DEAD ALL OVER

By Gregg E. Bernstein

"Dead All Over" is a riveting crime novel that propels readers into the dark underbelly of 1950s Los Angeles. Cole Dunbar, a private investigator enjoying a rare moment of peace, is abruptly thrown into a complex murder case. After a distressed teenage brother and sister share a tragic tale of murder during the Santa Claus Lane Parade, Dunbar embarks on a twisted journey to uncover the truth.

Navigating his way through a labyrinth of questionable clues, scant evidence, and cryptic messages from an enigmatic informant, Dunbar's dogged pursuit of justice takes him across the unforgiving Mexican desert. As he gets closer to the truth, he uncovers a shocking revelation that spins the entire case on its head, leading to a riveting climax.

Drawing on his vast experience as a psychologist, author Gregg E. Bernstein brings alive the seedy streets of Los Angeles, constructing a world of mystery, deception, and murder, where nothing is as it appears to be, and a simple homicide case becomes a long, twisting drama with an unforeseen end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350912197

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DEAD ALL OVER

Copyright © 2023 by Gregg E. Bernstein, Ph.D.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN (Print Edition): 979-8-35091-218-0

ISBN (eBook Edition): 979-8-35091-219-7

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

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter One

1957 was the most normal year of my life. After my crazy home life as a kid, followed by service as a Marine in the Pacific and the ensuing combat fatigue that haunted me for years, then joining the LAPD in a failed attempt to coexist with bureaucracy, and finally becoming a minor Los Angeles celebrity last year as the private detective who helped solve The Newspaper Killer case, I was more than ready for normal. And Thanksgiving in ’57 was normal; a great dinner with my new wife Marie and our good friends Dick Hartwick (an old buddy from my cop days), his wonderful wife Brenda, and their two sweet kids Madeline and Dickie. I don’t know, maybe I was hoping that if I surrounded myself with normal people long enough, some of it might rub off.

But now it was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and I was sitting in the swivel chair in my office, alone. Early this morning I’d driven Marie to Union Station in downtown LA, and seen her off on the Coast Daylight to visit her parents, who’d moved up to Oakland a few years ago. She was on Thanksgiving break from UCLA, where she was finishing up her doctoral program in chemistry. She’d asked me to come along on the trip with her, but in the private investigation business there is no Thanksgiving break. At least that’s what I told her. But the truth is, even I was confused about who Cole Dunbar really was now.

The old me always loved being alone; it meant there was no one to take orders from, no one to accommodate, no one to disappoint. But hell, now I wasn’t so sure. Living with Marie was so different from life in the rundown apartment on Bunker Hill where I grew up (or at least aged out of childhood), where my mother was either totally absorbed in her writing or mad at me about one thing or another. But Marie actually seemed to care about me, care about my happiness, care how she affected me, and was willing to make whatever adjustments were needed to make our life together work. I know all that stuff is supposed to be a good thing, but it was still so new to me, so foreign, that it was hard to trust it and not constantly wonder when the other shoe was going to drop, or even make the other shoe drop by going off and doing something stupid to sabotage our whole Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm relationship . . . okay, maybe that phrase was uncalled for, but you see what I mean about how torn I felt inside—what Doc Grimes, my psychiatrist, would call ambivalence. Or maybe it’s conflict. I forget which.

So I sat there in my office, feeling ambivalent (or conflicted) like one of those half-man, half-horse creatures from mythology, part of me relieved that Marie was gone, another part at loose ends because I was going to be alone for the next week. The flurry of new business that came in after all the publicity I got for nabbing the so-called Newspaper Killer had just about petered out now, and in truth, while Marie was away for the next week, I planned on doing a lot of loafing, maybe taking in a couple of movies and even a fight at the Hollywood Legion Stadium, if there was anyone good on the bill.

The phone rang. That was unusual; new clients don’t usually call on Sundays, especially not holiday Sundays. I could have just let it ring through to the answering service, but then it occurred to me that it might be Marie. I was a husband now, and, unlike the old, lone-wolf me, husbands are supposed to answer the phone when it rings.

Cole Dunbar, Private Investigations.

Hi Cole, it’s Dick. What are you doing today? I know Marie’s gone north to see her folks.

Uh oh, was this a pity call? Oh, not much, I said, I’m just sitting here in the office, workin’ on a few things.

Well, we’re taking Madeline and Dickie down to Hollywood Boulevard in a bit to watch the Santa Claus Lane Parade, and we’re wondering if you’d like to join us?

Aha, so it was a pity call! Uh, I don’t think so, not today, Dick. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on down here, and . . .

Cole, there you go again, isolating yourself. Remember, we talked about . . .

Yes, Dick, I remember. Hey, I came over for Thanksgiving dinner, didn’t I?

He laughed out loud. You make getting together with friends sound like taking out the trash.

So sue me. Look, I’m not much for parades, I guess. And standing around in a noisy crowd for hours just to catch a glimpse of Art Linkletter isn’t my cup of tea either. Nothing personal.

It’s not Art Linkletter we’re going there to see; it’s Santa!

My mother, a cynical old 1930s left-winger, always maintained that Santa was just a cynical capitalist confection to spur seasonal spending, and I suppose I still kind of agreed with her on that. I said, Well, make sure and give Santa my best regards. Maybe by next year I’ll be mature enough to come with you.

He laughed again. I hope so; Maddie specifically asked me to invite you.

Well, tell her I’ll be by to see her real soon.

Okay, will do. See you then.

Again, I felt that same unsettling mixture of relief and the need for connection.

I lit up a Camel and walked over to the window to watch the everyday world go by: all the normal people walking along Sunset Boulevard to do their early holiday shopping; all the normal people driving to see their friends and relatives. I felt like they were all in a club I could never get into. But did I even want to be in that club? Was my problem that I was a half-baked pizza, and just needed another ten minutes in the oven, or that, after all these years as an outsider, it was too late to change, and maybe I should just make the best of the half-baked guy I actually was?

After a while I noticed it was getting colder fast, the clouds that swirled above coalescing into an ugly gray soup. Well, that matched my mood; if I didn’t snap out of it quick, I was going to spiral into the old black pit again, and now I didn’t even have Marie around to cajole me out of it. I suppose I could have called Jim Grimes, the Navy corpsman who carted me off Okinawa in ’45 and was now my psychiatrist, helping me deal with all the headaches and nightmares that plagued me after the war. But I had no right to disturb his holiday weekend with my little problems, so as usual, I was on my own. It was four-thirty, not too early to get some sustenance from a beer or two. When I became famous last year and suddenly had a glut of new, high-paying clients, I sprang for a luxury, a small icebox for the office, and right now I was glad I did. I reached in and recruited a six-pack of cold Eastsides to keep me company. I pulled out two bottles and went to work on them. By the time I’d polished them off, I realized that waking up this morning several hours earlier than usual to get Marie to the station by eight must have taken more out of me than I thought. I felt exhausted and thought I’d just rest my eyes for a minute . . .

Knock! Knock!

The noise jerked me awake. I checked the clock: my God, it was already ten p.m., and raining outside like a son of a bitch. Who the hell could be knocking on my office door at this time of a rainy night, and on a Sunday, yet?

Knock! Knock!

All right, all right, keep your goddam drawers on! I straightened up the papers on my desk, then swept the two empties into the waste basket; after all, it could be the Shah of Iran at the door, wanting a little help with palace intrigue. I grabbed a breath mint and stuck it where it could do the most good, then shrugged into my houndstooth sport jacket and fastened the middle button. I was as ready as I’d ever be to receive company.

I went into the outer office and snapped the lights on, then cautiously cracked the door. Okay then, what are you here for? My tone wasn’t exactly welcoming.

A young man and a young woman, maybe teenagers, were standing there. They looked like they’d just seen a ghost, but I didn’t think it was me. The young man said, Can’t you at least let us in, sir? Please?

Oh yeah, sorry. I pulled the door open, but not much. Look, I’m sure you’re nice kids, and I know it’s supposed to be the season of giving, but if you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, or Mormons . . .

Suddenly, the girl’s legs folded up under her. I rushed forward and caught her in my arms just as she cried, For God’s sake help us, Mister Dunbar!

I know an open sesame when I hear one, so I opened the door all the way and half-carried her to a chair in my inner office. Then I turned to the boy. Please, take a seat and tell me what this is all about.

He seemed to collapse into one of the client chairs, while the girl sighed like it was her last breath on earth, her face white as a sheet.

The boy pointed toward the far side of my desk. Is that a beer I see over there?

Uh oh, I had forgotten to stash the unopened bottles back in the icebox. I got up. Oh, sorry, I’ll just go and put these back . . .

The boy waved his hands. No, no, don’t put ’em back in! I could really use one.

I turned back to face them, still holding the four glass soldiers. Kid, are you even of drinking age?

The boy said, Maybe I wasn’t this morning, but after everything that’s happened today . . .

I still hesitated a moment, but the desperation on his face was mute testimony enough for me to pop the cap off one of the bottles and hand it to him. Here you go. Uh, you don’t mind if I join you, do you?

He shrugged. No sir, I’d be honored.

All right then, for the sake of the poor kid’s honor I’d force myself. But first I went over to the Sparkletts dispenser and filled a paper cup with water, which I handed to the girl. Then I opened another Eastside and took a big swig as I swung a chair around and straddled it, facing them. Now, tell me your story, as best you can. And I’ll need to know your names, too.

As the boy drained his bottle with desperate gulps, I sat there wondering exactly what could have happened to bring these two nice kids out to see me so late on a stormy night. The beer did seem to infuse a little more color into the kid’s pallid face. He looked to be around eighteen . . . the girl, who was finally recovering a bit, was maybe a little south of sixteen. The boy was tall and thin, with a longish face, dark, intelligent eyes and wiry black hair that capped his head like a helmet. The girl had wavy blonde hair and shimmering blue eyes. She wasn’t there yet, but once she’d lost some of that baby fat and sprouted a little, she’d be knocking on the door of beautiful.

Finally, the boy took a deep breath and began. My name is Scott Padgett, and this is my sister, Penny. Sorry if we seem kind of lifeless, sir, but we’ve just spent the last four hours being interrogated by a police captain.

The girl nodded. And he was no gentleman, either.

My ears perked up. His name wasn’t Crosetti, by any chance, was it?

Their eyes went wide and Scott said, "As a matter of fact, it was. But how did you know that?"

I smiled, having gone a few bruising rounds with Phil Crosetti myself. I’m a good guesser. Please go on. Uh oh, Crosetti was homicide, and that meant murder; no wonder the kids looked like washed-out hell.

This time the girl led off. I assume you’re familiar with the Santa Claus Lane Parade?

I nodded, thinking back to Dick Hartwick’s call earlier. Sure, it was held today. The merchants along Hollywood Boulevard decorate about a mile of it all sparkly and fancy for Christmas, from Vine to La Brea. It’s for the kids . . . with movie stars, Santa and everything. I turned my head. What about it?

Now they were both on the verge of crying. The boy finally managed to say, Well, Santa always comes last in the parade every year. Everyone waits for hours to see him, and then, finally, there he is at last, and the crowd explodes.

I nodded again. Uh huh, right. So, go on.

Penny was now crying openly; she leaned against her brother for a moment, then threw her arms around him. He gathered himself and said, Except this year, when Santa Claus appeared and the crowd exploded, there was another explosion from somewhere up high, behind us, and someone shot Santa, dead.

I gasped. Oh my God, what a shock! So, I’m guessing it happened right near you guys, and you were pulled in as witnesses and grilled?

The boy nodded slowly. Well, you’re partly right, Mister Dunbar. It did happen right near us, and we were witnesses who were pulled in and grilled, but . . . He gulped hard, then forced himself to go on. . . . but Santa Claus, or rather the man who played him, was . . . our . . . father, Gordon Padgett.

For a long moment I just sat there, stunned.

The boy went on. And . . . and then there was this nice man named Mr. Hartwick who tried to help us, before the police got there. When we told him our story, he said he was a policeman too, but he was off duty. He gave us your card and said we should come see you, that you were a friend of his and a special man who could probably help us a lot more than the police could. So, once we’d identified father’s remains in the morgue . . .

Penny was sobbing uncontrollably again, her head down as a rosary of tears stained her dress. She finally managed to say, Daddy was blown to pieces.

Scott reached over and bracketed Penny’s heaving shoulders, waiting patiently for her sobs to subside. Once she had control of herself again, he went on. So, like I was saying, once we identified the, uh, remains, and Captain Crosetti was finally done with us, we took a cab here.

And with that, he ran out of words.

Jesus H. Christ. Well, appearances didn’t matter anymore, not after a bombshell like that, so I went over to the icebox and liberated another beer, partly to buy myself a little time to think and partly because I needed some fortification against the horror of everything I’d just heard. I had killed half the bottle before I was able to turn around and face the poor kids again, or even think straight. I knew something about loss too—well, actually, quite a bit: like them, I had lost my father, except mine ran off when I was three and never looked back, leaving me to be raised by a mother with a heart like a deep freeze. Then there was my best friend Danny, blown to smithereens on Okinawa while I just stood there watching helplessly. But I wasn’t on Okinawa now; this was about these kids, not me. So I reeled my thoughts back in and steeled myself. I had a job to do here and now, and these kids needed me.

I reached back to my desk for my spiral notebook, then straddled the chair again, leaning forward. Okay, let’s start with the basics; where is your mother?

The boy shrugged. We lost her about four years ago . . . cancer.

Relatives?

He shrugged again. None. Both of our parents were only children, and all of our grandparents died years ago.

Oh my God, this thing was more up Marie’s—or maybe Doc Grimes’—alley than mine. Christ, I was running a private investigation agency, not a foster home. I took another big slug of beer and tried to calm down, reminding myself that Doc Grimes always said I took people’s needs as a demand. But on the other hand, I decided right then and there to take on their case and do whatever I could for them—professionally speaking, that is.

I asked, How are you fixed for money?

The boy nodded. We can’t pay you much now, sir, but . . .

I waved my hands. No, no, I don’t mean that; I mean, do you kids have enough to get by for a little while?

He nodded again. Oh, I see. Yeah, I think we’re okay for now. After Mom died, Dad figured he’d better have a pretty good life insurance policy in place, in case anything happened to him, too.

I nodded. Well, thank God for small blessings. But what I meant is, do you have enough money to see you through the next few days? It’ll probably take at least a week for the insurance people to get any funds to you. I reached for my wallet.

Penny shook her head. After Daddy was killed, the parade people gave us a hundred dollars.

Scott held up a wrinkled c-note as she went on. They said it was going to go to charity, but now . . . I guess we’re the charity.

Hmm, I wondered, a little hush money, perhaps? I had a private thought about suing the parade organizers for liability, if it ever came to that, because I knew the bad publicity from this thing would probably be murder, so my bet was the organizers would probably toss more money at the kids if they thought it would help sweep the whole thing under the carpet and make the organizers look like good guys to the public. But I could always get an attorney’s opinion on the q.t. about a lawsuit later on, if it came to that, so I kept those thoughts under my hat for now; the kids were worn out, and frankly, so was I.

I nodded. Okay then, bring me that insurance policy tomorrow, and any other paperwork or documents you think might be relevant. But after what you kids have been through, I think what you both really need is a good night’s sleep. We can start figuring out the rest tomorrow. Now, do you want me to put you up at a hotel for the night, or . . .

They both shook their heads and the girl said, Thank you, but no. I think we’d be better off in our own beds tonight.

I cringed. Kids, I hate to bring this up, but is there any possibility that whoever killed your father might . . .

Try for us? Scott shook his head. No, I doubt it. I’m pretty sure whoever shot him was killing Santa Claus, not Gordon Padgett.

I nodded. You mean you think it was some kind of a symbolic protest against Christmas or something?

He nodded. Probably. And that’s what Captain Crosetti thinks, too.

Hmm, in my personal opinion, whatever Crosetti thinks should be grounds for thinking the opposite, but I kept that to myself for now; Scott and Penny had been through enough for one night.

We shook hands and I said I’d be glad to represent them. Then I called Yellow Cab and gave the dispatcher my office address. About ten minutes later the cabbie pulled up in front and honked. I could see him peering up impatiently through the pounding rain at the lone lighted window in the building.

I handed Penny an umbrella from my coat rack and we all got up and went to the hall door.

Okay kids, see you tomorrow, say around two? I wrote my home number on the back of my card and handed it to Scott. Call me if you need me, anytime. And my answering service can always take a message, day or night.

Scott said, Okay, see you at two then, and thank you so much. He stuck out his hand like the grown man he was now forced to be, and I shook it, then turned and gave Penny a big hug.

Her tiny body was shaking like a leaf.

Somehow, going out to see Jailhouse Rock, The Pajama Game or even a good fight didn’t seem too important anymore. Besides, I was now a PI on a case, not a centaur at loose ends.

Chapter Two

When I went to bed that night, I pretty much knew what would greet me bright and early the next morning, and I wasn’t wrong. When I got up at the crack of eleven and called Answer World, Stella said there were already five messages for me, every single one of them from Dick Hartwick, starting at eight a.m., each one more insistent than the last, asking me to call him immediately about the Padgett Case. I loved Dick like a brother, but our bodies had very different ideas about what constituted business hours. For Dick, it was early to bed and early to rise. But my body’s idea of availability was very different, and that was one of the reasons I couldn’t cut it with the LAPD, as they juggled me from shift to shift. For me, days started at ten or later and ended sometime before dawn, if I could get to sleep and when I wasn’t awakened by nightmares.

In any case, I stumbled out of bed and dialed Dick’s cop number.

Hartwick here.

Dick, it’s Cole.

Well, well, so Sleeping Beauty is finally up and about. On behalf of the human race, thanks for joining the workday, already in progress.

Yeah yeah, I get it. Whaddya say we just skip the feeble attempts at humor so I can find out why you called me five times in the dead of night?

Okay then, I wanted to tell you that I gave your card to a couple of kids whose father was tragically murdered in the Santa Claus Lane Parade.

I’m way ahead of you.

You mean you’ve already read the morning papers?

Nope, I mean I met with Scott and Penny last night, and I’ve already been retained to investigate their father’s death.

"Oh, then I guess you are way ahead of me. Uh, sorry."

"I accept your apology. Do you know that your esteemed colleague, Phil Crosetti, hauled those poor kids down to Homicide last night and had ’em on the carpet for four solid hours, after they’d already gone down to the morgue to identify the pitiful remains of their father?"

Jesus, that guy’s got all the subtlety of a rogue elephant.

Yeah, they were pretty well done in by the time they got to my office. The girl almost fainted. She was chalky white and about halfway to shock.

Well anyway, I’m glad they connected with you. Like I told them, you could solve this thing ten times faster than Crosetti and his merry band of sycophants.

I cleared my throat. Uh, speaking of solving this thing, Hart, can I count on you to get me a thorough rundown on this Gordon Padgett fella? Not that I doubt his integrity for a minute, mind you, but I’ve gotta look at this from all angles . . . because frankly, there’s something about this case that smells to high heaven.

You mean like, did they shoot Santa, or did they shoot Gordon Padgett?

For starters, yes, because right now this could be anything from some crackpot’s protest of Christmas to a gang hit by Frank DeSimone.

You mean the guy who took over the LA mob from Jack Dragna?

"Yeah, that’s the guy; although if it was a hit on Padgett himself, why do it in such a public place, with the whole world watching?"

"Could be exactly what you just said; this way, no one could tell if it was a hit on Padgett or just some nut out to kill the spirit of Christmas."

Yeah, I suppose that makes sense. Damn, we’re not even at square one yet.

Look Cole, I gotta go, but keep me informed, will ya? Meanwhile, I’ll run this Padgett guy through criminal investigation and maybe try and snoop around a little to see if I can find out what Crosetti’s working on, okay?

"Sounds good . . . anything you can get on where the shot came from, or what kind of weapon or ammo was used would be a big help, too. I’m meeting with the kids at two; could be they know more than they’re telling, or maybe even more than they know they know. Talk to you later."

I jumped into the shower, dressed, then headed south on Highland in my Ford ragtop. By one I was sitting in the office, finishing off a Pink’s chili dog and racking my brains about one of the strangest killings I’d ever heard of. I knew I was going to have to ask the kids some hard questions about their Daddy today, but then I figured Crosetti had already covered that territory with his customary brio last night, kind of like a sledgehammer pounding in a thumbtack.

I thought I heard some raindrops outside and walked over to the window to get a look at the fauna passing by down below on Sunset Boulevard. Even as I crossed the room the rain picked up a little, but it was still slow and listless, reminding me of a passage from a Dickens book my mother used to read me at bedtime: The rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour. I looked down at the human pageant, the street crowded with people scrambling to keep dry . . . almost as crowded as my brain was with all the offbeat guesses I could dream up about the Santa Claus Lane killing. Why would anyone commit such a heinous crime on such a joyous day? What was I going to tell those two poor kids when they came to see me today? I had a professional obligation to offer them a hell of a lot more than just a shoulder to cry on.

But what?

Then, as I stood there eyeing the street and got a cigarette going, my thoughts unaccountably jumped the tracks and shifted to Marie and me, unwanted thoughts that peppered my brain one after another like raindrops: Was it even safe to allow myself to care this much about her, or anyone? Why is she even with me? Could a woman like that actually love me? How long could this whole thing go on before she recognized me as an imposter?

Hello, Mr. Dunbar.

I turned around. Oh, hi kids. Have a seat, please. I went over and stubbed out my cigarette in the glass ashtray on the desk, then walked over to them.

They both looked a bit less forlorn than they did last night, but their hollow eyes spoke volumes about how long a night can be.

Penny licked her lips and managed to say, So . . . where do we start? before she collapsed into wild bursts of sobbing.

I went over and put my hand on her shoulder. "I guess that’s where we start."

When Scott looked at me comforting his sister, I thought I saw relief on his face; I could only guess at the mountain of responsibility he must be feeling for her now.

But then, in a very stolid voice, he said, Okay, what do you want to know? Fire away; we’ve gotta get moving before the trail gets cold.

I had to smile to myself at the resilience of the teenage heart. Finally, I said, Okay then, let’s start with your father.

Scott said, Such as?

Such as: Who were his friends and associates? What did he do for a living? How was he acting in the weeks leading up to the shooting?

Penny had gradually settled down, and they stole a quick glance at each other before Scott began. Well, he worked at Lockheed. I know in the past he had something to do with developing the P-80 Shooting Star, but a couple of years ago . . . well, he just stopped talking about his work. He shrugged. I don’t know, I guess it’s possible he could have been working on something secret. He used to call the unit where he worked the Skunk Works, for some reason.

I cocked my head. "You mean like in Li’l Abner?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea; I don’t read Li’l Abner."

I nodded. Hmm, wasn’t the Shooting Star America’s first combat jet?

Scott returned my nod. "Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was, and I know Dad was really proud of it, because we live in Burbank, close to Lockheed, and whenever one of the latest experimental models flew overhead, he would always point up and say, ‘Would you look at that? What a beauty!’ And it was a beauty, too, with those streamlined pods on the ends of the wings and the engine in the fuselage."

I had to get him back on track. So, after the P-80, he stopped talking about his work?

Penny nodded. Yes, suddenly he stopped bragging, and switched to being silent as the tomb; he’d even get kind of annoyed whenever I so much as asked him about work.

I said, Do you know who he worked with at Lockheed?

Scott nodded. Well, the only one I know for sure is a guy named Kelly Johnson that he used to mention, who became pretty famous, I think, for developing the P-38 fighter during the war, and then the Shooting Star.

Kelly Johnson, huh? I wrote the name down in my spiral notebook. Well, that at least gives me a starting point. Now, what about your father’s personal friends, acquaintances, people he got together with? You know, like poker pals, bowling leagues, hobbies, interests . . .?

They both shook their heads and Penny said, "No, not that I know of. After Mom died, he just seemed to fold up and stop socializing altogether. There were a few couples they used to get together with who came by after she died and tried to offer their support, but Dad made it crystal clear he didn’t need their help or their friendship either, and that was that."

So, how was he acting before the parade? Any unusual behavior, a difference in his mood, or anything else you may have noticed?

The kids looked at each other. Finally, Scott said, Well, he did seem a little nervous those last couple of weeks, almost like he was scared of something, or someone, but I figured it was just the usual work stuff that worried him, like maybe an engineering problem he couldn’t solve; he was always such a perfectionist, and you know how people like that can get.

I nodded, wondering to myself exactly how he could get. Okay, what do you know about his background then? Like, where he grew up, his academic history, old school friends, that sort of thing?

Penny said, All I know is he went to Georgia Tech before the war, and got a masters in engineering. Other than that, a big zero. She looked over at Scott, who had nothing to add but a shrug.

I looked away and kind of muttered, And, you know, any criminal history . . .

Scott exploded. Criminal history? What are you talking about? Are you implying that Dad was in bed with the underworld or something? That’s ridiculous!

I held out my hands. "Look son, I’m sorry if I offended you, but you understand, as a private investigator I’m like the umpire at a ball game: I don’t judge the people involved, I just have to be impartial and keep an open mind about all possibilities."

Scott said, Okay, okay, sorry if I got a little huffy there. It’s just that the thought of Dad being involved in anything illegal is just so . . . inconceivable. He was such a stickler for the rules, someone who always did things the right way. After all, he was a Marine, for God’s sake, and guys like that know all about duty, honor, the chain of command . . .

My head jerked up. A Marine, you say? Where did he serve?

Scott and Penny looked at each other for a moment before Scott said, Well, he never talked about it much, but I’ve heard him mention Saipan, Iwo Jima . . . you know, places like that.

Places like