CHAPTER FIVE

It was almost 4:30 p.m. when I pulled into the parking lot of Millie’s Diner on East Washington Street, a nice, tree-lined street in an old neighborhood. The trees were huge in height and circumference, and appeared to be oak trees.

I wasn’t due to tour the nursing home until the next day, and I had an interview set up with Lolita shortly thereafter. My agenda for the rest of today was to get something to eat, nose around some more, go to the library, which was open late, and hit a bar to have a few brews, pretty much in that order. I decided I would only have a couple of drinks. All I needed at this point was to get bombed, arrested, and then released to a representative of the newspaper—and then get canned for good. No, I would be on my best behavior no matter how much it killed me. I pictured myself in the back of a police car, but this time cockeyed drunk. Glavin would have my ass for sure.

Millie’s Diner stood directly across the street from the Hagerstown Home for the Aged where Lolita lived. The nursing home was a one-story structure of red brick. As I pulled up the street, I had noticed that the home was U-shaped and had a huge property. The grounds were landscaped beautifully and trimmed meticulously.

As I looked over the diner, it appeared from the front to be retro-style, but unlike other diners I had seen, this one was much deeper in size.

I noticed from my view of the side of the building that some years ago, a big addition had been put on the diner. The large neon sign out front read “Millie’s, est. 1930, serving the best pancakes in MD.”

I laughed at the boast about pancakes, and wondered how many diners across the country claimed to have the best pancakes around.

I once claimed that I was the best lover in America; the only problem was, no one else ever believed it.

The front of the old diner was graced with gray stone, which ran up some four feet from the ground, with plate-glass windows that spanned the length of the building on all sides but the back. A red cloth canopy shielded the windows from the sun. It appeared that the owners had converted what had once been an old-fashioned all-metal diner to a stone and wood front, making it look more like a traditional modern restaurant.

I later learned that Millie’s was named after its original owner, Mildred Farner, who started the diner with her husband Clarence in 1930. The diner had remained in the Farner family until it was sold in 1980 to its present owner, Sylvester Trylan, son of the minister of the largest church in Hagerstown. Sy had been the head cook since purchasing the diner. Millie’s was a Hagerstown landmark, and many residents frequented it regularly. I parked in the diner’s huge lot.

My stomach was churning, making me wonder if it was more than just a matter of hunger. Maybe being around gunfire had set off stomach acid. Gunfire has strange effects on a body. This might just be the assignment from hell, I thought as I glanced around cautiously. After all, Blaine, the crazed gunman who had thought nothing of shooting up a police officer and the station, was still running loose somewhere. I thought about Billy Blaine. I wondered what drove young men to perform such stupid and destructive acts. Did they actually plan things out or just wing it? Hopefully, Billy was far, far away by now. But then again, he had already demonstrated that he really didn’t have any brains. I felt sorry for him in a strange way, mostly because I realized that people make stupid decisions then compound the problem with drastic additional choices.

The attractive-looking diner was as impressive on the inside as it was on the outside. There were the old-fashioned stools at the counter that diners of the past were known for, and huge, plush booths throughout the large, open space, and what appeared to be a large room used for parties.

The hostess greeted me and sat me in a booth that was set for four. I quickly ordered a coffee and dialed my newspaper in Washington. I wanted to make sure that I was still on to meet with Lolita the next day. I was told to meet her at one p.m. sharp, right after lunch. Harold’s assistant, Gloria, reminded me that my job was on the line and that Harold wanted routine updates. Gloria’s a bitch on wheels! I groused to myself. Everyone thinks that she and the boss are sleeping together, but sometimes I wonder about that. Who would want him?

Gloria had that librarian look: thick glasses, long hair, lots of makeup, heels much too high, and skirts too short for her age. She was clearly trying too hard. And her bitchiness, snappy answers, and lack of any personality made her less attractive. She always seemed mad at the world; it was no wonder she was divorced.

Gloria told me that Lolita was known to love homemade pistachio ice cream, which the nursing home rarely stocked, and fresh-made chocolates. She also told me again about an old diary Lolita sometimes shares with guests that covers an entire year of her life from the 1920s. I made some more quick notes as Gloria spoke. She asked me if I would like to speak with the boss.

“Harold?” I asked sarcastically. “I would rather have a triple root canal without any Novocain.”

“I’ll tell him you had to run quickly . . .”

“Yeah, into oncoming traffic!” I laughed.

Gloria hung the phone up rather hard. I had to chuckle at that. At least she didn’t try to suck up to me.

The waitress—Kristen, according to her name tag—returned for my order. “What’ll it be, sweetie?” She smiled at me with perfectly straight, white teeth.

“How’s the meatloaf special? Honestly, is it worth it?”

“Oh, sure! That’s one of my favorites!” She beamed. Her hazel eyes shined as she smiled invitingly, waiting for my approval. I waited, looked her over. She was all of twenty-one, with long brown hair, naturally curling a little. She must have been about six feet tall and was very thin; she looked like she could use a couple of home-cooked meals herself.

“Kristen, I’ll take your advice.”

“Oh, you’ll love it!” she said as she rushed off, looking like she had hit the jackpot. She returned quickly with a pot of coffee. As she poured me a refill, she asked, “Are you a writer? I see you taking notes in that book.”

“No, I’m a reporter from Washington, doing a story on Lolita, the most senior citizen of Hagerstown.”

“Oh, wow! I don’t know her real well, but I’ve heard of her. A reporter? Really?”

“Really.”

“Like television reporter, cameras, action?”

“No, not that exciting. Just boring newspapers.”

“Still!” She giggled.

I smiled and said, “Kristen, have you ever heard anything about the old Hagerstown murders from 1923?”

“No, but I know someone who is an expert about anything Hagerstown,” she said as she rushed off all happy, screaming out as she hurried into the kitchen, “Sy, Sy, we have a real live reporter here! Do you know anything about the famous murders of 1923?” Her voice trailed off. Kristen was young, innocent, a little bit of an airhead, but genuine and likable. And now the entire diner knew that I was a reporter and that I was looking into a famous case from 1923. I felt the eyes of the Hagerstown locals looking at me, studying me as if I might be famous from television. I tried to concentrate on my notebook, reviewing and modifying my notes. I saw two black women at a table close to mine staring intently at me for a solid minute. I find it amazing how a person can tell when someone is staring at them, even though they aren’t looking at the person staring. It’s as if the person staring has eyes like laser beams.

I looked up at the two women and smiled politely. One of them popped up out of her seat and came over. She was a big-breasted, big-boned woman. When she smiled shyly and said “Hello,” I saw a gold front tooth.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

“I overheard you speaking with the young one about the old one, Lolita. We work at the nursing home,” she said in a heavy Jamaican accent. “We know her.” She waved for her friend to come over as she helped herself to a seat in my booth. “Come on here, Nancy,” she yelled over to the other one, while clearly speaking with a heavy Jamaican accent.

Nancy rushed over with a big excited smile. “Hi, there,” she said with a nervous laugh, her accent matching that of her friend.

“We are food service workers at the home. I’m Mary,” the first woman said. “We have known Lolita for many years.”

“Oh, great! You want to join me and share some stories?” I asked, now more excited as I felt I could finally get some insight into the mysterious old woman the whole town seemed to know.

Nancy smiled. “We ate already, but we were just going to have some coffee.”

“The Wise One,” Mary said. “Miss Lolita, as we call her, is known as the Wise One. She is very much respected by all the residents, and even the residents’ family members. She has been there many years now, ever since she fell and broke her hip, and got pneumonia. Must be over ten years now, huh, Nancy?” She looked at her co-worker, who had a close-cut haircut and a gold tooth like Mary’s. Nancy was also heavyset, but shorter than Mary.

“Yes, be sure of it. Miss Lolita is the Wise One. She is always sought after for advice of all sorts: love, marital issues, job problems, and so much more.”

“I gather that Miss Lolita has all her marbles?”

“Be sure of that!” Mary giggled. “She is so sharp that no one can put anything over on her! She wins all the trivia contests at the home.”

“And stubborn,” Nancy chimed in. “If there is a meal Miss Lolita doesn’t care for, you can stand on your head, but she won’t take a taste of it! She knows what she wants, and she won’t settle for less!”

“Oh, yes. I heard that Miss Lolita likes ice cream, and in particular, pistachio; is that right?”

“She loves pistachio ice cream,” Nancy confirmed. “Always has. But it is very rare that anyone brings some, and we don’t offer it at the home. You see, most residents want only vanilla or chocolate.”

“I’d like to bring her some,” I responded.

“You know,” Nancy said, “the very best ice cream around—and Lolita loves theirs—is from the farm. They make all their ice cream fresh from scratch.” She gave me the name and location of the farm, which sold only organic fruits and vegetables, and which also specialized in dairy products, including the freshest ice cream in Maryland.

Mary and Nancy both departed, wishing me well with my interviews with Lolita and her family. They had not been able to shed much light on the 1923 Hagerstown murders, but told me all about an older resident, Josephine, who volunteered at the nursing home and came to Millie’s every night for dinner. Perhaps she would show up while I was there. They said she was born and raised in Hagerstown.

Kristen brought my meatloaf dinner to the table, and she sat down across from me as I began to eat. She stared at me and smiled with big bright eyes. “I think you have a very exciting job, Mr. Lou. You get to see all kinds of famous people all the time.”

“Not really, Kristen. It’s not like that at all. There’s an awful lot of ground work, investigative reporting, and mostly it is boring. I write news stories about a great many things and people, and some of the stories aren’t even interesting. But it’s a job. Then again, some of it is quite satisfying.”

“Well, I like it!” Kristen laughed. “Oh, by the way, I have some information on those old killings. It seems that Sy does remember a couple of things he heard while growing up.”

“I see,” I said, as I reached for my notebook.

“Yes. He said when he was growing up, he heard rumors that two men were suspected in the murders years earlier. Sy tells me that one of them was a young doctor who worked at the Hagerstown Hospital. He wasn’t a married man; he was a playboy type, a heavy partier, a good dancer, and he had a different girl each night. The second person of interest was an older pharmacist who was married but had no children.”

Just at that moment, I saw a middle-aged man come out of the kitchen, looking my way. He was taller than six feet, slim, with a dark mustache, crew cut, and piercing dark eyes. I asked Kristen if she had to get back to work.

“Oh, that’s just Big Sy there. He’s owned Millie’s forever. I can stay another minute. Where was I? Oh, yeah, the pharmacist. It seems a couple of years after the murders he was mugged real bad, almost killed, and forced to retire and move away. He died a few years later.” She stood up and headed quickly back to the kitchen, calling loudly over her shoulder, “Neither of the two men was ever charged,” she yelled a little loudly as she was running back to the kitchen.

Sy gave me one last long look as if he were studying me, and then he disappeared into the kitchen after Kristen. The meatloaf wasn’t bad. The mashed potatoes were a little lumpy, but the extra butter I added helped a lot.

It was ten minutes later when an older woman walked in and came over to my table. “You must be Lou. Mary told me to stop by and speak with you. I’m Josephine Cleary.”

“So nice to meet you,” I said as I stood to shake her hand. “I heard about your many years with the home.”

“It feels like my whole life I’ve worked at the nursing home. I’ve loved every minute of it, and made so many friends over the years. I even volunteer now after taking my retirement.” She had a loving motherly look about her.

“So, you must know everything there is to know about the nursing home, its residents, and, in particular, Lolita.”

Josephine was a slim woman of about eighty. She walked with a cane made of what appeared to be the rough limb of a tree. She explained that her husband of more than fifty-five years had died a few years ago, and that’s when she had retired. But she soon realized that she needed to volunteer at the home because she was just too bored and missed the interaction with the residents. She explained that she also ate every day at the diner, mostly out of habit, but also because she didn’t like to eat alone at home. Josephine stressed how lonely life was when a spouse was suddenly gone from one’s home. “I could swear my husband speaks to me every so often.”

When I gently directed the conversation to Lolita, Josephine said with a big smile, “She is the most amazing patient in the home. I think she is the smartest person I have ever known—Miss Lolita. Everyone calls her Miss Lolita.”

“The Wise One?”

“Absolutely! Miss Lolita is very wise, understanding, and compassionate. She has a philosophy she lives by, and she even has it printed and hanging on the wall above her bed at the home. And for the past twelve years or so that she has been there, I have seen it almost every day. It reads, ‘When it’s all over, all said and done, what impact will my life have had on this world?’”

In my mind I quickly played back the words Josephine had said and responded, “What an amazing, deep statement that is,” I replied. “Such a great motivator to live one’s life to the fullest.” I quickly jotted it down.

“Exactly! Miss Lolita has many more statements like that, and in the last twelve years, I must have heard them all.”

“So, Lolita is doing well for one hundred and ten?”

“Yes, she is doing fabulous!” Josephine smiled. “Oh, sure, she can’t get around without someone pushing her in her wheelchair. And, yes, she is considered legally blind. You have to get up real close to her before she can make out who you are. But, really, for one hundred and ten, she’s doing remarkably well.”

“It is amazing,” I said. “I know no one even close to that age. It really is quite a special milestone. That’s why the newspaper sent me.”

“The world will finally get to know Miss Lolita,” Josephine said with a happy sigh and a big smile. “They should do a movie on her.”

“Speaking of stories that would make great movies, what do you know about the historic murders of Hagerstown in 1923?”

“Oh, yes, the famous murders of 1923. What a sad time for Hagerstown and all of Maryland. It was many years before people finally gave up trying for a solution to the mystery. There were suspects, both in the minds of the authorities and in the minds of the citizens of Hagerstown. One was a local doctor, one was a pharmacist, and one was a retired police sergeant.”

“A police sergeant?” I perked up and began writing again. “Tell me more about that suspect, Josephine.”

“Well, the talk from many years ago—and that’s all I can recall is talk, because I was born ten years after the murders—but the talk was that the police sergeant committed suicide shortly after the second girl’s murder. It was thought for sure that the police sergeant was the killer. And it remained that way until the next girl was murdered in the same fashion as the other two.”

“So why would he take his own life?”

“Well, it came out that he had a terminal disease of some sort and was almost broke. So he spared his family the anguish of a long, drawn-out death and leaving them in poverty from spending the rest of his money on medical care. So he took his life. The family collected his pension and a sizable life insurance policy. And all these years later . . . . In fact, it’s the ninetieth anniversary this year, and they never caught the person or persons responsible for the murders of those poor young women.”

“Do you know anything about the girls who were murdered?” I asked, my notebook at the ready.

“It is so long ago, but because of the anniversary of the murders, the story has been getting a little attention lately. The girls were all high school students. Two of the young ladies went to the all-girls school, The Hagerstown High School for Girls. The other girl went to Hagerstown Coles High, a mixed boy-girl high school.

“One girl’s father owned an automobile repair shop in town. She was the only one of the three who had her head cut off, God bless her!” She made the sign of the cross.

“This killer was insane!” I replied.

“Worse than insane: sadistic, heartless, and much like the coldblooded terrorists of today. But for 1923, this kind of butchering was unheard of. The entire state was in mourning for these young women.” She now had tears in her eyes.

“Please try to remember, Josephine,” I said after waiting a minute. “I need to know more.”

“Well, the first girl—she was only fifteen—her head was found on the side of the road that was usually traveled by students on their way to school each day, and her body was found a month later in a car at the town’s Chevrolet dealership. One of the killer’s trademarks was to cut the bodies up and leave a piece in a prominent spot to be found exactly one month after each girl was murdered.”

“What a sick bastard!” I said. “And especially brutal for the Twenties. What could have possibly been the killer’s motive?”

“Many law enforcement people worked on the case,” Josephine said, shaking her head. “The FBI was involved. The place was swarming with police. The few suspects were quickly discounted, and after a number of years, Hagerstown slowly recovered from that very depressing time.”

“The three girls were killed over what time frame?” I asked.

“The first one, Lori, was killed on February tenth. The second, Ingram, on June tenth, and the third, Amanda, on October tenth. The second girl was seventeen. Her body was floating in the pond at the same time they found her arm sticking out of the flowerpot at the entranceway to her school. The third girl was only fourteen. Her father had died the year before from a boating accident. Her mother had to clean the homes of rich people to care for her family. They found the girl’s remains one month later at the movie house, propped up in one of the seats. Her arm was found sticking straight out of the ground at the local park. No one would let their children walk to school alone or walk home alone. Keep in mind, this was in 1923, when everyone left their windows open wide and their doors unlocked. Family and friends would routinely just drop in on one another’s homes. No need for locks. No fear of strangers, as everyone basically knew one another. Suddenly all that changed.”

“So, Josephine, any ideas how I can get the latest scoop on any new leads or anything recent that might be related to the murders?”

“Well, I have some friends at the newspaper, the Hagerstown New News. I’ll make a few calls for you tonight. You know, the New News is the oldest paper in Maryland; it was started in 1890. It’s over on Summit Avenue. You can ask for Harriet Newman; she’s been there forever. She’ll help you. And I’ll fill her in about your story on Lolita and your interest in 1923.”