Garwood Village, Robert F. Clifton [small books to read txt] 📗

Coffee and dough-nuts was the traditional way to start off the morning for the Major Crime Squad. When he was finished his wiped his mouth and then his hands with a paper napkin, rolled the serviette into a ball and tossed it in the waste basket.

While the detectives ate, Wallace opened the files pertaining to the Garwood Village murders. He read then re-read official reports, looked again at crime scene photographs and removed hand written notes that no longer were correct or of value to the investigation. Finally, seeing that everyone was finished eating he closed the files and said, “OK. Who wants to go first?”

Frank Stiles spoke first. “I hit a brick wall at the Dude Ranch. The daytime crew is made up mostly of one bartender, a waitress and two porters that mop the floors and clean the restrooms. No one knew anything about a guy coming into the place with red hair”.

Wallace then looked at Detective Myers. “Carol? What do you have?”

“Captain I met with the Superintendent of Garwood Village. She pulled two boxes of records dating back to the nineteen fifties. All we found was note from a Mrs. Horton saying that she and her son were moving to Long Beach Island”, Myers reported.

“OK. At least that's something”, Wallace replied. “Tom? Got anything?” he asked turning his attention to McKenna.

“Yes sir, I think so. I hit the Dude Ranch at night, usually after nine. Each time I came up empty. That is, until Friday night. At that time I spotted a guy in what appeared to be a uniform, out-of-place, if you know what I mean. He was sitting at the bar drinking a beer and talking to the bartender. I walked up to him and identified myself. I found out that he was a bus driver, working for Public Service, out of Berlin, New Jersey. I proceeded to question him, asking if he had noticed any guy with red hair hanging around the bus terminal. You see the Dude Ranch is two blocks west of the terminal and Garwood Village is four blocks West of the Dude Ranch. Anyway, he told me that he remembers picking up a guy with red hair at a bus stop in Caravel and the guy got off of the bus here in Nautilus Beach. The last time I looked at a map,Caravel is a small town on Long Beach Island”.

Wallace sat up quickly in his chair. “Damn! Tom you might have just scored. Think, was there anything else the bus driver said?”

“I seem to remember that the red haired guy never had any luggage, just a long, black, narrow bag with a shoulder strap”, McKenna answered.

“And, you do have the name and address of the bus driver, right?”

“Certainly, Ralph Cummings, thirteen hundred Black Horse Pike, Berlin, New Jersey. His Public Service badge number is one, one, seven”.

“Good job, all of you. Now, someone get me a Road Atlas showing the town of Caravel. I haven't been there in years. Caravel is the name of a Portuguese ship and the town adopted that name just like Brigantine, New Jersey did years ago. The last time I was there it was a little piss pot of a place with a small population and Mom-and-Pop stores. Carol, I want you to get on the telephone, see if Information can give you a number or listing for the Chamber of Commerce of Caravel. I want to know the leading businesses in the town. If there is no Chamber of Commerce try for a listing for city Hall or the Municipal Building”, said Wallace.

“What do you need to know about businesses?”, asked Stiles.

“If Horton lives there he has to be either employed or on welfare. If he's employed what's his job and does it require the use of knives?”

Tom Mckenna entered the office carrying a Triple A road Atlas. He laid it on the desk in front of Wallace. Opening the book of maps to New Jersey, Wallace using his index finger went to the column of cities and towns beginning with the letter C. He stopped when he came to Caravel then read the population number next to the name. It was eight hundred and fifty. “Caravel is still a small town but since the last census was probably in nineteen seventy the population is more than likely now over a thousand. More people means more businesses. Something is keeping Horton there, if not his job, what is it?”, asked Wallace.

Carol Myers walked into the office. “I just got off of the telephone with the Public Information Office of Ocean County. According to them the largest employer in Caravel is a place known as, Haven House. Haven House is a half way house for the mentally ill”, she said.

“Damn! It looks like the breaks are starting to come our way. Alright, Tom, you and Carol head for Berlin. Check in with the local police. Then, I want a written statement from Cummings, the bus driver. Make sure he repeats what he told you about transporting a guy with red hair from Caravel to Nautilus Beach. What I really want is him saying he can identify the guy. Frank, you and I are heading for Caravel and Haven House. Let's hope Lionel Horton is there”.

 

Wallace drove the unmarked, black, Chrysler sedan on to the ten acre site and parked in front of the Haven House. He and Stiles got out and after locking the car doors they both walked up the front steps and into the building. They stopped at the reception desk and a young woman with a smile greeted them. Wallace removed his badge case from the inside pocket of his blazer and identified himself and Stiles. “I am Captain Wallace of the Nautilus Beach Police department. This is Sergeant Stiles. I believe we have an appointment with a Mr. Harvey Anderson”, he said.

“Yes Captain. Mr. Anderson is expecting you. If you will follow me I'll show you to his office”, said the woman.

“Thank you”, Wallace replied.

The three walked down a long, but wide hallway. White painted walls gave a sterile status and Wallace noticed the lack of decor.

The young woman stopped in front of a door, knocked, then opened it when she heard the words, “Come In”.

“Captain Wallace and Sergeant Stiles to see you sir”, she said.

“Oh yes. Come in gentlemen. From the short conversation we had on the telephone I get the impression that your visit here is an urgency”.

“It is. I am Captain Robert Wallace. We spoke on the telephone. This is Sergeant Frank Stiles”.

“My pleasure gentlemen. Please have a seat”.

“Thank you. I'll get right to the point Mr. Anderson. We want to know if you have a patient by the name of Lionel Horton?”

“Captain, you use the word patient. We prefer the word, client. You see we provide those with chronic mental illness support and services to acquire community living skills in a congregate setting”, explained Anderson.

“Then, I stand corrected. We want to know if you have a client by the name of Lionel Horton?”, said Wallace.

Anderson smiled. “Captain, you know that we do or you wouldn't have driven up here to meet with me or my staff”. He said.

“And, may I say it's nice to know where we both stand”, Wallace replied.

“Exactly, Mr. Horton is indeed a client and has been for several years. He is at times a resident and at other times he is an out patient”, Anderson responded.

“When you say several years, could you be a little more exact?”, asked Stiles.

“Certainly. Mr. Horton came to us the first time in nineteen sixty-nine”, Anderson answered.

“And he's been treated here for the past six years?”, asked Wallace.

“Treated? If you mean case management then the answer is yes.”.

“Could you elaborate on this, this case management?”, asked Wallace.

“Certainly. The people that come to us, clients, if you will, generally have developmental disabilities. We provide residents with the training and support that allows the individual to communicate and choose for themselves in such things as activities, recreation, vocation if possible and personal growth”.

“You mention activity in a vocation. Is Lionel Horton employed?”, asked Stiles.

“Last year we were able to place Mr. Horton in Stephanie's Restaurant as a dish washer”, Anderson answered.

Stiles wrote in his notebook.

“Is Horton a resident here now?”, asked Wallace.

“No. Mr. Horton is an outpatient.”

“And, just what does that entail?”, asked Wallace.

“We have local clinical providers who offer beds for outpatient care and day services as a short term alternative to psychiatric inpatient care. Usually there is a short stay in a comfortable home-like environment and away from their usual living place. This allows for problem-solving around certain issues that might be causing stress”, said Anderson.

“OK. And, where is this comfortable home-like environment?”, asked Stiles.

“It could be here or in any of our other housing resources”, answered Anderson.

“Mr. Anderson. We are here investigating the heinous murders of several women that occurred in Nautilus Beach. Right now we consider Lionel Horton as a suspect in those murders. What I want to know is first, his mental state and what he's been treated for. After that I want to know where he lives. So far, all you have given us is the text from one of your brochures”.

“I'm sorry you feel that way Captain, but as you know information about our clients is classified. I can't tell you where he lives nor can I tell you about his medical history. However, I can refer you to the United States Army. Perhaps they will give you the information you're after”.

“Yeah. Yeah. I hear that all the time from doctors, lawyers clergy and news reporters who can't reveal their sources. Eventually, they do under oath in a court of law. Right now. I see that you're stonewalling us so let's ease each others pain. Thank you for a half-ass presentation about your facility. Good by”, said Wallace as he and Stiles stood and walked out of the office.

Stiles pulled the car into a parking place in front of Stephanie’s Restaurant. He looked at his watch. “Are we having a late lunch or an early supper?”, he asked.

“Order what you want. Hopefully we'll get some information here. At the same time we can eat”.

Both men entered the restaurant, saw that the place was empty except for a waitress dressed in a pink outfit with a white apron and another woman who appeared to be the cashier. Wallace pointed to a booth. “Can we sit here?”, he asked.

“Sit where you want deary”, said the waitress. She filled two glasses with water and carried them and two menu's to where Wallace and Stiles sat.

“Kinda quiet in here”, said Stiles.

“It's March in Caravel. This is a summer resort. We're lucky that we're still open for business. I'll give you guys some time to read the menu. For your information the special today is the meatloaf and yeah its fresh”, said the waitress.

“I see by the name tag you're wearing that your name is Tilley. Tilley, I'm Captain Wallace of the Nautilus Beach Police Department. This is Sergeant Stiles. We're looking for a man reported to be working here. A man known as Lionel Horton. I understand he's the dishwasher”, said Wallace.

“My name is actually Matilda, Matilda Squires. Tell you what officer. See that lady sitting by the cash register? She's the owner, Stephanie. You go ask her your questions. People think waitresses are dumb. Well right now I am. I don't know nothing”.

“Hey, I understand Matilda. While I'm talking to your boss, you can bring me the meatloaf. Can I get corn with that?”, asked Wallace.

“If we have it. If not, it will be carrots”.

Wallace walked up to the woman called Stephanie, introduced himself, showed his credentials and asked her about Lionel Horton.

“He worked here up to a month ago. I try to be community oriented if you know what I mean. So, when those from the Haven House came in here and asked if I would hire a guy with a mental disability I