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1927 - Chicago – West Side – Late Evening [continued...]
That kind of bread could help a man out of debt, this man in particular, but I needed some more information before I went and got myself into something I wasn't prepared for. Gladys seemed overly convinced that her husband had been murdered, yet according to her, the cops saw it as an open and shut suicide case. There had to be more to it than this dame was letting on.
"Before I give you an answer, Mrs. Gladys, I'd like to ask you a few more questions if you don't mind." I made sure my eyes were focused on her and not on the wad of cabbage rotting in front of me. Her finely tuned chassis eased my torment.
She nodded while casually exhaling a plume of smoke into the air. "I'll do what I can to help you, Dan," she replied. Although her words sounded promising, her demeanor seemed reluctant.
"Why are the cops dead set on this being a suicide case?"
"They found a note," she said, then took another draw from her gasper. "A suicide note, in his coat pocket."
"I'll need to see it."
"I…I don't have it, Dan. I guess the police would have it," she replied puzzled.
"Of course. Did you see this note? Was it in his handwriting?" I asked while partaking of my Scottish nectar.
She shook her head no. "It was typed."
"So you saw the note then," I reasserted.
"Yes, they wanted me to verify his signature," she replied.
"And did it match?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "To best that I could tell. He didn't involve me much in his business affairs, so I didn't see his signature all that often."
"What else?" I pressed. "Surely they didn't draw their conclusions based on a single note, a typed one at that. What else did they have Gladys?"
"Well…his gun was there…in his hand," she said somewhat reserved before lowering her head as if to shield her emotions.
I nodded. "I see. A single gunshot wound to the head?" I asked.
She nodded. Sniffling, she placed my hanky to her nose again, and took a sizable bite from her whiskey glass.
"Where did they find his body?"
She blotted her eyes a few times before answering. "At our house, on the patio."
"Who found him? Did you find him Gladys?" I asked with some reservation.
She shook her head. "No, our maid, Rose. She found him that morning while she was cleaning."
"Were there any witnesses? Did anyone hear the gun shot?" I questioned.
"No," she said.
She seemed to be avoiding eye contact but, at this point, I couldn't tell if it was because she was trying to keep her emotions in check or for more sinister reasons.
"You said you rarely left the house. No one heard anything?"
She took another drink and then another draw from her cigarette before answering. "No one was home," she said while looking at me. "I had taken the children and spent a few days with my mother. I gave Rose the weekend off, so no was home other than my husband. At least that I am aware of."
"Were there any signs of forced entry, Gladys?" I inquired.
She casually tapped the ashes from her gasper into the ashtray. "Mr. Swagger, I'm sure the answers to all of your questions are in the police report. It's getting late and I really need to get back to my children," she said before finishing off the rest of her drink. "All I want to do is find who killed my husband. Are you going to help me or not?"
"You want to prove your husband was murdered," I corrected her, before dipping my own bill.
I took a long draw from my choke stick, giving myself time to ponder the situation as it was developing. She was right; the whole thing stunk like spoiled milk, but at that point I wasn't entirely certain that the stench wasn't coming from her. Strange that she would come to me. Did she know I was on the nut? Then again, what the hell did I care? Worse case she pays me to prove she killed her own husband.
I've seen crazier things.
ORIGINAL POST
Michael A. Walker
Defying Procrastination
www.want2bwriter.com
Facebook/DefyingProcrastination
That kind of bread could help a man out of debt, this man in particular, but I needed some more information before I went and got myself into something I wasn't prepared for. Gladys seemed overly convinced that her husband had been murdered, yet according to her, the cops saw it as an open and shut suicide case. There had to be more to it than this dame was letting on.
"Before I give you an answer, Mrs. Gladys, I'd like to ask you a few more questions if you don't mind." I made sure my eyes were focused on her and not on the wad of cabbage rotting in front of me. Her finely tuned chassis eased my torment.
She nodded while casually exhaling a plume of smoke into the air. "I'll do what I can to help you, Dan," she replied. Although her words sounded promising, her demeanor seemed reluctant.
"Why are the cops dead set on this being a suicide case?"
"They found a note," she said, then took another draw from her gasper. "A suicide note, in his coat pocket."
"I'll need to see it."
"I…I don't have it, Dan. I guess the police would have it," she replied puzzled.
"Of course. Did you see this note? Was it in his handwriting?" I asked while partaking of my Scottish nectar.
She shook her head no. "It was typed."
"So you saw the note then," I reasserted.
"Yes, they wanted me to verify his signature," she replied.
"And did it match?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "To best that I could tell. He didn't involve me much in his business affairs, so I didn't see his signature all that often."
"What else?" I pressed. "Surely they didn't draw their conclusions based on a single note, a typed one at that. What else did they have Gladys?"
"Well…his gun was there…in his hand," she said somewhat reserved before lowering her head as if to shield her emotions.
I nodded. "I see. A single gunshot wound to the head?" I asked.
She nodded. Sniffling, she placed my hanky to her nose again, and took a sizable bite from her whiskey glass.
"Where did they find his body?"
She blotted her eyes a few times before answering. "At our house, on the patio."
"Who found him? Did you find him Gladys?" I asked with some reservation.
She shook her head. "No, our maid, Rose. She found him that morning while she was cleaning."
"Were there any witnesses? Did anyone hear the gun shot?" I questioned.
"No," she said.
She seemed to be avoiding eye contact but, at this point, I couldn't tell if it was because she was trying to keep her emotions in check or for more sinister reasons.
"You said you rarely left the house. No one heard anything?"
She took another drink and then another draw from her cigarette before answering. "No one was home," she said while looking at me. "I had taken the children and spent a few days with my mother. I gave Rose the weekend off, so no was home other than my husband. At least that I am aware of."
"Were there any signs of forced entry, Gladys?" I inquired.
She casually tapped the ashes from her gasper into the ashtray. "Mr. Swagger, I'm sure the answers to all of your questions are in the police report. It's getting late and I really need to get back to my children," she said before finishing off the rest of her drink. "All I want to do is find who killed my husband. Are you going to help me or not?"
"You want to prove your husband was murdered," I corrected her, before dipping my own bill.
I took a long draw from my choke stick, giving myself time to ponder the situation as it was developing. She was right; the whole thing stunk like spoiled milk, but at that point I wasn't entirely certain that the stench wasn't coming from her. Strange that she would come to me. Did she know I was on the nut? Then again, what the hell did I care? Worse case she pays me to prove she killed her own husband.
I've seen crazier things.
ORIGINAL POST
Michael A. Walker
Defying Procrastination
www.want2bwriter.com
Facebook/DefyingProcrastination
A few years ago I started a "Choose Your Own Adventure" writing project in honor of my father via a Yahoo Group. I'd post short snippets of a story loosely based on an unpublished novel my Father wrote a long time ago, and others (mostly friends and family members) would vote on a decision tree as to what Dan Swagger (the main character from my Father's book) would do next. I thought I'd rekindle that writing project, only this time, I would just progress the story with a few posts a week and see where it takes us.
Let me take a moment to give you some background information on Dan Swagger and why I chose to base this project on him and in this setting. For those who may not know, my Father passed away in 2006 at the age of 74 from complications with Leukemia. Some time during the early 1980's my Father wrote a book - which was a big accomplishment for a man born in the heart of the Great Depression (1932) with only a 7th grade education. My Mother and Father went to school in the same "one room" schoolhouse, which is still standing today.
When my Father was 2 years old, his mother died from a simple infection, something easily cured today with a dose of antibiotics which wasn't available in those days. The times being as they were, with no mother or money to help care for his children, my grandfather was forced send all five of his children to live with other family members - including giving up his new born baby up for adoption. I can't even imagine how hard that must have been for my grandfather, but back then you did what you had to do or you just didn't survive. My Father was sent to live with his hateful and abusive uncle, who forced him to work in the fields as a child from sunup to sundown, day in and day out, and beat him on a daily basis.
Eventually he ran away, which turned out to be a long road filled with more hardship and hard life lessons learned.
Despite all these obstacles, which in truth wasn't all that uncommon back in those days, my Father turned out to be a fine loving man who had a quick wit and would go out of his way to make every person he met laugh. When he was in his fifties he taught himself how to program a computer. Shamefully he was much better at it then me, and I had grown up around computers nearly all my life. This was the first time he had ever even seen a computer. Everyday I would come home from school and he would show me some new program he had written on the computer, and it amazed me how he did some of things he did, but then again if you ever met my father, you would already know that he was an unusual man.
My Father's book never got published despite my sister's best efforts. In truth it needs a fair amount of polishing. The heart of the book is there, and it's a great story with some great characters (namely the main character - Dan Swagger), but it needs to be refined and fleshed out. Nevertheless, I was very proud of him for taking on such a daunting task and never giving up on his dream. I've since taken his typed up manuscript and transcribed it to the computer, in the hopes of one day fulfilling my Father's dream.
The book he wrote was called Murder Incomplete, and was centered on a man named Dan Swagger, a private detective in the Chicago area. So tipping my fedora hat to my Father, and in homage to him, I've decided to base this experiment around his character, Dan Swagger.
Michael A. Walker
Defying Procrastination
www.want2bwriter.com
Facebook/DefyingProcrastination
Let me take a moment to give you some background information on Dan Swagger and why I chose to base this project on him and in this setting. For those who may not know, my Father passed away in 2006 at the age of 74 from complications with Leukemia. Some time during the early 1980's my Father wrote a book - which was a big accomplishment for a man born in the heart of the Great Depression (1932) with only a 7th grade education. My Mother and Father went to school in the same "one room" schoolhouse, which is still standing today.
When my Father was 2 years old, his mother died from a simple infection, something easily cured today with a dose of antibiotics which wasn't available in those days. The times being as they were, with no mother or money to help care for his children, my grandfather was forced send all five of his children to live with other family members - including giving up his new born baby up for adoption. I can't even imagine how hard that must have been for my grandfather, but back then you did what you had to do or you just didn't survive. My Father was sent to live with his hateful and abusive uncle, who forced him to work in the fields as a child from sunup to sundown, day in and day out, and beat him on a daily basis.
Eventually he ran away, which turned out to be a long road filled with more hardship and hard life lessons learned.
Despite all these obstacles, which in truth wasn't all that uncommon back in those days, my Father turned out to be a fine loving man who had a quick wit and would go out of his way to make every person he met laugh. When he was in his fifties he taught himself how to program a computer. Shamefully he was much better at it then me, and I had grown up around computers nearly all my life. This was the first time he had ever even seen a computer. Everyday I would come home from school and he would show me some new program he had written on the computer, and it amazed me how he did some of things he did, but then again if you ever met my father, you would already know that he was an unusual man.
My Father's book never got published despite my sister's best efforts. In truth it needs a fair amount of polishing. The heart of the book is there, and it's a great story with some great characters (namely the main character - Dan Swagger), but it needs to be refined and fleshed out. Nevertheless, I was very proud of him for taking on such a daunting task and never giving up on his dream. I've since taken his typed up manuscript and transcribed it to the computer, in the hopes of one day fulfilling my Father's dream.
The book he wrote was called Murder Incomplete, and was centered on a man named Dan Swagger, a private detective in the Chicago area. So tipping my fedora hat to my Father, and in homage to him, I've decided to base this experiment around his character, Dan Swagger.
Michael A. Walker
Defying Procrastination
www.want2bwriter.com
Facebook/DefyingProcrastination
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