Melody Lane

By Rich Drenga

"I understand that you are quite selective in the work that you take on," Rose said as I took a sip of the coffee that I had poured for us from the side table. "I assume that since you agreed to see me, you are interested." "Yes, Rose, I'm interested," I stated. "On the phone, you said that you want to clear the man who is accused of killing your father." "That's correct." "Okay, so let's say that was enough to get me interested." And it was.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641388559

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Melody Lane

Rich Drenga

Copyright © 2018 Rich Drenga

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64138-854-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64138-855-9 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

1

The door opened, and she rather silently slid into the room, breaking the stream of muted sunlight that the cold December morning offered. I greeted her in front of the window and followed the glance she took outside, thinking that the first snowfall of the season was most likely going to happen soon. We shook hands. The feel in her grip and the texture of her skin made me think she probably wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty, which was in stark contrast to her looks. She was a natural beauty with auburn shoulder-length hair, messy in a stylish way; guarded hazel eyes that seemed to take everything in without appearing to do so; and a fair complexion that featured a smattering of freckles beneath what little makeup she wore.

I guessed her to be in her midtwenties, noting how pretty she was as more of an appreciation of someone who takes good care of themselves and not as some creepy middle-aged man checking out a younger woman. But if someone asked me what she looked like, the first thing out of my mouth would be the word sad. She looked sad.

We sat in the two chairs by the window, and I watched her pick a stray dog hair off the sleeve of her coat.

Sorry about the dog hair.

The dog hair, she stated more than actually asked.

I noticed you picking one off your coat, and well, it’s one of my dog, Woody’s. I went on to explain that most of what I did was outside the office and that because I didn’t see many people here, Woody spent much of his time with me when I actually was in the office.

I tried to take the chair with the most hair, I offered apologetically.

Oh, I hadn’t really noticed, she replied. Is that his picture behind your desk?

Yes, that would be Woody. I couldn’t help smiling and also noting that I was correct in her ability to take in her surroundings. It didn’t seem as though she had even glanced in that direction, yet she had picked out one of the photographs hanging on the wall. My instincts also sang out that this young woman was no fool.

Well, where is he now? she asked as if the reason she came was for a simple social visit to discuss our pets. I let it play out.

I always leave him home when meeting someone here for the first time. Not everyone is a dog lover, I explained, although Woody was a great judge of character and having him meet a potential client was something that I looked forward to. If Woody didn’t take to you, let’s just say that it will make me a little suspicious.

As if reading my thoughts, she smiled for the first time. You’ll have to bring him next time we meet. I love dogs, and he looks like a big sweetheart! she exclaimed, looking over my shoulder at the picture of Wood’s big mug smiling for the camera.

Rose Stevens and I were off to a good start. We’d have to see what Woody thought.

2

Whenever I get a call from someone I didn’t know, the first thing that I ask was how they got my number. Call me cautious, I guess I was. Her call came at nine forty-five, maybe a little late in the evening for me, but on a Saturday night was what struck me as a little odd. She said that she didn’t exactly remember how she obtained my number. I let that one slide for the time being. I figured if this went any further, I’d find out who turned her on to me. Before she got too far along, and since she didn’t exactly remember how she got my number, I decided to tell her my brief history first.

At forty-seven I was semiretired, having spent twenty years as a private detective. The brushed nickel plaque on my door, a gift from my family, read Alex Mitchell Investigations. Mine was not the glamorous life seen on television, driving fancy sports cars and dodging bullets while saving the hot babe just in the nick of time but mostly working for insurance companies as they tried to eliminate people scamming the system. A career, nonetheless, that allowed me to get to the point where I was today. Working on a daily fee, along with commissions, proved to be bountiful. Let’s just say that there’s a tremendous amount of scamming going on in the world of insurance claims. And not to pat myself on the back, but I was good at exposing the bad guys. And over the years, I exposed a lot of them.

The trouble with the whole semiretirement thing was that I was just too young for it. I like to keep busy, and downtime caused me to get a bit antsy. Don’t get me wrong, I love my free time, but there are stretches where I need to have structure, and right now was one of them. My wife was traveling with a group bringing musical instruments to the South where the last hurricane caused quite a bit of devastation. Oftentimes, it was items such as these that get overlooked when the reorganizing took place. We spent a couple of months networking then gathering old, unused instruments from folks who had them lying around in their basements or attics. It was amazing the amount of parents whose children had played when they were younger, lost interest, and their relatively new band instrument was left collecting dust. This presented the perfect opportunity to collect these mostly brass, woodwind, and percussion instruments and load them into a box truck that our local rental agency donated for the trip and venture south. She won’t be back until Christmas. After twenty-seven years of marriage, she was still my best friend, and I miss her every day. Oftentimes we travelled together, loving the fact that we can do certain things for those in need. I’m especially sorry to be missing this trip. As a part-time musician myself, this was right up my alley. Unfortunately, Woody became the obstacle. In the past, we would leave him with one of our two sons, which always worked out great. Our boys—well, not really boys, twenty-six and twenty-two—were musicians and their band was presently touring out on the West Coast. So for now, it was just me and Woody.

The option of putting him in a kennel wasn’t an option. When he was rescued from a box of puppies that had been dropped off on the doorstep of our veterinarian’s office one cold December night ten years ago, he—along with the other three survivors—was very sick. There were ten pups to start. Four were dead when our vet arrived to find the box in the morning, and two more had to be put down. We couldn’t even bring him home for two weeks after we told her that we’d adopt one. I was actually at a holiday jazz recital that our son was involved in at his high school when our veterinarian sat down in the row of seats in front of where I was sitting, turned to a woman behind her, and related the story of the puppies. When she finished, she asked if the woman knew of anyone who was looking to adopt a puppy. Oh, what a great Christmas present it would make! As she said this, she looked right at me—hook, line, and sinker. We were at her office the next day picking out our cute little boy. And cute he was. With a dalmatian father and a pit bull mother, he looked like one of the 101 Dalmatians from the Disney movie cartoon, but his face resembled the Little Rascals’ dog, Petey. With all the bad publicity that the pit bull got, we were even happier adopting a breed that was so misunderstood. When will people get it straight that dogs weren’t born mean; they were made that way by humans. My hat’s off to advocates like Rachel Ray who know what great dogs pit bulls really are.

After his arrival home, Woody had to be babied. He was weak due to sickness, and we kept a pretty close watch on him. Sleeping in bed with us at night became the norm, and ten years later, at seventy-five pounds, he still did, and on top of that, he considered himself a lap dog. I couldn’t love him more.

So having the next two weeks until Christmas relatively free made it an easy decision for me to make in agreeing to meet with Rose Stevens.

I understand that you are quite selective in the work that you take on, Rose said as I took a sip of the coffee that I had poured for us from the side table. I assume that since you agreed to see me, you are interested.

Yes, Rose, I’m interested, I stated. On the phone you said that you want to clear the man who is accused of killing your father.

That’s correct.

Okay, so let’s say that was enough to get me interested. And it was.

3

Sam Dennis was currently being held in Middleton prison for the murder of Ben Stevens. He was arrested after leading police to the spot where Stevens was buried, a hand-dug grave down a dirt road and into a town watershed area. The land was protected from being built on, so other than being led there, the chances of anyone ever finding his remains was extremely slim.

His disappearance came amidst stories of spousal abuse, and although not proven, many felt that child abuse was also involved. He was never charged with any crimes as Jane Stevens, Rose’s mother, kept the trouble within the confines of her own home. She filed a missing person’s report when her husband was gone for forty-eight hours without any contact. The authorities did the usual follow-up, and the truth came out about the abuse. The case was fairly quickly filed away as the general consensus was the thought that Stevens simply ran off on his family. Foul play was talked about, but no evidence pointed in that direction. The guy was a deadbeat, mother and daughter better off without him. Good riddance.

According to Rose, Sam Dennis walked into the police station and told the on duty officer that he knew where Ben Stevens was. The officer, somewhat on the rookie side of his career, had no knowledge of the Stevenses’ story and called for the chief. Sixteen years had passed since Ben Stevens’s disappearance, but the present chief was a sergeant at that time and remembered the case. Chief Burns dug out the old case file, got a quick refresher, and sat down with Sam Dennis to listen to what he had to say.

Dennis claimed to have killed Stevens when he was ten years old. His recollection of just how he did it was not clear. In fact, he couldn’t really remember how he did it at all. But he said that he did know where he had buried him. After Chief Burns recorded all the necessary information, he—along with Sam Dennis and two other squad cars, yielding four officers—departed the station.

Burns was quite familiar with the area that Dennis said was the gravesite. The town’s watershed was an area routinely checked on by his officers. The land was owned by the town and had freshwater feeds either through rain runoff or by natural springs. The water ran down a series of small brooks converging at the bottom into a small reservoir. It was then filtered and residentially used. Even though a locked gate blocked vehicles from entering, there was plenty of space on either side of the gate posts for access by foot or ATVs. Snowmobiles regularly used the trails in the wintertime. There were No Trespassing signs clearly posted, but the police were more concerned with keeping out those who may use the area to dump trash than they were the occasional hiker or rider.

Once inside the watershed, Sam Dennis led the group to a location about a quarter of a mile off the main trail where he claimed to have buried Ben Stevens. After sixteen years, the spot looked as undisturbed as any that surrounded it. A large rotting tree lay on its side on the spot indicated by Dennis. Burns had his men mark off the area with crime scene tape and made the necessary arrangements to get the proper people and equipment to the site. One thing Burns knew was to do things by the book. He wasn’t about to let the mishandling of a suspect or evidence be the reason that a criminal walked free, not on his watch. Even though Dennis confessed, Burns knew how easily cases changed once lawyers got involved.

Chief Burns had two of his officers take Sam Dennis back to the lockup, posted the other two at the site to wait for the crime scene investigators, and left for the station house himself telling the two guarding the site to radio him when the others arrived.

The excavation turned up a body, and the remains were taken to the crime lab in the nearest city for identification. Through dental records, the body was quickly identified as that of Ben Stevens.

Sam Dennis had gone to the police on Thursday morning, which was the tenth of December. The body was exhumed by late that afternoon, and positive identification was made by midday on Friday. Rose and her mother were notified at two o’clock Friday afternoon. Chief Burns made the visit himself and told the two women as much as he legally could. The medical examiner was still conducting the rest of the autopsy in hopes of finding the cause of death. There were few tears shed, and Burns wondered if the ones that did fall were more of relief than sadness. Sixteen years of wondering where a family member was had to be tough, no matter how happy you were that they were gone. Closure is extremely important. He departed telling the two that he would be in touch as to when the remains could be claimed and that he was there to help in any way that he could.

Jane and Rose were left to discuss what, if any, funeral arrangements would be held. They decided that cremation was the only thing either of them felt was fitting, although that wouldn’t take place for some time as the medical examiner continued autopsy procedures. Rose told her mother she would take care of it all and that Jane should just try and digest what had happened over the last two days.

Rose’s call came to me on Saturday the twelfth, and here we were meeting in my office on Monday the fourteenth. A lot had happened in just a few short days, let alone the fact that Rose wanted to clear a man who hadn’t yet been found guilty of any crime, although telling the police that you killed someone and then leading them to the exact spot where you claim to have buried the body didn’t leave you much of an out. I had a million questions and tried to line up the first few in my mind.

What makes you think that Sam Dennis didn’t kill your father? I asked.

I just don’t think that he would kill anything on purpose, she said flatly.

Does that mean you think it could have been accidental? she didn’t respond, so I continued, Or do you think that he just didn’t do it at all? Instead of answering, she began speaking about her past.

Sammy and I grew up in the same neighborhood. His house was six up from ours on the other side of the street. My childhood was not a good one. My father hit my mother, and when he wasn’t physical, the verbal abuse was unbearable. I’m sure the neighborhood knew something wasn’t right in our house, but people tend to mind their own business when there’s a potential crazy person on the block.

I thought of the recent events out in California where a girl kidnapped at age eleven was held captive for eighteen years, living in the kidnapper’s house that was right in the middle of a neighborhood. Rose was right; people tended to stay away from the strange ones. Before I could ask, she answered my next thought.

He also hit me on occasion. Not like he hit my mother, but more like an afterthought to one of his angry outbursts. I became more and more withdrawn. I didn’t have many friends. After all, who would allow their child to play with the girl whose father is a wife beater? I stayed in my room most of the time and read a lot of books as a way of escaping the reality of how we were living. He spent much of his time in the basement anyway.

She went on to describe just a horrible way of growing up. The old man drank down in the basement and would either pass out, and those were the good nights, or storm up the stairs pissed at the world and start taking it out on Jane and Rose. As she told it, her mom probably saved Rose from getting more than she did by deflecting his anger onto herself.

I wanted to ask the obvious: why didn’t her mother do something about it? But the fact was, she didn’t, and she couldn’t go back and change it. So I waited for her to continue.

She went on to say that it was a gradual thing, not one that happened all at once and that they just didn’t realize how bad it was until after he left.

Once he was gone, our concern wasn’t really where he was, but was he going to come back. My mother filed a missing person’s report, and after a few weeks, the police told her that he most likely ran off, not wanting to be found. She continued, It seems to be one of those areas that if you don’t pursue it, then the police have better things to do and move on.

Tell me a little about Sam Dennis, I coaxed.

Yes, as I said, Sammy lived up the street. He was, is, two years older than me, and when you’re that age, even a year makes a great difference in the kids that you hang out with. Not that I really played with anyone. I mean, I had friends at school, but those friendships stayed at school. There wasn’t any spillover. Once the school day ended, I was back to playing in our backyard with my imagination. I used to create some magical worlds back there where I was ruler of the land and the trees, and the patio furniture and birdbath were my loyal servants there to protect me from the evil monster who lived in the mountains. Pretty cut and dry psychologically, don’t you think? She actually smiled.

I smiled in return and said, "Well, at least you can draw enough from it to