Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

It was a crisp sunny Saturday afternoon and he couldn’t help but gaze at the vibrant fall colors of the foothills skirting the Ohio River from time to time as he made his way west back to Smithtown. For a moment he wished that he was still with Shelley-it would have been a perfect day to got out into the woods somewhere and take in the beautiful autumn foliage. By next weekend, he knew that the all too brief majesty of fall in southern Ohio would be history-the trees would be all but bare and what few leaves remained would have turned from brilliant red, orange or yellow to a withered dull brown.

The urge to turn around and go back to Shelley’s apartment entered his mind again for the umpteenth time but he knew he couldn’t do it no matter how tempting it was. He’d learned long ago that once something started nagging at him as much as this was that he wouldn’t be able to function at all until he had the matter resolved. Shelley Hatcher was just gong to have to be put on hold for now.

He wasn’t sure now exactly when it had first hit him. It was one of those lingering thoughts in the back of your mind that begins eating at you and won’t let up until you finally acknowledge its presence. Sam realized now that it started to bug him at the debate last night, but at the time he’d been too busy jotting down the questionable highlights of the damn thing to give it any real thought.

When the debate was finally over and he had snapped a few quick shots of the candidates, he had hastily headed for the Jeep and drove across the Ohio River to Kentucky-bound for Ashland in heavy anticipation of a stiff drink and Shelley Hatcher’s companionship for the rest of the night. Throughout the fifteen-minute drive, the nagging thought was still there, but had apparently been overshadowed by his desire to be with Shelley, his attempt to forget the boring debate he’d just endured, and the rift he’d had with Ann earlier that evening.

Once he’d finally arrived at Shelley’s small but cozy and clean apartment, he had immediately proceeded to dive head first into the booze. As they drank, they watched a video that Shelley had rented-a “B” movie thriller that he still couldn’t even remember the name of. Then they had gotten naked and rolled around for a while until they both passed out in her bed. They slept until noon and Shelley had fixed a nice breakfast that had helped ward off the relentless hangover he’d been experiencing.

All of this time, the nagging thought continued lingering somewhere in his mind as he’d downed several cups of mega strong coffee.

And then it suddenly came to him.

Amy’s letter Something about the letter Amy had written. There was something wrong about it.

Something in the letter Amy had just sent him was either out of kilter or just plain didn’t make sense. The problem was, he had absolutely no idea what it was. He just knew it was there.

Sam had mulled it over in his head for while, trying to recall what all his daughter had written, but eventually realized that the only way he was going to know for sure was to got back to Smithtown and read it again.

So he had announced to Shelley that he had to leave, apologized, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then hopped into the Cherokee and made a beeline for the highway. Shelley was hurt-he could tell by the look in her eyes-but she had been understanding and hadn’t prodded him as to why he had to leave so abruptly.

Sam reached the east side of Smithtown then swore at every red light he had to stop at as he proceeded though the center of town. When he at last reached the outskirts and the open road again he gunned the engine and did sixty-five all the way to his driveway.

Once inside, he found the letter lying on his desk, whisked it up and began reading. When he reached the end, he stared blankly at it for a moment then read it again, this time more carefully. He finished reading and threw the letter aside in utter frustration before plopping down in his easy chair.

A false alarm? he wondered as he ran his hands though his long, unkempt hair. He had found nothing in the letter that seemed particularly unusual. Had he driven all the way back here like a maniac all for naught?

No, he persisted. Something was wrong here-he just hadn’t caught it yet.

Sam grabbed up the letter again and reread it. Then, when he reached the part where Amy mentioned the photo she had enclosed, Sam bolted out of the chair as if shot from a cannon.

The picture!

Sam ran over to the mantel where the picture was still propped up against the wall, snatched it up and examined it closely. It was a Polaroid instant print, which wasn’t particularly unusual. What was unusual however, was that this print was the same type that his old Polaroid SX-70 camera used. And that type of film was rare as hell since Polaroid had quit manufacturing the only camera that used it nearly fifteen years ago. And he still had that camera in his camera bag along with his Nikon-he was certain of that. He certainly wasn’t going to give that beloved old classic to Ann after the divorce.

So who had taken this picture, if not Ann?

Jerry Rankin. That’s who had to have taken this picture. He must have taken it while he’d been over at Ann’s last weekend. That was the same weekend Amy had gotten the new dress. Amy probably hadn’t mentioned that her mother’s boyfriend had taken the picture because she figured that her dad would have gotten pissed or jealous about that-God love her.

So what? Sam thought. So what if Ann’s lover boy had taken this picture? It annoyed him a little of course, but it didn’t Then it hit him.

Like a ton of shit.

Stanley Jenkins had used the exact same type of Polaroid film!

And didn’t it seem more than a little coincidental that Jerry Rankin had the same type of Polaroid camera that Stanley Jenkins had used when he’d raped and murdered Marsha Bradley?

Sam felt his pulse quicken. He stared at the photo again. He looked down at the bottom edge of the image and noticed the small mottled area where the picture hadn’t fully developed-where the pinch rollers in the transport mechanism of the camera had failed to evenly compress the developer pod as the print passed through it…

Just like the print he’d seen down at the Police Department!

His heart now racing, Sam brought the print closer as he examined the thin scratch marks running vertically along the image window, approximately a half inch from the left hand border. The scratch marks had no doubt been caused by a burr in the metal of the pinch roller of the camera and was in the same general area of the print as the one left by Stanley Jenkins at Marsha Bradley’s house!

Mere coincidence?

“Jesus Christ!” he swore out loud. That would be just one coincidence too much.

He had to be sure, though, that this Polaroid print came from the same camera that had taken the Polaroid found at the Bradley house before he jumped to any conclusions.

Sam needed to compare both prints, one beside the other. The scratch marks were in essence like fingerprints: no two sets could be exactly alike unless they were produced by the same set of pinch rollers having the same burr of metal in the exact same area, which would produce identical scratch marks with regard to the size of the scratch, the relative position of the scratch on the print, and the intermittent pattern of the scratch-where it began and ended as it cut into the Mylar window of the print…

He had to get to the police station and take a closer look at Exhibit A!

Sam ran around the desk and picked up the phone. He started dialing the number then stopped himself cold.

What in the hell am I doing here? he thought. Am I trying to tell myself that Jerry Rankin might actually be Stanley Jenkins? That’s absurd! Ann certainly knows what Stanley Jenkins looks like or would look like today. Jerry Rankin obviously doesn’t resemble Stanley in the least-otherwise Ann sure as fuck wouldn’t be going out on dates with him! She’s not that dizzy.