[Lady Justice 39] - Lady Justice and the Raven Page 2

  “At precisely midnight, I went to Father’s bedroom and peered inside. His snoring told me he was fast asleep. Poker in hand, I slipped to his bedside. A flash of lightening illuminated the face that had been climbing into my bed since my early childhood.

  “I raised the poker over my head and spoke his name. ‘Father.’ His eyes sprung open, surprised to see me at his bedside. Then he saw the poker and his surprise turned to terror. At that very moment, I spoke my last words to him. ‘You shall touch me --- nevermore!’ I swung the poker with all my strength. A clap of thunder muffled his dying gasp.

  “I heard someone at the door to Father’s room. It was Galen. ‘Is it done?’ he asked. ‘It is, my brother,’ I replied. ‘This vile creature shall trouble us no more.’

  “Though only twelve, Galen had no love for the man. He had felt the pain of the belt and the back of his father’s hand his entire life. He was my one and only confidant and I had shared my plan with him. ‘What now?’ he asked.

  “I had spent hours contemplating that question. What to do with the body? There would be inquiries. A man doesn’t just disappear. In Poe’s story, the body of the old man was cut in pieces and hidden under floor boards in the house. Rather than dig a grave that might be found by authorities, that seemed to be a practical solution for us as well.

  “With Galen’s assistance, we dragged the body to the bathroom and into the tub. Dismembering the corpse was a grisly business, but Galen had been taught to hunt and dress his kill. To him, this was no different.

  “When finished, we wrapped all the parts but one in heavy plastic and placed them between the joists of the parlor floor. After replacing the flooring, scouring the tub, and washing the bedding, there was no trace of the vile creature who had stolen our childhood.

  “The lone part that remained, my father’s right arm and hand, I took to a local lake where I knew it would be found by fishermen.

  “In the days that followed, the police came as I knew they would. Galen and I had our stories ready. Our father had left for work and never returned. Other than that, we knew nothing.

  “As I suspected, a fisherman found Father’s arm. Once ownership of the arm was established, a death certificate was obtained which allowed us to collect Father’s life insurance. Me being eighteen and of age, Galen and I were allowed to stay in our home. We lived comfortably on the money from the insurance.

  “I would love to report that our story had a happy ending, but alas, what was to come was just a continuance of my nightmare. Shortly after my Father’s demise, I was horrified to discover I was with child. Even though dead, my Father continued to haunt my life with his bastard seed that was growing in my belly.

  “I rarely left the house, and never after my condition was too obvious to hide. It was bad enough to be an unwed mother, but to be carrying a child born of incest was intolerable. I refrained from seeing a doctor for fear of being found out. When my time came to deliver, I was assisted by a midwife whom I had sworn to secrecy.

  “The physical pain of childbirth was exacerbated even further when the midwife informed me that I was bearing not one bastard child, but two, a boy and a girl. I named them Roderick and Madeline.

  “It was not altogether unexpected that these children born of incest were not quite right. Both suffered a kind of nervous illness. They experienced a sickly increase in the feeling of all the senses. They could eat only the most tasteless food. All flowers smelled too strongly for their noses. Their eyes were hurt by even a little light, and there were few sounds that did not fill them with horror.

  “Nevertheless, we are living our lives in solitude within these walls. I would like to say that our story has a happy ending, but alas, it is not to be.

  “I have taken ill and I know in my heart that my days in this mortal coil are numbered. With my life having been a living hell, my only hope is that there is balm in Gilead. My heart aches for my children. Though born of incest, they are my own flesh and blood. I shudder to think what will become of them once I’m gone, but over that, I have no control.

  “I am writing this epistle, not to unburden my soul, for I have no misgivings about what I have done, but to bear testimony to the events that have brought me to this moment in my life.

  “In truth, I welcome my passing. Regardless of what lies beyond, I am assured that I will endure the suffering of this life --- nevermore!”

  It was signed, ‘Lenore Unger. October 31, 1979.’

  After reading this tragic discourse, I just sat there, stunned. What I had read drained every ounce of energy from my body.

  It was at that moment that Maggie entered the room to check on my progress stripping the old chest.

  Seeing nothing had been done, she gave me a disdainful look. “What in the world have you been doing all this time?”

  I handed her the manuscript. “Read this.”

  “Where in the world did this come from?” she asked, taking the worn pages.

  I showed her the false bottom in the drawer. “It was hidden in here.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “There’s no way I can describe what’s written there. You’ll have to read it for yourself.”

  She took the manuscript and began to read. It wasn’t long before tears welled up in her eyes. “Walt! This is just horrible! That poor woman!”

  After reading the last page, she closed the manuscript and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Walt, what do you think we should do?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied. “Right now, I’m just stunned and saddened by what that poor soul had to endure. I need to think about it. We’re both tired. Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

  As she handed me the manuscript, she looked at the chest. “I’ve changed my mind. Don’t do a thing to it. Let’s just keep it as it’s been all these years. I think Lenore would want it that way.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  CHAPTER 3

  Although we crawled into bed with the best intentions, I couldn’t fall asleep.

  In my mind, I kept replaying the sequence of events that had occurred over the past two days, and the uncanny connection they seemed to have with the works of Edgar Allen Poe.

  I had studied Poe in college in my literature class, and he was one of my favorite writers. I was quite familiar with his work. It was this familiarity that started me piecing together what had recently transpired.

  It had all started when the raven pooped on Mary’s ice cream. That event, taken by itself, would have been nothing but another unfortunate encounter in the life of Mary Murphy. But following that mishap, Maggie had looked at numerous chests before finding just the one she was looking for. I vividly remember seeing the same raven perched on a branch just above the chest. Again, taken by itself, just a chance encounter.

  But with the discovery of the manuscript, those seemingly chance encounters seemed to be related. This relationship was strengthened even more when I discovered that the author of the manuscript was named Lenore, the same as the woman in Poe’s gothic poem, The Raven.

  Strengthening the relationship even further was the fact that Poe’s short story, The Tell-Tale Heart, gave Lenore the inspiration and encouragement to plan and execute her father’s murder. I was also struck by the fact that on numerous occasions during her discourse, she had used the term, nevermore --- the name of the ghastly bird in Poe’s poem.

  Realizing that sleep was impossible, I slipped out of bed, fearing that my tossing and turning would keep Maggie awake. I went to the office and found my copy of The Works of Edgar Allen Poe. I figured that if I was being drawn into some kind of macabre mystery, I should be prepared.

  I opened the book, found The Raven, and began to read.

  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

  As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my cham
ber door.

  “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.”

  At that moment, I heard a tapping at the office door and nearly jumped out of my skin. It was Maggie.

  “You couldn’t sleep either?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “My mind just wouldn’t shut down.”

  “Me either,” she replied. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading Poe,” I replied, holding up the book.

  I shared with her my thoughts about the past two day’s events relating to the author’s works.

  When I finished, she nodded. “I hadn’t put that together, but I can see where you’re going. Any idea what it all means?”

  I admitted that I didn’t, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to come.

  The next morning right after breakfast, I called Kevin McBride, Maggie’s brother, and my partner in Walt Williams Investigations.

  “Kevin, Walt here. Can you come over? We have a new case.”

  “Be there in thirty,” he replied.

  Taking a seat in my office, he looked around. “Where’s the client?”

  “She’s been dead for a while.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh great! Another one of your weirdo cases.”

  “It’s your sister’s fault,” I replied. “She bought an antique chest at a craft fair and I found this in the false bottom of one of the drawers.”

  I handed him the manuscript. “Here, read this and then we’ll talk.”

  As he read, I could see the look of anguish on his face.

  “Holy crap!” he muttered, closing the manuscript. “That’s horrible! But my question is this --- what are you proposing we do with this information? The poor woman who wrote it is dead. Her brother was only twelve at the time, and even more important, the sick bastard who abused her got what was coming to him. What’s to be gained by reopening this can of worms?”

  “I agree with everything you said,” I replied, “but there’s more to the story.”

  I told him everything from the moment the bird crapped on Mary’s ice cream, up to finding and reading the manuscript, and how it all seemed to relate to the works of Edgar Allen Poe.

  “The series of events I’ve just described is either leading us somewhere or a coincidence of outrageous proportions, and you know how I feel about coincidence.”

  He nodded. “I can see why you feel that way. What do you suggest?”

  “Something tells me we need to find this Galen Unger if he’s still alive, and if he’s living in the same house, get inside.”

  “What do you hope to find?”

  “I have no idea, but I’ll know it when I see it.”

  He grinned. “You’re one crazy son-of-a-bitch, but I’m in. Where do we start?”

  “From reading the manuscript, it would seem that the cause of Lenore’s father’s death was never determined. All they ever found was an arm. I’m betting it is a homicide cold case. In 1979, when Lenore wrote the manuscript, her children were already several years old, let’s say six. That would mean that the murder occurred around 1973.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed Sargent Robinette at the Kansas City Police Department. I knew him from the five years I spent as an officer.

  “Clark! Walt Williams here. I need a favor. Could you check your files around 1973 and see if you have a homicide cold case involving a victim named Unger? --- Yeah, I’ll hold.”

  Five minutes later, he came back on. “Great! Thanks, Clark. I owe you.”

  I turned to Kevin. “Carl Unger, forty-year-old white male. A fisherman found his arm at the Lake of the Woods in Swope Park. They dragged the lake but never found the rest of the body.”

  “Because it was buried under the floor of the Unger house,” Kevin added.

  “Exactly! Unger’s children stated that their father left for work and never returned. That lines up with the story in the manuscript.”

  “Did you get an address?”

  “Sure did. It’s on Swope Parkway in south Kansas City.”

  “Makes sense,” Kevin replied. “Close to the lake where Lenore dumped her daddy’s arm. Do you suppose Galen still lives there?”

  “Let’s find out,” I said, booting up the computer and checking the tax records.

  “Bingo! Galen Unger is still the owner of record. Let’s pay Mr. Unger a visit.”

  “How do you want to handle this?” Kevin asked. “We have to be careful. Remember, he helped his sister whack up and bury his old man.”

  “How about this?” I replied. “We’re a couple of reporters from the Kansas City Star. We’ve been given the assignment of investigating old cold cases for an upcoming article. Not much of a threat there.”

  He thought for a minute. “I like it.”

  When we pulled up in front of the old house, Kevin let out a low whistle. “Ugh, that place gives me the creeps!”

  I had to agree, and knowing what had transpired inside those walls made it even creepier.

  “Why don’t you take the lead,” I said. “You’re a better liar than I am.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  As we headed to the front door, I noticed a huge black bird perched in a tree by the house. I pointed it out to Kevin. “I wonder if that’s the same bird that pooped on Mary’s ice cream?”

  I was trying to be clever, but the raven’s presence at the Unger house was unnerving.

  When we knocked, a middle-aged man with a pronounced paunch and a bald head answered the door.

  “Yeah, whadda you want?”

  “Mr. Unger? Galen Unger?” Kevin asked.

  “Maybe. Depends on who’s asking.”

  “My name is Carl Bernstein,” Kevin said, sticking out his hand, “and this is my partner, Bob Woodward. We’re investigative reporters from the Kansas City Star. We’ve been assigned to do a story on old Kansas City cold cases. We ran into the story about your father, Carl Unger. We were hoping you would give us a few minutes of your time.”

  Unger looked us over. “Reporters, huh? I don’t know what I could tell you. That was a long time ago.”

  “We realize that,” Kevin replied, “and that’s the point of our investigation. How something so tragic could have occurred and the case was never solved. We were just wanting to get some perspective from a family member who had been left behind. Could you spare just a few minutes?”

  He shrugged and stepped aside. “Sure, I guess.”

  As we walked in, I heard a female voice. “Galen? Who’s there?”

  Unger led us to the parlor where we met the missus.

  “Bertha, these men are from the Kansas City Star. They’re doing a story on old cold cases and wanted to ask a few questions about Father’s disappearance.”

  “Please come in and have a seat,” Bertha said, offering us matching chairs across from the fireplace.

  As I took my seat, I spotted the set of fireplace tools on a rack by the hearth. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was the poker Lenore had used to bludgeon her incestuous father.

  Once we were all seated, Kevin began. “Mr. Unger, please tell us what you remember about the day your father disappeared.”

  He shrugged. “Not much to tell. I was only twelve years old. Father left for work and never came home.”

  I remembered that was exactly the story that he and Lenore had cooked up for the police.

  “What about your sister?” I asked. “How did your father’s disappearance affect her?”

  I saw the far-away look in his eyes. “Ahhh, Lenore! She was a rare and radiant maiden.”

  I shuddered. That description was word for word from Poe’s poem, The Raven.

  Unger continued. “She was eighteen at the time of Father’s death. In one respect, it was a blessing that our mother passed ten years earlier. It had fallen on Lenore to assume the duties of the woman of the house, so she was well prepared to take care of me after Father died.”
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  I wanted to add that those duties also included satisfying your father’s lust, but I held my tongue.

  “Did Lenore ever marry?” I asked.

  Unger shook his head. “Sadly, no. A few years after Father passed, she became quite ill. The sickness took her quickly.”

  It was obvious that Unger wasn’t about to mention his Father’s incestuous offspring.

  Unger wiped a tear from his eye. “I recall clearly the day she passed. Dr. Grackle was at her bedside. I remember asking him if he could keep her with me. His answer broke my heart. ‘So sorry, Galen, your sister will be with you nevermore.’ When I fell to my knees weeping, he put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Do not despair,’ he said, ‘somewhere in that distant Aidenn, your sister will find the peace she was denied in this life.’”

  I was speechless. Dr. Grackle? Grackle was another name for a raven, the very raven that loved to say the word, ‘nevermore!’ I remembered from my studies that Aidenn was another term for paradise, and it was a direct quote from the poem.

  I wasn’t sure where to go from there. Unger’s account of his sister’s death had unnerved me.

  It was at that moment that we were joined by another member of the Unger household. A huge black cat casually ambled into the room. It had a ghastly countenance, and as it drew closer, I understood why. The poor beast had only one eye.

  He strolled to the middle of the parlor floor and began to sniff and claw at the hardwood planks. I couldn’t help but wonder if those were the very planks that covered Carl Unger’s dismembered body.

  Galen lunged at the cat. “Get away from there you filthy beast!”

  The frightened cat scurried under Bertha Unger’s chair.

  “Galen!” she admonished. “He wasn’t hurting anything.”