Two Souls

By Gene Caffrey

Eight years after his first exciting success as an amateur sleuth, Owen Delaney finds himself married with kids, content with his professorial job at a university in Philadelphia, but a little bored with his life. All this changes when one of his students is murdered in an apparent drive-by shooting in the colorful and intriguing Hispanic neighborhood of Fairhill. Piecing together clues from the student's diary, Owen pursues a mysterious killer whose life intersected with the dead student's for a few brief minutes years before. Although his "investigation" is hindered by skeptical police and a wife who wants no part of this detective business, Owen cannot resist the pull of the chase and soon finds his own life in danger. Once again saving himself with wits and nerve, Owen then engineers a surprising twist that impresses his police contacts and pulls his wife into his crime solving enterprise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gene Caffrey
• Release date: Jan 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311401915

Gene Caffrey

Gene Caffrey is a retired Philadelphia lawyer and real estate investor who has had a life-long love of sports and the novels of Dick Francis. He has been married for nearly 50 years and is the father of two grown children. His familiarity with the gritty streets of Philadelphia and his near total recall of its characters informs his writing with a refreshing authenticity. He now divides his time between Philadelphia, Sarasota (FL) and his farm in New Jersey.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Owen had a strict rule. One absence without a timely notice and he terminated the tutoring sessions. They all had his cell phone number. He always explained up front that he took a train, a bus and walked seven blocks to get to Community College from the University. He couldn’t afford the time of a wasted trip. Not only that, but he wasn’t being paid for the sessions. They were his way of giving something back. As the black girls at Community would say, his life had been blessed. But still.

He hated to terminate Castillo who was older and more serious than most of the students he tutored and had shown real promise. Shultz in the math department agreed that he was the best prospect for the University transfer program they’d had in years—a committed student with superior math aptitude but untrained verbal skills. Honing those skills was Owen’s specialty and he’d been looking forward to reading Castillo’s latest assignment, a three-page autobiography for which he knew Castillo was putting in real effort. But Owen couldn’t play favorites. A rule was a rule. Castillo could reapply for a language skills tutor next semester. Owen would be happy to oblige. And maybe Castillo will have learned something about responsibility: although, frankly, till today, Castillo had been a model student, even compared to the kids at the University.

Owen left Kramer Hall and walked through the chilling wind to the administration building to inform Dean Buckley of his decision. He had to wait for her to finish up with a heavyset Hispanic girl complaining about her grade in a World History course. After the girl stormed out, Owen tapped on the dean’s door and poked in. The small, middle-aged dean looked like an aging hippy, with watery eyes hidden in dark, world-weary sockets and stringy hair streaked with grey.

"Carla. Got a minute?

Sure, what’s on your mind, Professor Delaney? The dean was always deferential to volunteers from the University, particularly volunteers who made decent contributions to the Community College Foundation.

Please. Call me Owen. He smiled as he approached. She was still seated at her desk. I wanted to tell you that I’m terminating Juan Castillo’s tutoring for the semester. He missed his session today without notice, and I’ve been very clear about my need for notice in advance of absences. But, I will be—

The dean rolled her chair back and raised her hand to stop him right there.

I gather you haven’t heard. She let her hand fall to her desk. Juan Castillo was killed in a drive-by on North Fifth Street last night. She pulled a copy of the morning’s Philadelphia Daily News from a bookshelf behind her and slid it toward Owen. It was open to a headline about a college student gunned down in an apparent gang slaying.

Police from the gang crime unit were here this morning asking for a list of Juan’s associates. We weren’t much help. He never seemed the gang-banger type. So quiet. We told them it must have been a case of mistaken identity.

Owen had nothing to say. He sat down across from the dean and skimmed the article under the headline. Apparently, Castillo was shot as he left his part time job at Chespas Video Productions in the Hispanic neighborhood on North Fifth. Witnesses said a large male in an overcoat and floppy hat that hid most of his face got out of an old pickup parked nearby, walked up to Castillo, said something that none of the interviewed witnesses could make out, pulled out an automatic handgun from under his coat, shot Castillo multiple times in the chest, got back in the pickup and drove away. The pickup had no plates. Although Castillo had no previous police record, because he was so clearly the sole target of the attack, police assumed it was in retaliation for one of the many gang shootings that had occurred in the Fairhill section over the past weeks.

Jesus Christ! It’s unbelievable. He was such a decent kid. Not even a kid any more. A decent young man. With a future. Hard to believe he was mixed up in anything like that. Owen slumped into his seat. The dean’s face tightened and she shook her head.

I agree. That’s why I told the police there had to be some mistake. The only friends we could name here at the College were decent, hard-working kids. We know he didn’t associate with any of the hoods we’ve got here. And I understand you and Shultz thought he was a good candidate for the transfer program to the University.

That we did. Owen sighed and unfolded slowly from his seat. It’s just tragic. As he lumbered toward the door, he turned back to the dean.

Maybe Shultz and I should attend the funeral on behalf of the College. Would that be all right with you?

Absolutely. I’m not sure when it is. But you should go.

Okay. I’ll go see Geoff and talk to him about it. Talk to you later, Carla.

Thank you, Professor Delaney.

Chapter 2

Owen and Geoff Shultz had a hard time finding out the details for Castillo’s funeral service. There was nothing in the newspaper that day or the next. The dean did not receive any word, and Castillo’s friends at the school knew nothing. Finally, Own called Castillo’s cell phone number, which he had in his file, and left a voice mail message identifying himself and asking for details regarding the service. About an hour later he received a call from Castillo’s cell.

Professor Delaney? The caller had a soft female voice.

Yes. This is Owen Delaney

This is Pilar Sanchez. I’m Juan Castillo’s . . . She paused for a quick sniffle, . . . fiancée. You called.

Oh. Thanks for returning my call. I’ve been tutoring Juan at Community College and I’d like to attend his funeral. Can you tell me when and where it will be?

Yes. Juan spoke highly of you. He said you could help him get in to the University.

We, that’s Professor Shultz and I, had hoped to do that. We’d both like to come to the funeral.

It will be at the Contreras Funeral Home in Juniata, on Erie. Tomorrow, at ten.

Thank you. I suppose I’ll see you there.

Yes. I’ll be there. Just me.

She hung up without further explanation.

Owen doubted that the girl would be the only one at the service. He knew from TV that these gang funerals always attracted a crowd: the press, bros from the gang, curious neighbors and, more often than not, the police as well. Shultz was actually a little afraid of going.

The next morning, Owen took the Chestnut Hill Local all the way to Suburban Station and met Shultz in his rusted VW van at 16th and Market. They wound their way northward and east to Fifth Street so they could pass through the heart of Fairhill before making the turn on Erie and continuing into Juniata. Owen had driven through Fairhill once or twice in his life but had never gotten out of his car there. Eighty-five percent Hispanic and fifteen percent black, El Centro de Oro, as the Hispanic kids at Community called it, was a world unto itself. Sidewalks painted with curved golden pathways, bright maps of South and Central America or murals of Hispanic faces painted on the old brick walls, a street market to rival the better known Italian Market in South Philly. Salsa throbbing up and down the flag-decked streets, and colorful likenesses of Latin music legends carved into the trees.

They passed Chespas Video Productions not far from Lehigh Avenue. A simple storefront, it looked innocent enough. But Owen thought he could see bloodstains on the sidewalk in front. He wondered if Senor Chespas would be at the service? After what happened, he too might be afraid to go.

After the turn east on Erie, the Hispanic flavor dissipated a bit with each block until they reached Juniata which was just another tired city neighborhood with faces of all shades trudging the streets and lolling on stoops with their hoodies up against the cold. They found the funeral parlor without any problem. As in most city neighborhoods, the local funeral home was the most impressive and well maintained structure for blocks. In this case it was a renovated, doublewide brownstone with a sedate brass nameplate on the wrought iron gate in front.

To Shultz’s relief, Contreras’s had off-street parking and, though they were only a few minutes early, the lot was almost empty. They parked and walked around to the front gate. There were no cops or press milling around. And certainly no gang bangers. When they climbed the few steps to the generous stone porch, a slender, dark skinned gent with close cropped silver hair and a black suit came out the glass paneled front door and greeted them.

"The Castillo service, I assume?

Yes, sir. Which way? Owen couldn’t see anyone inside.

Follow me. Please.

He led them down a central hall to a small room on the left. Maybe it had been an office of some kind in the original residence. About five chairs were lined in front of a tiny round table draped in black velvet. On the table sat a bronze urn and a framed picture of Juan with an older woman and a little girl. Owen guessed mother and sister. There was nothing else: no flowers, nothing, and no one else in the room.

Owen and Shultz sat and turned toward each other with raised eyebrows.

Who do we pay our respects to?

With no one else around, Owen was again tempted to correct Shultz’s grammar. But he let it pass, shrugged, and got up for a closer look at the picture on the table. It was an old photo of poor quality—maybe a photo of a photo. Although Castillo was clearly recognizable, he couldn’t have been more than seventeen in the picture. Owen guessed that he was now about twenty-seven. Or, rather, was about twenty-seven. There was definitely a family resemblance to the two females in the picture. Same light brown skin, round, open faces and flash of bright, even teeth. He put the picture down when he heard footsteps in the hall.

The dignified greeter who had shown them into the sitting room extended an open palm through the door and a lovely—there was no other word Owen could think of, just lovely—young woman in a black dress followed. Her face was longer and darker than the young girl in the picture. She was probably not the little sister. More likely, she was the girlfriend he had spoken to on the phone. She nodded her head when she saw them.

You must be from the College. I’m Pilar Sanchez She took a step toward Owen with a hand extended.

Owen took her hand. It was soft and smooth, Yes, I’m Owen Delaney. He turned toward Shultz who had gotten up from his seat. This is Geoff Shultz. He was Juan’s math teacher."

Thank you for coming. I believe you will be the only guests.

Owen’s stomach twitched at the poor choice of words. What was he? A mourner? A visitor? An attendee, maybe. But certainly not a guest. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Fortunately, Pilar continued.

You’re the only ones I told about the service.

Shultz, who had started to sit back down, bounced up from his half-seated position and said, much too loudly, What? What about his family and friends?

Owen held his breath and peeked at Pilar, hoping Shultz’s blast didn’t upset her. His directness could sometimes turn people off. But it didn’t appear to bother Pilar. She sat down in one of the straight chairs and faced the table.

Juan had no family. And he had no real friends that I know of. He was a very private person. It was just us, his work, and school.

Shultz stared at Pilar with one eyebrow cocked. The newspapers said that he was in a gang. What about them?

Owen cringed and felt his ears turn red. This time, Pilar did take offense. She snapped her head toward Shultz. Juan was never in a gang. And the man who shot him was about fifty years old. And he was white. Not a gang-banger. I saw him.

Owen put a hand on Shultz’s arm and squeezed it. But his own pulse quickened a bit at Pilar’s revelation.

Why didn’t you tell that to the police? The newspapers said witnesses couldn’t give a good description of the shooter.

Well, maybe the others weren’t paying as close attention as I was. I was waiting for Juan at the bus stop just a few feet from Chespas. I saw the whole thing.

Owen didn’t understand. But why not tell the police. It could help.

Pilar bit her lip for at least ten seconds before answering. Just two days before, Juan told me if something bad happened to him, I could be in danger and I should act like I never knew him. I had no idea what he was talking about. But when the cops came, I walked away. Pilar hung her head in her hands and sobbed.

After another long pause, she picked her head up and wiped her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. I paid a fixer from our neighborhood— Pilar leaned forward to look out the door before going on —he brings in illegals from El Salvador. I paid him to claim Juan’s body and get it here to be cremated. I asked for a little service so I could say goodbye. It was horrible running away on the street. I sent over the only picture Juan kept from his life in LA. She sobbed again. I didn’t want anyone else here. But when you called, I knew Juan would think it was okay for you to come. He was so happy to know you believed in him.

Owen was calculating the dollar cost of Pilar’s goodbye. She had paid someone to claim the body and have it transported to the funeral home on top of the costs of the service itself. While cremation was certainly the cheapest way to go, the whole enterprise had probably cost her a good bit, for her means. He was always looking for ways to use his inheritance to do something about financial problems he knew others were experiencing, often writing checks to people he read about who had suffered hardship or loss. He decided to do something.

Miss Sanchez, I’m sure we could get the College to pay some of your funeral costs. Would that be a help to you?

Oh, thank you. But that’s not necessary. Juan had lots of cash in a shoebox that he never touched. Said it could only be used for emergencies. I took some for my needs.

Well, if you need anything, just call. Owen handed Pilar one of his cards from the University. Meanwhile, we should be going. We ‘ll leave you alone.

Yes, Shultz said. He was a great kid. We’re really sorry for your loss. And ours. Owen was tempted to kiss him on the cheek.

They were already in the hallway when Pilar called out. Oh Professor Delaney! I almost forgot. I’m sure Juan would have wanted you to read this. His last assignment for you. She handed Owen an envelope with his name on it.

Thank you. I look forward to reading it.

Chapter 3

Owen didn’t have a chance to read Juan Castillo’s autobiography until that evening. After the funeral service, Shultz had driven him directly to the University where he taught one of his Survey of English Literature sections and then met with students until five. He could have read it on the train back to Chestnut Hill but he spent most of the ride thinking up plans for Little Hank’s sixth birthday and forgot about the envelope in his pocket.

After a cheerful dinner which Little Hank attacked with gusto but which Claire only picked at with her three-year old finickiness, he cleaned the kitchen while Barbara got the kids ready for bed. He now loved his kitchen. While he was growing up as an only child, the kitchen was often a lonely place. He and his mom and Big Hank were rarely in it together. And, when he inherited the monstrous house in his mid-twenties, he had wallowed alone in it for almost a year, fighting depression, and had let the kitchen turn into a pigsty. But things were so different now. He had a real family. And meals were happy occasions.

When he finished in the kitchen, he went upstairs for his goodnight talks with the kids, always a silly one with Claire and a serious plan for the next day with Hank. They smelled so clean and, eager to absorb his love, they almost purred with contentment. Despite a stabbing awareness that, like the corn-silk softness of their shampooed hair, their innocence would not last forever, this was his favorite time of the day.

Whispering two final goodnight little niblets, Owen tiptoed back downstairs to watch the news which Barbara always recorded so they could see it together. It wasn’t until a segment about gang killings in Chicago that he remembered the envelope Pilar Sanchez had given him. When the recording finished he and Barbara exchanged quick recaps of their days, and he went into his office to read Juan Castillo’s autobiography.

It had taken years for the office to feel like it was really his. It had been Big Hank’s private sanctuary until he died, and neither his mom nor he dared touch a thing for years afterwards. It was Barbara who actually started the encroachment: first removing Hank’s work papers, then replacing the law books with novels and works of literary criticism that Owen needed for grad school and, later, for his teaching. Finally, she changed the curtains and scattered new family photos around the room. Eventually Owen ceased associating it with Big Hank and the tension that had so often existed between them.

Though there was clearly no point in correcting Castillo’s assignment, out of habit, Owen held a red pen as he sat to read the piece. The autobiography assignment was one he regularly gave when a student was ready for full-fledged composition. Many of the Community College students had never written more than a short paragraph. And those, like Castillo, for whom English was a second language, were often intimidated by writing assignments of any kind. The autobiography assignment, dealing as it did with subject matter they knew well, removed the research obstacle from the task. Owen’s handout emphasized that the pieces should have a strong chronological narrative and yet be spiced with anecdotes which gave some emotional resonance to their story. He also asked the students to include something about their aspirations for the future.

Most students welcomed the chance to tell their stories, but Castillo’s eyebrows had arched when Owen described the assignment to him. Given the events of the past few days, Owen could only guess at what Castillo had written. He opened the envelope and read.

Juan Castillo—My Life

I was born in San Louis Potosi in Mexico and came to the United States with my father, mother and small sister when I had eleven years old. We were not legal immigrants. We traveled the desert in California in a closed, hot truck with many other illegals and after a long time got to Central LA where the cousin of my father lived at the time. That cousin worked as a landscaper and got work for my father with his crew. My mother worked to clean houses. My father and mother told me that my only job was do good in school. My sister Arelie was three years old and stayed with the old woman next door during the daytime. She did not go to school until she had six years old. But my father and mother told her the same when she started to go to school. We both tried very much and did good. But the schools in Central LA were not very good, They were too easy for us. They taught us in Spanish and we did not learn good English.

When I had fourteen years old, my father and his cousin and others in their job were stolen by the immigration service from a big house in Brentwood where they were working and deported. They told immigration that they all lived together in the Valley. So immigration did not know our family or the families of other men on the job and we are all left alone. My father sent word to us that he will come back to LA but we later learn that he died in the desert coming back. We were very sad. He was a good father and taught my sister and me to be good persons.

Four months after we learned that my father died, I was hit by a car speeding in our neighborhood and went by an ambulance to the emergency room at the Good Samaritan Hospital near us. My mother was afraid the hospital will call immigration because we had no had papers but they do not do that. I needed a blood transfusion but I am rare blood type and there was none in the hospital at that time. My sister who came to the hospital with my mother has the same blood type and my mother asked her to give me some blood. She say yes, but because she is only six, she did not understand. My mother told me that after they took her blood, she ask my mother how long it is before she dies. I always love my small sister but I love her more when I know she would give her life for me.

In my last year of high school a very bad thing happen. Everyone in the neighborhood knew that I am good in school, especially with numbers, and that our family is honest. The chief of the gang in our neighborhood is a fat and bad man who is name El Diablo. He needs a person to work with his cash and find ways to hide it and even invest it. He told me that he picked me for the job. I told him that I no want to do it. But he told me that, if I don’t work for him for three years, he will hurt my mother and sister. I drop out of school to save them. I never tell my mother the reason I drop out and she is very disappointed. She is also much disappointed when she learn I am working for El Diablo. My sister is very unhappy too and she stopped trying so hard in school.

My three years working is almost finish when a big problem happens at one of the biggest deals El Diablo ever plan. He blame me for the problem and it is necessary for me to come to Philadelphia to make correct the