Dating : So Shall It Begin, So Shall It End (Part 2 of 5)

So Shall It Begin, So Shall It End (Part 2 of 5)

Sure enough, as the Sheriff had said, sat April Townsend’s house off of highway sixty-nine to the right. It was a decent sized house, bright yellow paint with blue shutters. Scott had to agree, it looked horrible. Maybe it was because he didn’t like standing out, and the yellow made it so the house was something you wouldn’t miss while driving.

He stepped out of the car and made his way up to the porch. The porch looked cozy with a sized wooden swing on it, to the right, and an old looking rocking chair to the left. Since the summer’s were nice and warm, with barely any rain, the porch seemed like a nice place to hang out and just enjoy a quiet day, while watching the cars go by along the highway. As he stood at the front door, he stopped himself before he decided to knock on it. He was just told by the Sheriff that the former Sheriff had asked the reporter not to report anything else, so he wasn’t even sure she had any more information. Was it worth troubling her over, if the end result was going to be the same as with the Sheriff? On second thought, it seemed foolish to have driven the thirty minutes out here, almost like a waste of gas. He decided that he had made a mistake, turned around, and started heading down the porch. “Turn around and knock, will ya?,” a voice said from inside the house. It stopped him in his tracks, and he turned around. That’s when he noticed a middle-aged woman sitting in a chair, appeared to be knitting, looking out the window. The curtain made it so he couldn’t see all of her features, but her voice was soft and pleasant sounding. “Go on now, knock, and I promise I’ll tell you to come in,” she said. He squinted to try and see her face better, sure she was smiling at him. He walked back up to the top and knocked on the door. He turned the knob and entered after the “Come in” caught his ears.

Upon entering he noticed a pleasant smell of tea and flowers. The kitchen was off to his right and there were stairs leading to a basement, just to the left of the walkway to the kitchen. The house looked bigger on the outside, but was actually quite small. Ahead of him, down a hall, there were three doors. He assumed two were bedrooms and one a bathroom. To his left was the living room, where sat the middle-aged woman, he could now fully see. She wasn’t what he would considered beautiful, with droopy shoulders, a fat nose, and dirty blonde hair all messed up. She wasn’t thin, but also not fat. She was more like plump, or what kids today would say, “thick.” She was sitting in a nice recliner, that looked like a Lazy Boy, and she was smiling ear to ear, showing off her pearly white teeth. That smile probably is what catches the men, he thought to himself. He smiled back at her and entered the living room. As he got nearer, he asked, “Are you Ms. Townsend? April Townsend? Former reporter for the paper over in Anytown?” She beckoned him to sit down on the couch next to her, while she nodded, acknowledging that she was April Townsend.

He sent down on the couch and turned toward her, mouth open. Before he could ask a question she asked, “Would you like a drink? I got some sweet tea, water, or homemade strawberry lemonade. Made from fresh strawberries and lemons I grow in my own garden out back.” He told a glass of strawberry lemonade sounded perfect, though he really wanted just water. What she had said about the fresh strawberries and lemons, almost sounded as if that was the choice he was supposed to make, since she had said it matter-of-factly. He strummed his fingers on his knee, while he listened to her grab a glass, open the fridge, and pour him a glass. A few seconds later he heard the fridge open and the soft sounds of her feet falling on the hardwood floor, as she made her way back to the living room. She came in with two glasses, set his down on the table, and took her seat again. “Sorry to bother you Ms. Townsend,” he said, after taking a sip of his strawberry lemonade, “I’m Scott. The Sheriff told me where you lived, as I had a couple questions about the quadruple murder that took place in 1983, over at 3567 Brookbent Way. I’m not really sure why, but living there and knowing there was an unsolved murder, has got me curious and I was wondering if maybe I could ask you some questions?” She smiled at him, uneasily it seemed, but she said, “Oh, that. I take it you found the article I wrote online?” He said that he had. “The Sheriff told me that the former Sheriff asked you not to publish anymore articles. Did you end up finding out more information?” he asked. She shifted uneasily in her seat. To Scott, she looked rather nervous, discussing any of this. She remained quiet for a few minutes, and Scott felt like he she wasn’t going to talk about it. He could hear the sound of a clock ticking by, as the time drag, and his mind began to wonder where there was a clock, as he didn’t see on in the living room. Finally, the tension seemed to unravel and Ms. Townsend said, “Well, I was nineteen years old when I got a job as a reporter for the Daily Chronicle. My third day on the job was the quadruple murder. I was so nervous, but for some reason very excited. I mean, third day on the job and there’s a quadruple murder to report on. Some reporters spend their whole lives in a small town and barely ever get anything like that. When I walked into the office that morning,” she was saying. Scott paid close attention to everything Ms. Townsend was saying, and used his imagination to try and recreate what happened that day.

1983:

April Townsend walked in the employee entrance to the Daily Chronicle. She was tired and wore out from last night. Her and her boyfriend Rob had been up all night arguing. She finally was able to kick him out of her apartment around two in the morning, but couldn’t fall asleep until close to four. Her alarm woke her up at six like usually. She thought about calling out at first, but decided it would look bad on her, on her third day. She got up and showered quickly, got dressed in her usual jeans and t-shirt, and made her way to the office.

She wasn’t sure she would be able to focus today. She was just to tired and exhausted. On her schedule today, she had to go talk to a lady named Mrs. Robertson, who she was interviewing, about how the Homeowners Association wouldn’t allow her to have an American Flag displayed. Her editor had told her to get an interview, but to make sure she put a spin on the story, to make it sound like the President of the Homeowners Association, a Mr. Kneeds, was most likely a Communist. “Why else would you not let someone represent the pride in their country” her editor said, “Must be a Commie or a supporter of those Commies. Nasty Russians, trying to kill Americans and our way of life, just because their not as superior as we are.” She did her best not to listen and let her mind wander. This “Red Scare” wasn’t something she believed in. Almost all across the United States, since the 1960’s, Americans had been in a “Cold War” with Russia, which was nothing more than a nuclear arms race, that turned into landing men on the moon. Other than that, there was no evidence to suggest that Russia ever since spies into the United States. Though, if you watched the news or read the paper, Russian spies were everywhere, and if we didn’t get bigger and more deadly nuclear bombs, Russia would kill every American and destroy the American dream, with Communism. She didn’t believe that either the United States or the Russians, really wanted to harm each other, and it was more of a government ploy, by Democrats and Republicans, to just keep feeding funds into the Defense Department, and no one would care about the amount of destructive weaponry they built. She didn’t dare say any of this to her editor though. It was her second day on the job, a job that she had wanted since she was in high school, and ran the school newspaper.

For most of her life she wanted to be an actress. She enjoyed watching the movies with her mom, and then reenacting the scenes. Most nights she would sit in front of her mirror and practice, staying up late hours and barely getting any sleep. She often let her mind wander in class, dreaming of a life in Hollywood, where everyone loved her, and thought she was the best actress in the world, since Marylin Monroe. So, when high school came along, she made sure to take drama classes and theatre, since her school offered the classes. She decided to be a reporter and help run the school newspaper with her best friend, Mary. While doing so, she had actually cracked a couple serious cases. One involved the school principle at the time sleeping with a ninth grader. Another case was the school treasurer stealing any extra funds they had from the state. She was recognized by the state papers and even did an interview on regional television. From that moment on, she had decided to drop acting and become an investigative journalist. After graduating high school, she decided to skip college and start applying for jobs. It took her almost a year, before she finally heard back from the Daily Chronicle. Her mom had to help her with the money to travel, and to secure a place, since she lived over five hours from the town. Her boyfriend Rob, she had started dating in her sophomore year, decided to tag along and said he would find a job there as well. He was an auto mechanic with lots of experience. She wasn’t very excited when she realized the paper was located in a small town. Nothing ever happened in a small town.

Two months of living there, and she hated it even more. She almost decided to not take the job and return home. Rob had gotten a job almost immediately after arriving, and he was keeping them afloat. While she had been offered the job, and aced her interviews, the Daily Chronicle didn’t allow her to start right away, as they were waiting for their reporter to retire, something they had failed to mention, when they first called and offered her the job. For three months, she called daily, asking if she could start work, only to be told that it “Would be any day now that she retires.” Now here she was, on her third day, and the only story was someone not able to hang their flag on their mailbox, because the Homeowners Association had denied it.

She walked into her small, cramped office and set down her pocketbook. She grabbed her writing pad and a couple pencils. She made her way through the office to her editor’s office. She knocked gently, waited a moment, and finally heard the deep voice of her editor telling her to enter. She walked in and sat down in the chair. She was looking at the back of the chair her editor was in, which puzzled her. She heard a low grunt and asked, “Are you okay sir?” A quick, “Yeah, I’m fine, just finished,” reply came back. Her editor took another minute or so, and she was sure she heard his zipper, being zipped, before he turned back around. He was sweaty and breathing heavily. Her editor was a short, fat, balding man in his fifties, who she thought was revolting. Just looking at him made her want to vomit, and she was glad she still remembered all that acting she had done, as she put on a smile and made it seem as if everything was fine.

“Sorry about that,” he said, “Now, Mrs. Robertson and that Commie fucker, who won’t let her display the American flag. We got the interview set up for noon today with her, and then with the Commie fucker at three. No matter what he says, no matter what he gives you, or says the Homeowners Association has as guidelines, the “fact” is, he’s a Russian sympathizer and a Commie, rat fuck. Remember that. Also, if you could do some digging, and maybe find ties to Russia or Commies, that would be helpful. If not, let me know, I know some people who can get those documents, even if they don’t exist. Seriously, what’s this country coming too, when you can’t even display the American flag? Fucking Commies, they’ll get us yet, if we don’t all take a stand as Americans,” he finished. “Anything else, sir?” she asked. He shook his head and motioned for her to go. She smiled at him, told him to have a good day, and then quickly left his office. Rolling her eyes on the way back to her office, she decided to check on the police scanner to see if there was anything interesting happening, that may get her out of writing a story that was stupid, and made up of lies. As she walked into the little office, marked “Storage,” she flipped the switch on the police scanner. She sat there for ten minutes to only hear static. She turned it off, exited, and went back to her office. She sat there on her typewriter getting some of the story written, knowing she was only going to use a very small portion of the interviews she would conduct later today. She did her best to try and remain factual, while also throwing out hints that the Homeowners Association President was suspected of being a Russian sympathizer. She was so happy when she noticed that it was eleven thirty, as she was beginning to get a headache, trying to figure out how to put a Russian spin on the story, without just throwing around wild accusations.

She left the office, got to her car, and began the drive to Mrs. Robertson’s house. The rest of the day she spent interviewing Mrs. Robertson, which was a disaster, as all her answers had to do with the Communist, Russian spies, and Russian sympathizers. She began to think that Mrs. Robertson, a widow, would enjoy her editor. She even gave herself a great laugh over lunch, a bacon cheeseburger and fries, thinking about them dirty talking during sex and getting off to Russian sympathizers. At one point, an image came to her that was all to real, and she threw up half her lunch. Maybe I should stop thinking about them naked and having sex, she told herself. At three she met with the Homeowners Association President. This interview was also a disaster. He basically just kept defending himself, saying he wasn’t a Russian spy, Communist, sympathizer, or anything of the such. He wanted to make it clear that he loved the United States, he voted Republican, his family had always bleed red, white, and blue, and that he would gladly build his own nuclear weapon “and personally shove it up the ass of some Communist fuck,” using his own words. By the time she got back to the office at five-thirty, she was even more wore out and dreading writing this useless story.

She sat down at her typewriter, reexamining what she wrote earlier, and started to feel sick to her stomach again. Frustrated, she decided to go check the police scanner again. She walked in, flipped the switch, and instantly heard, “To all officers, to all officers, we have a 1–8–7 at 3567 Brookbent Way, all officers please respond and head to scene.” She quickly flipped it off and ran out to her car. She had studied police codes and understood that a 1–8–7 was a “Death, Kill, or Murder.” She got in her car, and quickly made her way to Brookbent Way, not stopping for traffic lights or stop signs.

When she arrived on the scene, only three officers had shown up. Since the small town only employed eight officers, one detective, and a Sheriff, she felt like she was in luck. Two officers were talking to Ole Man Frank, and she didn’t notice the other officer, though she suspected he was in the house. She parked her car a couple houses down, knowing this was going to be a rather hectic scene soon, and made her way over to the two officers and Ole Man Frank. “I check on him here and there, you know sir? I mean, he barely comes out the house, and I barely see company there. Hadn’t seen him in a couple days, so decided to check on him after work today. Got out my car, looked over, and all I could see was the window painted in blood,” Ole Man Frank was telling the officers. “Right, right, did you see any leave the house? Or anything?” one of the officers asked. “Not a soul sir. Most neighbors don’t even start getting home till around six or so. I’m the only one that gets home, exactly at five, Monday through Friday,” Ole Man Frank responded.

They noticed her standing there and all three turned to look at her. “April Townsend,” she said, “Investigative reporter for the Daily Chronicle. Heard there was a 1–8–7. Could I get a comment?” The two officers said something under their breath, told Ole Man Frank they would be back if they had any more questions and hurried away. Ole Man Frank was in his thirties, a long brunette mullet, tall, broad shouldered, and quite handsome. “If you’d like a comment from me, Ms. Townsend, I’ll gladly tell you what I told them officers,” he said. She jotted down what he said, asking him to pause here and there, to make sure she got all the information she could. When she was done, she thanked him for his time, and thought about making her way across the street. The police had yet to put up crime scene tape, but she felt like they might not be to inviting to a reporter just yet. Instead, she took notes on what she could see from the driveway. The window was practically all red, nothing but blood, except a few spots here and there where the window was still clean. One of the officers had posted himself next to the front door, presumably to stop anyone from coming on the property and looking around. She noticed one of the officers through a clean patch of the window, bent down, shaking his head. It appeared he had his hand over his mouth, like he was in shock. She watched as he got up and left her field of view, only for a few moments later to come out of the house and begin puking on the front lawn. Intrigued, yet terrified, she wanted to get a glimpse of what the inside looked like. Not feeling like she would make lee-way with the officers currently on scene, she decided to wait for the detective to arrive. She felt like maybe he would allow her to explore the scene with him. “Would you like a cola or something?” Ole Man Frank asked her. “Glass of water will be fine,” she responded and Ole Man Frank set off into his house. Before he came back with the glass, an unmarked police car pulled up the scene. She figured this had to be the detective and she began making her way over to the car.

A middle-aged man stepped out from it, broad shouldered, looking like he worked out a lot. His shirt barely fit him, with his muscles bulging through it. He threw his cigarette onto the pavement and began making his way toward the house. She picked up her pace and was just able to cut him off, before he reached the driveway. “Hey, April Townsend, reporter for the Daily Chronicle. Detective,” she said. “Martin, Dean Martin,” he responded. She gave a big bright smile, and said, “Nice to meet you. I was wondering if maybe I could get a look at the scene. Front page news and all.” He looked her over, to which she felt like he was checking her out, took a deep breath, and said, “Stay behind me, don’t touch anything, and remember the route you walked in. Give you no more than ten minutes, and then I’ll ask you to leave nicely. If you don’t I’ll just arrest your ass instead. We clear?” “Crystal,” she responded.

Excited about her luck, she walked behind Detective Martin very closely, almost giving him a “flat tire,” a couple times. The officer at the front door, gave Detective Martin a nervous hello, and stepped out of the way. As she entered the house, excitement, fear, panic, and intrigue began to overtake her. She had never seen a dead body before, and by the look of the window, this was going to be pretty nasty, given the amount of blood. Nothing could have prepared her for the scene she saw, as they entered the living room. She would have puked herself, had she not been frozen from shock, unable to take her eyes away from what she was seeing. There were four bodies, she thought, or maybe it was more, all cut into pieces. Legs were thrown about the entire living room, someone’s head was on top of the couch, it’s mouth wide open in a final look of horror. There were torso’s stacked upon each other, an arm laying on the coffee table, and pieces upon pieces of human body parts just thrown about the room. She understood way the window was painted in human blood. Someone had not only murdered at least four people, but they had also chopped them up into as many pieces as they could. Without realizing it, she was taking notes and writing down as much as she could, but still couldn’t take her eyes off of what she was seeing. It was sickening to her stomach, but she didn’t feel as if she was going to throw up anymore. She just kept writing and writing, page after page, trying to write down every detail she could. When it finally came time for Detective Martin to tell her to leave, she had written close to nine pages of notes, but was more than happy to be leaving. Her head swirling, feeling like she just saw a horror movie setup, she quickly got back to her car, got in, and burst into tears.

The rest of the night passed in a blur, as did the next few following weeks. She was so busy trying to get comments and updates about the murder, that she spent long hours at her office, making phone calls and trying to get interviews with Detective Martin. The story was front page news, and this small town was in an uproar. People were whispering in the far corners of the town, coming up with their own theories and ideas of what happened. It became even worse when the police said they were ruling it a homicide, due to a cocaine deal gone bad. While cocaine was a rather new drug in the United States making it’s way around, it hadn’t it Anywhere, USA yet, at least that’s what the people who lived there thought. When this news broke, almost everyone began to move out as quickly as they could. Trying to find an even smaller town, where they wouldn’t have to deal with drugs and the problems they bring. It was about two weeks after the murders, that Sheriff Rick came to see April Townsend and ask her to not print anymore stories about the murder. He told her they believed it was a hit or a statement from a rival cocaine dealer, and felt that the press would hinder their ability to get an arrest. She wasn’t happy about it, but reluctantly agreed to no longer report on the situation.

2010

“Just because I stopped putting reports in the paper, didn’t mean I didn’t try and uncover as much as I could. He only said not to report on it anymore, he never said I could dig around and try to find answers myself,” Ms. Townsend finished. Scott had been hanging on to every word she said, listening intently, doing his best not to miss a single detail. They were outside on the porch, her in the swing, him in the rocking chair. The sunlight splashing upon their faces, with a nice little cool breeze. It had been over three hours since she had started telling the story, and sometimes in between, she would get him more to drink. He had to have had at least five or six glasses of the strawberry lemonade, which tasted like perfection. “Are you the one that put that story on Google?” he asked her. “Just two years ago, yes sir. Murders went unsolved, and all the leads dried up. I thought maybe I should, in case someone had information and would finally want to step forward. Nothing yet though,” she said. He nodded his head, thought for a moment, and said, “Do you still have your notes? Or did you dig up anything that the police might have missed?” She smiled that beautiful smile, “ Unfortunately, I lost all my notes. I do know they were looking in the wrong direction though. From what I can remember, there wasn’t no evidence to support it. Few stories came my way, saying it was personal, nothing to do with cocaine, but nothing that ever panned out. Was lucky to have saved that story, be honest, in a house fire. I broke off with Rob, about a year or so after that, and he wasn’t to keen about it. Tried to kill us both by setting the house on fire. I was able to save my story, and get out. Not Rob though, he passed out from the smoke, and died. You can find that article in The Beaumont Democratic paper there in Riverbend, where we lived.” Scott, feeling as if he had enough for the day, thanked her for her time, and left. On his way home, he kept going over everything she had told him. A part of him felt like she had said something that didn’t sit right, but he couldn’t think of what it was. By the time he got into town, he was pretty sure something wasn’t right.

END PART 2