Circumstantial Murder

By John B. Miller

An average day turns into a maelstrom of confusion when a city trash truck hits a medical supply expert shortly after breakfast. A body turns up in a public park minus part of his skull and all of his brain. Strange people start showing up and relating unusual tales of intrigue that span three continents and cover the spectrum from mid-twentieth-century technology to the archaic times of cannibalism and headhunting. It also becomes apparent that no one is what they say they are.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662404344

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Circumstantial Murder

John B. Miller, Jr.

Copyright © 2020 John B. Miller, Jr.

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-66240-433-7 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-66240-434-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

This work is dedicated to my friends: John Francis (Franny), William J. Bailey (Billy), and John E. Travers (Fats)

Preface

There are three types of evidence commonly referred to and used in criminal proceedings:

Forensic: is that which is obtained through scientific methods. Ballistics, if relative, blood if discovered and any organic issues relating to the crime scene and victims.

Eye witness Or Direct Evidence: Which most people would consider the most accurate form of information. However, time has proven that this form is the least reliable.

Circumstantial Evidence: That which alludes to the fact of an action. In most cases the action is a crime and in this case that crime is murder. Two murders. Both of which are unnecessarily violent and brutal, but not as brutal as the crimes that will go unpunished, or the methods that are employed.

As you will discover in this case of Circumstantial Murder.

Chapter One

The Body

The beauty of the month of June has stoked the minds of millions over the years. It’s a time of renewal for those that feel the need, refreshment the ones that don’t, and seasonal warmth for the rest. Along with the season come the expressions of those concerned with the prose of life and the gentle and breezy nature of the month. It seems that everyone has something to say this time of the year. A time to plan all manner of things and make ready for changes you may not have seen coming while enjoying the pleasantness of the season.

It is a time of the year for releasing those pent-up feelings stymied by the cold winds of winter and early spring. The ones just screaming to be let loose on the masses, who long for the words of the flowery speech of poets and writers, that flow from the minds of those people talented enough to create them and spread generously before the eyes and ears of the common man. Providing the warmth of the season and the advent of a kinder and gentler time of the year.

Cordell Allen was one of those special people, who, for no other reason than it seemed the right thing to do, began a writing career many years ago. His impetus for this occupational change must have had something to do with his experiences in the war. Possibly the romance of foreign travel and his desire to experience more of it. The excitement of being on a foreign shore with adventures to pursue. Whatever the motivation, it was abruptly curtailed by the requirements of war. The great adventure he was looking forward to turned into a nightmare on a Normandy beach in the presummer of 1944.

The erratic and scattering fire of a Nazi machine gun removed his left foot, rather traumatically, in the early morning hours of a cold morning in June. It was most likely rolling in the surf on the shores along with a lot of other body parts contributed by many other men in uniform.

As much a date to live in infamy as the one in December three years before. That became the motivation for the writing career, which crept along at a snail’s pace for two years. It never took root sufficiently to give it an anchor and consisted of a collection of thoughts and ideas that were only vaguely connected and never brought to a common conclusion. Career change occurred soon after.

Later on, when the loss of his left foot was not consuming so much of his time, and while stumbling down the dusty, pothole-infested road of common destiny, he came to a site where the path split, left and right. Mentally he flipped a coin to assist in a decision as to which path to follow.

No signs indicated one was a better choice than the other, so he figured the right path would be the right choice if the right thing was to be found. Sounded good at the time, as most self-rationalized decisions do at first. Later on, he would discover, through self-examination, that the choice might not have been the best one. However, there was no going back for reexamination on route structure or purpose, so he was left to play the cards he was dealt. And that is the course that led him to the garage apartment he presently called home.

It was that beautiful morning in June that he felt was the right time to let the rest of the world know just what was making him go. There would be no big leap forward in the literary career. He wasn’t sure what it was going to take to launch things off properly; he just knew that the time was right. He had other things on his mind in addition to his personal pursuits. One that had been on his mind for the longest time was the issue of the seasons.

For way too long they had come and gone with the time of the year that someone from the long forgotten past thought made sense. Maybe it was because of the position of the moon, the angle of the sun, or a combination of both, but whatever it was, it didn’t make sense. It was a problem that just screamed for the attention of someone smart enough to straighten the whole seasonal thing out.

Seasons of the year needed a more organized way to begin, that everyone could understand and make modifications, if needed, for as their personal schedules. January first is always on January first. So why does Easter have to float between sometime in March to early April? No other holiday does that. It should be on a certain Sunday and left that way. Just because some old prophet in a robe thousands of years ago thought it would be a good idea to try and tell time by the stars, instead of a watch, we all have gotten screwed up on our holiday schedules.

Then of course, there are the poets that want to get all excited because of the arrival of summertime. Well, share the spirit, and be my guest!

Of course, that time of the year has been a popular focus of writers, both literate and profane, for as long as it has been a season and men and women have had the means and motivation to describe their passions with it. Each contributor making his or her offering to the burgeoning collection of quips, anecdotes, and prose that ricochet off the liberal standards of free speech and expression, guarded at the portals by the words of our First Amendment. Congress shall make no law…

We should expect our political leaders to spend more of their efforts trying to organize the structure of the normal and everyday calendar so that the seasons all begin on the first day of their corresponding month. It is definitely a better way to accommodate the issues and to more fully share the enjoyment of the corresponding season.

All the seasons, in the future, should begin on the first day of the month that they normally begin in. Winter, on December 1, spring on March 1, summer at the front end of June, and fall on September 1. All this solstice and equinox stuff can stay where it is, but we don’t need that to tell us when it’s time to start looking forward to the events of the upcoming season. (That changed suddenly with the inventions of the wristwatch and calendar.) Or when to plan a vacation or go banging on doors and expecting a handout. Or looking forward to the start of a new school year, which is normally at the bottom of the list of fun things to do, for the children concerned. And turkey hunting should be subsidized by the local A&P or Stop and Shop.

Every family in the area will be given a turkey by the supermarket concerned along with the instructions on how to pluck it, clean it, and cook it. A little bit of the enterprise should be accommodated by the recipient in an effort to get more educational impact from the experience.

Everyone should have an opportunity to participate more fully in the normal ways of life. Embracing and securing the passions of the past. That would make life a lot simpler and appear as a much more organized way of doing things. The random scatter way we presently have, based on the phase of the moon, the location of the sun, or when the political races begin marking the start of the election season, needs modification. The time when they decide to start running for whatever office they are trying to fool us into believing that they are qualified to seek and hold is, again, a misguided missile sailing aloft in a clouded sky with no specific destination.

We tend to take things one day at a time. To do so in any other way would scare most people, confuse a lot of them, and irritate the hell out of the rest. Unless someone seconds the motion on change, then it won’t happen anytime soon. So we all go on with the drudgery and mundanity of everyday life, enjoying the mystery of not knowing what’s coming next. While we giddily wait for changes we know aren’t coming. I understand to do otherwise would be to cross the threshold to insanity.

But there are some people that don’t give a shit about the calendar or the guys that print it. For the majority of the human race, days are a series of consecutive events that arrive on schedule whether we are ready for them or not. Only separated at times by the uniqueness of the events that they drag along with themselves. For the most part, these issues are of little value to the working class. The big ones include traditional celebrations for having reached a certain point in one’s life. The birthday of a family member or spouse. The arrival of a season (not really a big deal unless it is followed by a summer vacation). The big religious holidays that normally mean more of a financial burden than most people can afford. But the biggest of the lot, the one that everyone is always talking about from prior to its arrival to a few weeks after its departure, is the New Year’s celebration.

The celebration of a new year trumps out the usual seasonal or holiday festivities. It heralds the beginning of a new year. A time to straighten out all the shit you screwed up in the previous year with the hope of doing better the next time. It is normally a lively event featuring a lot of drinking, carousing, and acting stupid along with a list of resolutions that clearly define your future activities, or lack thereof, for the upcoming calendar season. If not activities, then good intentions.

In addition to all this jubilation and celebration and outright lying about future behavior, there are those that don’t care about any of it and would be just as happy with a quarter an hour, pay raise, and a six-pack of beer. One of those people was a gentleman that lived in a garage apartment with a pet bulldog. He minded his own business and kept very few people as friends. He lived modestly and frugally and enjoyed his freedom as he lived on public and federal assistance to make his ends meet. With his bulldog for company, the two residents were often seen walking along the sidewalk in the neighborhood.

It was a scene that just jumps from the front cover of the Saturday Evening Post. A man and his dog, it just screams, Land of the free, home of the brave, and freedom to walk your dog.

Cordell Allen had just left his garage apartment with Gorilla, an ugly, overweight, and chronically irritated English bulldog. Together, they were intent on their morning walk. It was Sunday, and a good way to start it off was a pleasant stroll through the neighborhood with an unpleasant dog that few people liked and the rest tried to avoid.

As a disabled veteran of the war, he was looking forward to spending part of the day at the local men’s club, sipping gin and tonic and smoking big cigars, all the while swapping tales about the big war that seem to increase in size and drama with each passing season. Those who were there on Omaha Beach on that blustery day in June 1944 will never forget what happened. It was sheer horror, to be clear, but you had to move so fast that you didn’t have time to think about the death and destruction that was taking place all around you. Having something like that eventful day in your mind’s rearview mirror gives you an appreciation for the simpler things in life and a love and admiration for a lifestyle that allows you to live as a man free to make his own way in the world.

It was two days shy of the seventeenth anniversary of the invasion of Europe and the loss of his left foot. Nothing like getting an early start on the celebrating. He hadn’t had any nightmares about that day for some time now. At first, he couldn’t shake the frantic images from his mind. The faces of the dead and dying were imprinted on his memory in an indelible pattern that defied any form of erasure. It now seemed so long ago and far away as though it never happened. Nothing about the neighborhood bore any resemblance to the shattered lives and fields of destruction that lay on both sides of the dunes on that faraway French shore. At times, it seems so strange and detached from the normal life that he enjoyed today. His left foot reminded him of the truth whenever doubt was apparent.

The missing appendage having been shot off somewhere between an LST and the far sand dunes of Omaha Beach. For some, that day was the beginning and end of a very short military foray into combat. There was horror everywhere. More than the planners of that massive military operation ever imagined. For Mr. Allen, it was the third time he had made a combat landing. One in Africa, followed by a short trip to Italy. After which he was sent to England to get ready for the Big Operation that they were told would be taking place somewhere very soon. There was a lot of preparation and running around with your rifle, attacking piles of hay and other useless and inanimate objects, that qualified as targets for the sake of training as we prepared for the big assault.

Rumors floated around the military camps like flies chasing a garbage wagon. We knew it was coming, but we didn’t know when. So everyone stayed wound up as tight as the main spring of a cheap watch. Waiting for the moment when the big day arrived. Or if not a real alert, then some message about the big day. Or if all else fails, then some more BS to fill up the idle times in the day-to-day life of a soldier.

The war was over, and the only thing left in its wake were the aches and pains of the people that bore the suffering. One of those pains was the artificial foot that the VA provided, at no cost, to Sergeant Allen in replacement for the one that was lost, or misplaced, as the first letter seemed to indicate. It was a clumsy item that fit okay but didn’t always point in the direction of movement. Later on, it was replaced with a custom-fitted permanent model that had a better leg sleeve and a much nicer feel. Gorilla seemed to like it too. It looked like a hydrant, his very own, which he pissed on until he was shown that it served a dual purpose. It could also be used to kick him in the ass on occasion.

Gorilla was a dog with several bad habits, besides pissing on his master’s artificial limb. He normally started farting in the house, shortly after his morning breakfast of canned crap. Which happened to be the canned dog food of the month on sale at the corner variety store. Actually, the only standard that applied was cheap, in a can, and could fool the dog into thinking it was good. The noise and smell told Cordell it was time to go for a walk. The farting got worse as they strolled down the sidewalk until Gorilla found the right spot and finished the farting with a large deposit of number 2 crap. The planned celebration at the men’s club was going to have to wait a while, as Cordell noticed that the pile of leftovers created by Gorilla was resting in the outstretched hand of someone lying on the ground. He quickly pulled the dog toward him as he leaned over to look at the person holding the remnants of Gorilla’s dinner from the night before.

Cordell knew a dead man when he saw one. He had plenty of practice at Omaha Beach. The guy was dead as dead could be. He stared at the corpse for a few seconds out of horror and curiosity.

Next, he dragged Gorilla across the street to the phone booth and made a call to the police station to advise them of the dead man lying in the field. The voice followed with a bunch of questions which Mr. Allen answered as accurately as possible until it got to name and address. At which time Mr. Allen hung up the phone and left the area.

He did what he considered his civic duty and wanted to leave it at that. After all, he didn’t need any nosey questions, and he certainly didn’t have any more evidence to submit. There was already some interference in the chain of evidence created by Gorilla. An error Cordell did not feel like explaining or cleaning up.

The duo made it safely and quickly back to their garage duplex. The first sounds of sirens started tainting the morning air, mingling gently with the noise emanating from the rear end of Gorilla, as he wobbled up the stairs. It might be a morning in June, fit for all sorts of things from weddings to poetic verse, but it was also just another day in the life of the all those fortunate enough to live in the City by the Bay.

Bonner Detective Agency

Tuesday, June 6, 1961

June’s arrival contained all the pomp and circumstance you would expect. Rain, sun, wind, and a variety of sights and sounds that normally follow along on the heels of a new season. If it was warm and sunny, then people were yakking about how nice the weather is. If it was cold and windy with a touch of rain, then they would be whining about how crummy June was turning out to be. Nothing was going to make them happy except a raise in pay. So as far as the weather was concerned, nobody gave a shit what it turned out to be or when it happened.

I was paying attention to the paperwork of a busy private investigator. My first two major cases were closed out and filed away for later reference. As a conscientious investigator, I was attempting to keep an accurate body count in addition to meticulous records of all operations and expenses. The importance of which was brought out to me and others at the PI training school. I still recall the class on record keeping and the words of the retired city detective who led the proceedings, Gino Valentina.

His words still echo in my mind as he described the importance of paperwork. You might think of paperwork as quality ass wipe. But it is the only thing that is going to cover your ass when the shit hits the fan. Now that is a new level of eloquence. Myself and others in the class were charmed by the essence of his being and of those few words. We knew they contained a deeper meaning than we would likely discover sometime soon, if we were adventurous enough to try and find it. I’m still searching for my share of the wisdom. Maybe I will find it today, or maybe it will find me in a week or so, or maybe it will arrive along with the morning words of wisdom from my partner, Mr. Vinny Carter. Either way, the point was made, and the smart members of the class were taking copious notes.

But getting back to the body count, it seemed like the Irish and the Italians were running neck and neck. It was close to twenty apiece, but the final figure would be a subject of controversy for several years. It would take that long to figure out how many in the periphery were taken down, along with the known thugs. There is never an accurate count when the lead starts flying and the action is happening in numerous locations around the city. A more accurate accounting would be to take the body count story reported in the news, multiply it by two, and then add five.

Of course, there is always the chance that exaggerations are going to creep into the story no matter how hard you plead for accuracy. It is just the way things happen, and we should be expecting them. It’s just like the estimates that get thrown around concerning municipal projects. First, they figure the cost, then they figure the graft. After multiplying that by a factor of 1.9, they come out with the final figures.

Along with all the political shenanigans, you have the normal bullshit that seems to fly out the doors of city hall as often as they open.

As if this were not enough, you have all the normal, day-to-day adventures that are bound to take place in a major city. People shooting politicians, others stabbing crooks, big shots getting rid of small shots, and crime lords trying to keep tabs on the outcome while still keeping the wheels of organized crime turning and the lead flying. The only cessation to the violence occurs when the shooters run out of ammo, the targets are no longer available, or the cops show up and arrest everyone. The latter normally does not happen often.

Sunday and Monday came and went without much fanfare. Office work was not exciting no matter what profession you were in. In order to keep up the necessary enthusiasm, it is important to develop some buzz words. Ones you rely on when you know that you need a little kick in the ass to keep you going. I decided that a single word was not going to do it. It could be easily misunderstood and later forgotten, so I decided a phrase would be better.

My phrase was derived from certain people, places, and events. I knew it needed to have a particular flair. Something that just got you up and moving, regardless of position or location. A while back, someone who frequented the Bradberry Café captured an expression that was in common use by one of its more colorful patrons. It falls into the category of words of wisdom out of the mouths of babes. A Catholic priest, Father Dan McClay, was known to have uttered the following whenever he was faced with a dilemma requiring a choice of two or more options. He would take a deep breath, close his eyes, and ask, What would Jesus do?

I’m not sure he actually received an answer, but whether he did receive a communique from above or not, he still ended up with an answer. Probably the same one he would have made if he didn’t bother to ask for assistance.

So with all that in mind, I settled on the phrase, reminiscent of the previous police commissioner of our fair city, What would Havelock do?

If memory and gossip served me well, I would expect him to shoot first, throw the body into the trunk, and send the car off to the scrap yard. That’s what Havelock would do, I’m sure of it.

The idea seemed to have merit. Short, sweet, and to the point. Specific without being wordy, direct without saying too much, and to the point without being overly descriptive. Of course, I realized that it was only a popular crutch and that the real secret was in my ability to keep everything on track and heading straight. Because I wasn’t planning on shooting anyone or trying to see if the trunk of my Plymouth Savoir was big enough to comfortably transport a body, and I didn’t have any connections down at the scrapyard. And of course, I was not planning on sacrificing the car I just spent a thousand on a makeover.

Monday was as dull as dull can be. Some days just seem to be a waste of time. Tuesday morning finally arrived, and after all the home front activities were completed, myself and the newly enhanced Plymouth Savoir arrived in time to open the offices front door at 7:30 a.m.

I was lost in thought, chasing or searching for an elusive phantom cowering in the distant shadows of my mind, when I heard a familiar sound. It was the phone.

Good morning, Bonner Detective Agency, Rex Bonner speaking.

Mr. Bonner, my name is Franklin Scranton. You may have heard about the terrible accident yesterday morning in front of Herbie’s Café. I think it is close to your office.

Yes, I did. A young man was hit by a city trash truck while crossing the street. Is that what you are referring too?

Absolutely, but I don’t think he was crossing the street. I think he was standing in the middle of the street for some strange reason and, as a result, got hit.

What makes you suspect that?

Something that one of the witnesses said made me think that.

How can I assist you in this matter, Mr. Scranton?

The person that got hit by the truck was my son, Walter. I would like you to investigate the event and help me fill in the blanks about what happened. I can come by your office and give you all the details I have, they include things that weren’t apparent from the news coverage. I think there may be some sinister issues involved.

When can you stop by the office, Mr. Scranton?

Does tomorrow morning, at 9:00 a.m. sound good?

Sounds good. I’ll see you then.

The item Mr. Scranton was referring to occupied a small space in the morning paper. Other than the focus on the city trash truck, which was obviously the real culprit in this terrible collision of man and machine, little else was mentioned. The injuries were described as requiring an ambulance ride and not much else.

I guess I will have to wait until tomorrow to mix firsthand opinion with relevant fact and see what kind of a case the likely result may be. In the meantime, I will get back to my newspaper and see if I can get a feel for the real news and all the other items that are fit to print.

I noticed on page 3, there was a small bit about a body found off Franklin Road on Sunday morning. The report indicated that the police were examining the surroundings and trying to determine