Guilty Deceptions - Chapter One

As my debut novel, I wrote Guilty Deceptions because it was a story I wanted to tell. Many might not realize, but Guilty Deceptions is a fictionalized story of a true crime and one that

I've been fascinated with for years. The idea of someone missing for a year without anyone noticing has always stumped me. I've decided to make the first chapter of Guilty Deceptions available for free on my blog. If you like what you read, you can get the full novel on Amazon on either kindle or paperback. Whichever you wish. If you read the entire novel and like it, if you would be kind enough to rate/review my book on Amazon, Goodreads or both it would be appreciated.

So without further ado, here is the first chapter of Guilty Deceptions by D.C. Malcolm.

Chapter One

Who would have dreamed that something like this would happen in a quiet town such as here? I’ve lived it and I’m not sure how I feel about it. However, I’m getting ahead of myself. I tend to do that. Anyway, it all begins with the Sheppard family.

Billy and Anne Sheppard lived out in Willow Grove, on Black River Road. They were farmers because men of Billy’s complexion got little education, but Billy’s content with his little farm. They had three daughters. Margaret, the oldest, looked just like Anne. The middle child, Martha, a perfect mix of the two, and the youngest Caroline was Billy through and through. On September 12th, 1869, young Caroline stumbled onto the horrifying scene that altered our lives; forever.

Caroline and her sisters Margaret and Martha were out picking blueberries at the junction of Black River and Quaco. Caroline wandered off the main road and ended up a little way into the Barrens. As she plucked blueberries, she noticed a bit of cloth sticking up from beneath the brush. Now Caroline was a curious child and so she pulled at it with her hands. Caroline’s high-pitched scream echoed around the barrens and alerted her sisters, who rushed to her side. In a state of shock; all three of the girls threw their buckets of blueberries on the ground and ran all the way home. Swearing to keep what they discovered a secret; forever.

Where was I? At the police station, sitting at my desk and reading The Murders in the Rue Morgue for the thousandth time. I’m not alone. Deputy Patrick Jackson sat at his desk, fiddling with a deck of cards, and it reminded me of the interview for his job.

“What do your folks do?” I asked. Patrick leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk.

“Well, my father, Thomas, is a banker. My mother passed away about ten years ago,” he said.

I frowned. “So sorry for your loss,” I said. Patrick shifted in his seat.

“Thank you,” he said. “It was a long time ago now. I barely remember her. Father never remarried, instead he focused all his energy on me.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the thing about fathers. They tend to do that,” I said. “So, tell me what makes you want to be deputy?”

Patrick crossed his arms. “Not my father. He doesn’t approve. He feels it’s a dangerous job,” he said.

“I certainly can relate,” I said. “I notice you’re rather young. No wife or a girlfriend to speak of. Why is that?” Patrick glanced down, wringing his hands. He hesitated for a moment. It could have been two before he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’ve got no interest in settling down with a woman. I hope that doesn’t stop me from getting this job.”

“Of course not,” I said. Patrick’s odd. His lack of desire has very little to do with his looks. In fact, it’s not that Patrick isn’t handsome. With his wavy blonde hair, he parts in the middle–to cover the slight scar under his left eye. His green eyes and ivory complexion make Patrick look like a prince in shining armour; even with the scar.

The door opened and John Riley walked in like he owned the place. John’s my brother-in-law, of course, but truth be told, I didn’t like him all that much.

“Hello, John,” I said.

John nodded. “Stephen,” he said. He was being very formal this morning, and I wasn’t sure why.

I nodded. “How’s your father?” I asked. John shrugged and his eyes narrowed, and he was glaring at the wall behind me.

“I don’t care,” he said.

“You don’t?” I asked.

“My entire life he has done nothing for me,” John said.

“He gave you life,” I said.

“Father only cares about his stature in life,” he said.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said.

“I might be his son, but he doesn’t care about me,” he said.

“How’s Annie and the boys?” I asked, changing the subject. This made John smile.

“They are doing well, thank you,” John said. John married my sister, Annie, in 1862. They have three youngsters, the oldest is about seven. John, a middle-aged man, has a thick red mane that curled around his ears and sticks out about an inch. His eyes are the colour of emeralds and he has a very thick and prominent scar that runs down his left cheek. He hovered over my desk like he’s the most important person in the room; I hate that.

“What brings you in today?” I asked, rolling my eyes. For about a year now, John has been coming in everyday without fail and he always has a feeble excuse for his visits.

“I wanted to remind you to bring a bottle of whisky to dinner tomorrow night,” he said, his eyes locked on mine as he waited for an answer. I blinked and shook my head.

“Don’t I always?” I asked. John peered at me and nodded.

“Yeah,” He answered. I peered back at him and furrowed my brow.

“Of course I’d bring one tomorrow,” I said.

Monday, September 13th, 1869

That morning, Billy and Anne were sure that something happened the day before with their girls. While all of their girls seem bothered by something, young Caroline’s the worst. She isn’t eating, and she isn’t sleeping. She’s ashen-faced, and Billy even noted her mumbling to herself a few times. That’s what made him decide to talk to Caroline. She’s sitting on the porch when he found her and she’s staring at her feet. He sat down beside her.

“Caroline, why are you not eating or sleeping?” Billy asked and glanced at the ground. Caroline sighed and pressed her lips together.

“Something bad,” Caroline said, not looking up at him. Billy glanced at his daughter and noticed she’s trembling.

“What?” He asked. Caroline shook her head.

“Me can’t tell, me promised to not tell,” Caroline said and Billy pressed his lips together.

“What did you see out there in them Barrens? Can you show me at least?” Billy asked. Caroline sighed and nodded.

Meanwhile

Nothing exciting ever happened in Saint John. Because of that, my job is tedious. This day, I’m sitting at my desk and gazing into a looking glass. My short brown hair laying flat on my head. It always laid flat no matter what I tried to do to it. My soft brown eyes looked more bronze, while my freckles and scar on my bottom lip stood out. I face dove into the gravel when I was a kid. I guess kids do stupid stuff.

My father, a baker, who at first was much like Patrick’s father and never understood my want to be a police officer. but I still made him proud. My mother, one of the few educated women in town, had been a schoolteacher. My parents were both proud of the man I became, and they were glad to have a police officer in the family. To think of what they would say today, if they had known I’d become sheriff. Well, I can only imagine that. Staring into the looking glass, I puff out my moustache and shake it.

Patrick’s at his desk, playing with a spinning top, and John’s standing behind me. Oh yes–John’s back for his daily check in, whatever that’s about I’m unsure. John’s not speaking, and he’s making me uncomfortable. I guess people don’t realize that others need personal space. but I don’t have time to dwell on it because the door burst opened and Billy Sheppard rushed into the station. Billy–who never came into town–was pale.

“Billy, what brings you in today?” I asked. My eyes grew wide. Billy swayed and almost collapsed. Patrick caught his arm as John grabbed a nearby chair. The two of them helped him sit down on it. I gave it another shot. “Billy?” He glanced up, his eyes; distant.

“There’s been a murder!” he said, his voice barely audible. This sent a chill up my spine. The colour draining from my face. I lifted my head and turned to Patrick.

“Go get Sylvester and round up the men,” I said. Patrick snapped his mouth shut, nodded, and ran for the door. John, cowering at the far wall, slipped out the door behind him. I was alone with Billy, and I grabbed a nearby notebook and a pencil. With my eyes wide, I peered at him.

“Okay, tell me everything,” I said.

Billy nodded. “Well, the other day, me girls were picking blueberries out in the Barrens. Caroline, she saw something in the bushes and pushed them away with her hands-”

“What she see?” I asked.

“It scared me girls bad. They chucked the berries and run all the way home,” he said.

“But what did she see?” I asked.

“But they did not tell me what they saw. It wasn’t till me ask Caroline what happened out there in them Barrens that she showed me,” he said. “After that me come straight here.”

“You know where?” I asked, searching his eyes. Billy nodded.

“Me knows,” he muttered.

Now the door opened and Dr. Sylvester Knox walked into the station. I wish there’s more I could say about Dr. Knox. Truth of the matter is I can’t. The man who wasn’t born here—is mysterious. I can say little about him. He just rolled into town ten years ago and never left. Dr. Knox somewhat reminds you of Dr. Frankenstein. His medium-length hair is often messy and stuck out on end. He also had the sharpest blue eyes I’d ever seen, but he covered these up with his gold-framed glasses. Sylvester is the Coroner of Saint John and he would go with us to Willow Grove. Sylvester’s eyes were wide, and a grin had appeared on his face.

“There’s been a homicide?” he asked.

I motioned for Sylvester to take a seat and explained the situation. Billy sat in his chair, shaking his head and mumbling to himself as he stared at the wallpaper. As I finished, the others came into the station. Eight men would go with us to Willow Grove. Patrick rounded up six men. Jackson, Simon, Teddy, Jason, Joshua, and the young Edward Thomas from over on the corner of Wellington Row and Union. Truth was, I didn’t know them all that well. Patrick rounded them up from the street. Dr. Knox and his partner, Dr. Murphy, would also join us. He’s a middle-aged man with grey hair and a handlebar moustache. Dr. Murphy always wore his lab coat, but like Dr. Knox, I couldn’t say much else.

It took mere minutes for us to be in our buggy and on the open road. The ride out to Willow Grove is about an hour, and we took it in silence. Words cannot express the emotions that surrounded me that day. I’m excited because this is my first murder investigation. But I’m also feeling a little woozy for the same reason. As we followed Billy’s buggy, I kept thinking of the prospect. This is the reason I’d became a police officer. I wanted to be like C. Auguste Dupin in Poe’s stories. That might have sounded unrealistic, especially since until now nothing like this plagued our quiet town. Of course, I’m unsure of what I’m getting myself into, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Billy went a little past the Inn, then slowed his buggy. I did the same, and so forth, until everyone had stopped. Then Billy led us off the road and into the Barrens. Billy stopped and pointed to a tree.

“She found it beneath that tree,” he said. I approached the tree with caution, unsure of what I’d find. As I glanced down, I saw a bit of cloth. I pulled at the foliage with my hands and gasped.

The skeleton remains are wearing a moth-eaten black alpaca dress and a heavy tweed cape. Her hair braided in a knot–styled in a waterfall–still attached to her skull. A straw hat lay a few inches above her head, and she’s grasping a silver locket around her neck.

“What a bolt from the blue,” Dr. Knox said. His eyes like coins. “Female?” I can only wish that I was the one who made the next discovery; but it’s Edward. Who, for reasons unknown, decided it’s a good time to back up, trip, and fall to the ground. When he fell, he felt something underneath his foot, and when he pulled at the foliage around his feet; he puked. This caught my attention, and I glanced at him, my brow furrowed.

“What happened to you?” I asked, and Edward, gasping for the air, turned his head in my direction.

“See for yourself,” he said, and I walked over to where he was. I’m not sure what I was expecting to find, but it isn’t what I found. When I looked down at the foliage, there’s a tiny leg bone sticking out of a little stocking and shoe. I pulled away at the foliage, revealing a child’s white dress and skull. I covered my mouth with my hand. This isn’t just a murder, this is a double murder, but who in their right mind would want to harm a mother and her child? I needed answers, but there’s a lot of ground to cover.

“What monster could have done this?” I muttered. I wasn’t expecting an answer, because I hadn’t even realized I had spoken out loud. Patrick glanced at me and shook his head.

“I don’t know, boss, but we’ll catch the son of a bitch,” he said. Sylvester sighed and glanced up from the remains. His face is sallow, and his eyes vacant.

“I can’t be sure yet. On an educated guess, I would say that these remains have been here for at least a year,” he said, and I frowned. Cases that are a year old or more usually get thrown into one pile; cold cases. Few of them ever got solved, and I wanted to solve this case.

When I glanced around at the crime scene, the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. It’s out in the open, exposed to the elements, and it had been this way for at least a year. We wouldn’t find much here. In fact, Patrick’s men were already combing the area for potential clues. They have the area well secured and I should find out any useful information. The biggest question I had in my mind was what this mother and child were doing way out here in the Barrens? But it hit me. She wasn’t alone–she came out here with someone—someone she trusted. I needed to find out if there were any missing women from the area. Billy stood alone on the edge of the Barrens. I walked over to him.

“Hey, Billy,” I said.

“Sheriff Dawson,” he replied, but he did not meet my gaze. Shuffling my feet in the dirt, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.

“Are there any women missing from the area?” I asked. Billy scratched his chin, then shook his head.

“Not that I remember. But, Horace Baker, he might,” he said.

“Who’s Horace Baker?” I asked.

“Horace owns the Ben Lomond Inn down yonder. If there’s a missus from the area who is missing, he’d of heard.” Billy answered. I thanked him for his time and walked to my buggy. I remember we had passed the Ben Lomond Inn on our way to the Barrens. It isn’t far at all, and I had no trouble finding the place.

The building is a long wooden frame with a covered front veranda and six pillars. It looks like a place you’d read about in a novel. I tied my horses and gave them some food and water before I headed into the Inn. It reeked of tobacco, and the smell stung my nostrils and made me crave a cigarette.

The place is dim, and the primary area served as a dining room and bar. The rooms were up a staircase to the left, but the bar’s right at the heart. I walked up to it and ordered myself a whisky. When I saw the bartender, I gasped.

He’s white and had long blonde hair that was stringy and so greasy that it looked like it hadn’t been washed in years. His eyes are beady and when he smirked, he exposed big yellowish and rather crooked teeth. His clothing was nothing but rags, and the underneath of his fingernails was filthy. He was glaring at me, and he was not the only one. I’m getting stared at by everyone. Maybe it was the uniform, or was it the colour of my skin? I think it was both, and at that moment the term if looks could kill crossed my mind. Trembling, I cleared my throat.

“I’m looking for Horace Baker,” I said. The bartender grunted.

“What do you want him for?” The bartender asked, and I cleared my throat again.

“I’m Sheriff Dawson. There has been a murder in the area. I wanted to ask him a few questions,” I said. A mumbling broke out within the Inn and we were being watched.

“Me, Horace Baker. What questions do you have for me?” he asked.

“Are there any missing women from the area?” I asked. Horace reached for a dirty glass and began washing it. For a moment, I was not sure he was going to answer at all, and then he grunted.

“There was a white woman who was staying with Eliza King. She was here one day and gone the next.” he said.

“Interesting,” I said.

“Then there was Jane Richards. She was last seen near the Barrens but then her were gone,” he said as he placed the clean glass on the rack and picked up another one.

“Did either of those women have any children?” I asked and Horace wiped the cup with the semi-clean cloth in his hand.

“If you looking for a child. Look into Ben Reed,” he stated, and I furrowed my brow.

“What do you mean?” I asked and Horace, still wiping the glass, smiled.

“A little birdie told me that last January, Mrs. Reed, up and leaves. She takes the kids and jumps ship to Fredericton-”

“But, if she took the kids-”

“This woman shows up in Willow Grove. Telling anyone who would listen that she’s married to him and that her bastard child is his,” he said.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” I said.

“We all knew she was lying. But Ben he didn’t want her in his home. But this woman, she refused to leave. Then one-day last fall, poof she was gone,” he said, his eyes bugging out of the sockets. Scratching my chin, I stare at the bar. I’m looking for a missing woman and child and this Ben fellow seems to be a good place to start–but first I would have to consult the others. I must be clear that at the time, I’m not sure where all this was taking me. Horace put down the clean glass and picked up another one.

“Where could I find Ben?” I asked.

Horace wiped the glass and grunted. “Elizabeth and her child vanished from Willow Grove and Ben moved to Portland. he lives with him sister now,” he said and I nodded.

“Thank you,” I said.

A few minutes later, I walked out of the Inn with this newfound information. It might be nothing, but the information would pay off in the end. Of course, I needed to check in on the other women who were missing. I had to make sure there’s no possibility that it was them.

When I returned to the crime scene, the others had gotten a lot done since I had left. Edward had found a woman’s wallet, but it was empty. The remains were packed and ready to go. Dr. Murphy was inspecting the foliage where the adult female was found. He looked to be collecting specimens. As I walked up behind him, he was scraping something off the foliage.

“What’s that?” I asked. He gazed at me with a calm beneath his eyes.

“Brain matter,” he said, and then picked up bone fragments from the area. He moved to where the child was and picked up a single tooth. As disgusted as I was, it fascinated me. Forensics were amazing. After every fragment was collected, and each area combed through to the best of our ability, it was time to head back to the dead-house. This was much like a warehouse for dead bodies–depending on the time bodies can be stored there for years. This was the place that Dr. Knox and Dr. Murphy spent most of their time.

Once we get everything inside the dead-house, I gather them around in a circle. Now that we had the murder victims here, our next step would be the coroner’s inquest. That meant that Patrick and I would work with Dr. Knox and Dr. Murphy until we had a definite suspect that we could convict. The men that Patrick brought along to help were also part of the investigation and would work with us as the Coroner’s jury. They would work with us not only to decide the cause of death, but to find a suitable suspect. I draw a deep breath and then, in as much detail as I can remember, I tell them the same story Horace told me. When I finished, Sylvester was nodding.

“We will run this in the evening paper. If anyone from Willow Grove has any information for us about this, Elizabeth, I’m sure they’ll come forward,” he said. As he wrote something down on a piece of paper. “Edward,”

“Yes,” Edward said.

“Please deliver this message. Please tell them it’s urgent and to print it in tonight’s edition,” Sylvester said and Edward nodded. He took the paper from Sylvester and ran out the door.

Now, when I go home that night, the only thing on my mind was this murder. My wife Rebecca was waiting for me at the door. Becky is what you’d call long and lanky. She has the face of a shoe, a mole on her chin, and she wears her long hair in a bun. As I walked towards the house, Becky peered at me with her bright blue eyes.

“How was your day?” she asked, and I sighed.

“There’s been a double murder out in Willow Grove,” I said. Becky’s eyes grew wide, and she trembled.

“How awful. Do you know what happened?” she asked. I shrugged and walked into my house.

“It’s a mystery,” I said. “It’s a mother and child. We don’t have a clue who she was, who she was with, or why she was out in the Barrens.”

“I’m sure you’ll straighten it all out,” she said.

“I hope so,” I said.

That’s how a conversation should go, straight and to the point–but I’m getting ahead of myself again.

Because it was Monday, we were due at my sister’s house. Becky and I always go to dinner at my sister’s house every Monday night, and if we don’t hurry, we’ll be late. I changed my clothes, grabbed the whisky, and we headed out to the buggy. John and my sister Annie lived in a humble little house over on Charlotte Street. It had a vast yard encircled by a white-washed fence. It was just the house you would expect a young family to have. They filled the hallway with John’s paintings–ones that he hadn’t gifted to friends and family at least. When we arrived at the house that evening, I noticed John was in his workshop. With the bottle still in my hand, I parted ways with Becky and headed down to see what was going on with John. The first thing I noticed was that John wasn’t building anything, the second thing was the glass in his hand. The third was the realization that John has had at least a few of these. There was an extra glass on the workbench, so I helped myself.

“Did you know it was I who built the gallows?” He asked. I furrowed my brow.

“Was that you?” I asked. I sensed a story coming on and swallowed my first sip and waited.

Sydney Street Courthouse, 1865

There were piles of lumber scattered everywhere. John wiped his brow. He was melting in the afternoon heat, but he had a schedule to keep. But just as he was about to go back to work, two men came up behind him. He recognized the first man, the one in the white suit. His name was Mayor Wilson.

“Sorry to bother you when you are so busy with work,” Mayor Wilson said. “I would like to introduce you to someone.”

“It’s fine, I welcome the break,” John said and Mayor Wilson smiled. John wiped his hands on a handkerchief.

“John, this is John Hill. Mr. Hill and his brother Jacob will work on the Masonic Temple with you,” he said. The second man stepped forward and extended his hand. John Hill was a portly man, with salt and pepper hair and a matching moustache. John narrowed his eyes and took his hand.

“It’s an honour to meet you,” John said as Mr. Hill shook his hand.

“The honour is all mine. You’re quite famous,” he said, and this made John blush.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. John Hill continued the conversation. He had a peculiar question.

“Tell me, John, do you like picnics?” he asked. John’s brow furrowed.

“Picnics sir?” he asked and Mr. Hill chuckled.

“Well, the Marshall's hold a picnic every year. The picnic is this Saturday. I was hoping you’d be able to stop by and discuss work,” he said. John had never spent much time in Carleton, but he would work there this summer.

“I’ll be there,” John said, but John Hill was gazing up at John’s latest project.

“Why, what an interesting thing to be building,” he said.

“As I’m building it, I keep wondering; who might be the first poor bastard to swing,” John said.

“I thought about it all afternoon,” John said. “Because we haven’t used the gallows. Once you catch your murderer, that will all change. Once you catch your murderer, he’ll swing for his crimes.” Shocked, I shake my head.

“Why has it been bugging you all afternoon?” I asked. John took a sip.

“Yeah, I built them,” John said, and I scratched my brow. But before I could question him, he changed the subject. “So how did it go this afternoon?” Why was he so interested in this case? Perhaps he was a little too interested. But Saint John was a small place, and things like this didn’t occur here. Once word got out about the murders, the entire town would be just as interested.

“Well, things could have gone better,” I said as I strummed my fingers along the workbench.

“What do you mean?” John asked.

I sighed. “There’s nothing to go on, evidence wise. All we know for sure is that it was a mom and child out in those Barrens.” John dropped his glass, and it shattered to pieces on the floor. He got a broom and dustpan to sweep up the shards. I watched him with my eyebrow raised. What has gotten into him? He’s not this clumsy.

“A mother and child, you say?” he asked. He was sweeping up the glass that had shattered on the workshop floor. But we cut the conversation short when Annie called us in for dinner.

My sister kept her house immaculate, and tonight was no exception. You’ve never seen a cleaner house than Annie and John’s. As I mentioned before, they have three young lads but, they have this stupid rule: children are to be seen and not heard. I suspected that rule was all John because we did not bring Annie up that way. I think little of the rule–but that isn’t any of my business.

We sat down at the table and said grace before we ate. John who got himself another glass from the kitchen pours us some more. As he passed the glass, he glanced at me.

“Stephen, tell me more about this murder,” he said, and I glanced at my sister. She pinned her blonde hair up in a bun. Her ocean-blue eyes peered at her plate. Her beauty mark was just visible above her lip, but not the thin white scar I knew she had. I knew she wouldn’t like this conversation, but John had asked me a question. I cleared my throat.

“There’s not much to tell. As I was saying, it was a mother and toddler. So we are looking into missing women from the area who might have had a child. There really isn’t much information to go on,” I said. John shook his head as Annie took a bite of her potatoes and chewed.

“That’s nothing to go on,” he laughed. I cleared my throat.

“It’s still early in the investigation,” I said, and John raised his glass.

“Here’s to your investigation,” John said, and Annie swallowed.

“I think it’s enough of this talk at the dinner table. It’s inappropriate, especially in front of the children,” she said and that put an end to the murder talk.

When we got home that night, Becky had a lot to say. If there was anyone that loathed John more than I did, it was Becky. She had met him long before I introduced them, but she had refused to tell me how.

“I hate that arrogant man. He thinks you cannot solve this investigation,” she said.

“Who cares? I’ll prove him wrong,” I said. Becky sat near the piano that we never used and shook her head.

“I have never liked him, not since the day I first met him,” Becky said. I narrowed my eyes as I took a seat near the fireplace.

“What happened? You never told me,” I said.

“The John you know and the John I knew are two very different people,” she suggested, and I furrowed my brow.

“What do you mean?” I asked. She stared at the floral print for sometime.

“Let me tell you a story, the story of how I met John Riley,” she said.