Secrets of Flint River

By Lillian Mae Crosby

Detective John Winslow is bulldog determined.  Even though he prefers big cities, he has settled into marriage with a small town girl that he has loved since childhood.  Brownsville, West Virginia, does not have a lot of crime, but suddenly he is confronted by the disappearance of two young women and the murder of a stranger  who

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lillian M. Crosby
• Release date: Jun 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532346156

Book preview

BROWNSVILLE AND DEATH

AT FORTY-NINE, Winslow looked 40. He didn’t look like a Brownsville-ite, either. A few strands of sparse brown hair occasionally fell forward onto his high forehead, and his unruly eyebrows over deep-set brown eyes, distracted those meeting him for the first time. Growing up strong and smart, he studied the nuances of human behavior, and a confident attitude sat on his square jaw like an implied banner, Don’t even think of messing with me. Determined, tenacious, and competitive, were qualities highly respected in Brownsville, and he had them all. Standing at five-nine, Winslow wanted to be taller, but it became unimportant. The words of his Father stuck with him: Son, if it’s worth sinking your teeth into, it’s worth staying until you get what you went in for, and he usually did. His semi-cocky manner and impeccable Wall Street dress – suit, tie and polished shoes – branded him big city.

Brownsville’s economy depended on coal mining and glass factories. When the mines and factories were running, the pay was good. When demand was down, or the workers struck, the state or federal governments, or their respective unions, paid strike benefits, food stamps, and unemployment benefits. Most young men, not having the money, education, or motivation, followed in their fathers' footsteps, and half-heartedly looked for another job. When a mine exploded, those lucky enough to survive, swore to God, their wives and girlfriends, and most of all to themselves, to quit the mines. Some tried to keep their word, but there was an inexplicable, seductive lure to the black and dangerous underground. After things settled, they were back with a lot more caution and fear, but convinced nothing would happen to them. Black Lung, hacking dry coughs, breathing difficulties, unemployment, strikes, and drudgery, would continue for them. Winslow’s Dad, Thomas, made sure he didn’t follow into the underground blackness. I want more for you son. Don’t want you dying like I’m probably going to. His breathing became more and more labored, and his cough grew worse, but that wasn’t what killed him. The explosion at the mine reverberated throughout the valley. There are many sounds a coal miner can’t identify, but a mine explosion isn’t one of them. News crews converged like carnivorous armies of hungry ants as bodies were brought out to screaming widows and children. Winslow's vigil at the mine entrance was interrupted by a newsman, who asked, How do you feel?

How the hell do you think I feel with my Dad in that hellhole? Get that damn microphone out of my face. He became a man that day, and his resolve deepened to get out of Brownsville, and away from black dust, and death. He wasn’t yet fully aware that he had an unshakable emotional attachment to this unforgiving town. Memories of running through open fields of freshly plowed earth, the smell of clover, field-dried hay, swinging on grapevines and dropping into Flint River’s choppy surface, would always be part of him. There probably wasn’t a steam or cave that he didn’t know about or explored, although as a boy he never heard the word spelunker. He may have laughed if he had. Although he was taught to hunt and shoot, he liked simply being in the woods more than killing deer, even though it was considered a big sport.

At 19 he joined the Marines, vowing never to return to Brownsville. However, he awoke in the middle of the night aching to hold his girlfriend, Mary, and acknowledged that he loved her unconditionally. When they were six, the seat behind her in school became his. Her long, black braids, with dress-matching ribbons, reached to her waist. Temptation often got the better of him, and he gently tugged her braids until she turned to face him and pretended anger. They both knew, even then, that this was a game played only by those you liked a lot. He returned to Brownsville, settled into marriage with Mary, and accepted the indefinable culture of the city. Mary was not particularly pretty, her face an enigma of sorts. Her too-close together blue eyes looked over high cheekbones, a turned-up nose, and betrayed her emotions. To Winslow, though, Mary would always be beautiful; her pacific personality soothed him.

Brownsville was comprised of sub-cultures, a variety of personalities and class levels. Most wouldn’t harm anyone if left alone, but those women who didn’t have jobs, gossiped over back-yard fences, clotheslines, and Tupperware parties. The men gossiped over beers after a hard day’s work. Women watched the soaps religiously, not daring to miss a single episode. Jane Lowe was so caught up in The Guiding Light that she asked for prayer for one of its characters whom, she wept with great pity and concern, was undergoing major surgery. Most selectively read the newspapers: Sports, Comics, Ann Landers, Erma Bombeck, and the Daily Horoscope, skipping the Editorial. Winslow read the Editorial first. Petty crime was 99% of the town’s crime rate. Young punks stole cigarettes or liquor, ran out without paying, and drove around in their old jalopies, drinking, smoking, picking up girls, and bragging about their daring escapades. When apprehended, the kids were taken home to their parents for whatever justice they meted out. There had been only two murder cases in 10 years. Mike Taylor shot his wife, Fanny, because after 45 years of marriage, he accused her of putting poison in his coffee. Knowing Fanny, as Winslow did, he thought Mike might be right. Also, two local toughs were still in jail for robbing and shooting Bill Toby and his wife. It hadn’t taken Winslow long to arrest Sam Tollover, the head of a New-Orleans-based drug smuggling ring. Tollover had bought Winslow’s undercover guise. Hell, man, you look like a hippie. Winslow waved his finger in his face and told him he’d rather be a hippie a drug dealer. If anyone ever waved a finger in his face, he would’ve bitten it off. With Tollover in jail, Winslow didn’t waste much time thinking about him. However, sometimes his face crept in and was quickly dismissed. Something bad was going on in Brownsville, though, and Winslow wondered if Tollover had anything to do with it, but guessed not. If not Tollover, then who?

TEMPTATION AND DEATH

THE JOHN Doe stretched out on a slab in the morgue had arrived in town on a dirt-streaked Greyhound scenic-cruiser. Across the street at the National Bank, a neon banner read, 10:20 P.M. 20 degrees. Best rate for your mortgage. Freezing rain slashed at the Greyhound’s windows, and he wrote his name on the interior window’s mist and watched the slips of moisture slide down like tears and disappear into the cleft of the window. He was glad he would soon be off the bus and rid of the clacking windshield wipers slicing through the silence that had descended upon the weary, bleary-eyed passengers. The old lady across the aisle, unaware she had reached her destination, still snored, and spittle drooled from her slack mouth. He glanced at her quickly, and a made-up picture of a grandmother he would never know surreptitiously entered his mind. Did my grandmother look like that? Did she drool like the old lady? With a wry smile, he guessed she probably did. He helped her with the overhead bag. Would she accept my help if she knew I’d been a gang member?

When Ed began his trip, a beautiful young woman dressed in a short black leather skirt, a tight red wool sweater, and black leather boots, caught his attention. He took the seat beside her. Tall and curvy, with nearly violent eyes and black hair that hung to the middle of her back, he thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Where are you headed? she asked casually. She looked him full in the face, shifted into a more comfortable position, and stretched her long legs onto the footrest. Ordinarily, he might have spoken first, but he had been thinking about his girlfriend. Well, he finally drawled, anywhere this thing takes me I guess. Don’t rightly know yet.

I don’t know where I’m headed either, she replied. Sometimes I just go, you know what I mean? She didn’t wait for an answer. Every time I take a bus, I swear I’ll never do it again, but I’m so damn scared of flying.

Yeah, me too, he answered, wondering why he bothered to lie to a complete stranger. He loved flying, but couldn’t afford it. At the bus stops, they shared paper-thin tasteless burgers and chicken sandwiches smeared with bad-tasting mayonnaise. She asked him, unexpectedly, if he wanted to stop for the night. Although not figuring her for a virgin, he hadn’t expected a proposition. I’m short of cash right now, he said. She said it didn’t matter. Anyone ever told you that you’re a beautiful lady? She shook her head yes. Many times," she said, with a slight smile, and asked his name. She slightly nudged his elbow and leaned enticingly close, and he justified his feelings by telling himself the chick was beautiful. Any guy would do it wouldn’t they? Betty will never know. Hell, it’s only sex. Not love. Usually the girl got paid for spending the night with men, but she liked Ed and sometimes she felt the need for closeness. Finding a close-by motel, they checked in, showered and fell into bed. He didn’t immediately reach for her. Instead, he lit a cigarette and began to blow smoke rings before feeling her hot breath in his ear. The cigarette comes later. Quickly snuffing the cigarette in a blue plastic ashtray, he turned to her and she shivered like a gentle wind in the trees on a calm summer day. Suddenly he jerked away. I’m really sorry, he said, but I’ve a girlfriend back home. I just can’t do it.

Surprised, she said, It‘s okay." She rolled out of bed and reached for a cigarette.

I’m really going to Brownsville to find someone, he confessed.

West Virginia? You’re joking, right?

No joke.

Brownsville's my hometown, she said. Can you believe that? Been a long time since I’ve been back. I usually can’t wait to get away.

If the place is so bad, why go back?

To look up an old friend or two. Listen, here’s a phone number in case you need anything. Maybe they can help you find who you are looking for. Who is it?

My sister. He slipped the phone number in his jacket pocket and zipped it closed. Know anyone by name of Barnhart?

No, nobody.

His leather jacket with SPIDER imprinted on the back gave him a feeling of power, even though he was no longer a gang member. He clung to the jacket, reluctant to give up the memories that went with it: nights of drunken revelry, all-night lovemaking with girls stoned out of their minds, two-day hangovers, and then more of the same. He and his best buddy, Bill Wagner, got Spider tattoos on their right buttocks like the rest of the gang members. Being a Spider ceased to be fun. By then, he had met Betty, but they never married. He wanted to find his family first.

Reaching Brownsville, Ed and the girl wished each other good luck and parted ways. He slung his green duffle bag full of both clean and dirty clothes over his shoulder as he exited the bus and looked for a taxi to take him to the nearest motel. After checking into the Timberlake Motel, he headed across the street for yet another hamburger at the open-all-night diner. His waitress reminded him of an old Jersey cow chewing her cud. When she bent over and wiggled her enormous butt, the men at the counter laughed uproarishly. Later in bed, he couldn’t get his mind off the waitress and the polyester pants that hugged her fat, cellulite-laden butt, revealing every line and crease of its unattractive and jiggling mass. He closed his eyes, but she was still there, with her off-color yellow tee shirt that bore traces of food he couldn’t identify. In a continuing nightmare, he saw heaping plates of greasy burgers and fries shoved down in front of customers as the waitress stuck her tongue through wads of gum and popped bubbles in their faces. He swore never to eat another hamburger. Sleeping later than usual, he was anxious to get started with his search for his sister. He had two phone numbers now, having asked the taxi driver who in town knew everything about everybody. Call Bill Starkey, the cabbie said. If there’s dirt on anyone, he’ll know. If not, he’ll know that, too. Number’s in the book. He checked the phone book hanging on a chain in a phone booth, but found no Barnharts. At least the pages are here, he thought. He hated wrestling with an unruly phone book only to discover that some thoughtless bastard had ripped out the pages he needed.

He spent his day walking around town looking in windows, observing people, asking questions, and stopping at Morton’s for lunch. Studying the menu fastened with Scotch tape to the outside window, he saw he could get a bowl of vegetable soup and a drink for a dollar and a quarter. He was damned sure he wasn’t going to order a burger. Customers turned to watch as he found a seat at the long, curved counter, and exchanged pleasantries with a few of them hunched over the counter, their elbows supporting their chins. "Know any Barnharts around here?’ The waitress said no. Other customers within hearing range, almost in unison, shook their heads no. A couple of young girls observed him under lowered lids, giggling when he glanced in their direction.

An old gray sweatshirt with UCLA embroidered on the front showed under his jacket, and attracted some attention. The shirt cost a quarter at a yard sale, and it had become his favorite. It didn’t fit his image, but he never attended UCLA, either. Had he been in the right mood, he might have shown the customers his Spider tattoo. Brownsville was not Dallas, so he decided to behave. He hadn’t come to fight, and he didn’t relish the idea of spending a night in jail for indecent exposure. Returning to the Timberlake around 4:00, he didn’t know much more than when he arrived, but the residents of Brownsville knew about him. Somebody nosin’ around, they said. Just for the hell of it, and because he needed more information, he dialed the number the girl gave him. The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Most of the next day was spent nosin around before he called Starkey.

Starkey's Funeral Parlor. May I help you?

You Bill Starkey?

Yes, sir. How can I be of help?

Nobody’s dead, so don’t get your hopes up. He heard a slight laugh.

"Do you have a few minutes? I was told you know a lot about this town and might be able to help me