The House Where Charlie Lived

By Clint Miller, Jr.

In 1963, a quiet seashore community becomes the focus of an intense police dragnet when Thomas Lepp gunned down three New Jersey state troopers. Artis Weyland, inspector with the High Crimes Division, leads the man-hunt for the man suspected of brutally killing his wife, Emma, and her son, Charlie. On this night, the dead will speak. Nearly fifty years later, Allen and Jennifer Cherones, along with their son, Carl, have purchased a two-story house through their good friend and realtor, Ronald Avery. To help fix it up, Allen turns to his brother, Doug, and together the three set out to turn it into a dream home. “You’ve never heard of Thomas Lepp? He’s this towns own version of the Jersey Devil.” What seems like a deal too good to be true turns into a real nightmare for the young Cherones family. They seek the help of their new neighbors, Dorothy and Roger Faustine, who help them unravel the home’s bloody past. When the ghostly threat becomes all too deadly, the family realizes the former residents of this house have never left and are now looking to reclaim The House Where Charlie Lived.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 9, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462834273

Clint Miller, Jr.

Clint Miller Jr. was born on the Jersey shore where he became interested in ghost lore. Inspired by films like Amityville Horror, the Changeling, and the Entity, as well as the written works of Hans Holzer, he became an enthusiast and ghost researcher. He wrote his first full-length novel, The House Where Charlie Lived. Now living in Florida, he has written the long awaited follow up, Ragsheet and has recently begun work on his next novel, Spores, Molds, and other Alien Life Forms.

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Copyright © 2008 by Clint Miller, Jr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

A Death in Neptune City

Chapter Two

202 Exeter Street—Home of Thomas C. Lepp

Chapter Three

Office of the Monmouth County Prosecutor

Chapter Four

The Grieving: Cicero and Adele Howard

Chapter Five

On Target Hunting Lodge—Ocean County

Chapter Six

Monmouth County Corrections

Chapter Seven

Lepp: The Harbinger of Death

Chapter Eight

Aftermath: Consequences and Retaliation

Chapter Nine

Christmas at the Cherones’

Chapter Ten

Doug’s Near Death Experience

Chapter Eleven

The Mysterious Death of John Gilhooley

Chapter Twelve

The Final Case for Bernard Hoenle, M.D.

Chapter Thirteen

The Exeter House Revisited

Chapter Fourteen

Ghost House: First-Day Jitters

Chapter Fifteen

First-Night Jitters

Chapter Sixteen

Old-Fashioned Ghost Stories

Chapter Seventeen

Night Terrors and the Morning After

Chapter Eighteen

Buyer’s Remorse

Chapter Nineteen

Half-Assed Investigation

Chapter Twenty

Jennifer’s Day

Chapter Twenty-One

The Return of Artis Weyland

Chapter Twenty-Two

Violation: The Camel’s Back

Chapter Twenty-Three

An Electrician from New Hampshire

Chapter Twenty-Four

A True Investigation Is Underway

Chapter Twenty-Five

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Chapter Twenty-Six

Retaliation: The Death of Artis Weyland

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Dog Daze of Summer

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Police Involvement

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epicenter: Lepp’s Secret Revealed

Chapter Thirty

Raising the Dead

Chapter Thirty-One

Lepp Unbound

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Darkness and the Light

Dedicated to

Ashley

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Anita Nelson, Ashley Chancy, Bart Coxx, Carole J. Brandi, Daria R. Marino, Elaine Miller, Elena Chancy, Melanie Langworthy, and Tim Graziano. Acting as my muse and my encouragement, they would keep me honest to my dream, supplied the often-necessary kick to keep me going, and offered me help when I needed it. It takes a group of talented people this size to make me sound good. Thank you all.

Chapter One

She would have been screaming as he pressed down on the back of her head. Depending on the sharpness of the hacksaw he used, it would have taken two, maybe three cuts before he reached her neck bone. She would have struggled, so the cuts were not neat. He would have severed several arteries on the side of her neck, so she may have choked on her own blood, but once he started cutting into her spinal cord, she would have lost consciousness and stopped struggling. Blood would have drained from her head quickly and she would be dead in only a few seconds.

—Bernard Hoenle, when asked to speculate if Emma had suffered

A Death in Neptune City

It was Wednesday, October 2, 1963.

Artis Weyland was a New Jersey inspector, an eleven-year veteran working with the Homicide Unit out of the Monmouth County High Crimes Division. A man of considerable stature and sizable girth, he had just finished this week’s paperwork early and was ready to sign out.

Weyland’s phone rang. He was about to ignore the call; he actually fought the urge to just walk away from it, sign out for the day, and go home. Instead he picked up the receiver, held it to his ear, and mumbled, Yeah.

Inspector Weyland? Lieutenant Englebrecht’s voice was sharp, throaty, and unmistakable. We just received a phone call from the Coroner’s Office. Dr. Hoenle has requested you meet him out in the field.

Weyland didn’t say anything, but Englebrecht fell into the trap of mispronouncing the doctor’s name—by accenting the O—as did most new transfers to the department. The doctor’s name was properly pronounced as Hen-lee.

Inspector, are you still there?

Yeah, Weyland repeated. I was just about to head out for the day. L.T., I’ve been working the last six days— In fact, today was to be his Friday and he was looking forward to his two consecutive days off. He had worked hard the last six days. His shifts usually lasted twelve hours a day and fourteen on the weekends. The last thing he was looking for was more overtime, especially since he didn’t get paid extra for it.

Weyland, all our inspectors are out on the field already. Besides, Hoenle asked for you by name. Just take a look on your way home tonight. What do you say?

Yeah, okay. Where am I going?

Top man, Englebrecht exclaimed. Meet Hoenle out on West Sylvania Avenue. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. The brass and I will remember this, Art.

Sure you will, Weyland said as he hung up the receiver. He looked up at the wall above the door. The hands on the clock steadily approached four.

*     *     *

After a quick call home to tell his wife, Francine, that he would be late, Weyland grabbed his overcoat from the back of his chair and left the State Police Headquarters. He dropped down behind the wheel of his 1961 dirt-brown Plymouth Belvidere, and headed east.

Born and raised here at the Jersey Shore, Weyland was happy to be heading home. It was a thirty-minute drive from Freehold. He headed east on Route 18, hugging the northern border of the Naval Ammunition Depot Earle, then headed south past Asbury Park, toward the small town of Neptune City.

Monmouth County has always had it’s share of burglaries, car thefts, disorderly conducts, and domestic disputes like every other area, but this year, New Jersey would experience 181 reported murders. Weyland already had a stack of homicide files sitting on his desk, as did the other seven inspectors working out of the Prosecutor’s Office in Freehold. Now he was off to investigate yet another.

It was after 4:30 PM by the time he reached Neptune City.

A cold rain had fallen for the last two nights, turning the road slick. Weyland’s Belvidere was a heavy, 440 cubic-inch, six-cylinder big block, unmarked patrol car that was so powerful that it’s chassis shook violently and could be heard coming down the street. Its tires slashed through the puddles that collected in the uneven asphalt and turned the corner off Sylvania Avenue where his fellow state troopers had already cordoned off the entire side street not fifty yards from the major intersection. Several radio cars had also been dispatched to reroute traffic.

As Weyland slowed and approached the roadblock, two state troopers removed the wooden barricades and allowed him to pass. Once through the barriers, Weyland pulled his car along the side of the road where several more troopers stood, backs turned away from the street.

As he threw the car into park with his right hand, his left hand had already moved to open the door. He pulled himself out of the seat, straightened his tie, and retrieved his overcoat from the back seat.

Inspector, the patrolman charged with traffic detail asked, Where’ve you been?

Weyland didn’t answer him. Instead, he shut his door and moved toward the larger group of officers standing near the runoff pipe at the lip of the ravine. As he walked, he continued to pull the lint from his tie. Who’s in charge? he asked as he scanned the horizon of pitch pine trees overshadowed by the larger oaks.

DiBella, the patrolman responded.

The spurned officer returned to his partner as Weyland approached another man who joined his fellow officers as they peered down into the ravine.

What have we got here, Tony? Weyland called to him.

State Trooper Anthony DiBella was a squat, balding man with a thick mustache centered on his rounded face. He turned to Weyland and said, I think it might be Emma McCant. A body of a young woman had been discovered just outside a drainage outlet referred to by the locals as Echo Pipe located at the bottom of a huge crevasse in the earth. It overlooked a retention pond that closely resembled a small lake connected by an extensive series of drainage pipes where the rain from the street collected.

Emma McCant?

That Negro woman reported missing several days ago—

I know the case, Weyland snapped. "What else have you got?"

DiBella’s eyebrows rose. "Well that’s all they let this lowly beat cop know. Dr. Hoenle’s down there. I’m sure he’ll want to see you. I think he’s been asking for you personally."

I heard. Weyland took a few uneasy steps closer to the edge of the ravine and looked down his nose. It was a good forty-foot incline to the bottom. Why me?

"A family of nigs moves into a white neighborhood, DiBella theorized. Ask me, it was bound to happen. Way I see it, some of their neighbors didn’t think they belonged."

There are other black families living in this area, Weyland argued. We haven’t had that kind of trouble around these parts for some time.

DiBella didn’t bother to say anything, which suited Weyland just fine.

From here, Weyland could see the County Medical Examiner, Dr. Bernard Hoenle and his assistant, Jack Bartells, standing over the corpse, which by now was covered in an old army blanket. All Weyland could see were the dead woman’s two-toned feet, bloated and pruned, sticking out of the blanket.

A few years back, during Weyland’s first year as an inspector, he was investigating the death of two men in Howell. He was impetuous and eager to prove himself to his bosses when he was invited to appear at a coroner’s inquest by the request of Dr. Hoenle. A few years older than Weyland, Hoenle argued that the two men died by accidental means.

Weyland, however, believed the third man, who admitted that he was in the apartment, had murdered the two men. The young man claimed the two men were very much alive when he left. Hoenle openly attacked Weyland’s apparent lack of record keeping, alleging that Weyland was incompetent despite the fact that Weyland had collected a sizable stack of circumstantial evidence against the young man. In the end, Hoenle’s theories prevailed and the man was eventually released.

Weyland didn’t particularly like Hoenle. Weyland found Hoenle arrogant and the two hit it off like oil and water, but he found him to be the best at what he did. For that, Weyland respected him. Dr. Hoenle, you almost done? Weyland called down from atop the hill overlooking the ravine. Can you come up here?

I need you down here, Hoenle called up.

The patrolmen had lowered down an old wooden board tied to several ropes to help Hoenle bring up the body. Come on, drag her up. We can talk better up here.

There’s something I want to show you, was Hoenle’s response.

Weyland stepped back. His shoes were caked in soft mud. Last night’s rain left the hill soft and spongy. If he was going to slip and fall into that ditch, he certainly didn’t need witnesses. Why don’t you lowly beat cops go earn your pay? It isn’t helping all of you guys standing around gawking. Start checking with the neighbors. Go door to door if you have to. See if anyone heard or saw something.

Grumbling, the small group of state troopers moved on.

As Weyland approached the lip of the ravine a second time, he took a deep breath and stepped over the edge of the cement curb. He carefully grabbed hold of one of the ropes and began an uneasy decent into the ravine.

His feet sunk into the wet mud and on several occasions he nearly slipped.

Hoenle watched, but if he were enjoying this, he didn’t let it show on his face.

I just got the phone call, Weyland said as he grabbed hold of the rope and lowered himself to the basin floor. A Negro woman ends up dead and they tell me you want me to drop what I’m doing and come down here right away. What’s the rush? Can’t this wait a couple days?

The remains are of a black female, possibly in her thirties, Hoenle told him. I estimate she’s been dead seventy-two, no more than ninety-six hours.

Weyland finally reached the bottom and his feet quickly begun to sink deeper into the mud. Actually, I have several open investigations, he told Hoenle. I have other missing persons and homicide cases to solve that take priority over this case. He tried to step up on higher ground but it was no use. I assume this is Emma McCant, age thirty-six—of 202 Exeter Boulevard? We already know that a missing persons was reported two days ago.

"You are aware of the McCant missing persons case? Hoenle was astonished. How did you hear about it?"

I read the police bulletins every morning. Weyland then added, I have a high retention rate when it comes to reading.

You and Truman Capote.

Who? The way I see it, Doc, you really don’t need me. Call in the meat wagon, turn it over to the local P.D., and consider it case closed. Weyland paused, took a deep breath, and added, Let me ask you something: you think she might be a prostitute?

Hoenle paused, What makes you think that?

Don’t take this the wrong way, but she’s Negro—young and left naked on the side of the road. Weyland turned away as if distracted by something far off in the trees.

Yeah and all us Jews talk like Jackie Mason. Hoenle’s laugh was uneasy and staged. You’re a real piece of work. You know that? He produced a small tape recorder from his pocket and began to record himself. "Due to the nature of the remains, the identity of Jane Doe is inconclusive. An alternate means of identification will be needed to collaborate police findings due to the fact that the skull has been removed at the forth vertebrae—as well as her hands at the wrists. He hit the stop button on the recorder and spoke directly to Weyland. If a client killed his prostitute, I doubt he would have taken the time to cut off her head and hands. No. This was done to prevent us from identifying her too quickly."

What did you say? Weyland turned back to face Hoenle. You don’t have her head?

That’s right, beamed Bartells. Take a look. Bartells pulled back the sheet and exposed the remains of the headless woman. She lay face down, partially buried in sedge and mud. Her skin had turned a purplish-gray, and her flesh was bloated and wrinkled. Along her back were marks and scrapes. Not from the fall, though. These were older scars and bruises that would have healed in time if given the chance.

Doc, Weyland pleaded. Christ, Doc, do I really have to see this? The wife’s got dinner waiting—

Hoenle was doing this to torture him, this much Weyland was sure. If she were beautiful at one time, it was no longer apparent. Did she drown and then someone took her head, or you think she was dragged here?

We won’t know until we get her to the office, Bartells said. We’ll see if there’s evidence of water in the lungs. The condition of the remains shows evidence of exposure. The skin is loose and lifted from the body. Take a look at the edges here on her neck.

Weyland watched Bartells handle the corpse—touching and poking it. In his eleven years, he had seen his share of dead bodies, but what Hoenle’s team did was to get close and personal with the victim—something Weyland wasn’t used to. His job was simply to collect the coroner’s report, fill out his own report, and head the investigation. To get close and personal with the living, that was Weyland’s job.

The skin looks all chewed up, Hoenle said. The blade was most likely serrated, suggesting a knife. The cuts are long—

It could have been a hacksaw, but the cuts along here are shorter, uneven cuts. Not very neat.

A struggle, Hoenle concluded. Whoever did this to her had balls. He took her head off while she was still alive.

Hoenle lowered his voice to stress the importance of his words. Weyland, take a look at this scarring along her back. This woman obviously took a lot of beatings in her life. She has what looks like a broken arm that was never treated properly, multiple bruises and injuries all in various stages of healing.

Bartells added, Several new bruises here on her upper torso as well.

Okay, Hoenle instructed. Let’s turn her over.

Bartells rolled her onto her back. Whether there was vermicular life active this time of year or not, something had begun to eat away at her flesh.

Whether it was more the smell of stagnate water or feces that was getting to him, Weyland pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, looked away, and held the handkerchief to his face.

So you’re saying her husband may have been beating her? Weyland asked while looking the other way. That’s what you’re saying, right?

Either that or she was very clumsy, Bartells offered sarcastically.

Weyland shot Bartells a glance that put him in his place.

Hoenle took a step closer to Weyland, commanding his attention. "I wanted you to see this for yourself, Art. If this is Emma McCant like you say, find out if there’s a Mr. McCant. You may have found your killer."

That’s what this was all about, Weyland thought. Hoenle, that little prick, brought me all the way down here so that seeing that Negro woman’s corpse would get under my skin. Perhaps make me want—give me an incentive—to find the killer.

It worked.

Chapter Two

"Lepp was very sensitive to noise and quick to anger. Any excessive noise in and around the house—including construction, slamming of doors, the television, and even a child laughing—could set him off in a frightful rage. He didn’t even have to resort to physical abuse—not to say he never did—but he was six-foot-four with wide shoulders and a stare that sent a cold shudder through a grown man. He intimidated everyone in the neighborhood and was even known to go outside and yell to his neighbor’s kids to be quiet."

—Neptune City resident who, in an interview, refused to give his name

202 Exeter Street—Home of Thomas C. Lepp

Thursday, October 3, 1963.

Weyland spent the better part of last night arguing the case, hoping to obtain a search warrant for the suspect’s home without direct information that evidence was inside.

In the end, the judge ruled that there was insufficient evidence to issue a warrant. It wasn’t until the following morning that Weyland arrived at the home of Thomas C. Lepp, Emma McCant’s current husband, with the intentions of merely asking him a few questions.

It was 7:15 AM. Weyland’s Plymouth barreled down the street followed by two patrol cars. The other two cars, each carrying four troopers, approached quietly and converged on 202 Exeter Boulevard.

Weyland came to a screeching halt in front of a battered mailbox. He pulled himself from behind the wheel. It was just after dawn and the morning sun had just broken away from the horizon casting long shadows on the ground.

It was a two-story structure with sun-faded green siding, built on a small hill surrounded by a patch of wooded area. A walkway of crumbling cement led up the front yard and inclined up three steps, then up four more brick steps and onto a wraparound brick porch lined below by unkempt shrubbery.

State Trooper Kleinman, stepping out from the passenger side of the lead radio car, was first at Weyland’s side. Kleinman drew his service revolver but was quickly prompted by Weyland to holster the weapon. Weyland distrusted Kleinman, knowing him more by reputation than anything else. Kleinman was prone to throwing around his weight, leaning hard on suspects and even the occasional witness or two. He was a racist whose career as a state trooper was marred by unsubstantiated reports of police brutality and corruption. It was rumored, but never proven, that his partner, Trooper Goweski, often lied to his superiors to back up his partner.

Weyland stood on the sidewalk facing the house as the troopers surrounded him. Aside from Kleinman and Goweski, both fairly seasoned veterans, the others all seemed so young and fresh out of the academy.

Who’s the target, Inspector? Kleinman asked.

"Target? No target. We’re here to question one Thomas Lepp, black male, age forty-one. Weyland added as he turned to the driver of the second car, Trooper Randal Clark, Clark, take your boys around back. Hang back. Don’t make any aggressive moves. The rest of ya’ stay here and wait in case I need backup. Weyland turned to one of the troopers from the second car. What’s your name, kid?"

Michael Kelly, Inspector.

Follow me, Trooper Kelly, Weyland told the boy as the two hustled up the steps toward the front door. You do the talking.

Kelly was first at the door. He shot a glance over at Weyland, who gave him the okay with a simple nod.

Kelly drew in a breath of air, and then pounded on the door. Thomas Lepp, he called into the house. Police! We’re here to ask you some questions.

Clark, only a few years older than Kelly, had already started for the backyard when the side door flung open and a tall, black man with broad shoulders exited the house. The man’s fist made contact with the startled trooper’s face and Clark went down hard on his back. The suspect then ran to the back of the house, over a chain link fence and into the nearby woods.

He’s going out the back! Weyland heard Clark call out.

The remaining troopers took off after him.

I need backup here, now! Weyland called out.

Everything started happening very quickly. As Kelly stood clear, Weyland threw his weight against the door and the framework gave way.

Weyland entered the house first, followed by Kelly, Kleinman, Goweski, and one other trooper Weyland didn’t know. Past the door’s threshold and to the right was a darkened staircase; Weyland gestured to Goweski to search upstairs.

Weyland followed closely behind Kelly and Kleinman, took only a moment to determine the dimly lit living room was secure, and passed through an archway to the right and entered the kitchen.

To his right was a closed door.

Weyland swung the door open wide, letting his pistol lead the way. That door led to the cellar and Weyland gestured to Kleinman to check it out. Kleinman switched on the light, produced a flashlight from his belt, and disappeared down the stairs.

Upstairs is clear, Goweski called down.

Kelly passed through the living room’s left archway, made his way past the dining room, and joined Weyland in the kitchen.

They exchanged glances and Weyland headed for the back door and stepped out into the yard. Beyond the unkempt yard they faced the dense wooded area.

Clark had circled around to the back of the house. He was holding his nose. We lost him. That’s one fast nigger, Inspector. He’s gone into the woods.

Keep looking for him, Clark. Weyland stabbed his finger in the trooper’s direction. I don’t want him getting away.

Yes, sir.

Kelly passed through the back door and joined Weyland. The house looks secure, Inspector.

"What do you mean, looks?"

They’re doing a room-by-room search. So far, nothing.

Call for more backup, Weyland told Kelly.

Yes, sir. Kelly was about to return to the house when a large, foreboding, white wooden shed caught his eye. The shed, which closely resembled a small barn, was nearly large enough to hold two cars. The paint had been neglected for so many years that paint chips collected in the tall grasses that grew along the perimeter of the structure. He walked up to it and pulled away the rusted padlock.

As the door to the shed creaked open, Kelly got a chill and he instinctively drew his gun.

The smell from within was overwhelming.

Inspector, Kelly called out. Inspector Weyland—

What is it, Kelly?

I think you should take a look at this.

Weyland joined Kelly by the shed.

A small, dirt-encrusted window to the back allowed diffused light to filter in, illuminating the flies that surrounded a carcass that was strung-up at the back of the shed. Horizontally laid out and suspended by chains, it had no head and no hands or hooves of any kind.