Hamden Notch

By Vincent Tanner

"Hamden Notch." A sleepy little town with a horrible little secret.

Three friends--hunting buddies for years enter the woodlands together, only one comes out.

Al is charged with a murder he did not commit. No one believes he is innocent. All his friends--even his wife have their doubts. His attorney believes the prosecution has an air-tight case. The two detectives assigned to the case are not so sure. Only one body is found. During their investigation, more condemning evidence comes to light, but Al will not admit to something he did not do. The detectives discover some things do not add up. Al's attorney feels any defense is a waste of time but continues to work with the detectives as new facts surface, but will they be enough to exonerate Al? Only the court will decide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662475320

Book preview

Chapter 1

D amn, it’s cold! Where the hell are George and Pete? The loons sound in the distance; their haunting wails echo through Al’s mind. Their relentless cries drift off into the coming dusk. Tree branches creak against one another in the breeze; it will be dark soon. The last rays of light on this overcast day rapidly disappear behind the hillside. It grows steadily darker.

I don’t know why George had to lock his damn truck way the hell out here. Nobody is going to bother this piece of junk, anyway. We can’t even get inside to get out of the cold. He huddles close to the cab of the old beat-up pickup truck, trying to find some shelter from the biting wind. His energetic beagle, not the least bit tired from romping through the woods all day, runs in tight circles, sniffing everything in sight.

His dog is a typical beagle with the usual male dog’s affinity for watering practically everything he encounters. Derf just lies around the house most of the time, but when Al puts on his hunting vest, the dog goes wild. He knows they are heading for the woods.

Al’s dog, Derf, sniffs the front tire of George’s beat-up vehicle, showing a new interest in the right front section of this cold and tired rattletrap. The beagle lifts his leg and generously waters the wheel, right up to the rusted hubcap.

Attaboy, Derf! Al says sarcastically to his lively cur. Rust George’s brakes real good, so we end up in a ditch when we travel back down the mountain roads in this death machine. It grows even darker, with no moon, no stars, only clouds. Still no sign of Al’s two hunting buddies. What the hell is keeping them, he wonders.

Both Pete and George are far too experienced in the ways of the woods to get lost. The three of them have hunted this region for years. They know every hill and tree like the back of their hand. So the two, George and Pete, set off together in the early morning hours in the opposite direction from where Al and his dog were headed. Al prefers to hunt alone with Derf. Less of a chance, his dog will get blown apart if there is only one hunter and one shotgun.

There was an unfortunate incident that turned tragic, severely tragic in more ways than just one. Several years ago, on one of their many hunting outings, it was at least maybe seven or eight years ago; this was before Al obtained Derf and trained the dog for hunting. At that time, there was one other member of this group of avid hunters, Harry Nemeth. He would always bring his mixed-breed cur with him to roust grouse, partridge, quail, and pheasant out of the brush for the four hunters. The dog had an excellent nose, but unfortunately, he was not very well-heeled. Harry’s canine flushed a bevy out of hiding, but instead of staying on point as he should have, the dog darted after the birds just as Harry Nemeth fired.

Harry’s aim never was the best in the world, so he resorted to using an open choke on his shotgun to get the widest spread from the pellets before they reached his intended target. The widespread shot missed a lot of birds but increased his chances of at least hitting something. One single ball of lead shot struck the dog behind its right eye, killing it instantly. If the dog had been struck in any fleshy part of its body, no one but the dog would have known about it unless the mutt yelped. The small wound might only be noticed upon giving the dog a bath, which was not very often. By that time, the minor wound would have scabbed over and gone undetected.

Harry stood motionless, totally devastated, while Al and Pete picked up the lifeless animal and started to carry the dead dog back to the truck. The day’s hunting was over.

George tries his best to comfort his friend in his bumbling way. Cheer up, Har, it was just an accident, George says, picking up Harry Nemeth’s spent shotgun. Placing his arm around his friend Harry’s shoulder, he says, You can always get another dog. Just be thankful that wasn’t Al or Pete, or even me!

Or even me! That was the clincher. Harry Nemeth only picked up his shotgun one more time after those words were spoken. The hunting party was from that day forward, comprised of only three. Harry would never hunt again.

Chapter 2

George Forman and Harry Nemeth were best friends since grade school. George was always big for his age, and Harry was somewhat of a nerd. Their friendship, formed at a young age, kept the two close. If anyone wanted to pick on Harry, they would have to go through George first.

Harry was more academic than George and helped him with his studies, sometimes going a little farther than just tutoring. Harry’s efforts kept George from spending a few more years in school than he probably would have.

Just out of high school, George got a job at the mill. He was fortunate not to receive a letter calling him up for the draft since the war was winding down and the troops were moving out. Harry fell into the same draft pick category. Al had just returned from his tour of duty in Vietnam.

George, a mountain of a young man and an extremely hard worker, was one of the last to be laid off during the annual winter shutdown of the mill. Harry was always one of the first they let go until springtime. Occasionally, but not often, he managed to keep his job throughout the winter months.

Not long after Al met Nora, Harry met Helen at one of the mill’s spring festivals some years prior. Helen was a very big woman. Not fat, just large like George. She stood over six feet tall, dwarfing Harry. The two, Harry and Helen, hit it off well, and Harry became a regular fixture at Helen’s home. Her father was not very pleased because Helen was bipolar, manic-depressive, and had a few additional mental problems.

Her mother intervened, stating, This might be the one thing she needs to help her keep focused. She has never seemed so happy and this stable for years. She feels accepted for who she is for the first time in her life and not ridiculed. Let it be for now. He seems like a nice young man, and they get along just fine. He’s always been polite and a perfect gentleman around her and us.

I still don’t like it, her father says. How do we know he’s not just some kind of a predator looking to get into our good graces? Maybe finding something he can use against us later on down the road. A male gold digger.

I swear! You are more paranoid than our daughter ever was. Just let her enjoy this newfound friendship, even if it goes nowhere. Ever since Edward died in the war in that awful country, she has been slowly getting herself back together. You have been worse than a mother hen, always trying to shield her. She’s finally getting herself moving forward in this world and rejoining life, so give her some room to grow. Her therapist says she is making great strides.

Helen’s brother Edward, one of her twin brothers, was killed in a Vietnam firefight. His body was never recovered and returned home. With no closure, grief-stricken, Helen became suicidal and needed to be confined to an institution for several months. Through her father’s insistence, she is eventually released solely on the condition she continues with intensive therapy. Her parents made sure she did.

Her other brother was temporarily exempt from the draft because he was a full-time student in college, and with the death of his twin, the Sullivan rule or act came into play: No two brothers shall serve together in time of war, and in case of the death of one or more members of the family, neither shall the last surviving heir serve outside the continental United States unless it is a nonhazardous assignment.

The combination of the death of their brother Edward and the fact that being his twin and sole surviving heir to the family name, not to mention significant influence from his father and that he was still in school, kept him out of the draft.

Okay, what do we do about this man who seems so interested in our daughter? her father asks.

Her mother, staring him straight in the eye, states, Nothing! Leave them alone for now.

But what if…?

There is no ‘But what if…?’ She’s twenty-three years old and has found something many women search for, for more years than that. She has found a bit of happiness in this dismal world. You’re watching out for her, and I’m watching out for her. Even her therapist is watching out for her. Let her have her own life. Let her have some happiness. We can always step in if things get out of hand. If things—

Helen’s family, both mother and father, came from old money. Finances were never a problem; neither one had to work. Her mother stayed home socializing with the upper set, and her father worked with the lower set, only so he would not have to stay home and endure both sets. He didn’t need to work, but what he needed was the diversion.

Aside from work, he most enjoyed his time on the golf links, changing the scorecards to meet his handicap, stiffing the caddies at every chance he got by going to the men’s room. What kid in his right mind is going to follow a stranger in there? Unfortunately for him, there were a couple of 190-pound caddies who wanted their due and were not afraid to tag along. He had no choice but to pay on the spot. A broken nose would be hard to explain.

He looked upon his time at work as a drudgery, yet it was a gratifying relief from what he had to look forward to at home. At least at work, he was in charge. At home, he was nobody; his wife called all the shots, ruled the roost, so to speak.

When Harry and Helen decided they wanted to get married, her parents did step in. They forbade the marriage. They actually could legally stop their daughter from marrying in light of her past mental instability, and although she was over twenty-one, she was still their ward, assigned by the court. There was, in addition, the fact that Harry suffered from extreme depression. This would not make for a great union between the two, so they could prevent it if need be, and the courts would back them.

Helen abided by her parents’ wishes but continued to see Harry with their half-hearted consent; they spent more time together. It was almost as though the two were living together. She spent more time at his apartment than she did at her own home. Their love continued to grow, and Helen became utterly obsessed with Harry; her whole world revolved around him.

Then that awful day came with the accident with his dog. It was four days before Harry was willing to dispose of the dead animal. It was only because of the dead dog’s stench that Helen could convince him to finally bury the carcass.

He talked incessantly about the incident and what George had said: It could have been me. It could have been me. It could have been me! Harry fell deeper into depression than he had ever been before.

Helen, compounded by Harry’s depression, began to fall back into the manic-depressive cycle with her mental problems. As each day passed, their relationship became more and more strained.

Helen tried to get him to seek help. She, as well as Harry, had many years of experience with therapists. She still regularly sees her doctor. Her father pays the bill. But Harry stopped several months ago because of the expense he could no longer afford after his insurance ran out. With jobs so hard to find, he ceased taking his medication when the last of his prescription was depleted. His unemployment checks just barely cover the rent and food.

She was at the end of her rope. Harry seldom left his house, fired from the mill for excessive absenteeism; he seldom showers or shaves. She spoke to her therapist about the situation and her parents, pleading for help from both sides.

If he’s going to be involved with our daughter, the least we can do is make sure he has his head screwed on straight, her father says to his wife. I’ll foot the bill for now. There had better be some changes soon. I’m not a charity organization.

See what your doctor has to say about this, her mother adds. And ask if he might be willing to take on another patient for a short time.

The therapist advises her to approach Harry cautiously with this offer. Among all his recommendations, the doctor was adamant on one subject. The one thing you must not do is threaten to leave him if he does not readily accept. Give him time to think it over, the doctor told her in a serious tone. He might overreact if he feels threatened or obligated. Like you, he is in a fragile state.

I can say that because I have been treating you for several years now, and you have made remarkable progress. You still have your slips and slides, but they have been spreading farther and farther apart. If you feel ready, and I believe you are, you have the chance to reach out and help another person. This will be a big step forward for you.

Helen now has the confidence to approach Harry, and armed with the knowledge it will not cost him any of his unemployment checks, she feels she just might be able to get him to agree. Helen makes her way to Harry’s home, elated by the good news.

Earlier in the day, Harry, unshaven for several days, stops at the town’s sporting goods store. Hiya doin’, Har? the clerk asks. Been out doin’ some preseason scouting?

Yeah, I guess you might say so, Harry nervously replies.

Ya look a sight. Been out there long?

Long enough to know what I need. Harry looks around. There is no one else in the shop.

What can I get ya? the clerk asks.

Deer season is opening in only eight days, and Harry is surprised the shop is not filled with hunters. Where is everybody? he asks.

"Most have come and gone. They get real pissed off if they come in here at the last minute, and whatever they want was sold out last week. We only get shipments about every three weeks, and I can only afford to order what I know will sell. I can bring in twelve cases of thirty-ought-six, and they are gone in one day. I can bring in three cases of thirty-thirty, and they will sit here for months. What are ya lookin’ for?

I need some double-ought-buck, twelve-gauge.

Gave up on usin’ the rifle, huh?

Yeah, can’t hit the broad side of a barn.

The shop clerk takes out a box of twenty double-ought-buck shells. Harry asks for the smallest box.

There’s only five in that carton, the shopkeeper stammers. Hell, Har, from what they say your aim is you’re going to need the whole box of twenty even if you only see one deer!

Just give me the box of five. I won’t need any more than that. The purchase made, Harry Nemeth leaves the shop, never to return.

Helen makes her way to Harry’s home. Turning the key in the lock, she calls out, Harry? Harry? I have some good news.

She enters the living room. Harry has his shotgun in his mouth, loaded with double-ought buck. Or even me! No chance of a mistake this time, he thinks.

Harry! Helen screams.

No one will ever know if Harry planned to wait for Helen to enter where he was or if he was so deep in his thoughts that he didn’t hear her enter the room and was suddenly startled and, out of reflex, twitched when she came in, but Harry pulled the trigger. The newly painted ceiling of his living room is plastered with crimson spatters of what was once Harry Nemeth.

The sounds of gunshots as hunting season approaches, for the most part, go unnoticed in Hamden Notch. Hunters sighting in their rifles, checking their scopes, but the screams coming from Harry’s apartment presented