The Fallen

Chapter 31

“Yes?” said the voice on the other side of the peephole.

Decker held up his creds to the little circle of glass.

“Mrs. Martin? I’m Amos Decker, I’m with the FBI. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

“About what?”

“About what happened down the street.”

“It’s rather late. And I don’t know you.”

“I’m sorry for the lateness. But I saw your lights on. I’m working with Detective Lassiter. She told me that you used to teach her Sunday school,” he added, hoping that would break the ice.

It worked, because he heard the locks turn, and the door swung open to reveal a tall elderly woman with wispy white hair and a pale complexion. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles rode low on her long, bumpy nose. She had on a beige cardigan wrapped around a starched white blouse. A baggy pair of dingy gray sweatpants incongruously completed her outfit. A sturdy pair of white orthopedic shoes were on her feet.

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin, I appreciate it.”

“Would you like some hot tea? It’s so damp out.” She shivered. “Gets in my bones.”

Decker didn’t really feel like tea, but he figured it might buy him some more time with her. “That would be great, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble. I’ve nothing else to do, and I was thinking of having another cup myself. Oh, there’s Missy.”

This was in reference to a sleek silver and black tabby that glided out from behind the couch in the front living room. It sidled up to Decker and rubbed itself against his leg.

“Nice kitty,” said Decker awkwardly to the cat.

“Oh, she’s a pain in the butt, but it’s just her and me now.”

Decker looked at one wall where a deer head was mounted.

“Six-point buck,” he said.

“My late husband. He had that mounted, oh, it was almost forty years ago now. But, unlike some hunters, he ate what he killed. That buck gave us enough venison to last a long time.”

She turned and put a hand against the wall to steady herself.

Decker spotted a quad cane, so called because it had four sturdy feet for firm support, standing in a corner.

“Do you want me to get your cane?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I need to get the darn thing fixed,” she said. “Can’t use it inside. It scratches my hardwood floors.”

She led Decker into the kitchen, continuing to steady herself with a hand against the wall as she went.

The house, Decker estimated, had been built in the fifties, so the kitchen was small but functional. There were little frilly curtains around the window over the sink and a wooden table with two ladder-back chairs. On the wall was a landline phone, with a long flex cord dangling from it. Next to it were phone numbers written in pencil on the wall, some with names next to them.

Martin glanced at where he was looking and smiled. “I don’t have one of those smartphones, and I’ve no memory for numbers, so I write my important numbers down there. I call it my phone number wall.”

“Good system.”

“Do you have a memory for numbers?”

“Apparently not as much as I used to.”

Martin put the kettle on the stove and lit the gas with a long match. Then she took cups and saucers from a pine cabinet with a sheen of lacquer finish over it.

She opened a plastic storage container and said, “Would you like some cookies? They’re oatmeal raisin. I made them myself.”

“That sounds great, thanks.”

“So you’re with the FBI. That is so exciting. But don’t FBI agents wear suits? They do on TV.” She put a hand to her mouth as she looked over Decker’s rumpled appearance. “Or are you undercover? You look like you could be an undercover agent.”

Decker took all this in and said, “I did some of that. But now I’m here helping the local police with what happened at the house down the street.”

“Yes, it was awful.” Martin shivered again. “I mean, I know the town has hit bad times, but we’ve never had a murder on our street before.”

She set out the plate of cookies along with paper napkins. “Do you take milk and sugar in your tea, like the British? Not that you’re British. Are you British? You don’t sound British, but I always like to ask.”

“I’m from Ohio. And, no, just tea, thanks.”

“It’s peppermint. Very good for your throat and sinuses.”

“I’m sure.”

“I had a friend from Ohio. Toledo. Have you ever been there?”

“Yes.”

“I liked my visit. But that was in, oh, 1965. Has it changed much?”

“I expect so, yes.”

“Most places change, don’t they?”

“Like Baronville?” asked Decker.

She gazed at him, and this time the look was far less like a scatterbrained old lady.

“I’ve lived here all my life,” she said. “Back when times were booming, there were certain elements that were not all that... nice.”

“Care to elaborate on that?”

She looked up at him over her cup of tea. “Water under the bridge. Now, what can I do to help you with your case?”

“We’re looking for anyone who might have seen something strange at the house in question.”

“Have you talked to anyone else on the street?”

“Just one. Fred Ross.”

At the sound of the man’s name, Martin’s face screwed up.

“That man,” she said derisively.

“You two don’t get along?”

“My husband loathed him until the day he died. Fred is very hard to get along with. Hateful, prejudiced, manipulative.”

“The first two I understand, having met the man. But manipulative?”

Martin didn’t answer until the water had boiled and she had poured out the tea. She handed him his cup and sat down opposite him.

“Fred’s wife died, oh, it’s been twenty years ago now or more, about the time my Harry passed. She was a nice lady but he never gave her a moment’s peace. If his dinner wasn’t ready and to his liking, or she’d gone over her grocery budget, or the house wasn’t spick-and-span, he would just abuse that woman no end. It was awful.”

“Did she ever call the police?”

Martin took a sip of her tea and set the cup down before answering.

“Now that’s where we get to the manipulative part. He would never raise his hand against her. Never scream or threaten.”

“What did he do, then?”

“He would just keep picking away at her, little by little. How she looked, how she dressed. How she should be ashamed she couldn’t be a good wife and mother like the other ladies on the street. He just played all these mind games with the poor woman, convinced her that everything was her fault. He was quite good at it, the sick bastard. And Fred was cruel to his son too. I think that’s why they don’t have much of a relationship.”

Decker drank some tea and nodded. “I could see how Ross would be like that. Always handy with some reply. Turning things against you. He did that with me.”

Martin pointed at him. “Exactly. Exactly right. Turning everything, even your own words, against you.”

They fell silent for a few moments.

Martin said, “But you wanted to ask me about that night?”

“Have Detectives Lassiter and Green been by to see you?”

“A Detective Green did come by to talk to me. And then, earlier today, Donna came by. Not in her official capacity, she said. Just to visit and see how I was doing. I hadn’t seen her in years. I was surprised she was with the police. I thought she would go on to be a doctor or something. Always very bright and, well, gung-ho. Nothing would stop her.”

“Well, you have to be pretty tough to be a cop and homicide detective,” noted Decker.

“Oh, of course, and I’m very proud of her. She’s come a long way and overcome a lot of obstacles.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I suppose you know about her father?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything.”

“I wish you would. It could be helpful.”

“Well, that’s really why I was surprised Donna went on to become a police officer.”

“Why is that?”

“Because her father was convicted of a crime.”

“What crime?” asked Decker.

“Of killing someone.”

“Who?”

“A banker here in town.”

Decker tried to keep his features calm. “When was this?”

“Oh, decades ago. Donna was just a little girl.”

“Why did he kill the banker?”

“Because the bank foreclosed on his house. Donna’s father worked at the last textile mill in town. It closed down and left Rich Lassiter high and dry along with about a hundred others. He lost his house, he lost everything. He apparently got drunk one night, went to the man’s home, and set fire to it. The banker, I forget his name, lived alone. Anyway, he died in the fire. Rich, I guess, was horrified at what happened. But he admitted to setting the fire. He went to prison. And he died there about two years later. Maybe from guilt, I don’t know.”

“So Lassiter would have still been a little girl?”

“She was a very sad little girl after what happened to her father. I think she turned to religion to help her through the tough times. Her mother committed suicide from a drug overdose after Donna came back here when she finished college.”

“That’s pretty tragic all the way around,” said Decker. “Getting back to the present, what did you tell Detective Green about the night the men’s bodies were discovered?”

“That I didn’t see anything. I had a headache and went to bed early.”

“What time was that?”

“Jeopardy! had finished up, and I was puttering around for a bit, so it was certainly after eight.”

“Did you hear or see anything before you went to bed? Even if it wasn’t connected to the house?”

Martin thought about that. “I remember the storm starting to come in.”

“Do you remember hearing some sounds right before the rain started?”

“What sort of sounds?”

Decker thought back, pulling the frames up in his head.

Good question, what sort of sounds?

“I’m not sure. Just some unusual sounds. I was staying at the house behind that one. I also saw a plane flying over.”

Martin shook her head. “I didn’t see or hear a plane. Didn’t wake up until around six the next morning.”

“The police sirens didn’t wake you?”

“I took a sleep aid, so no, they didn’t.”

“Have you ever seen people coming or going from that house?”

Martin drank some more tea and pushed the cookie plate toward Decker, who took one and bit into it.

“There was one thing,” she said suddenly.

“What was that?”

“Well, it didn’t have to do with the house where those men were killed. It was the house next to it.”

“You saw something?”

“It was a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t mention it to Detective Green because he just asked me about the night the dead men were found. Anyway, I saw a man enter the house, oh, around eleven at night. Now, I knew the Schaffers, who used to own that house. They died and their children tried and failed to sell it. So it’s been sitting empty all that time.”

“Go on,” prompted Decker.

“Well, this man was walking down the street. I didn’t see a car. The only reason I saw him was because Missy wanted to go out, and I opened the door and there he was on the street. It was a full moon and really bright, so I saw him pretty clearly. Well, he walked down the street and into the Schaffers’ old house.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Tall, over six feet, I think.”

“White, black?”

“Oh, definitely white. And he was thin.”

“Could you see his face?”

She shook her head. “And then, two nights later, I saw it again.”

“The same man?”

“No, this time it was another man. Shorter, under six feet and stockier. He was also white. He went into the house. I kept looking for a while but he never came back out.”

“And no car?”

“No, he just came walking down the street and went in. Same time of night. I was up because, well, I’d napped earlier and then woken up around nine. You do that when you’re old,” she added.

“Did you report this to the police?”

Martin shook her head. “No. I didn’t think to. I mean, for all I knew the men had rented the place and had a perfect right to be there. And if they didn’t, well, I’ve seen folks use empty houses before. Lots of homeless around here. If they needed a place to stay... ”

Decker looked at her curiously because Martin suddenly looked nervous. “Was there any other reason you didn’t report it?”

She looked down. “Hard times makes for hard... people. If I called the police and they came and did something and the people found out I’d been the one to call? I’m old and I live alone. I don’t want to cause any trouble, for me or anyone else.”

“So, a tall, thin white guy and a shorter, stockier white guy?”

“That’s right.”

A few minutes later, Decker headed toward the house Martin had been talking about.

He could be wrong, but the men Martin had described could very well have been Beatty and Smith, the two dead DEA agents.