The Eyes of Death: Revised

By Roland Hopkins and TBD

The twenty-nine year-round inhabitants of Fawn Island located off the coast of Cape Cod shrink to twenty-eight as a local handyman is found dead in mid-winter off season. Murdered? Maybe. But the area DA goes out of his way to keep the Cape Cod and island reputation as clean as possible, especially since it is the home of the famous Kennedy fami

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gypsy Shadow Publishing
• Release date: Mar 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781619505483

Roland Hopkins

Roland (Rolly) Hopkins is a successful newspaper publisher whose background (way back) included Lay preaching, and he came very close to becoming a fulltime minister. Instead, he spent five years as a radio disc jockey, successfully feeding and clothing a wife and three children. Fun, fun, fun. Much more fun than publishing a deadlined weekly newspaper. He also dabbled in professional horse racing, winning (as an owner) over 300 races and having a horse nominated for the Kentucky Derby (the dream of every owner, breeder and and trainer). More fun, fun, fun, but no profit. profit, profit. Rolly’s real passion was and is writing fiction, and this book is his latest attempt at new fun.

Book preview

The Eyes of Death

A Stephen Hall mystery novel

by

Roland Hopkins

(Hey, without my grandfather, I’d have no name)

All rights reserved

Copyright © October 22, 2015, Roland Hopkins

Cover Art Copyright © 2015, Kathi Ferry

[e-mail]

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-548-3

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: December 10, 2015

Dedication

To all who read and enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Acknowledgement

Special thanks to William Hurd for his tireless efforts to whip my manuscript into shape as the first editor of my work. I greatly appreciate you and your help, William.

Prologue

Flash Forward Mid-March 2015

Until I experienced it, I couldn’t have imagined the sheer terror of being in pitch-black darkness, knowing that I had only so much air to breathe, and not daring to call out for fear of using up my final supply of oxygen. I shared a decaying wooden coffin with the rotting forty-year-old bones of a murdered woman—identity unknown. My pounding head needed at least a bottle of aspirin, and I could feel a bloody, wet bump on the back of my skull where someone had conked me with a shovel. I didn’t know how long I’d been out—maybe five or ten minutes. Maybe an hour.

My cheap crystal watch didn’t glow in the dark.

I stretched my cramped arms to explore the limits of my confinement, about twelve inches in front of me, and I recalled that the grave was quite shallow—maybe three feet deep. All my fear-fed, adrenaline-energized strength might have been able to push open the dilapidated coffin-cover, assuming that whoever covered me over hurried away before piling on too much heavy soil. Then again, if I failed, how much oxygen would that effort use up?

My fingers found a familiar shape. Cell phone to the rescue, I thought and sighed relief.

The top flipped open easily and I located the ON button. It sent a haze of light into my tomb. With numb fingers, I felt small coffin-cover cracks in the wood above my head.

Bad news: Dirt particles began to sift onto my face.

Good news: I could easily click on the contact I needed, my lovely newspaper associate Patty in Hyannis. I wasn’t really up to date with the techy world yet; only five names were speed-dialed into my cell phone.

Real bad news: The screen announced dimly, BATTERY LOW. My worst fear had been realized. Shame on me. I should have recharged it. I’m not ever that organized. One of my many faults.

I suppose there are worse fears, like being stuck in a crowded elevator on the fiftieth floor of the Prudential Tower, or being stalled in the middle of the George Washington Bridge when you hear the concrete cracking, or sitting on an airplane when the captain’s panicked voice says, Fasten your seatbelts, we’re going down. But this fear was certainly enough for me.

Stephen Hall, Hyannis newspaper reporter, had been buried alive.

By the way, I’m Stephen Hall.

Chapter One

March 2015

It’s a waste of time, me going back to that little island, Edgartown Police Captain George insisted. He was fat, close to 65, and less than a Rhodes Scholar. No one knows nuthin’. You think you guys on the mainland had it bad; Fawn Island Winter weather was damned lousy—most snow in recorded history. No human being could’ve boated, or even flown to or from that place twenty-four hours either side of the guy’s death. That leaves us with those few who live there year-round.

How many? the barely five-foot-tall DA asked.

Captain George counted on his fingers. Not many more than these, he said, throwing his open hand out a few times. Twenty-nine natives to be exact. One dead. Over three hundred in the summer. Besides, no one’s even come forth to claim the body. What does that tell ya? The police official lit up a filtered Chesterfield, the last one he ever planned to smoke—took a deep puff, and coughed.

Cape and Island’s District Attorney Patrick Neil frowned and said, The coroner, Doctor O’Dell will consent to write a complete report only after you’ve consummated your job. Ever since he became a member of the AAFS, he’s been impossible to reason with. Neil was lean, immaculately dressed, with flawless speech, and maybe five years younger than George.

What the hell’s the AAFS? Captain George asked. Smoke swirled around his full head of silver hair like a halo.

The DA winced at George’s ignorance. The American Academy of Forensic Sciences is to medical examiners and coroners what the American Bar Association is to lawyers, or the American Medical Association is to physicians.

George frowned. So what?

So now he perceives himself as seriously important. He’s driven to perform his duties by the proverbial book. In the old days, he’d scribble his name and move on.

George shrugged and snuffed out his cigarette. I’m finally quittin’, by the way.

The force?

No. Smokin’.

Sure you are. You’ve been quitting ever since the day we met.

The DA perused a few papers on his orderly desk, and then peered into desolate Woods Hole Harbor through his salt-water-stained picture window, where a few hardy lobster boats headed out for a late Winter daily catch. The sun had finally peeked through a few days before, but it was still snowing heavily every week. When it rained, everything froze. Miserable.

George fumbled in his pockets for another cigarette. So that prick O’Dell says he’ll sign off on the Fawn Island death if and when I get a statement from all the inhabitants?

It sounds easy. The census says that only twenty-nine people live there year-round. Three of them are kids. That leaves—ahh, wait a minute while I do the math. Yup. That’s twenty-six, and one is dead, so that leaves twenty-five suspects, if it turns out to be a murder.

I had a hellava time gettin’ any of them to talk to me about the death. And I know most of them personally.

Captain George dug a squashed cigarette out of his back pocket. Most of Fawn Island’s inhabitants are simply odd. I mean, why the hell would anyone live like a hermit out there in the first place?

The DA straightened his silk tie. Possibly they migrated there to get away from people like you, he said and chuckled.

Screw you, too.

DA O’Neil’s features remained impassive. He glanced over George’s head to the far pine-paneled wall carrying several framed pictures—a college graduate diploma from Yale, a law degree from Harvard Law School, and a photo of himself with the late Massachusetts Senator Edward M. Kennedy seated in a small sailboat, both smiling and holding cans of beer.

Neil waved a crooked finger at the police captain. Don’t be a naive asshole all your life, George. I know that you need two more years ’til retirement with full pension. So, how would you like to retire tomorrow?

George closed his mouth and dropped his chin onto his chest like a child who had just been scolded. They just won’t talk to cops, he muttered. I tried, and they won’t talk to me. Some won’t even open the door when I knock. I really don’t blame them. Why the hell do you think they live there year round in the first place? They all want to get away from something or someone, and they don’t want any publicity. Does that make sense?

How about that reporter kid, Stephen Hall? He’s got charm—if nothing else. Amazing psychological factoid, but sometimes people spill their guts to reporters when they really should keep their stupid mouths shut. Hey, all he’s got to do is get each one of them to utter one sentence or two. Then the coroner will have to sign off. That’s all I need.

George smiled. I’m way ahead of you, boss, and Hall ain’t no kid anymore. He’s almost fifty, and I already approached him to take the job. I even offered to pay a few extra bucks out of my own pocket, if he’d help me with the interviews.

And what happened?

He told me to go fuck myself.

Why? Doesn’t he need the dough? Sounds easy enough to me. Had he been drinking?

Captain George withheld a punch. He’d always been a tough cop, one who quite often got in trouble for punching first and asking questions later. The town loved him, and he always somehow avoided punishment. He’s been around the block a few times and said I couldn’t pay him enough to investigate a murder. His life is too precious—risked already one more time than most people. I’m sure you know his Gulf War story. Do you blame him?

This isn’t a murder, and we don’t want anyone thinking so. No big deal. I remember his dad. An honest cop and a good guy. And I remember Stephen when he was a kid—a real good high school athlete, president of his class with a great future. What the hell did happen to him?

The poor kid signed up for a two-year stint when there were no wars in sight, Captain George said. I even encouraged him to do it. Serve two years and you qualify for the GI Bill—lots of college tuition help. Who knew Saddam would invade little Kuwait for their oil? Who the fuck had ever even heard of Saddam? The kid got shot up pretty bad, but survived, came home, drank at lot, and failed at several jobs before being hired as a reporter for the local newspaper.

So maybe he’s our guy. It’ll make a good story for his newspaper.

I already told you that he refused. After getting his ass shot off in Kuwait, he’s shy of anything dangerous. And you have to admit that murder is dangerous.

The DA scowled. Every fucking human being has a price, he said. The fuckin’ Golden Rule. He who has the gold, rules. I have a special hidden bank account to cover things like this. How much do you think he’d take to do the job?

George blew a crooked smoke ring. "If he’d take anything, I’d guess two hundred a day for five days. My guess is that his base pay at the Hyannis Gazette is probably half that."

How about I offer a flat five grand? It’s worth it to me to clean this thing up real quiet. The Clintons still vacation at the Vineyard, and Obama visits every year. What do you think would happen if someone found out some bum got murdered on one of our perfect islands?

George smiled. I’m sure I can get Hall to go for that price. I’d kill my wife for that amount.

You aren’t married, George.

Figure of speech, sir. I’ll talk to Hall. Wars fuck a lot of people up, you know. But he seems to be getting better lately. We play tennis and racquetball every week to stay in shape. And he’s in a hellava lot better shape than me. He could pass for forty, and I know he’s almost fifty.

The DA shook his head. So it’s taken him over twenty-five years to recover. Sad tale. But fuck it. I need him to do this one simple job. All he has to do is ask the year—round inhabitants one simple question. Why did you move to Fawn Island? Do you think he can handle that?

I’ll ask him.

No, shithead. Don’t ask him. Tell him. I don’t give a damn about your friendship with him. All we’re telling him to do is what he does anyway. Interview the islanders, send the report to you, and we’ll turn it over to the coroner who will sign off and close the case.

The DA rubbed his hands together and whispered. By the way, was Kimball murdered? What did the autopsy find?

Captain George rubbed his hands together and then his forehead. Just beans and hot-dogs in his stomach, I think. And a shitload of beer in his veins.

Well, did the man shoot himself or not?

Captain George began biting his cuticles. If you add up everything I found out, we have a poor handyman who once in a while wanders around at night pickin’ his nose and pickin’ off a few of the fawn population just for sport. No one ever complained, especially since his boss is the richest guy on the island and maybe in the state.

And what do you surmise actually happened that night?

It looks as if Charles Kimball had a few too many, took his pistol for a walk up an icy path to that old dormant windmill, fell on the weapon, dragged himself at least a quarter mile, seeking help, through the underbrush to the island’s only paved road, which was covered with snow, and died.

Type of gun?

An ancient German Luger—we think. At least the bullet we found in his gut’s from one.

You didn’t find the weapon?

Nope. Lots of snow. Could be anywhere. Probably reveal itself in the spring.

And you attempted to query every possible suspect?

Hey, man. George masked his frustrated anger. I know how to investigate a case. It’s only a two-mile wide island. I personally headed up the interviews. But I told ya, a lot of them wouldn’t cooperate.

DA O’Neil’s hands clasped and unclasped. When Rose Kennedy passed away several years back, I really thought my job would become much easier. For years, the FBI warned me to keep this area’s reputation as lily-white as possible. And I think I’ve performed a pretty appropriate job. Don’t you, George?

Captain George reached into a Dunkin’ Donut box and removed a cream-filled, chocolate-covered delicacy. You’ve been fortunate.

Now, when it appears as though I can enjoy a respite, and the region seems clean of any scandals, this damned incident pops up. Bury it, George. Bury it fast. I have five grand for him, and a grand for you.

George glowered all over his face. He’s my good friend, man. He’s a reporter—not a private eye.

The DA placed a thin finger against his pulsing temple, his eyes lighting up. Stephen Hall. He’s our patsy. I’ll give him twenty-five hundred up front and the balance when he’s completed the job.

The DA dipped into the box for the final donut. He looked as though he could use an extra few pounds on his small, worried frame. Next year is an election year for me George, and I relish my position. Convince your newspaper friend to travel across the bay to the island, interview the inhabitants—each and every one of them, and then text the reports back to you on a daily basis. If you think things are getting out of hand, I’ll allow you to pull the plug. Does that control satisfy you? What can possibly go wrong? The fuckin’ Fawn Island handyman slipped on the ice and fell on his fuckin’ gun. He’s got to do it, George. For your sake, he’d better.

George hesitated, and then nodded.

The DA delicately licked the sugar off his donut and addressed George with a firm voice. So far the press has printed just one paragraph about the incident. It’s up to us to keep it that way. My secretary will give you a check made out to Hall for twenty-five hundred. Give him a week to produce. Please don’t let me down. Remember your pension. Very few people even know Fawn Island exists. Let’s keep it like that. And by the way, I really am a nice guy. You could ask my friends, if I had any.

Chapter Two

Meet Stephen Hall

And Then There Were None

You got a necktie? Captain George asked as he busted into my office unannounced, sucked in his gut, pulled over a chair and flipped his snow-covered shoes onto the gray metal desk. He was a few inches shorter than me and a good thirty pounds heavier, but only ten years older. He’d worked on the force with my father. He came off the Vineyard a few times a week in an attempt to beat my ass in tennis, racquetball, cribbage, and down a few brews.

I usually won the brew exercise.

Patty followed my cop friend into the office along with two black coffees and what was left of a box of Dunkin’ Donuts. Captain George mentally undressed Patty as she left the room to fetch him some sugar. She was in her early forties, well preserved by working out three or four days a week at the local health club, with extraordinarily long, thick brunette hair, seriously firm, oversized breasts. She wore too much bright red lipstick around white, sparkling teeth. None of my business Hall, but when the hell are you two gonna get married? You’ll never do any better than Patty. She talks like a trooper, too, which fits right into your comfort zone.

Dad told me to stay a bachelor, and bring my kids up the same way, I told him with a chuckle.

Patty overheard. Don’t worry, George. I’d rather want something I never had than have something I never wanted.

George let loose a wide grin. It revealed a missing tooth, lost during a college athletic endeavor years ago and never replaced. He flipped a Cape Cod Standard Times onto my desk. The paper was dated Tuesday, February 14, 2015. It was the area’s only daily, and it was a month old. Page five, middle of the page, he said and picked a piece of donut out of his teeth.

I opened my top drawer and removed a pair of half reading glasses I had bought off the CVS store rack for less than ten bucks.

DA NOT SIGNED OFF ON HANDYMAN FOUND SHOT ON FAWN ISLAND, read the headline.

Not this again, I said with a yawn. I remember last week you tried to coerce me into going over there and writing about it. Well, fuck you again. I survived the fuckin’ Gulf War by the skin of my ass, and I’m not gonna help you investigate any murders. I value my sorry excuse for a life too much.

Hold your water, Stephen. The fool slipped and fell on his gun. It was an obvious accident. Not a murder.

Patty reentered the room, moved some clutter aside and seated herself on the divan, her skirt riding up a bit to reveal a pair of shapely legs. George pulled out a pack of filtered Chesterfields and offered me one, though he knew I’d quit over ten years before. He grinned when I held up a hand, then lit one for himself with a disposable lighter shaped like a rifle bullet. A cloud of smoke swirled toward the broken ceiling fan.

This killing’s got the DA’s office in an uproar because the coroner won’t sign the accidental death certificate, he said, coughing. The deceased was a nobody. We can’t even locate any family or friends who give a shit.

I waved my hand at the smoke. You’re gonna kill yourself with those cancer sticks.

I’m quitting yesterday. George laughed. At least I’ve switched to filters. He snuffed his cigarette out under his foot on the wooden office floor.

And you’re a slob, too, I added. Tell me about the coroner. Why does he give a damn about some dead handyman?

I investigated personally, George said. Interviewed some of the residents. You know that most people don’t like to talk to cops. I got enough information to convince myself that the deceased went for a walk on a snowy night, then slipped and fell on his gun. Unfortunately, the asshole coroner wants a complete report. That includes a statement from everyone who was on the island when the death occurred.

And that’s how many? Patty asked.

Twenty-nine! Well I mean twenty-eight. One’s now dead.

That shouldn’t be hard, Patty said.

What’s a complete report? I asked.

Patty kept crossing and recrossing her dynamite legs, making it difficult for me to concentrate on George’s story. Do men get hornier when they reach fifty? I asked myself a lot lately.

A simple statement from twenty-eight people, George said. At least the adults. Three of them are kids. And I found out that one of them is a pilot and wasn’t there. So that makes twenty-four. I got partial statements from eight. The rest refused to speak to me.

I don’t see this accident as a very big deal, George, Patty said. I wrote a blurb about it in our paper last month and never got even one telephone call.

You sure the guy fell on his gun? I asked, trying to be confrontational.

George answered. I can’t say I’ve witnessed a lot of dead bodies on Martha’s Vineyard and surrounding islands in my long tenure as a cop. But I saw the corpse, and then I went over the death scene with a fine toothed comb. Of course the island, like everywhere else this sucky Winter, was covered with snow and ice. The unwritten rules say that in order to label a murder you have to have a body, a weapon, and a motive. All I found was the body, and I’d swear it was accidental. His blood/alcohol content count was over double the accepted point-ten.

I’d just twist the little coroner’s arm ’til he signed, Patty said and yawned. Isn’t that what you cops usually do? And I’ve met him. He’s a little wuss.

Ha, ha! I wish it were that easy. George rubbed his pudgy hands together, and then looked back and forth from Patty to me. DA Neil wants to put the whole affair to bed. He gave me a lecture on how pure this area has to remain at all times. He also verbalized a veiled threat about my forthcoming retirement and hard-earned pension.

Neil threatened you? Patty asked, suddenly interested. She didn’t accept unfairness in life. She was constantly digging up stories about the downtrodden and less fortunate. A women’s libber in the first degree. Hey, maybe that’s why I love—I mean like her so much.

Captain George fumbled through the donut box for a jelly-filled. Somehow I have to gather statements from everyone—or I’m screwed.

Sounds like the DA doesn’t even care about the facts, I said.

George began biting his cuticles until they bled. He wants you to go out there and interview everyone, in a reporter’s role. He’ll pay good money. He just wants the whole thing to go away. President Clinton’s family used to visit the Vineyard in the summer. Obama‘s been there for the past few years. What do you think a murder investigation would do to the area’s reputation? Have you ever heard about a murder anywhere near there?

I flashed a quick glance at Patty. She shrugged. Come to think of it, I said, the DA does do a pretty good job of solving the few they have behind the scenes, or aren’t there ever any?

George didn’t answer, but I could feel the cop wanted something. We all sat in silence for a very long minute, and then George finally opened up. How about you go over there and interview the residents, Stephen? For old times’ sake. I know you don’t want to. But I promise it’ll be safe. If you run into any trouble, I’ll hightail it over there in a helicopter—post haste.

I immediately thought George’s suggestion a silly idea, but I did owe back rent and a few other bills.

Just pretend you’re doing an article for your local rag, he said. About—? About—? What would be a good topic that would make sense?

Patty uncrossed her legs again and leaned toward George. She was the creative one. How about this idea as a topic? Why do normal people choose to isolate themselves away from society? Isn’t that what those twenty-nine year-rounders are doing?

Sounds good to me, George said.

Patty again spoke. Tell us, George—you mentioned that the DA would pay Stephen to do the interviews. How much exactly?

Five thousand.

Patty rose from her chair and walked to my desk, grabbed a honey-dipped, took a dainty bite, and slowly licked her fingers—one by one. I felt the licks in the pit of my stomach. She smiled and nodded.

I suppose I could use five thousand, I said. You told us that the handyman slipped and fell on his gun accidentally. Right?

Captain George wrinkled his already wrinkled forehead. Like I said, the guy wasn’t murdered. He got drunk and went for a walk. So all you gotta do is go out there and ask the natives why they live there. That’s the plot of the interview. Then, you nonchalantly ask, by the way, not really important, but I’m just curious, where were you the night Kimball fell down and froze to death. You tell ’em it’s not for the interview, but just your curiosity. Ya get my gist? Hey man, it’ll be the easiest five gees you ever earned. Here’s half of it in advance. And by the way, because I’m honest, the DA is giving me a thousand if I can get you to take the job.

George reached across the office desk and pressed an envelope into my hand, and then excused himself to find the bathroom. In his absence, Patty and I tossed the peculiar idea back and forth. What if the guy did get murdered? she whispered.

But George and the DA said it was an accident, I said, not actually sold on either result. I did need the money, and while the DA was a typical sleazebag politician, George was just the opposite.

Patty pulled up an uncomfortable wooden chair beside my desk, close enough for her knee to touch mine; close enough for me to smell her perfume. She knew all my Achilles’ heels. Ten years ago that intimacy would have been enough to give me a woody. Maybe even last year. But at forty-nine, naked in my Snow White mirror, I witness that testosterone levels obviously lower themselves. Thank goodness that some horny mad scientist invented Viagra.

I have an idea that may make your trip worthwhile—even more worthwhile than the money, she whispered, blowing tickling breath in my ear. The feeling I received from that mild and supposedly harmless action told me that she had piqued my interest, and my penis. I never needed Viagra when I was with her. Yeah. I’m listening, I said.

"Ever see the Alfred Hitchcock movie, The Ten Little Indians?" she asked. "It’s from an Agatha Christie novel entitled And Then There Were None."

I quickly searched my forgetful gray cells. Give me a hint. Was it a Cowboy and Indian movie?

The plot is about ten people invited by an unknown host to a small island mansion, and one by one they get knocked off until there are only two left. A handsome man and a beautiful woman.

Clever! And then what? Obviously, one of them is guilty. Dah.

And then the movie viewers have to figure out which one is guilty. Your job at Fawn will be to mentally eliminate twenty-seven of the twenty-eight left alive. Sounds like fun to me.

I thought Kimball fell on his gun.

I’m sure he did, but my life’s ambition is to write a great mystery novel and win a Pulitzer. What could be better than this one? It worked for Agatha. Why not for Patty?

I knew that Patty liked to write fiction, and often submitted short stories to a Cape Cod writing group. I never showed much interest. My fault, I confessed to myself. Maybe—?

She grabbed my balls hard and squeezed. "How about you go to the island, get the statements by pretending you’re writing a story about why normal people move to remote areas? You say that it’s going to be printed in the Gazette. They’ll buy that. Captain George will get what he needs, and I’ll get enough material to weave a Ten Little Indians plot. I love the possibilities. My first novel, and maybe a Pulitzer."

Ouch! Maybe my Patty has a good idea for a saleable plot, especially since this one is based on fact. Ouch again. I’ll go! I’ll go! Let go! Let go!

She gently let go and lightly patted my crotch. Thanks, partner. You won’t regret helping me.

I moved across the room to another desk. My father used to visit the island every summer, I said. And he never told me why. I always wondered. Maybe I’ll find out. So I’ll go over there and text you every day. Will that suffice, sweetheart? I actually think for five grand, I’d swim over there.

Chapter Three

A Wet Wave Goodbye

Every summer I recall vacationing on my father’s wooden, forty-foot powerboat. We fished and played around the humid and, to me, incredibly boring islands off the Cape. My father’s favorite island was the smallest—Fawn Island located on the southeastern tip of the Elizabethan Islands, across the sound from the Vineyard. Just two miles wide and real quaint, Fawn had twenty-nine inhabitants in the Winter, and a bit over three hundred in the Summer. The most exciting event there occurred when the wild deer ate out of tourists’ hands.

Maybe it was the solitude that appealed to my father. I never knew, and my dad never revealed the attraction.

Every season on Fawn Island one day is set aside for legal hunting