Scott Wittenburg: The May Day Murders

Sam had vehemently objected to keeping the case so hush-hush. He had argued that the public had a right to know the facts about the murder. Public knowledge, he insisted, may actually help to open things up. Somebody might come forward with some vital evidence who may have otherwise remained silent, for instance. Or, if the killer had been a local man, then there was always a chance that someone local might be able to point a finger at him, having learned the details surrounding the case. Roger was sympathetic to Sam’s argument, but Chief Thompson had refused to budge an inch. He had told Sam, in his infinite wisdom, that it might be a good idea to advise the public to be on their guard and to impose a curfew on their kids, but beyond that, he was not to report any more than what had been established. Sam had been forced to comply.

Sam took a drag off his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. He didn’t like being muscled around like this, and he had let George McNary, the managing editor of the Observer, know it. McNary, of course, had given him his usual pompous recitation about freedom of the press and how he had always believed in it unconditionally when he’d been a reporter just starting out back in the “good old days.” But, McNary had gone on to say, times have changed and one has to adapt. Furthermore, he added, it was never a good idea not to comply with the police. Hence, the old fart had whimped-out as he always did, and Sam again found himself praying for the day when the ultra-conservative, stubborn dick-head finally retired.

Sam had already written two follow-up articles concerning Marsha Bradley’s murder and now wondered how much more he could expound on it. The piece for Monday’s edition was supposed to tie in with her memorial service today, and its intent was to more or less eulogize one of Smithtown’s most beloved and popular citizens. That was fair enough, he thought, but he’d much rather be reporting the facts of the case, or better yet, that her murderer had been apprehended…

He glanced down at the police photo and once again felt a cold chill shoot down his spine. He had known Marsha Bradley well, and like everyone else who’d known her, couldn’t understand why anyone would want to murder such a wonderful woman. The familiar wave of contempt swept over him and Sam felt his blood begin to boil. Somehow, he thought, they would catch the low-life asshole who did this to her and make him pay dearly for it.

And he wanted to be there when it happened.

Sam now wanted to return to the murder scene as soon as it could be arranged. Dave and Tommy had been staying at Dave’s mother’s house until the police finished up with the investigation of their house, which would be soon-perhaps even tomorrow. Sam hadn’t remained very long at the Bradley house the night of the murder because Roger had insisted on letting his crew do their work. Now, Sam wanted to do his.

Maybe, he thought, the police had overlooked something. It was a long shot, he realized, but there was always the possibility. It had happened before, hadn’t it? As thorough as Roger and his men were, Sam had seen first hand how they had missed seeing the forest for the trees a few times in the past. The edge always seemed to be missing in a lot of police work-that overwhelming drive to leave no stone unturned, that driving motivation to capture the full picture.

Sam, however, was motivated beyond words-certainly more than a handful of Smithtown cops would ever be. This was a dear friend of his who had been assaulted and robbed of her life-not to mention his ex-wife’s best friend. Sam had made a pledge to himself from the very beginning that he wasn’t going to sit around on his hands while Marsha’s murderer was still at large. He was going to do what ever was in his power to see that this bastard was brought to justice.

Again, Sam tried to imagine himself in Dave Bradley’s shoes right now. What if it had been Ann instead of Marsha who had been murdered? he wondered. How would he deal with it? Could he deal with it?

He didn’t even want to think about it…

Sam picked up the phone and dialed Roger Hagstrom’s number.

It was seven-thirty when Ann Middleton pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine. It wasn’t until she reached for the door handle that she noticed the light on the front porch wasn’t lit, making her wonder if she’d forgotten to turn it on before she and Amy had left for Smithtown earlier that morning.

“Do your remember if I turned on the porch light before we left?” she asked, turning to Amy.

Amy, still half-asleep from the drive, replied, “Yes, you did, Mother.”

“I wonder why it isn’t on now.”

“Maybe it’s just burned out,” Amy suggested sleepily.

“Maybe…”

Ann opened the door and got out. Amy followed suit and walked sluggishly around the car to join her mother.

“I wish they’d fix that damn streetlight,” Ann groaned as they walked cautiously up the walk in the darkness. “Watch your step, honey.”

Ann held onto the porch railing as she led the way up the four steps leading to the porch of the modest Cape Cod. She opened the storm door, groped around until she finally managed to get the key into the lock, and freed the dead bolt.

In the dim light afforded by a nightlight plugged into the wall at the far end of the room Ann located the switch and turned the living room lights on. She noticed that the other switch, the one that worked the porch light, was up, confirming that she had indeed turned it on. She waited until Amy was inside then stepped back out onto the porch and reached up to unscrew the bulb in the fixture. Noticing that it was already practically screwed all the way out of its socket, she tightened it up instead. It came on.

“That’s strange,” Ann muttered to herself.

“What’s that, Mom?” Amy asked from inside.

“This stupid light-it wasn’t burned out. It was just loose in the socket.”

Amy peered out through the door. “Maybe the boogie man did it!” she giggled.

“That’s not funny!” Ann scolded, shooing her back inside.

“Just kidding, Mom,” Amy chuckled, and made a beeline for the stairs leading to the second floor.

Ann strode through the living room to the kitchen, removed her coat and flung it over the back of a chair. Mandy, their three-year-old calico cat, suddenly emerged from the laundry room and squinted up at Ann with that unmistakable look that said it was well past feeding time. Ann reached down and petted her before going over to the cupboard to get the Meow Mix.

Even though they had stopped off at a Shoney’s near Chillicothe for supper on the way home, Ann realized that she still felt hungry. Deciding that it was probably due to the stress and emotions of the day, she went over to the refrigerator and took out a container of yogurt, got a spoon and dug in.

Amy suddenly waltzed into the kitchen. “I’m going to the movies with Amanda.”

Ann swallowed a spoonful of yogurt and stared at her daughter reproachfully. “What have I told you about asking first, young lady?”

Amy pouted before replying. “Okay, Mom. Can I please go to the movies with Amanda?”

Ann tried to hide her disappointment. She had hoped that Amy would stay home with her tonight-she didn’t want to be alone after today. But Ann knew that they would only get into an argument if she objected, and that was the last thing she needed right now. “Okay, honey,” she sighed. “Do you need a ride?”

“No, Amanda’s mom is picking me up in half an hour. I’m going to take a quick shower and change first.”

“Back by ten,” Ann warned.

“Mother! The movie doesn’t even start until eight-thirty!”

Ann shook her head in resignation and said, “All right. But I want you to come straight home when it’s over. Do you hear me?”