A Quiet Little Town Pt. 02

The appearance of the big black car at my property was unexpected. I watched as the driver stepped out and opened the rear door to allow the passenger to exit. My first impression was that the person inside must be very rich or very important to have a chauffeur. When he emerged I could see he was big, about 6'4" tall and around 250 pounds. He wore a black suit with a white shirt that was unbuttoned at the neck, definitely an imposing figure.

The driver stood by the front door of the car as the big man approached. When he reached me he looked up at the house and started talking without an introduction. There was no smile on his face and he had more of a menacing appearance up close.

"Has all of the work done on your house so far been satisfactory?"

"Completely. Are you in charge?"

He didn't answer my question but asked one of his own that clarified why he was there. "Then why did you choose someone who was not on the list you were provided?"

"What do you mean? These painters belong to a company on the list. And how do you know about the list?"

"I'm talking about the architect."

"Who the hell are you?"

In a condescending tone he continued. "Henry, you'd better choose your words more carefully or you'll join the others behind your house."

"You obviously know who I am but that doesn't explain how you know about the list or the architect."

"My name is Frank Mitchell. Lisa is my wife. As for the architect, this is a small town and I know everything that goes on in it. When you started looking for an architect, word got back to me."

"You forced him to quit, didn't you?"

"Let's just say I explained to him why it wasn't in his best interests to continue. In fact, it wasn't a good idea to even open an office in this town since he'd get no business. I'd make sure of that."

Hearing Frank speak I understood what Lisa was trying to tell me. She wasn't who the townspeople were afraid of, it was her husband. The only questions in my mind now were how far does his control go and do I really want to live here?

"I probably would have chosen an architect on the list but there were none."

"An oversight but one I'll remedy right now." He reached into his wallet and pulled out the business card of an architectural firm. "Contact them and there shouldn't be any more delays."

Then he just turned and walked back to his car where the driver opened the door for him. I felt I'd just been visited by the Godfather and he made an offer I couldn't refuse.

The architectural firm offered to do almost exactly what Andrew had discussed but at twice the price. Thinking that any other company I chose would probably suffer the same fate as Andrew, I felt I had no choice but to hire them.

The next six months were a whirlwind of activity. I never had to mention Lisa's name again. It seemed all of the companies on the list had "gotten the memo." Walls were torn down, new wiring and plumbing were put in, the roof was replaced and insulation added. I never knew how drafty and poorly insulated Victorian homes were until I owned one. It was September when a modern heating system was installed. Until then, the only heat was provided by a single fireplace. Central air conditioning would eventually be added but that expense could wait. There were more pressing needs such as painting the interior of the house and building my custom bathrooms. This was truly going to be my dream home.

It would take another three weeks to install my bathrooms. I decided to splurge and put in heated floors, something not in my original plans. Adding kitchen cabinets, marble countertops and stainless steel kitchen appliances were the final touches before I arranged for the furniture and other possessions stored in San Francisco to be delivered to my new address. Movers were hired to bring my things inside and I was finally able to move in. It had taken much longer than anticipated to renovate the house but, looking at it now, I'd guess it's worth at least a million dollars.

I won't lie. All the time the work was being done I thought about selling the house but realized Frank could discourage any other buyers and offer me much less than it was worth. Hell, after that one meeting with him I didn't think it was unreasonable to believe he'd kill to get what he wanted. I wondered how many of the people in the cemetery behind my house didn't die of natural causes.

It was the beginning of November that I got a call from my friend, Mike.

"Hey Hank, how's small town life treating you?"

"Definitely not what I expected."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a small town with big city problems."

"Sorry to hear that. Any chance you can drag yourself away and join us for Thanksgiving? It's been too long since we've seen your face around here."

"You know, that's a great idea. I need a break from all the work on the house."

"Bring pictures. I'd love to see what you've done."

"I have a few from before any work was started and quite a few now that it's just about finished. You're going to be amazed at the transformation."

"Great. Just tell us when you'll be arriving and we'll pick you up at the airport. And don't think about staying at a hotel. We'll set up the guest room for you."

I arrived in San Francisco the day before Thanksgiving and was greeted with one of those hugs that guys give each other.

"Glad to see you Hank. Sandy and the kids have missed you too. So, tell me about your corner of Nebraska."

"I'll tell you after dinner. Right now I'm enjoying being with a good friend."

We walked to his car in the terminal parking garage and started the drive to his house.

"Made any new friends since you left? Any girlfriends?"

"It's a different world. Find a good radio station. I'll explain everything at the house."

Mike didn't say another word during that drive but he knew he'd hear a lot after dinner.

At the house, everyone was all smiles as I greeted Sandy and their two daughters. Normally I'd have brought small gifts for each of the girls but being away from them for so long I really didn't know what they were interested in. As I played with the girls I noticed Mike having a private conversation with Sandy. My guess that it was about my reluctance to talk about Nebraska.

After dinner and the kids were put to bed I shared the before-and-after pictures of my house and we had our talk.

"Okay Hank, what's going on?"

"The town is controlled by a man."

"A rich businessman?"

"He might be, but more like a mobster."

"Exactly what kind of control are you talking about?"

"Well, for example every phase of my renovation had to be done by companies he approved. When I chose a different company, the person I chose was run out of town."

"Has he threatened you?"

"You mean, like threatening to bury me if I wasn't more respectful?"

"Shit, he did that?"

I nodded.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, you've heard the phrase 'big brother is watching you'? Well, he knows everything that goes on in the town."

"I wonder if my brother in the FBI knows him. What's his name?"

"Frank Mitchell."

"Let me give my brother a call. Talk to Sandy, I'll be back soon."

Sandy and I engaged in small talk about their daughters' involvement in soccer and gymnastics until Mike returned.

"Hank, my brother didn't recognize the name but he said he'll contact his superiors to see if Frank Mitchell is just a small-time crook or someone worth looking into."

It was less than an hour later that Mike received a call from his brother. I watched Mike's face turn very serious as he listened without saying anything. After ending the call he looked at me.

"Frank Mitchell is bad news. He's a high-level member of one of the crime families, someone the FBI has been trying to put behind bars for a long time. Don't be surprised if an FBI agent contacts you when you get back to Nebraska. And my brother said one more thing. On Friday, a burner phone with scrambler software on it will be delivered here. Its only purpose will be for you and the FBI to be able to communicate through messages. For that reason there will only be only one phone number in the contacts."

"Damn, Mike. I just wanted a peaceful retirement. This is starting to feel more like a James Bond movie."

Knowing what I used to do for a living, Mike responded by twisting a well known phrase, "I guess it's out of the fire and into the frying pan."

"Funny guy."

Thanksgiving dinner was all I hoped it would be, good friends and good food. I knew enough to enjoy the moment since it would all change when I returned home. The special phone did arrive on Friday but there were no markings on the box it was wrapped in, so it must have been hand-delivered to Mike's mailbox.

Spending the holiday with Mike and his family made me question again my decision to leave California. I had laughed for the first time in months and I wasn't sure that trading that feeling for a beautiful house where I wasn't happy was worth it. It might be time for some real soul-searching.

The flight home was long but uneventful. Weather had been good so the flight was pretty smooth. On the way home, I decided to stop at a Dunkin' Donuts in town. As I was getting a cup of coffee and a donut, the sheriff walked in and got in line behind me.

"How's San Francisco?"

"Excuse me."

"It's where you're from, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but I didn't know it was common knowledge."

"It's a small town and people talk, especially about strangers. You bought the old Wilson place, right?"

"I don't know the names of the previous owners but if you're referring to the Victorian house at the edge of town, yes."

"You're doing a hell of a job restoring it."

Not knowing if the sheriff was connected to Frank, I kept any negative thoughts to myself. "You've got some good construction companies here. Listen, I've got to go but it's been nice meeting you."

I took my coffee and donut from the counter and left. Something about that comment about San Francisco bothered me. I wondered if he knew about my recent trip even though I'd never mentioned it to anyone. Maybe I was getting paranoid but for peace of mind I decided to travel to an electronics store in Omaha that specialized in surveillance equipment, making sure to park two blocks away in case my car had a tracker on it.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so. I take a lot of trips and stay at motels and hotels. Lately I've seen stories on the internet of rooms being bugged. Do you have anything I can use to check the rooms I stay in?"

"We sell a lot of those devices."

"My privacy is important so how much is a good detector?"

"Surprisingly you won't have to spend more than $100 to get a device that will locate hidden cameras, listening devices and gps tracking units."

"Sold. Another thing I'm interested in is a surveillance system for my house while I'm away but I don't want to advertise that I have one by subscribing to one of those national companies. Can you recommend something?"

"That can get expensive depending on how many cameras and listening devices you want installed."

"How expensive?"

"Between one and ten thousand dollars."

"Tell you what, I'll be back when I'm sure of what I need."

I left the store and the first thing I did was use the device to check my car. It's true that I might be getting paranoid but there definitely was a tracker on it. I decided to have a little fun and transfer it to the car parked next to me. After that discovery, I fully expected to find bugs planted by the workers who'd been at the house.

As I walked from room to room, my new device kept finding electronic devices. Cameras and listening devices were in almost every room. Thankfully, the bathrooms were spared. Now I knew how my trip to San Francisco was discovered. They'd heard me book the flight when I was in the house. I wasn't sure whether to destroy the bugs or leave them alone so I decided to call for advice. I took my new phone, sat down on the ground at the back of my house so no one would see me and sent a short message, "Infested with bugs. Should I exterminate them?"

It wasn't long before I received a reply. "Clean your house completely. Contact us if you need help. I don't expect the bugs to return after that."

Seeing that message was comforting. For the first time, I felt I wasn't battling my problem alone.

It took about an hour before my bug detector stopped beeping. Lying on the table in front of me now are the remains of eighteen monitoring devices I had enjoyed smashing into tiny pieces. My privacy restored, I could only sit and wonder why I was considered such a threat to warrant all of those devices. Perhaps it was because I was a stranger in this town, one of the few if not the only person not yet fully controlled by Frank Mitchell. One thing was certain though, I'd sleep much better knowing I'd fought back a little.

It snowed that night, the first snow of the season, and as I looked out of my bedroom window I expected to see a pristine coating of white snow across the ground but that's not what I saw. There were hundreds of footprints visible. All sort of terrible thoughts filled my head. Had Frank sent his men to do something while I slept? Considering who he was, nothing seemed impossible, so I sent a text to alert the FBI of the situation. "Had visitors on my property in the middle of the night."

A response came within five minutes. "Should have informed you of our activity. Tiny cameras and listening devices were hidden in your trees to monitor your property."

That was great news for two reasons. Not only wouldn't I have to buy surveillance equipment, the message indicated there were FBI agents in the area.

With the house almost completely finished, I spent the next few days walking around the town. Everyone seemed to know who I was and were curious why I purchased the old house. With the exception of Frank, everyone I met was extremely friendly and had stories to tell about the previous owners, Joseph and Marie Wilson. Suddenly I wanted to know more.

No longer worried about hidden bugs, when I returned home I sent a message to the FBI. "Tell me about Joseph and Maria Wilson, previous home owners." In fifteen minutes my phone pinged. "Both died under suspicious circumstances and are buried in the cemetery behind your house."

My first thoughts were that Frank was involved. My second was that I wanted to get a look at where they were buried. It seemed a good place to start with if I was going to investigate what happened. I remembered what I told myself earlier about not getting involved but if I was going to stay in this town, I wanted to know what I was getting myself into.

The cemetery was pretty large and I didn't feel like walking through the whole cemetery to find the two graves so I hoped someone at the church could help me. I picked some colorful wildflowers from my property to put on their graves, an excuse as to why I was interested in locating them.

Finding the church doors locked, I banged on the doors to get someone's attention.

When one if the doors opened a man in black robes appeared.

"My son, this is a private sanctuary. What business do you have here?"

"I'm not even sure where to start. I've never talked to a monk before. How should I address you?"

"Brother Paul."

"Brother Paul, I own the house next to the church and I was hoping that someone could direct me to the graves of the previous owners, buried in your cemetery."

"What are their names?"

"Joseph and Marie Wilson."

"Did you know them?"

"No, but they were friends of my aunt and I promised to put flowers on their graves."

"Wait here."

Brother Paul closed the door and re-emerged a while later holding a map of the cemetery. We walked in silence until we reached the two graves. The monk then left me and walked back to the church.

As I placed the flowers on their graves, I looked down at the two headstones. The dates of their births indicated they weren't much older than me at the time of their deaths, but what was most puzzling was the date of their deaths. According to their headstones they died on the same day, nine years ago. That was before the Order arrived so I doubted I'd get any useful information from any of the monks. Perhaps I could find out more by visiting the town library. Libraries often have archives of old newspapers.

The library was a one-story building in the center of town, about the size of a small bookstore I'd sometimes visited in San Francisco. When I arrived, the librarian was helping another person check out some books. After that was done I stepped up to the counter.

"Mr. Michaels, did you find the blueprints you were looking for?"

"I did. The Historical Society had copies."

"So, what brings you here today, a new library card?"

"Actually I came for another reason but that seems a good idea."

As she created the card with her computer she asked again what the reason for my visit was.

"Do you keep copies of old newspapers here?"

"The town library isn't large but we have an extensive collection of old newspapers. We're proud of our town's history and we've some that go as far back as 1865, before Nebraska was even a state. The most current ones are still paper copies. The oldest are on microfiche although we're starting to transfer them to computer files. We're working our way backward and It'll probably take five years before the process is complete. What date were you interested in?"

I wasn't willing to divulge the exact dates so I just said "March 2015"

"The whole month?"

"Yeah, I'm not sure what dates I need."

"Well, I think we've transferred those to computer files. Give me a second to check."

The librarian walked over to another machine and confirmed that the newspapers had been converted to computer files.

"Is there any chance you can copy those files to a flash drive so I can read them at home?"

"I can do that. Do you have the flash drive with you?"

"No."

"I think they sell them at the drugstore next door. I'll get the files ready to transfer while you buy one. It might take thirty minutes to transfer all of the files. Can you wait or do you want to pick them up at a later time?"

"I can wait."

With a new library card and the flash drive, I drove home. I had some reading to do.

As I started reading the old newspapers on my flash drive, I hoped my visit to the library would go unnoticed, but I doubted it. I skipped all the newspapers before March 15th, the day they died. Coverage of their deaths started on the sixteenth. It detailed the tragic death of two well-liked residents of the town. It was reported that the two of them died of asphyxiation as a result of a clogged chimney while the fireplace was lit. Coverage of the story lasted three days and their deaths were finally ruled accidental. Something about the story bothered me but I couldn't figure out what it was. I was missing something.

I've heard that your brain works on problems even when you're sleeping but I didn't believe it until I woke up at 3 a.m. I couldn't be sure who was involved in the coverup but I knew with absolute certainty that the deaths of Joseph and Marie were not accidental. The house had been untouched from the time of their deaths until the time I bought it. Since then I've had the insides thoroughly cleaned but the chimney was not included in the service and I've used it since then. If it was clogged in 2015 it would be even more clogged now.

Of course, knowing it and proving it in court are two different things. And even if I could prove it, I couldn't tie anyone to the murder. I decided to text the FBI with what I knew. "Joseph and Marie Wilson were murdered but I can't identify the killer."

A text came back immediately. "If you're positive, it's important to record all future conversations. Tomorrow morning, expect to receive in your mailbox a voice activated digital recorder small enough to keep in a shirt pocket or wear under your shirt, tied to a string around your neck. To record phone calls, place them on speaker. FYI Nebraska allows one-party consent for phone calls within the state."