Two Birds With Two Stones

by Gary Clifton

The deceased, an elderly, balding man, lay face up on the entryway floor in a pool of crimson. “Answered the door and took two to the heart,” said Detective Maggs Williams.

“Wife discover—?

“No, victim lives alone. Passing patrol car saw the open door.”

McCoy glanced around. Pricy house for an electrician: 4402 Locust Drive. “Ralph Johnson, owns Johnson electric. Rich guy. History of calling 911 for frivolous complaints. Two investigations for poisoning neighbors’ dogs. A real prince.”

McCoy examined the body. Unfolding the stiff fingers, he removed a small silver ring on a broken silver chain. The initials, “MAS” were stamped inside the ring.

“Ripped from the shooter’s neck? There’s a speck of blood where the chain busted. DNA maybe?” He looked closer. “Been busted before and repaired. Not many shops repair inexpensive chains; cheaper to sell somebody a new one.”

* * *

The bespectacled jeweler examined the chain and ring. “Never seen this ring, but I recall fusing a busted link several months ago. Told that old man I’d sell him a new one for less that the repair.” He opened a ledger.

A frail white-haired woman, leaning on a cane, answered the door of the ornate home. “Yes, I’m Lorina Stone.” Her eyes flashed recognition at the ring and chain. “My husband bought that ring for our granddaughter Mary Ann for her eighteenth birthday. It was too small, so she wore it on a neck chain.”

“We’ll need to speak to your husband and granddaughter, ma’am,” Maggs said.

The tired eyes teared up. “Both dead. Our baby, Mary Ann fell in front of a city bus two months ago. Grief killed my husband. His funeral was ten days ago.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Maggs said. “How do you suppose the ring and chain—?”

“Some animal stole it from her coffin at the funeral home.”

Back at Homicide, they milked the computers.

“McCoy, Mary Ann Stone did die under a city bus. Responding officers said, ‘Probable Suicide’. File shows she was pregnant. Grandpa Herman Stone didn’t just die; he committed suicide by hanging himself from one of those open beams in his living room.”

The chain yielded a DNA sample, but it didn’t match any results in file. A home invasion robbery gone sideways, they concluded.

* * *

McCoy was dozing in front of the TV at midnight when Maggs called. “Got another shooting a block from the Johnson case. Meet me at 4401 Locust Terrace.”

The man lying dead in the entry way with two bullet holes in his chest was thirtyish, with shoulder-length hair.

McCoy knelt by the corpse. “Any connection to our electrician?”

“Only that both had ‘Johnson’ in their names, but that’s a common name. But don’t you recognize Johnson “Creeper” McBride? Serial sex abuser. Multi-page sheet and at least two trips inside. Suspected in the rape of a 16-year-old girl last year. Rohypnol suspected. Victim disappeared before trial. Toad ran outa luck here.”

“Rohypnol... Date rape drug? Didn’t recognize him. That coulda happened to Mary Ann Stone.”

Maggs said, “We canvassed hell outa Ralph Johnson’s neighborhood, but typically some neighbors are reluctant to answer doors. It’s two a.m. Let’s wake somebody up.”

* * *

The elderly man in a robe who answered his door was nearly totally deaf. “Whut, police? It’s the middle of the night.”

Maggs asked, “Sir, your neighbor two doors down on Locust Terrace, Johnson McBride, was murdered in his doorway earlier tonight. Mr. Ralph Johnson, the neighbor who lives behind you on Locust Drive was murdered last night. Did you see or hear anything unusual?”

“Whut?”

Maggs repeated her question.

“Never heard a thing. Well except maybe that old woman. Just like now, I’d got up to take a leak when she banged on the door.”

“Woman?” McCoy semi-shouted.

“Yeah, hobblin’ on a cane. Wanted to know if she was on Locust and where Johnson lived. I couldn’t hear her so good.

"Told her Johnson lived behind me. Couldn’t fathom who would voluntarily visit that dog-poisonin’ jackass. Went back to bed and forgot she ever come to my door.”

“Johnson? Do you know Johnson McBride?” McCoy asked. “Lives two doors down. He was murdered earlier tonight.”

“Hell, no.” He slammed the door.

Maggs called the records desk. “McCoy, Johnson ‘Creeper’ McBride was questioned by patrol officers for the rape of Mary Ann Stone, who shows her grandmother’s address, three months ago. She’d waited to report it and they had no rape kit or evidence beyond her statement... claimed he drugged her. No arrest.”

“Maggs, Mrs. Stone’s feeble, just a step short of life support.”

“Think so, heh?”

* * *

The crosstown drive took thirty minutes. The big house was dark. Maggs shone her flashlight through a window. Mrs. Stone’s frail body was hanging from a rope wrapped around an open ceiling beam. They called for backup, then kicked open the door. A note lay on the sofa:

To the nice police who visited me: That animal hired our Mary Ann to clean his house, then raped her with that rohyp... something drug, but she didn’t tell us. The police could do nothing. She was two months’ pregnant when she jumped in front of that bus.

I found my husband’s pistol and got lost three times driving to Locust. That deaf old fool told me where Johnson lived. I realized I’d lost Mary Ann’s ring and then learned from the news I’d shot the wrong man.

When the officers showed up, I knew I had to act quickly. I went back tonight and made good. The monster is dead. I wouldn’t have shot the first man if he hadn’t called me names and tried to grab my pistol. The gun is on the kitchen counter.

McCoy examined the pistol. “Revolver, four spent rounds in the chamber.”

“McCoy, neighborhood regentrification seems a sort of appropriate summation. Mrs. Stone took care of business. The Stones were really the ones hurt most.”

“Yup. Took Mrs. Stone two attempts to bag two birds nobody’s gonna miss.”