investigation develop. I would have to wait here and watch and hope.
After what seemed like weeks, the police returned with a man whose hands were handcuffed behind his back. I squinted trying to make out his features. It was him. The years were not kind to him and the changes were many. Even with all that, I was certain the police had the right man. He ranted and did his best to wave his arms, but the cuffs restrained him. He shouted loud enough for me to hear, “What motive could I have had to kill anyone – let alone a small girl?”
That’s it, I thought. You’ve got him now. How did he know the body in the basement of Hill House was a female? The police were shaking theirs heads and I saw one reach into his pants pocket. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The cop unlocked the handcuffs and removed them. The suspect rubbed his wrists and shouted again. I couldn’t hear it all, but the gist was that he was going to file a law suit against the police and the city. He was escorted back to a police cruiser and left the scene.
I was distraught. So close. How was I going to convince the authorities that they had the killer and let him go. I wracked my brain. Were there any other clues I could pass on to them? Then it struck me. Why had I forgotten about it?
The next day, I started a small brush fire in the empty area next to Hill House and slipped under the front porch. I hid there so I could hear conversations better. Firemen responded and put out the fire before any damage could occur. I heard one of them say, “Hey, look at what’s scrawled on the front door.”
They were gone and I wondered if they would follow up. I didn’t have long to wait. The policeman standing on the porch read the words written there on the door, “he did it.” He swore. “Son-of-a-bitch. Did any of you guys tell anyone about what we found in the newspaper article?”
Another voice said, “If we didn’t let the cat out of the bag, we need to get that guy back up here and do a better search of the house – especially the basement.”
Excited voices came from the basement. The words were garbled, but I knew they found my second clue. Another shout came, “Let’s get that bastard back up here.”
None of us had to wait very long. A cruiser pulled to the curb and the man, again manacled but in front this time, was led to the porch of Hill House. The cop in charge questioned him and he still denied any knowledge of the body in the basement.
“You can deny it all night, but what do you have to say about this?” the policeman said. He held up a photocopy of the old newspaper article and pointed to the words ‘he did it.’ “That’s your picture, isn’t it?”
The suspect shook his head. “I want a lawyer.”
“I’ll get you an attorney, but I want to point out a couple of more items.”
“I won’t answer any of your questions,” the man said with a sneer.
“You don’t have to. Just listen.” He pointed to the words written on the yellowed newspaper and then pointed at the front door. “Look. The words are exactly the same. Someone wants you locked up. Who do think it could be?”
The man was looking down at his shoes. He shook his head again.
The policeman said, “You screwed up when you said the body was female. How did you know that?”
The man continued to stare down at the rough planks that formed the porch floor. Looking up through cracks in the porch flooring, I could see his eyes. They were cold.
“Then there’s this,” the policemen continued. He pulled the man’s head up and dangled a pocket watch in front of his face.
I could see the color blanch from the man’s face. I do good work, I thought. They found the watch right where I left it for them. The inscription would seal his fate.
The policeman opened the watch and read the words engraved inside the lid. “That’s your name isn’t it?”
A long sigh from the man told the story. He waived his request for a lawyer and related the events of that night so long ago. “It’s my daughter’s bones you found. I’d been having relations with her for years. On that night, she cried and screamed that she was going to go to the police and tell them everything.” He paused as his actions of that night swept around him. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I just wanted to stop her from screaming.”
Police surrounded him and led him back toward their car. I slipped out from under the porch and joined the curious crowd that gathered and pressed toward the crime tape.
The suspect saw me in the throng; he recognized me. He went white again, clutched at his chest, pivoted and fell to the sidewalk. A policeman tested his neck for a pulse and shook his head. “Looks like a massive heart attack. Call the meat wagon, but tell them there’s no hurry,” he said.
I could feel everything surrounding me going gray, dissolving. I wished I didn’t have to turn him into the police, but someone had to. I said, “I’m sorry Daddy. Someone needed to bring you to justice” My world faded into the blackness of oblivion, but I was content and knew I could rest now.
The End
