Chapter One


Ann Barton, in the full dress uniform of the Tulla City police department, stood on the stage that had been built in front of the county courthouse just for this occasion. She was a uniformed police officer, about to be awarded a Citation of Excellence and, at the same time but without her knowledge, promoted to the rank of Detective 3rd Grade.

Ann, one of five police officers serving Tulla City, Ohio, population fifty three hundred, had solved an extremely puzzling murder case that had been ongoing and unsolved for more than four years.

A local man had been murdered and his body left in the train yard. There had been no clues of any kind and no one had seen anything suspicious. The victim had been brutally bludgeoned, the back of his head caved in by at least three blows from a blunt object. The murder instrument was never found.

Ann should have been ecstatic about the citation, only the third one awarded in the 56-year history of the Tulla City police department. She was happy, of course, of her accomplishment, but not to the extent that would have been expected. Her posture was slightly stooped, as if she were wary of the attention given her by her peers, the citizens of Tulla City and the media and she only slightly smiled as if she were afraid her smile would be seen as an overreaction to the ceremonial event taking place.

The media attention was extensive for a town this size. The solving of this crime after four years was big news, even to the big city newspapers, several of which were represented at the ceremony. They included the Atlanta Journal, the Memphis Times and the Philadelphia Inquirer. The Inquirer was the paper with the most extensive circulation and was represented by its best crime reporter, Gerald Prosser, an ex-military officer who had been Editor-in Chief for the U S Armys official newspaper, The Army Times.
ABC, CBS, Fox and NBC also sent reporters and camera crews to cover the event.

Then there was the Tulla City Crier, a weekly publication owned and operated by BJ Lassiter, a middle-aged man of unlimited energy but limited resources. He ran his paper by selling advertisements to local businesses and by collecting subscription fees from twelve hundred subscribers. The subscription cost a dollar a week and the paper usually ran six to eight pages including the editorial page.

The out of town media was here as a direct result of letters to the editors of all the major newspapers in the area. BJ Lassiter sent those letters, of course, and the results were more successful than he could ever have imagined. He, also, contacted the TV media and assured them that the newspaper coverage would be extensive and that they should not lose out on a fabulous story. Evidently most of the media agreed.

The mayor, Chad Rafton, or Old man Rafton as he was called, would start the ceremony at precisely 10:00 clock AM, just as he had planned for the past week. Things of this importance did not happen often in this town and the mayor was bound to make the most of it. His duties until now had mainly been attending town meetings and making an occasional speech for the welcome wagon when someone new moved into town.

Chad was an older man, sixty-six uneventful years older, and he overlooked no opportunity to act out his position as the leader of Tulla City. This ceremony would be the biggest and most important event over which he would ever preside.

The stage was twenty-four feet wide and twelve feet deep, just big enough to hold Ann, Chad the mayor, Marty Perkins the police chief, eight members of the town council and a few more local dignitaries of varying degrees. An official looking podium stood at the front-center of the stage, about three feet back. It was big enough to accommodate six microphones, one of the Mayors and the rest belonging to the different media and they were all strapped together. Chad had spent an hour testing the town public address system and the mikes and finally got them to sound fairly clear.

There were twelve rows of fold up chairs, fourteen chairs to the row. The Moose Lodge had loaned Chad the chairs. The seats were all filled and people were standing at the back and along each side of the seated audience. The front seats were taken by the other police officers in full dress uniform and all of the members of the various media. The rest of the seats had been taken on a first-come, first-served, basis. Everyone was noisy.

At precisely 10:00 o’clock old man Rafton stepped up to the podium and, clearing his throat loudly into the microphones, waved his arms and called for quiet. The mayor was blessed with a voice that needed no amplification so the booming sound that came through the public address speakers brought immediate quiet from the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors and reporters; as Mayor of Tulla City, I welcome you to this honorable and festive ceremony. It will be my distinct privilege and honor to present to Officer Ann Barton Tulla City’s Certificate of Excellence for her extraordinary service and untiring efforts in the solving of a crime that had all but been given up on. We, as citizens, are proud of our Police Department and its officers and the work they do every day to protect and defend our fair city. There is no greater calling than that of a person who willingly puts his or her own safety on the line to defend the citizens and their community. And when one of our officers goes beyond the normal call of duty to not only defend us from crime and injustice, but to insure that every criminal act, no matter how long ago it was committed, is paid for by the perpetrator just as the law prescribes, that officer should be- no - that officer must be rewarded for that effort!”

“But before the presentation I would like to call on our Police Chief, Marty Perkins, to say a few words!”

Marty Perkins was literally one of a kind. He was Chief of Police and Sheriff, both at once. He had already been Sheriff when the police chief died. Several officers on the force wanted the job as chief and there was the biggest fight over it you ever saw. Old man Rafton decided to take things into his own hands and solve the dilemma of who would be chief and he appointed Sheriff Marty Perkins temporarily. The sheriff did such a good job the City Council decided to make it permanent.

There was a smattering of applause as Marty Perkins walked to the podium. While Old Man Rafton the mayor had a voice that, on a clear day, could be heard forever, Marty Perkins voice, it could be said, could go on, and on and on forever. He liked to talk and, as he started speaking, an audible groan could be heard from the crowd.

The Chiefs’ speech would not be brief. When he spoke it was never brief. Some say his nonstop talking when he ran for the office of sheriff is what gained him the election. It is said his opponents simply couldn’t get a word in edgewise and finally just quit trying.

Fifteen minutes into the sheriff’s speech the reporters began to get restless. Prosser, the reporter for the Philadelphia Enquirer, whispered to Tom Bartlett, the Times reporter, “I wonder if this is all going to be worth it? I hope we get a story that will make this worth covering.”
“Prosser,” said Bartlett,” Have you talked to the officer yet about the case?”
“No,” said Prosser, “Not yet. I have an appointment for an interview with her this evening at six.”
“Where?”
“At her place. I talked to the sheriff for a few minutes this morning but I get the impression he doesn’t know much about it. None of the other cops seem to know much either. It’s like Officer Ann Barton is the only one who knows how this case got solved.”
“Maybe she has a snitch,” said Bartlett.
“Maybe.”

Four years ago, Ben Abbot, an old man who was semi-retired from the Railroad, was found dead from massive head injuries. He had been struck on the back of his head several times with a hard, blunt instrument. He was struck with such force that any one of the blows would have been enough to kill him. At about seven-thirty, am, two boys walking along the train tracks found his body and pulled it off the track just minutes before a train roared by.

The police came to the crime scene and examined the body of the late Ben Abbot. There was no question of how Ben had been killed. There was, however, a question of where he had been killed. There was very little blood at the scene; not nearly enough to suggest the murder took place where his body was found.

The area was taped off, just like up town, and the officers began a thorough search of the immediate and surrounding areas. There were no unusual tracks or marks of any kind on the ground or anywhere around the entire search area. The county coroner estimated Ben had been dead for about three hours.

Every home in the area was visited and the occupants questioned. No one saw or heard anything that morning. For two weeks every police officer was assigned to the case to search for clues, any clues. No clues of any kind were ever found. No murder weapon was found. No motive was ever established for the murder of Ben Abbot. He had no living relatives that anyone knew of and very few close friends. The people who knew him described him as a quiet, friendly person who, since his retirement from the Railroad, did odd jobs around town, and no one could suggest any reason for his murder.
His home was inspected and nothing there seemed out of the ordinary. A person or persons unknown had killed Ben Abbot, with an unknown weapon and for unknown reasons. This crime was indeed a mystery and after much investigation with little result, it was put on the back burner. That was four years ago.