Shadowing the Truth

              During the middle of June, the first month of meteorological summer in Maryland, temperatures normally range in the low to high 80s. Normalcy could, in no way, describe my visit to Pocomoke State Park the year I decided to carry out my investigation of the murder of my Aunt Bernice. 

            Sure, sweat had poured over every inch of my body as I began my journey. Then, my curiosity peaked as I approached the edge of an abandoned well a few feet into the area.  Soon a chill like a mid-December storm enveloped me. 

      The sudden burst of Arctic cold had knocked me off my feet, tossing me, like one of the leaves lining the ground, to the edge of a darkened abyss.  I regained my balance just in time to avoid falling head first into the void.  The frigid air actually came blowing up from the center of the hole, while everything around it remained swelteringly hot.

        I had hiked five miles into the Delmarva woods in my continuing quest to unravel the mystery surrounding the murder of my mother’s only sister two years before and the fire that later destroyed her neighborhood.

      On my first return to the area about two weeks before, after sifting through the ruins, I had discovered the perfectly-preserved remnants of my aunt’s body in what remained of her bedroom closet with a bullet shot through her head.

     My auntie had lived in a cozy little home on the outskirts of the wooded state recreation area. Her social life had centered around her church and helping the troubled youth in the neighborhood find the way to better lives.

     The itinerary for today's followup certainly had not included a side excursion to an abandoned well and a 40-degree drop in temperature. 

     Shortly after I got into the park this day, a huge black shadow standing at least two feet taller than my six-foot-two-inch frame, had materialized out of a stand of trees before me and a hypnotic, scratching voice like something out of a 1930s Frankenstein movie boomed from the figure and commanded me to follow it into a section of the park not shown on any of my trail maps—and to that well:

    Attention Harry Warrington. This is your Aunt Bernice. You have wondered for years who did away with me. The answer lies on the bottom of the darkened pit in front of you. At its bottom you will find clues that will unfold the true tale of my death and the cause of the fire that destroyed our neighborhood of Pokomoke East so many years ago.

   Pushed forward by a mixture of fear and curiosity, I lowered myself down the nearly-collapsed wall of the well on the rusty ladder I found at its side. At the bottom, I found what looked like a journal. I shone the high-powered flashlight I had the foresight to bring with me across the first page. It contained the signature of Hugo Longo, the head mobster who had controlled the area on the edge of the forest for more than a decade.

      Hugo’s claims to fame included a large chunk of the drug trade and a number of murder-for-hire schemes.

       My trembling fingers turned the few yellowed pages of the journal that had not yet fallen victim to age and climate. They read:

       We allowed the reputation of Bernice Warrington to hypnotize the youth of East Pocomoke for far too long. She stopped the growth of our business enterprise by recruiting away some of our best rookie operatives. I loaded plenty of extra monetary incentives into the pay envelope of Sonny Preston, one of my most trusted lieutenants. He was supposed to take care of our problem with one shot to Bernice’s temple.

    Of course, we wanted someone to discover the body as a warning to those stupid enough to think they could pick up in the future where Bernice left off. We also didn’t want the local cops and a murder rap to put the kibosh on our business. After Sonny posted his warning, we purefied auntie’s home territory with a campfire in the woods set by my friend Tommy the Torch Buccato. 

    Those killed as part of the collateral damage paid the price for screwing with free enterprise.

   Other memories flash into my mind:

—A torrential flood that moved the remnants of Bernice’s hood from two miles outside the forest into the far reaches of the park.

—A decades-old unsolved arson which burned several acres and whose cause Maryland’s best detectives never tracked down.

 —No charges ever filed against the mobster or any of his associates in connection with my aunt’s murder.

     Suddenly, shaken out of my nightmare, I heard:

 “This is the police. Open up immediately.”

      Loud knocking woke me out of a sound sleep in my Salisbury University apartment.

      The police shoved a piece of paper into my face and one of them shouted,

    “You are under arrest for the murder of Bernice Warrington. You have the right to remain silent.   Anything you say may be held against you. You have the right to an attorney.”

      They then handcuffed me and hauled me off to the Salisbury municipal lockup.

      Turns out everything about my two exploratory missions into the woods and discovering my aunt’s body and the diary all had come from a nightmare. My troubles had just begun.

      Sure, the police had discovered auntie’s body; but I had put the bullet there.

     She had no right to leave my rightful inheritance to her silly little church.

     I had set her house on fire to cover up my revenge, and a flood caused by an unpredicted hurricane that soon followed had destroyed all but the most important evidence.  

      Hugo had long pledged to get even with auntie, but Interpol had arrested him and his gang in Bermuda the week before the house fire.  

     Well, at least I made her pay for cheating me out of what belonged to me, even if I spent my final days behind bars.