“I don’t respond well to snide remarks. Do you have information, or not?”
“I’ve been expecting your call,” answered the voice too deep to be that of a woman, but too high pitched to be that of a man.
“Tell me where I can meet you.”
“Very well. I’m not far away…”
The unrecognizable voice gave me very specific instructions. The line clicked before I could ask any questions. I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Was it possible a lifetime of searching could be coming to a close? I shook my head, but decided to go along with the instructions.
I left my home and drove to the Clantonville town square. I parked on the north side of the courthouse. I waved to three old friends as they left Dell’s Cafe then I quickly crossed the cracked sidewalk and stared at the door of the four-story Traynor building, which at one time housed the office of the Franklin County Gazette. I took a deep breath and reached for the brass door handle.
I pulled it open and it creaked loudly as I stepped inside. I smiled as I gazed at the tin ceiling. I’m glad some things never change. I could still smell the musky odor of printer’s ink though the paper had relocated ten years ago. My heart pounded as I approached the wooden stairs. I grabbed the worn handrail, paused for a moment, and then slowly placed one foot on the next step. The step groaned as if my weight would shatter it and I shuddered. I took several deep breaths to summon the courage to continue and arrived at the landing on the second floor as instructed. I looked to my left but did not see any lights or hear anything from the offices in that direction. I took another deep breath, turned to my right and saw a glow from inside the third office. The hardwood floor looked as smooth as polished marble from the thousands of footsteps over the last hundred years. I barely glanced at the portraits of previous publishers of the newspaper as I made my way down the hall. The glass on the third door on the right was frosted, but translucent enough to expose the light inside. Faded lettering on the glass read Will Caudell – Editor and Publisher. I wished I was still carrying a firearm as my heart raced. I wiped away the sweat from my forehead. I was about to knock on the cracked varnish of the wooden door when I noticed it was partially open.
A gravelly voice from inside said, “Come in.”
I pushed the door, expecting it to creak, but it opened easily without a sound. I stepped into the office and everything I could see in the dusty, musty-smelling room appeared to be at least fifty years old, including the calendar on the wall to my left.
“I’m looking for Brennan Walters,” I said as a shadow crossed the dirty window to my right. “It’s about the murder of Chester McCoy.” My heart resumed beating when I realized the shadow was from a crow and I relaxed a bit.
“Have a seat.” She set down an old law book and pointed to one of the chairs in front of the desk.
I sat. “Could you tell me where Mr. Walters might be? I don’t have much time.”
“I am Brennan Walters.”
I examined the face of the person in the chair opposite me. “Please forgive me. I assumed Brennan to be a man’s name.” I tried to guess her age, but the wrinkles and crowfeet made a guess merely that – a wild guess.
“You, of all people, should know never to make assumptions.”
“You are correct. What can you tell me about the murder?”
She began with details of the case that could have been read in numerous articles published at the time. She mentioned the argument between the brothers and the bronze bust. Thoughts about the murder scene and visions of the room raced through my mind as she continued.
“If what you are saying is true, how did the killer escape a locked room? The windows were latched from the inside as was the door.”
“Do you remember the built-in bookcase to the left of the desk?”
I nodded and pictured the bookcase as easily as if I had seen it that morning.
Brennan Walters leaned forward, smiled and divulged a secret never suspected by anyone since the night of the murder.