House Of Ghosts Part 1

House of Ghosts.

by Lawrence S. Kaplan.

Acknowledgements

I WOULD LIKE TO THANK MY WIFE ANNE for her encouragement, keeping me on the path when I felt sorry for myself. Foster Winans, who some four years ago, said that my first ma.n.u.script shouldn't go into the fireplace as kindling. Walt Kuenstler for being there in my trying time of need. Debra Leigh Scott for her many insights. And my kids Richard and Mich.e.l.le who read and re-read numerous drafts.

For IRENE LEDERER,.

eyewitness to American bombers flying over Auschwitz.

Chapter 1.

WESTFIELD, NJ AUGUST 2000 2000.

JOSEPH ARTHUR HENDERSON limped into the kitchen of the tomb-quiet center hall colonial. It was near noon. He wouldn't have forced himself off the couch in the den if it weren't for the sledgehammer pounding his skull right behind the eyes. The couch had taken the place of his bed, using the stairs to the second floor killed his leg as the rationale, but had none for turning off the phones or closing the blinds during the day.

The renovated works.p.a.ce was the product of the trembling hands searching through the "junk" drawer next to the stove. The headaches weren't new. This one was worse than the others. Joe was sure the envelope with the last of the Percocet was in a plastic sugar bowl he brought back from Disney World when Emily was six. He guarded the two tablets as if they were the keys to eternal bliss, to be used for an emergency when the pain management specialist wouldn't authorize more refills. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d said he'd have to learn to deal with it, and with the rehabilitation program the leg would get better. It didn't and he stopped going.

With the help of a couple of buddies in the Department, the tired sixty-year old dwelling was ripped up a room at a time. A cop and his teacher wife never could have purchased a house in the exclusive Wychwood section of town if the place wasn't one step away from being condemned.

With a hundred thousand dollars won in the lottery and the profit made from the sale of their starter Cape on the other side of town, the nervous couple signed the purchase agreement. "It's a great deal and it's the northside of Westfield," the shark real estate agent told her prey as she tried to justify the obscene price. "The northside always commands the dollars." The small New Jersey town, twenty-six miles south of Manhattan and an easy commute across the Hudson River to the caverns of Wall Street, had exploded with the NASDAQ made, pie-in-the-sky money of the 1990s. Yuppies overpaid for the right to tear down existing structures to build their McMansions.

Rosa must have must have moved it. With his heart racing, Joe opened the cabinet where the gla.s.ses were kept. Mickey's face smirked back. He felt the coin envelope for his salvation, popped one of the white tablets into his mouth and chewed it as a piece of candy. Gagging on the acid chunks, he took a swig of coffee brewed the previous morning from a mug emblazoned with University of Arizona. The curdled cream added to the putrid taste occupying his mouth. He poured the remnants of the mug into the sink and shook his head, watching the thick goo seep between the rubber nibs of the garbage disposal. The symbolism was clear-his life was sliding down the drain and he didn't give a d.a.m.n. moved it. With his heart racing, Joe opened the cabinet where the gla.s.ses were kept. Mickey's face smirked back. He felt the coin envelope for his salvation, popped one of the white tablets into his mouth and chewed it as a piece of candy. Gagging on the acid chunks, he took a swig of coffee brewed the previous morning from a mug emblazoned with University of Arizona. The curdled cream added to the putrid taste occupying his mouth. He poured the remnants of the mug into the sink and shook his head, watching the thick goo seep between the rubber nibs of the garbage disposal. The symbolism was clear-his life was sliding down the drain and he didn't give a d.a.m.n.

At forty-nine, things were supposed to be different. The kid was going off to college and the time alone with Elaine, unenc.u.mbered with the demands of a hormone raging teenager, would provide the zip to rekindle a flagging relationship. He needed a couple more years with the Westfield P.D. and then he'd tell his chief of police to go to h.e.l.l. At twenty-five years, his rank of detective lieutenant would provide enough for a comfortable retirement. It would be their time for some fun.

Then a bullet blew away bone and muscle a few inches below his right knee. Surgeons contemplated amputation before agreeing to reconstruction using t.i.tanium rods and a new vascular procedure to restore blood flow. The surgery left him with a permanent disability, incessant pain, and a wife who didn't understand how he a bullet blew away bone and muscle a few inches below his right knee. Surgeons contemplated amputation before agreeing to reconstruction using t.i.tanium rods and a new vascular procedure to restore blood flow. The surgery left him with a permanent disability, incessant pain, and a wife who didn't understand how he ever ever got involved with the FBI in their attempt to catch a homicidal maniac. got involved with the FBI in their attempt to catch a homicidal maniac.

Joe crossed the ten by ten s.p.a.ce avoiding a stained gla.s.s Tiffany lamp swaged from the ceiling and settled into a white upholstered captain's chair. He propped his leg on a footstool kept in the kitchen for that purpose.

Resting his head against the wall, he waited for the Cla.s.s II narcotic to take effect. Dr. Headcase, the psychologist his wife forced him to see, said he had traumatic stress disorder. Zoloft would help the depression. Joe laughed at hearing the diagnosis. Getting shot wasn't anything he hadn't experienced before. The Yale Ph.D. blanched when Joe showed him the scar on his chest from a Vietcong's AK-47 round. Joe, in his own estimation, was a complete screw up pure and simple.

A mad dash of scrambling thuds ricocheted down the staircase from the second floor. Roxy, Joe's black Labrador, scratched at the front door.

"Ho-la! Ho-la!" sang out. Rosa, the Henderson's long employed Puerto Rican cleaning lady, had let herself in. Roxy danced in circles as Rosa gave her a squeeze around her ample neck. "Joe, you home?"

"In the kitchen," he moaned, realizing it was Friday.

Rosa, pet.i.te and owning skin the color of virgin olive oil, walked into the kitchen. Her white T-shirt and pink floral shorts were wet with perspiration. "It so so hot." She wiped her face with a tissue. "Fifteen days of ninety plus." hot." She wiped her face with a tissue. "Fifteen days of ninety plus."

Joe was unfazed: the central air was humming and the fridge was stocked with Budweiser. He hadn't ventured outdoors for two days.

Roxy rambled to the kitchen's threshold and gave Joe a look of disgust. The ninety-pound canine was lucky-Joe, in a burst of genius, installed a doggy door in the laundry room that opened to a fenced yard and purchased an automatic feed dispenser programmed for three times a day. She wagged her tail at Rosa, then scampered out of the room.

"A dog needs to be loved." With her hands on her hips, she looked at the man who had employed her for eighteen years following the birth of Emily. Her role as full-time housekeeper/nanny evolved as Emily grew. She still came twice a week-Mondays and Fridays-but didn't see the reason why. For over a year, Joe had lived in the house alone.

Joe's orange golf shirt and blue jeans were stained with coffee. With a three-day growth of stubble, the one time fashion plate pa.s.sed as one of the homeless that hung out at the train station. "Bad nights?" she asked.

"You don't have to be polite," Joe said without opening his eyes. "I've got a hangover the size of San Juan."

Rosa didn't require any explanation. A dozen twenty-ounce empty beer cans and a half bottle of Johnny Walker Black sat on the table. The bottle of Johnny Walker was unopened on her last visit. "Elaine call?" Rosa asked, knowing how her phone calls pushed Joe into that "dark place."

"I had the pleasure of hearing her voice Monday night. She found a job, an apartment, and a new life," he said with a wry smile.

When Elaine announced at the end of June of the previous year she was taking a sabbatical from her teaching job to work with mentally challenged kids on an Arizona Indian reservation, Joe was unashamedly relieved. Their marriage was in shambles. Maybe it was his never-ending funk. Maybe it was the beer and brown goods chasers. The Marlboro man and the overflowing ashtrays didn't help. Besides, Emily was entering the University of Arizona as a freshman and needed to get her things out west. Elaine said she'd be away for ten months and hoped that he would use the time to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

"I'm sorry for you," Rosa said.

Joe removed a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros on the table, lighting it with a Zippo bought in a PX before shipping out to Vietnam. A wisp of smoke floated from a nostril. "It's alright. Elaine is being Elaine."

Rosa scooped up the beer cans and disappeared into the laundry room. The crash of the cans into the recycling container pierced Joe's ears. She returned pushing a vacuum cleaner. "Forgot to tell you, something is happening at Mr. Swedge."

Joe wrinkled his forehead, picked up his cane fashioned out of a five-iron golf club he was no longer able to swing, and forced the pack of cigarettes into the right front pocket of his Levi's. He hobbled to the picture window in living room at the front of the house.

In the circular driveway of the Tudor across the street were an ambulance, a Westfield black and white police cruiser, and a dark blue Crown Victoria. A banana yellow Dodge Durango SUV completed the quartet.

Joe didn't need to rush. The Durango belonged to Dr. Christian Murphy of the Union county medical examiner's office. Barefoot, he put on a pair of sneakers that were wedged under the base of a wood coat rack beside the door and ventured out.

Rosa was wrong. It wasn't so hot; it was as if he stepped into a blast furnace. Joe felt the heat rising from the concrete walk.

"Hey Joe!" Ed Stoval yelled from the front yard two doors to the left of the action. The octogenarian rested against the handle of a bamboo rake he was wielding against a mountain of gra.s.s clippings. "What's going on?"

Joe crossed the street feeling the curious stares from windows up and down the block. Tanglewood Lane wasn't where invitations were extended to come over for a cup of coffee. Stoval was one of the exceptions, the other, a raven-haired beauty with legs that went forever and had a husband who was never home. "Mr. Swedge must not be feeling well."

A Jaguar convertible coupe backed out of the driveway from one of the recently constructed houses, slowing to a crawl as it approached Joe. "p.r.i.c.k," Joe mumbled, wanting to knock the three hundred dollar designer aviator sungla.s.ses off the pompous a.s.s's head. The thirty-something male accelerated, tossing loose gravel behind.

Stoval coughed deeply, spitting a gob of mucous onto the pile. "I hope he's f.u.c.king dead." His ramrod carriage hadn't changed from when he served in World War II. Silver and Bronze Stars and two Purple Hearts gave him cause to curse the abundant BMWs and Mercedes' that cruised the upscale town. A 1990 Buick LeSabre sat proudly in his driveway.

Before Joe could answer, Stoval adjusted his 82nd Airborne Veteran's cap and turned away. Joe laughed to himself. Stoval wasn't p.r.o.ne to cursing, but Preston Swedge, with a disposition as sweet as rancid b.u.t.ter, brought out the best in everyone.

Joe approached the black and white from the rear. The uniformed officer sat with his hat pulled down over his eyes. A rivulet of condensation from the air conditioner ran down a slope toward a grove of evergreens partially obscuring the house. Joe tapped the b.u.mper with the golf club causing the dozing officer to sit up and check the side mirrors. The driver's door creaked open.

"Where in h.e.l.l have you been?" Sgt. Bill Fielder asked, placing his feet on the pavement. The middle-aged patrolman looked up at the five ten former lieutenant. They were friends for twenty years and Joe's change in appearance was disturbing. The combination of Joe's packing on thirty plus pounds and the red spidery look of his face led to one conclusion: the man had fallen into the bottle. Fielder knew his share of cops that ended up the same way. "I call and get no answer and ringing the bell is a waste of time."

Joe looked away as he took the last drag on the Marlboro, tossing the b.u.t.t onto the street. "I took off for a couple of weeks and visited my cousin up in... Maine."

"I got a couple of long lost relatives somewhere. Maybe I should look them up." Fielder never heard Joe mention a cousin in Maine. He changed the subject. "Jeanie would love to have you over for dinner. It ain't good to be alone."

"I'll give you a call." Joe ran his fingers through his graying crew cut. He thumbed in the direction of the house. "How good?"

"About the same as when we found that scientist and his buddy dead last summer with the heat turned to the max." Fielder fetched a red handkerchief crammed in a rear pocket with his ticket book and blew his nose. "I needed some air."

That incident was the precursor to Joe being shot. The memory of the decomposed bodies churned an unsteady stomach not helped by the Percocet. He struggled to remove the pack of Marlboros from the tight jeans. "I hate s.h.i.t like this. Who called?" He lit another cigarette.

"Ryan Mack couldn't get any more mail through the slot," Fielder replied, taking a drink from a bottle of water. "We've been ventilating the place for an hour, but..." Fielder got back into the air-conditioned cruiser and rolled the window down. "The body is in the kitchen. Straight down the hall."

Joe didn't need directions. The floor plan was burned into his brain after searching the premises on more than two-dozen calls for burglars, second story men, b.u.mps in the night, and a character named Rothstein who seemed to be connected to the Wild Turkey the proprietor of the premises liked to suck down. When Joe suggested adopting a Doberman from the ASPCA, the irate citizen threw him off the property. The two hadn't exchanged even a drop dead in a year.

A sign declared the premises were protected 24/7 by a security firm advertised across the country. He laughed at the idea that the renowned skinflint would've sprung for anything more sophisticated than a piece of string to trip an intruder. The sign was a two dollar knockoff at any flea market.

Climbing the slight incline, Joe pa.s.sed behind the evergreens and stood facing the house. Rough sawn limestone and red brick combining with semi hexagonal bays, turrets, and half-timbering gave the impression of a fortress.

Joe maneuvered around a section of deteriorating flagstone walkway leading to the ground level entrance. He flicked his cigarette into a neglected flowerbed and stepped across the marble threshold of the open gingerbread door. The aroma wasn't too bad. He wasn't surprised that a security keypad, motions sensors, and window gla.s.s breaks were nowhere in sight. A pile of mail lay on the floor adjacent to the slot.

When Swedge tossed Joe from the premises, he fired Rosa as his housecleaner. It was apparent that a replacement hadn't been found. Spider webs dangled from the huge crystal chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Dust thick enough to write his name in covered the banister of the staircase to the second floor. Sheets covered the furniture in the living and dining rooms to his immediate left.

Green horseflies danced around bra.s.s wall sconces in the dimly lit the hallway. With each step, the mild aroma turned more sickeningly sweet with the flies growing thick on the crown moldings. Joe tapped on the door jamb with the club and entered the kitchen, drawing four faces covered with surgical masks his way. A six-panel gla.s.s door to the rear yard was open.

"A regular Yogi Bear. He sleeps till noon...," Lt. Dan Fredericks gibed, handing Joe a mask.

"One of the perks of retirement," Joe replied, not taking the bait. Fredericks, promoted to head the five man detective division upon Joe's retirement, was a born-again Bible reader who listed Joe as one of his projects. In his black suit, starched white shirt, and pencil thin red tie, the thirty-four year old looked like a cross between Buddy Holly and Billy Graham.

"Nice to see you Joe," Dr. Christian Murphy said as he jotted notes on a clipboard.

Chris Murphy was Joe's kind of guy-nicotine addicted and never missed an occasion to hoist a cold one. Murphy never changed the happy-go-lucky expression on his pudgy freckled face or the lab coat Joe claimed was a biohazard. "Glad to see that someone knows his manners."

"Not much of a mystery," Murphy said, pointing to the Parson's table. A collection of pill bottles lay scattered amidst a leather bound book and two weeks worth of crossword puzzles clipped from The New York Times The New York Times. "Mr. Swedge was being treated for congestive heart failure. The tablets on the floor are nitroglycerin. I'll have a definite cause of death in a couple of days."

Joe checked two EMTs fidgeting with a black rubber body bag. Preston Swedge, leaning back in a wood high back chair with his chin tilted to the ceiling in a forty-five degree angle, had turned into a science experiment. Maggots working overtime stripped the flesh off his face and consumed his eyeb.a.l.l.s, leaving sockets glistening like polished ivory. A noxious collection of yellow-green fluids congealed on Preston's wing tips. "Like the Wicked Witch of the East, he's melted into his shoes. How long hasn't he been missed?"

"Ten to twelve days. Humidity and heat play havoc with the decomposition process." Murphy pointed to the flies on Swedge's face. "Do you want to know the life cycle of our friend the Chlorotaba.n.u.s crepuscularis?"

"I'll wait for the movie," Joe replied. "Where's the emergency alert pendent he wore around his neck?

"The last completed puzzle is from the fifth. The date fits within the estimate." Fredericks removed the pendent from a plastic bag on the kitchen counter, holding it in the palm of his rubber gloved hand. "Didn't help him."

Joe shrugged his shoulders.

"Can you remember remember the last time you saw Mr. Swedge alive?" Fredericks asked. the last time you saw Mr. Swedge alive?" Fredericks asked.

Joe lit a cigarette and froze Fredericks with his glare. Joe's former shrinking violet subordinate had grown into the role of being the big cheese. Murphy sorted through his notes as he walked to the door to stay out of the looming fray. "I remember like it was last Thursday. I saw him tool out in his '58 Fairlane convertible," Joe said. A half-eaten hoagie lay rotting on its wax paper wrapper across from the body. He circled the table and sat down. "Looks like tuna."

Fredericks nodded to the EMTs who lowered the bloated remains into the bag positioned on a stretcher. "So what?" Fredericks asked.

Joe waved at a swarm of flies tiptoeing across the hoagie. "He couldn't chew stuff like this."

Fredericks removed his mask. "What's your point?"

"Someone was here when Preston expired." Joe leaned forward for a closer look. "A month ago, I was at the dentist and Mr. Charm was b.i.t.c.hing to the receptionist how his new set of choppers couldn't chew oatmeal no less a sandwich."

Murphy packed his examination bag. "This is all very interesting. But..."

"Make sure you check his gut. I'll bet a case of beer you won't find any shredded lettuce," Joe said.

"I'll let you know," Murphy said, rolling his eyes. "It's been a real pleasure."

Fredericks watched Murphy recede down the hall. "There's no evidence of forced entry, the drawers and closets haven't been tossed. According to Murphy, the guy was taking medication to keep his heart ticking. Maybe he was sitting on the other side of the table, didn't feel well, got up and tried to walk it off. Who knows?"

"And who cares?" Joe added. "I don't give a s.h.i.t, but let me ask you one question, Detective Lieutenant."

Fredericks motioned for Joe to continue.

"He goes for a leisurely stroll around the table and he doesn't use the alert. He feared dying and being found like he was." Joe laughed as he pat Fredericks on the shoulder. "Like I said, I don't give a s.h.i.t. It's your case, but for old times, humor me and check the wax paper for prints." His eyes widened as he flipped the book over. The Five Books of Moses The Five Books of Moses was embossed in silver letters. was embossed in silver letters.

Fredericks removed his gloves. "I'll think about it."

Joe picked up the book, opening the cover. "The Old Testament." He shook his head. "Genesis. In a million years, I'd never guess he'd be reading the Jewish bible." He checked his watch. It was 1:15. "I gotta get going. I got a shrink appointment in hour." He tapped the table twice with his club and walked down the hall into the sunshine.

Fielder was gone. Joe Stoval, clutching his rake, stood at the bottom of the driveway. "You got your wish, Preston is f.u.c.king f.u.c.king dead," Joe said. dead," Joe said.

"I shouldn't have said it. Barbara would've kicked me in the shin."

Joe put his arm around Stoval's neck. "If I had a ten dollar bill for every time I wished the b.a.s.t.a.r.d dead...it would've paid for a year of college."

Stovall burst out laughing. "Maybe the 'f.u.c.king Jew' Rothstein killed him. He rambled on about him enough."

Joe lit another Marlboro. "I was hoping to meet the ghost Rothstein." He blew a stream of smoke to the sky. "I wonder if there's going to be a service. Preston had no relatives."

Stoval poked at a rock with his rake. "I hope there is one. I can't wait to hear Reverend Miller's eulogy for the man who claimed he changed the world and history."

"Changed the world, how?" Joe asked.

Ed shrugged his shoulders. "Beats me. Maybe it was the booze talking."

Chapter 2.