Saint Patrick's Day - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part III: A Dark Comedy Cozy Mystery With A Twist (15 page)
Authors: Duncan Whitehead
The explosion sent debris flying into the sky as Doug Partridge’s car exploded into a fireball that spread to several cars parked close by in the lot. A plume of black smoke rose into the air as the debris that had been sent skywards clattered to the ground. The sound of the explosion echoed through the already panic stricken city, causing even more confusion and chaos. The sound of sirens could be heard; fire trucks, ambulances and police vehicles, all headed either to Bay Street or to Montgomery Street.
Doug Partridge saw his car explode from where he stood across the street from the parking lot, from the same spot where only minutes before Peter Ferguson had departed. It had been inevitable, thought Doug. If he had followed the instructions given to him by the Ferguson he would have been in the car, waiting for a telephone call from Ferguson that would never have come. He shook his head; did they really think he would be that stupid? He knew that they would be watching and he knew that they had no intention of just letting him walk away. The fire crews and paramedics would find a body in the burned out wreckage, but it wouldn’t be his. It would be the body of Anthony Sands, whom Doug had placed in the trunk of the vehicle the night before. The body would be unidentifiable, especially as Doug had already burned the corpse the night before. With no DNA, no dental records to trace and no fingerprints, the police, FBI, or whoever finally ended up investigating this mess would have trouble even identifying the gender of the body. It would be a ‘John Doe’ - just as the Organization would have expected.
Anthony’s car would be found, spotless and abandoned outside his motel, and after a few days he would be reported as a missing person. One of the thousands of people reported missing every day. By then though, Doug would have already collected Katie and he would be gone, this time for good. With the Organization thinking he was dead, they would stop watching Veronica’s parents’ home, allowing him to take his daughter without fear of capture. As promised, and the only truth that had left Peter Ferguson’s lips, was that the money had been deposited into his bank account five days earlier. This time, Doug Partridge would stay dead. He lit a menthol-flavored cigarette and sucked in the nicotine. All around him was chaos and destruction; he had never really enjoyed St. Patrick’s Day anyway. It was always too crowded and impossible to park. Veronica, though, had always enjoyed it. She had called it a ‘Savannah Tradition.’ As emergency vehicles approached and sirens blared all over the city, Doug threw his cigarette to the ground, and as he always did, picked it up and placed the butt into the pack. Maybe he had been right after all, maybe everyone had been right, even Santiago the waiter from Buenos Aries; maybe it would be cigarettes that eventually killed him in the end.
Peter Ferguson leaned back in his seat and poured himself an expensive scotch. He peered out of the window of the jet as it began to taxi and prepare for takeoff. It had been a very good day. He was looking forward to arriving back into Washington, where the Organization would be praised for saving the life of Elliott Miller, and praised for embarrassing and curtailing the rise of the rival organization…the rival organization that he had created.
On a personal level though, he felt pleased, pleased and satisfied. He had finally killed Doug Partridge and in the process of doing so, ensured his own safety and regained some of the pride that had been lost when Ignatius Jackson had gone over his head in an attempt to save the life and family of his oblivious neighbor. It was over.
March 23
rd
, Seven Days after St. Patrick’s Day
It had been a long and emotional day for Elliott and Kelly Miller. Together they had attended three funerals, and as they entered their home, Kelly dressed in a black designer dress and Elliott wearing his dark suit and black tie, both were physically and mentally drained. Kelly, after kicking off her expensive shoes, flopped immediately onto the sofa in the den while Elliott fixed himself a neat scotch.
Kelly politely refused Elliott’s offer a drink and told him all she wanted to do was sleep. She asked if he would he wake her in an hour. She didn’t even want to change or shower, just snooze where she lay in the den. Elliott told her that would be fine, he had work to catch up with and would maybe sit on the porch in the swing chair and relax for a minute with his drink. It was still warm outside and he needed to reflect on the day’s events. Before he had even finished speaking, Kelly was already sleeping. Elliott walked over to his wife, stroked her cheek, and kissed her gently on the forehead. After checking that Biscuit, Grits and Shmitty had water and food in their bowls he headed out of the front door and onto the porch with a glass in is hand, then sat on the swing. He took a sip of scotch, closed his eyes, and recounted the day’s events.
The first funeral he and Kelly had attended that morning had been in their official capacity as mayor and mayor’s wife. Danny Blake had been forty two when he had died, a victim of what the press had dubbed the ‘Savannah St Patrick’s Day Massacre.’ He had died from blood loss, a result of a wound to his main torso caused by a bullet that had passed through Cindy Mopper. It had bounced on the ground and ended up lodged in his liver, but not before passing through several of his other vital organs. His death had been instant, despite the presence of paramedics at the scene who had tried to revive him and administer first aid. It had all been for nothing. Even if he had not died at the scene, his injuries were so severe that his death would have been inevitable. Several media news sites had reproduced a photograph of Danny, taken by a bystander, his head cradled in the arms of his weeping, confused, blood-stained and grieving partner. It had become one of the defining images of that tragic day.
Elliott, representing the city of Savannah, paid his respects to Danny’s elderly mother and his partner, before saying a few words over his grave. The press had been in attendance at the funeral, as had throngs of photographers, reporters and television news crews, all eager to take pictures and photographs of the grieving family and Danny’s boyfriend. They had been kept at bay by the Savannah Police Department. Also in attendance was chief of police Jeff Morgan, in both an official capacity and a personal one. He had been a friend of Danny’s, whom along with his partner Robert, had owned several downtown businesses including a hair salon, a restaurant, several bars, and a nightclub. Kelly had, of course, looked spectacular throughout the proceedings, and the press had managed to take quite a few photographs of her as well, something she hadn’t objected to. Those photographs would eventually lead to headlines such as ‘
Hot Wife of Mayor Attends Iconic Photo Victim of Massacre Funeral,’
and
‘Burial of Man Whose Photo Shocked The World After Savannah Slaughter Lain To Rest With Beautiful Wife of Mayor In Attendance.’
Danny Blake had become the symbol of that day. The enduring and lasting image of Robert cradling his head and desperately pleading for help had come to symbolize the tragedy.
Once the service was over, Kelly and Elliott were driven to Danny and Robert’s home in Gordonston, where a small wake was held. Despite living within walking distance of their home, Kelly and Elliott had never spoken to or even met Danny or Robert prior to the tragic events that had occurred several days earlier. After thirty minutes, Kelly and Elliott bid their farewells and departed the proceedings and celebration of Danny’s life to attend their second funeral of the day. Jeff Morgan also excused himself, as he was also required to attend the second burial that day in his official capacity. As he left his friends’ home, he hugged Robert and kissed Danny’s mother on the cheek.
The second funeral that morning was more emotional for Elliott. He had known Cindy Mopper for over twenty years. She had been Thelma’s best friend. She had been a good woman who had been through a lot of tragedy, including the death of Carla Zipp, who had died in her arms, the passing and then the betrayal Billy Malphrus, and of course, the realization that her friend had been murdered with poison meant for . She also ensured the brief suspicion that she was involved in Carla’s death. For a while, Elliott sadly recalled, Cindy had hidden herself away from the world, and it was only recently that she had once again ‘found herself.’ She had begun walking again in the park with Paddy and Walter, the dogs she had adopted after Carla’s death. Kelly had remarked how friendly Cindy had been towards her. Just as it seemed Cindy was returning to her old self, tragedy had struck.
Cindy, as had Danny, had died instantly. Despite the valiant efforts by paramedics to save her, she was already dead before she hit the ground. The photographs taken of Cindy’s body by bystanders had been too gruesome and graphic to publish by the media; and though she was also a victim of the Savannah St. Patrick’s Day massacre, she had garnished less interest from the press, and subsequently the public, than Danny Blake.
Elliott once more said kind words over a freshly dug grave. This time however his words were filled with emotion and genuine sadness. He described his and Cindy’s friendship, how his wife had adored the woman and how they had been best friends-practically inseparable. He recalled Cindy’s volunteer work for the Gordonston Neighborhood Association and her tireless efforts at producing the resident’s monthly newsletter. He recounted stories about his wife and Cindy, how they would gossip for hours and seemed to spend most of their time laughing, joking, and enjoying life. At one stage during his brief eulogy, Elliott thought he might cry as his memories took him back to the days before Thelma’s cancer had struck. Kelly gripped his hand and he composed himself and remembered how lucky he was, and that despite recollections of the past, his present was far more satisfying.
Cindy’s funeral had not been well attended. In fact, apart from Kelly, Elliott, Morgan, and a distant cousin and a few old friends and neighbors, no one had really come to mourn Cindy Mopper. The press hadn’t even shown up. That fact had not been lost on Elliott. Cindy’s funeral had been a huge contrast to Thelma’s funeral; attended by hundreds, and then her wake, people called it the party of the year. There would be no celebration of Cindy’s life. No one to host and no one who was close enough to her to arrange a gathering. Elliott realized that he was probably the closest person to her, and again, he stifled a tear. Poor Cindy. After all she had done for others, including Kelly, offering to teach her to cook, welcoming her into the Dog Walking Club and being nothing but pleased that her best friend’s husband had found happiness.
“So, what do they know?” asked Elliott as he walked from the grave now containing Cindy’s coffin, alongside Jeff Morgan, towards their cars.
“Well, they say he was a loner. Crazy. The FBI have taken apart his apartment and found newspaper clippings of other shootings. He had a scrapbook filled with references to Columbine, Sandy Hook, and other massacres. They also found a diary; apparently he had been planning this for a while. It was filled with ramblings and threats. He knew there would be a large crowd in Savannah. They, the FBI, believe he drove up from Miami the day before the parade, hell-bent on causing as much mayhem as he could. He certainly fits the profile of a mass shooter.”
Elliott nodded. The shooting investigation had been taken over by the FBI, who had traced Dermot Lynch’s address through the ID he carried. It had become apparent to investigators that he was a lone wolf, a crazed killer intent on slaughtering as many people as he could. The fact he had chosen Savannah to carry out his murders had been due entirely to the fact that crowds would be gathered en masse for the parade. His neighbors had told the FBI, and then the press, that they hardly saw him, and that he kept himself to himself. They thought he was a loner and seemed to have no friends, and they felt like there was something strange about him. However, they would never have dreamed that he was the one responsible for the havoc that had occurred in Savannah.
There had been some initial speculation that maybe the random shooting had actually been an attempt on Elliott Miller’s life, but that theory had evaporated nearly as quickly as it had appeared once it had been discovered that Lynch was actually a madman.
“Any explanation yet on how he died? Lynch?” Asked Elliott.
One of the things that had mystified the police and the FBI was that Dermot Lynch had been found on the roof of the Union Bank Building already dead. Shot in the back of the head at close range. There was speculation that he may have had an accomplice, but there had been no evidence or clues that this was the case, just theories.
“No explanation,” relied Morgan, “Absolutely none. No witnesses, no CCTV footage, no weapon, nothing concrete.” The policeman shook his head, “Right now the story we have leaked remains the same and no one has disputed it. He was killed by one of our officers. The last thing we want is to cause a panic, for people to believe that somewhere out there an accomplice, another lunatic is poised to strike again. Luckily, everyone seems to be buying it. For now.”
“Any news about the car bomb? The victim? Anything?” asked Elliott as the men continued to walk towards their vehicles.
“We know that the vehicle was a rental car. As for the driver, still unofficially unidentified, there wasn’t much left of him. No dental records, fingerprints – and no DNA match. We and the FBI believe he could have been a Colin Bywater, the car was rented in his name, according to DMV records and the rental company, but who he is we don’t know. No one has any idea who Bywater was. He flew into the country the day before, from the Bahamas.”
“So no closer on who planted the bomb?” asked Elliott. Morgan shook his head.
“Any indication the two are related? That Lynch’s killer planted the bomb in Bywater’s car?”
“No. Again we have nothing to go on. All we have is a crazed gunman taking potshots, shot execution-style in the back of the head. A car bomb, which killed an unidentified male, probably Colin Bywater, and a bomber on the loose, or maybe the bomber was Lynch. Of course, we can’t rule out a connection. Miami? Surely not a coincidence, but there isn’t any evidence linking them together, not yet anyway. I have my own theory. They were working together and Bywater killed Lynch, who had already planned on killing Bywater. Why? I haven’t pieced that together yet. But the evidence is pointing to that. But until we can confirm it, which seems unlikely, then the story is that they are unconnected and Lynch took a bullet from one of our own.”
“So what’s next?” asked Elliott as he, Kelly, and Morgan reached the mayor’s chauffeur-driven car.
“Back to normal, I guess,” replied Morgan “Whatever normal is these days. Despite all this, Savannah still has one of the lowest crime rates in the country. I hear your popularity rating is even higher and you would have to be deaf not to have heard the rumors of you running for Governor.”
“Just rumors Jeff, just rumors,” said Elliott as he opened the rear seat passenger door for Kelly.
“Rumors or not, you have done a good job. Even this,” Morgan spread his arms, “even this tragedy has actually given you more exposure. I just hope you don’t forget about me, if you ever go for even higher office. I think I would make a good vice president.”
Elliott smiled and patted Morgan on the shoulder. “We have one more to go, one more funeral. You go home, you look exhausted.”
The final funeral of the day had been the oddest, thought Elliott as he sat gently swinging on his porch. He took another sip of his scotch and shook his head. A very strange thing had occurred, a curious turn of events that had for a moment had left him reeling in shock. A very strange thing indeed…
