Murder's Son

***DISCLAIMER: This story is inspired by an episode of Father Brown. It is a period piece and if any language is weird or offensive, I'm sorry. I'm also sorry for any bad grammar and spelling. Read at your own peril***

Chicago, Illinois, United States 1978.

Tyrone looked at the woman on his doorstep. "I thought I'd never find you, Russel!" She exclaimed. "I've been looking for you for years." Tyrone had never expected some white lady to come into the projects, let alone knock on his door. "Lady, are you high or something?" He asked. "My name is Tyrone, not Russel. What are you really doing here?" Her mouth popped open in surprise.

"Oh," she said. "but you look so much like your father! I felt sure you were our son!" Tyrone had never known his dad. "You know, my father? How?" Tyrone shook his head. "I can tell this is a long story, you'd better come in." A smile made the woman's crow's feet more prominent. "Thank you," she said, "you've no idea how much this means."

She looked around Tyrone's spartan living room. "Well," she said. "this, uh, looks like a comfy couch. Perhaps we'd both better sit down." It was lucky Tyrone had been brought up to respect his elders. Being told what to do in his apartment didn't sit well with him. "Alright," he consented. "We're sitting; talk."

"Thirty years ago," she said. "I met your dad at a nightclub."

Chicago, Illinois 1948

"That black guy playing the trumpet ain't no Satchmo, but he sure is good looking!" Rosie said. Millie giggled and patted Rosie on the knee. "How many of those sidecars have you had?" Millie slurred. "He's not your usual type." Rosie playfully hit her friend back. "So?" she replied. "Just look at those big soft lips blowing on that instrument. I bet they'd be great to kiss." Millie looked at the band on stage. "What you gonna do?" She asked. Rosie downed the rest of her cocktail. "I'm gonna wait till their last set," she said. "Then I'm gonna introduce myself."

Jazz flowed like booze that night. Finally, the bartender gave the last call. The band was packing up. "Hey," Rosie called. "You played the trumpet real swell up there. What's your name?" The young man looked up in surprise. "Me?" he said. "I'm Darren, miss." She moved closer to the musician. "Nice to meet you, Darren," she said. "I'm Rosie, like what a flower is." He swallowed making his Adams Apple bob. "Well, Miss Rosie, it's a pleasure to have someone appreciate my music."

Rosie cocked an eyebrow. "Oh?" she remarked. "Do people not usually like it when you play?" Darren held his instrument in front of himself idly fingering the keys. "I was a bugle boy during the war, " he explained. "Most of my fellow soldiers liked to yell 'shut that racket up!' when I did the revelry." Rosie laughed sympathetically. "Well I like the way you blow your horn," she said. "I bet you're good at Boodling too!"

"What?" Darren asked in confusion. Rosie snickered at him. "You know," she said. "Making love? Whoopie? What do you say? Wanna see if you can make my cat meow?" Darren put his trumpet back in the case and snapped the lid shut. "Well," he said. "Why don't we go somewhere private and find out?"

Darren and Rosie got a cheap hotel room. They spent what seemed like an eternal night of passion entwined with each other. "Do you really have to go?" Rosie asked in the morning. Darren finished buttoning his pants, leaned on the bed, and kissed Rosie. "I'm sorry," he said. "I have to get to my day job. The foreman will have my hide if I'm late."

Disappointed, Rosie picked up her clothes and got dressed. At least they'd had fun.

Eight months later, still in 1940s Chicago.

"Rosie," Millie said. "Are you sure tracking this fella down is a good idea?" Rosie stopped and faced her friend. "Yes," she asserted. "I'm knocked up and this baby needs a daddy. Even if the parents aren't the same race." Millie sighed heavily. "I hope you don't do anything dumb," she cautioned. "You tend to be hot-headed." Rosie gritted her teeth. "I promise," she said. "I will not drag you down with me if I do! I've made up my mind, if my decisions bother you, get lost."

Rosie began walking again. Remarkably, she managed to find the address written on the paper. She knocked on the door. Darren opened it and immediately his eyes glanced down at Rosie's prominent belly. "Um, hey," he said. "I, uh, didn't think I'd see you again." Rosie fidgeted with a lock of hair that had come undone from her bobby pins. "Yes," she said. "Our tryst has brought me a little surprise." Darren's eyebrows knitted themselves together in anger. "What do you expect me to do about your near future visit from the stork?" he said. "I can't--I don't--"

A female voice interrupted from within. "Darren, honey, what's going on?" it asked. "Who's at the door?" Darren looked panicked as he turned to answer. "Nobody, Yvone!" he shouted. "Just somebody from the newspaper!"

Rosie felt heartache and rage building inside her. She couldn't believe Darren was married and he'd slept with her! A red haze clouded her thoughts. She shoved Darren out of her way and out of his apartment. She marched into the living room and looked for the wife. Rosie was about to give Yvone a piece of her mind until she saw the look of terror on the other woman's face. "Darren!" Yvone screamed. "Oh, no! Please no! Look at what you've done you tramp!"

Darren lay unconscious at the bottom of the steps. "I didn't mean to," Rosie said. "I really, really didn't mean to kill him." Almost too quickly, Yvone regained her poise. "But you did," she said. "I bet he didn't mean to do that either. I know he was a musician, I should've known he'd get some girl in a family way. We were gonna start a family...tell you what, if you let me have that child when it's born, I won't tell anybody you killed my husband." It was hard to think, Rosie was panicking. "Oh, I don't know," she wavered. "Think about it," Yvone reasoned. "Your family's probably too ashamed to help. You ain't got a man of your own or nobody to care for you. I'll give this baby a better life. Besides, the cops find out about this little murder, you'll hang, and your bundle of joy will go to a state orphanage!" Rosie cradled her stomach while weighing her options. She tried to repress tears. "Allright," she choked. "I guess I ain't got a choice. When it's born the baby's yours."

Back in 1978 Chicago

Tyrone had trouble processing what his guest was saying. "All these years, I thought Yvone was my real mom," he said. "Now you're saying, uh, Mrs?"

"Rosie Wiliamson"

"Right," he said. "Rosie, you're saying that you're my real mom and you accidentally killed my dad?" Rosie was feeling sheepish now. "More or less," she confirmed. Tyrone rubbed both hands across his face. "That, that's a lot to think about," he said. "I guess when you first got here you didn't know my real name?" She shook her head. " I had told the doctors at the hospital I wanted to name you Russel," she said. "I always liked that name and it's what they put on your birth certificate. I guess Yvone decided it was too white sounding. Figures she wouldn't keep the promise to keep your birth name either." This was an afternoon of shocks. "You mean she sent you to prison?" Tyrone asked. "After she said she wouldn't tell the police?" Rosie nodded.

Tyrone had a lot of information but even more questions. "So you've been in prison," he said. "How come they let you out instead of...I don't know...executing you or keeping you there?" Tears were making their way down Rosies cheeks. "I got a compasionate release," she said. "I have terminal brain cancer. The doc says I only have a few months to live. I just wanted to see what had become of my baby." Suddenly the anger and shock were replaced with compasion. Tyrone hugged Rosie. "At least let me take you home," he offered. "The projects aren't safe at night."

After dropping his birth mother at the house she directed him to, Tyrone decided he would go to city hall and do some research. He asked the reccords clerk to retrive his father's death certificate. He was shocked by the cause of death. Darren Whitby had drowned in the tub! Tyrone felt sick. This meant that Rosie hadn't murdered Tyrone's dad. Yvone, the woman he had called "mom" was the killer.