Chapter 14

Herb Saunders had let his fingers do the walking all day. All he had to show for it was a colossal phone bill and some few facts of omission. Justin Randolph had no telephone, did not subscribe to the local paper, and did not use his house as a rental property. The banks and utility companies refused to talk to him. The office of land records had no record of a sale in 1977 to a Mr. Justin Randolph. The girl had patiently told him, that Randolph could have also bought it under a corporate or foundation name and the officers or at least the managing trustee would be listed and there were no such listings either for that name. Her final bit of good news was that while Bogue Beach was a small incorporated area, the unincorporated areas for ten miles to the west used it as a mailing address and the property could be located out there. And if so, the records wouldn’t be here, but in the county seat, sir. Saunders was barely able to thank her. A repeat performance at the county seat only left him with the clear understanding that Randolph did not want anyone to know that he was here.

It wasn’t until three o’clock that Herb Saunders realized with a start and a smile that he was in this town as a history lesson. And if that was true, perhaps Justin Randolph was here for the same purpose.

Saunders splashed some water on his face, grabbed his note papers and pen, and after confirming the address, went to the public library.

The library was a small one, and the only one. After asking for the reference section and receiving directions to that area, he found himself standing before a woman concentrating intensely over a crossword puzzle. Saunders cleared his throat, “Ahem. Excuse me, but I wondered if you might help me?”

She looked up at him, but he could tell she was still half-thinking about the puzzle. “Yes?”

I’m a writer researching the history of eastern North Carolina. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to get me the town newspapers dating back to 1977.”

“Oh, my lord. Do you want every issue? That would be thousands. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

Saunders wavered between telling her, a move that might save precious time, and plugging on in secrecy so that no one could later connect him with Randolph. That was a concern only if he caught up to Randolph. He tried another approach. “Is there a yearly index for the paper?”

“Why yes, there is. Let me get it for you.” She pushed back her chair and disappeared into an alcove. When she returned she held a large book out to him. “Here you go. There isn’t one for 1981 on. This is the 1975 to 80 index. If I can do anything else to help you, please ask.”

Saunders thanked her and went to a nearby table. Under a slow turning ceiling fan and a clock that went too fast, he searched for the records of an unsolved horror. Looking under CRIME, POLICE, DEATHS he turned up nothing that leaped to his attention. He slowly pushed the book closed and as the pages fell together, he could feel Randolph, and further off, his daughters, slipping away from him down that ever-diminishing crevasse. The thought was paralyzing, the task too big, and for the first time in years Herb Saunders began to cry.

He had not chosen his seat with an eye for seclusion, and his crying, as muffled as it has been, brought attention to him.

Herb pressed down on his eyelids, wiped his nose, and looked up to see the librarian sitting next to him. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

She smiled. Whether it was empathy or pity he couldn’t tell. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No. I didn’t.” And with that he half-told her why he was there. “Actually, you see, I’m not a writer, I’m a detective. I’m here looking for similarities between a case I’m on and something that might have happened here a long time ago. Frustration, I guess, or just one dead end too many got to me.”

The librarian clamped her hands on the table in front of her and asked him what he was looking for. After all, she’d lived in this town all her life. Without hope, Saunders said, “I’m looking into the disappearance of children in this town, since 1977. Anything unsolved, where the kids were never found. Not runaways or kidnappings, but stolen—gone without a trace.”

The librarian sat back and as she did, Saunders saw her name tag: Mrs. Titus. Her sandy blond hair was shoulder length and turned under with a straight line of bangs low across her forehead. He was sure that had been stylish once, but he couldn’t remember when. Neither could he remember when he’d last noticed or thought about style or its absence. Her face was composed like a geometry lesson. The thin line of her nose neatly bisected the perpendicular and equally thin line of her mouth. Riding low on that nose were a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Saunders saw the same intensity on her she’d shown doing the crossword puzzle.

“You know, this is a small town. I can’t think of any disappearances like that, where the kids were never found.”

“Okay, what about unsolved crimes against children, murder or rape. It would be something horrible. You’d remember it.” Herb wondered whether children had always been the victim. All of the Ripper’s disciples had been killers of women. The only thing he knew for sure was that the crimes were unsolved.

“When you say that, the first thing that comes to mind is the Bryson boy.”

“Tell me, tell me.” The phoenix of hope was testing its ash-laden wings.

“Let’s see. It was about the time you were looking for, late 1977, I think. David Bryson disappeared. There was a ransom demand though, if I remember all this right. Well, the parents both went with the money to where David was supposed to be. Nobody ever showed up. His parents went home. They were just crushed. Well, they got home and there was David. I mean they thought it was David. They saw a boy sitting on the swing in their yard and it looked like David. Apparently they ran across the lawn to him thinking he was okay. They were crying and everything. But when they got to him, they saw that he was dead. His body had been propped up with wires to stay in the seat. It was terrible.” A shudder went through Mrs. Titus. “It was clear that the ransom was a ruse to get everyone out of the house. Whoever it was never intended to return the boy. That’s the only thing I can think of that’s like you described.”

Herb Saunders could see Randolph’s handiwork in the Bryson boy’s death. “Where does the Bryson family live?”

“Oh, they don’t live in town any longer. A couple of years later they moved. Back to her hometown. She was from Rocky Mount, I believe. I’m really not sure.”

“Was anyone else involved or contacted by the killer that you know of?”

“Let me see.”

Saunders stewed in his own juices.

“Well, there was one other person. The Bryson’s priest. He organized a lot of the efforts to help them. He made appeals to the killer. I think he even spoke to him, but I’m not sure.”

“What church was that?” He was getting to his feet.

“Uh, Holy Redeemer.” She was startled at his move to leave.

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” With that he abruptly turned and hurried from the library. Mrs. Titus thought him a strange man. Whatever he had said, she was sure he was also something other than he claimed.