Truth Among the Shadows

A chilling mist more like that which I’d expect in mid-December or January than in the middle of one of the hottest summers on record enveloped me soon after I entered the Pocomoke State Forest. The sudden burst of arctic cold tossed my body forward like one of the fallen autumn leaves lining the ground and pushed me to the edge of a darkened abyss. I regained my balance just in time to avoid falling head first into an abandoned well. The frigid air actually came blowing up from the center of the hole, while everything outside the pit sweltered with temperatures approaching the mid-90s.

I suddenly began trembling, with the sweat that had poured from every inch of my body almost turning to ice.

I had hiked five miles into some of the most dense woods on the Delmarva Peninsula, ostensibly on a mission to unravel the mystery surrounding the murder of my Aunt Bernice two years before and the fire that later destroyed her neighborhood.

The adventure started when, after sifting through the ruins of my aunt’s home, I discovered the perfectly-preserved remnants of my aunt’s body stuffed into a fireproof safe in her bedroom with a bullet shot through her head.

My auntie had lived in the cozy little cabin 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 amateur detective work 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, a huge black shadow appeared before me and a hypnotic voice booming from the figure commanded me to follow it into an area of the park not shown on any of my trail maps—and to that well:

The eerie voice echoed through the woods: 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. There you will find clues that will unfold the true tale of my death and the cause of the fire that destroyed our neighborhood of Pocomoke East so many years ago.

Pushed forward by a mixture of fear and curiosity, I worked my way down the collapsed wall of the well. I almost stumbled over what looked like a journal. Scrawled across the crumbling remains of the first page I could barely make out the signature of Hugo Longo, the head mobster who had controlled the neighborhood on the edge of the forest for more than a decade.

Hugo’s claims to fame included control of a large chunk of the drug trade and a number of murder-for-hire schemes carried out by members of his gang disguised as watermen plying the blue crab trade along the coast.

My trembling fingers turned the yellowed pages of the journal to 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 put Sonny Preston, one of my most trusted lieutenants, in charge of taking care of our problem with one shot to Bernice’s temple.

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. Also, a few hundred in bribes to the local cops would help us avoid a murder rap that could have put us out of business. After Sonny posted his warning, we purified 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.

Standing there, a number of memories surrounding auntie’s death flashed into my mind:

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

—A decades-old unsolved arson whose cause Maryland’s best detectives never tracked down.

—Charges never filed against the mobster or any of his associates in connection with my aunt’s murder.

Suddenly, I heard another voice booming through the mist:

“This is the police. Open up immediately.”

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

Detective John Burns shoved a piece of paper into my face and he shouted as he put me in handcuffs,

“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 hauled me off to the Salisbury municipal lockup.

Turns out everything about my little hike in the woods and discovering my aunt’s body all came from a nightmare. I also buried the fake journal from the mobster in the ruins of the well. I thought I had it all figured out, but little did I know that my troubles had just begun.

I didn’t think anyone would discover her corpse until long after the fire. I had gotten my revenge with a fatal shot to her head.

She had no right to leave the inheritance that rightfully should belong to me 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, so I figured that would cover my tracks. One catch–Interpol had arrested him and his gang in Bermuda the week before the blaze turned the neighborhood to ashes.

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.