Death on the Calender Chapter One

. I'm the only one left who knows the case inside and out. Those two young detectives that came were polite, professional, and totally uninterested in what they were investigating. It was routine to them, but they were just going through the motions.

  I don't blame their indifference to a crime fifty years old with no living witnesses. no solid evidence linking anyone to the murder. Hell, it was bad enough back when it happened and I was assigned the case. Forensics have progressed tenfold since then, and maybe they'll find some-such in that cardboard box I sealed and stored in the headquarters basement the week I retired fifteen years ago that will break the case open. But, I seriously doubt it.

  Young officers today are more interested in computers, iPods, and cell phones than pounding the streets looking for an ancient killer. I don't blame them so much as I blame myself for not solving it at the time. There just wasn't enough evidence leading to a suspect.

  Not that there weren't any, " Persons of Interest ", as they're called today. I needed an interrogation room the size of Victory Field to fit them all. Most of them hated the victim; and what he did to them would have got him killed if he'd done it to me.       

  Yes, I know I wasn't supposed to get emotionally involved. But, I felt no remorse for him after hearing how he manipulated, connived, and controlled everyone in his life. It was only a matter of time before somebody finally put an end to his lies.



  It was July 15, 1961 and raining; one of those steady, three day rains filling the creeks to overflowing,  The call to dispatch came in at seven-ten AM, and I was called out to Indianapolis's south side to investigate. I pulled into the drive leading up to the house that looked like it belonged on a Hollywood movie set instead of here in central Indiana. I rang the doorbell, and heard the Westminster chimes play inside. 

  The big oak door opened and I was staring at a butler with silver hair, immaculately dressed in a white shirt, vest, and dress trousers with patent leather shoes, giving me a disdainful look.

  " Yes ?" He said impatiently." Who are you?"

  I flashed my badge." Detective Sergeant Masterson, homicide, and you are ?"

  " Thomas, sir. I'm the houseman at this residence." He opened the door wider and motioned me inside.

  " Please follow me, sir. The other policemen are in the den with the remains." He glided down the long hall past a spacious living-room, and several closed doors as I took in the exquisite furnishings, lamps, and lush carpet. The last door on the right had a uniformed police officer guarding it. I knew that familiar face.

  " Hello, Tim." I said as Thomas melted back down the hall." Were you first on the scene?" Tim Williams had been on the force five years,and knew how to control traffic on a crime scene.

  " No, Dave." He shook his head slightly. " Roberts and Giles got here about five minutes before Larry and I did." Larry Wethington had been Tim's partner for two years. Both men were solid cops, and made up one of the best teams on the force. I knew they would do what they could to preserve evidence they came across. I was not so pleased that Roberts and Giles were here first. They had a clouded reputation.

  " Okay, Tim what do we have ?" I asked, as I gazed past his broad torso at the bloodstained beige rug that probably cost more than I made in six months.

  " You know it's Christopher Arnold Withers; one of the city's biggest developers. He's the one that built those high-rise apartments on White River over on the east side. He was stabbed. The Medical Examiner will determine how may times he got it." He looked down at the floor. " Whoever did it must of really hated him."

  " Why's that? "

  " His face is nearly slashed off, Dave, and there are several cuts to the groin. I'm no expert, but, I know rage when I see it." He stepped out in the hall, closed the door,  took out a cigarette, and lit it. If anything, Tim was careful about contaminating a crime scene, even with tobacco. " My guess is it's a woman that did him." 

  " Sure sounds like it." I said. He was probably right. The old saying about Hell hath no fury when it comes to murder, often leads to mutilation after death. " Can I go in now? " He nodded.

  The photographer was snapping away as two other technicians dusted every surface for fingerprints. I smelled the sickening odor of congealing blood as I picked my way carefully over to the body, being extra careful not to step in the blood pool.

  " Don't touch it until the ME gets here." One of the technicians warned. I nodded and knelt down.

  Tim wasn't kidding. The body's face was nearly cut off. It was laying on it's back, and there were at least three wounds to the chest area around the heart; killing blows for certain. The groin area had numerous stab wounds. Whoever did this unloaded alot of vengeance. I checked for defensive wounds,but without touching anything, couldn't see any. Death is the final equalizer. Rich or poor, everybody has to die, but, not like this.

  Christopher Arnold Withers came to Indianapolis in 1946 with an idea: to build as many houses as possible, filling the needs of war weary families. Hundreds of acres went under the bulldozer to make homes,all around the outskirts of the city. At first demand was met with pre-fab frames and slab foundations. As his business grew at an alarming rate he added basements, patios, and attached garages. Quarter acre lots were situated on curving streets with unlikely names, like: Brandenburg drive, Alpine Avenue, and Bavarian Way.

  By the end of the fifties Withers had amassed a huge fortune, and plowed it back into his company. The housing industry continued to grow. Then, in 1958 he diversified. He built a huge apartment complex he called " Riverview " that housed over a thousand flats. It was a community in itself, complete with a mall.

  There were barber shops, beauty salons, a large grocery, dry cleaners, restaurants, and a bowling alley; even two gas stations open 24 hours to fill the tenants needs. Parking was inside a huge structure, with tunnels and walkways leading to every tenement. "Maintenance Free Living" was its logo. Withers' revolutionary idea caught on. Young singles, seniors, and divorcees flocked to it. By 1961 it was fully operational, and money rolled in. Even so, wealth didn't buy him acceptance in higher circles.

  Big cities are no different than small towns when it comes to social acceptance. No matter what size, high circles are very small, and resentful of any newcomers trying to horn in. Unless your great grand-parents were born into their higher gentry there was never going to be an acceptance, and Withers must have felt it. Maybe that was why he was so ruthless.