Tales Around the Jack O'Lantern II - A Mary O'Reilly Series Short Story (Mary O'Reilly Series Short Stories) Read online

  Timothy O’Reilly had found her body and called it in. He was also the one assigned to go to her family’s home and give them the news that the woman who was both mother and wife would never be coming home again. The young widower, with his three children gathered around him, wept openly. Timothy could do nothing for him but place his arm around the young man and let him cry. There were no words of consolation, this man and these children would feel the effects of the killer’s action for the rest of their lives. Before leaving the small home, Timothy vowed that he would personally do everything he could to make sure her murderer was caught.

  The next day Timothy arrived at the station thirty minutes before his shift and went upstairs to his sergeant’s office. He knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter.

  “O’Reilly,” his sergeant said with a smile. “Good to see you. What’s up?”

  “I want in on the scalp murders,” Timothy replied. “I want to help solve the case.”

  The sergeant stared at Timothy for a few moments without answering, and then he adjusted the glasses that were resting on his nose and leaned back in his chair. “And this is the same Timothy O’Reilly that’s turned down a promotion to detective every time I’ve offered it to him?” the sergeant asked, his eyebrows raised.

  “Aye, it is,” Timothy replied. “And I still don’t want that blasted job. I just want to help solve this case.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Timothy asked. He leaned forward, propping his fingers on the edge of the sergeant’s desk and spoke. “I’ve found three of the women he’s murdered. I’ve had to go to three homes and tell family members that this animal has changed their lives forever,” he said slowly and clearly. “I want him caught. I want him tried. I want him locked up forever.”

  “So, it’s personal?” the sergeant asked.

  “You tell a four year-old her mommy’s not coming home ever again and tell me that it’s not personal,” he replied.

  The sergeant nodded. “Okay, I’m sold,” he said. “Let me make a call and I’ll let you know.”

  Timothy stood up and nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Go get ready for your shift and then come back up here before you go out,” the sergeant requested.

  “Yes sir.”

  Timothy went down to the locker room to change from his street clothes into his uniform. He walked to the far end of the room where his locker was located, away from most of the younger men in the district. He unbuttoned his shirt and hung it on a hook in the locker, and then he started to pull his t-shirt over his head when he heard someone approaching.

  “Hey, old man, you still down here?” one of the younger police officers asked, walking around the wall of lockers.

  “Yeah,” Timothy said. “What’s up?”

  “The sergeant wanted me to tell you that your request has been denied,” the young cop said. “Says he tried, but no can do. Said it’d be a waste of time coming up to his office. Subject’s closed.”

  Timothy took a deep breath to hold back the anger and nodded to the young man. “Thanks for delivering the message,” he said.

  “Yeah, thanks for not killing the messenger,” the officer replied.

  Timothy slammed his locker door and the sound echoed throughout the room. “Dammit,” he growled. “Now what?”

  Suddenly a file fell from above the lockers and landed at his feet. Bending over, he picked it up. It was a file from the old archives; it was dated ten years ago. Opening the folder he examined it and he shook his head. The victim had been strangled and her hair had been cut off, just like the victims in the current killing spree. He looked at the file in his hand and then up to the top of the lockers. How the hell had this file made its way to the locker rooms? Well, he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Now all he had to do was check the archive for any other files like this one.

  The archives were in the lowest level of the building in cardboard file boxes on a series of steel shelves. Opening the door, he flipped on the light and stared at the hundreds of boxes before him. How in the world was he ever going to find the right files?

  He looked at the date on the file he carried. He could start with the date, he thought. At least that would get him in the vicinity. He started to walk towards the back of the large room when he heard a noise coming from the side of the room. It sounded like a box had been moved. He turned and noticed one of the boxes was out of alignment with the others. Could that have been the box that this file had been taken from?

  He hurried over and examined the box. Yes, it had the same dates. Lifting the cover, he flipped through the files and found three more folders with the same MO from a crime that was never solved. “These are good,” he said softly. “But why wasn’t this cased solved? There was enough evidence.”

  Suddenly a box across the room slipped from the top shelf of a shelving unit and crashed to the floor. Timothy looked around. Nothing could have caused the box to move. His heart pounded in his chest. Nothing human.

  The radio on his belt squeaked and Timothy jumped. “O’Reilly,” the voice came over the speaker and he recognized it as his sergeant. “Where the hell are you?”

  Timothy picked up the radio and pressed the button. “I’m doing some paperwork,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “I want you up in my office, pronto,” the sergeant replied.

  “Yes, sir,” Timothy answered.

  “Don’t go.”

  Timothy froze. That wasn’t just a box moving or a file falling, that was a voice.

  “What did you say?” he asked, his voice a squeaking whisper.

  “Don’t go. They’ll kill you.”

  Timothy shook his head. “No, they won’t do that,” he said. “The sarge is a good guy.”

  “They killed me,” the voice replied.

  “What?” Timothy asked, too confused to be frightened.

  His heart beat even faster when he noticed a folder slowly working its way out from between the other folders crammed into the box, as if an invisible hand was pulling it out. It slid out of the box and floated through the air until it was hanging directly in front of Timothy. He took a deep breath and then grabbed it. The outside labeled the folder as classified. “I can’t look at this,” Timothy said.

  “You must.”

  Taking a deep breath, Timothy opened the file and looked inside. There was a signed confession to the scalp murders from the former mayor’s nephew dated from ten years ago. Timothy shook his head. The former mayor’s nephew had just been named to a position in City Hall. He’d never gone to jail. Never been prosecuted.

  “Take it to Judge Tomlinson,” the voice whispered. “Now. Tonight.”

  “How about Judge Callahan?” Timothy asked, naming another judge he’d worked with.

  He thought he heard an ironic chuckle and then the voice replied. “No. Judge Tomlinson. Now.”

  Timothy started toward the door when he heard noise coming from the other side. “Damn,” he whispered. “The jigs up.”

  “Not yet.”

  Suddenly the lights went out and Timothy was plunged into darkness. He heard startled voices on the other side of the door as they searched for light. But he knew it wouldn’t be too long before they’d turned on their flashlights and made their way inside.

  “This way.”

  Timothy looked around and saw the faintly illuminated figure of a man. “Follow me.”

  He was led to a small window back behind the shelves and was able to crawl out. Once he reached the outside, he turned back to thank whoever it was who’d helped him. But all he saw was darkness.

  He drove his own car to the judge’s house and presented her with the files. Within a few hours, several high-ranking police officials, including his own sergeant, were arrested for conspiracy. And Timothy never heard the voice again.

  Chapter Five

  “Do you have any idea who he might have been?” Art asked his father.

  Timo
thy shook his head. “I have my own theories,” he said. “But nothing I could ever prove.”

  Margaret reached over and took his hand in hers. “Whoever he was, I’ll be eternally grateful,” she said. “And I hope one day he finds peace. And I hope they find out who killed him.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Timothy said. “When it’s the right time.”

  “Speaking of the right time,” Art inserted. “How long is the statute of limitations on not telling your parents the truth?”

  Margaret glanced over at him and shook her head. “There is no statute of limitations on that.” Then she smiled. “But if we’re going to get a good story from it, we’ll grant you clemency.”

  “Well, I hope it’s a good story,” Art said. “Sure scared the heck out of me. It happened back in high school when I was trying out for the basketball team…”

  Several dozen young men sat in the bleachers, wearing their school issued gym clothes, waiting nervously for their name to be called by the coach. Once on the polished wood gym floor they would be put through their paces; doing lay-ups, dribbling the ball and making shots from the free-throw line. Then the coach would have them play a one-on-one game with one of the members of the Varsity team. It was generally a humiliating experience for the student trying out, one that Art O’Reilly wasn’t looking forward to.

  Being an O’Reilly was a blessing and a curse, especially when your older brother was a school icon. Sean had played football, basketball, baseball and excelled in each. His grades were good, he had never done anything dorky and despite it all, he was actually a nice guy. Coming up behind his brother in school, the twins were very often compared to their older brother’s accomplishments. He could still remember a woodshop class where the teacher held up his project, smiled encouragingly and said, “This is good, O’Reilly, pretty good. But you should see what your brother did.” Then, to Art’s mortification, the teacher went to his backroom and pulled out the three year-old project his brother had done. “I saved this,” the teacher said in a reverential voice, displaying it to the entire class. “Because no other student has ever come this close to fulfilling the artistic aspect of this project.”

  Art had wanted to crawl under his desk. And, now, here he was again. Sean had been a point guard, arguably the most important position on the team, and he had been great. The coach, seeing the last name O’Reilly, was probably expecting more of the same. But Art didn’t want to be a superstar. Didn’t think he could. He just wanted to play the game.

  The coach called name after name on the roster and the minutes clicked by on the clock. Art had purposely put his name on the very bottom. He didn’t want an audience to experience his probable humiliation. He glanced over at the locker room. Maybe he should just hide out, not be there when the coach called his name. The more he thought about it, the better the idea seemed. So, sliding between the bleacher seats, he dropped down to the floor and scurried out of the room.

  The locker room was deserted, but Art could hear voices coming close. Probably the last few guys who’d been creamed by the Varsity players. He certainly didn’t want to be found hiding. Looking around he saw a door, his only choice for escape. He hurried over and turned the doorknob. Luck was finally with him, it was unlocked. Slipping inside, he pulled the door closed behind him.

  The room was about the size of a small classroom and as tall as the gymnasium. About ten feet up there was a small, opaque window that, in the afternoon sun, gave the room a murky glow. The room was filled with equipment that was either outdated, or used at different times of the year. One corner held gymnastics equipment, another a pile of cotton mats about three feet high and boxes of basketballs, volleyballs and softballs were scattered all around the rest of the room. Walking over to the mats, he jumped up on them and laid down. He might as well get comfortable while he waited.

  Art got too comfortable and a few hours later woke up to a darkened room with only a dim glow from an outside streetlamp filtering through the window.

  “You okay?”

  Art jumped at the sound of the voice and turned to see another young man standing on the other side of the room. He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “Yeah, I’m good,” he replied. “I guess I just fell asleep.”

  “Why are you in here?” the young man asked.

  Art studied the boy for a moment. He didn’t look familiar and was dressed in gym clothes that looked a little strange. Maybe he was new to the school. “I’m kind of hiding out,” he admitted. “My brother was like this huge jock a couple of years ago and I’m not as good as he was. So, instead of being publically humiliated, I decided to check out this room.”

  The young man laughed. “Come on, you can’t be that bad,” he said.

  Art nodded. “Oh yes, I can,” he said with a smirk. “I’m Art. Art O’Reilly, by the way.”

  “Bobby,” the young man said. “Bobby Forester. Good to meet you.”

  Tossing a basketball at him, Bobby angled his head towards the door. “Come on, there’s no one out there now,” he said. “Why don’t you show me what you can do?”

  They walked out into the gym and Art went to flip on the lights when Bobby stopped him. “Better keep those off so we don’t alert the custodian and get in trouble,” he said. “Besides, there’s enough light in here to shoot.”

  Art looked around. With the emergency lights glowing high in the ceiling and the glow of the streetlights through the window, there was certainly enough light to shoot a few baskets. “Sounds good to me,” he agreed and slowly dribbled the ball across the floor to the free throw line. “I probably should always play basketball in the dark.”

  Bobby chuckled. “Okay, let’s see your free throw.”

  Art bounced the ball a couple of times, lifted it, balanced it with one hand and pushed it off with the other. The ball sailed through the air, bounced against the rim and sailed back towards Art. “That was my boomerang shot,” Art said, shaking his head with disgust. “I have a bunch just like that.”

  “Hey, great shot,” Bobby said, coming up next to Art. “But this time, don’t flex your wrist as much.”

  “What do you mean?” Art asked.

  Bobby demonstrated the move, the ball sailed up and through the basket, no rim, only net.

  “That was awesome,” Art said with a sigh.

  “You do it now,” Bobby said.

  Art shook his head. “I’ll try and I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

  He followed Bobby’s advice and found, more often than not, he was able to make the same kind of shot Bobby had made. “This is amazing,” he said with a wide smile.

  “Come on,” Bobby said. “Let me show you a few more moves.”

  They played for several hours until Art looked up at the caged clock on the wall and saw that it was after ten o’clock. “My mom is going to kill me,” he said to Bobby. “I’ve got to go. But thanks, thanks so much. You changed my life.”

  Bobby smiled at Art. “Hey, it only took a couple of pointers,” he said. “You’re a natural.”

  “Are you trying out tomorrow?” Art asked. “You ought to. You are amazing.”

  Bobby nodded. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “And thanks for practicing with me tonight. It’s been a long time since I’ve had so much fun.”

  Art grabbed his jacket and his backpack. “Are you coming?”

  Bobby shook his head. “No, I’m going to practice for a little while longer.”

  “Okay. Thanks again,” Art said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Art jogged home and entered through the basement, finding his twin, Tom, sitting in the family room watching television. “Where have you been?” Tom asked. “I’ve been both you and me all night, and let me tell you, it’s exhausting.”

  “Hey, thanks,” Art replied. “I was at the school. Some guy I met gave me some great tips for basketball. I might actually make the team.”

  “Well, congrats,” Tom said. “By the way, I ate your portion of dessert too.”
r />   “Oh, thanks,” Art replied sarcastically. “Thanks a lot.”

  The next afternoon, Art was actually eager for the coach to call his name. When he finally got his turn he was able to implement all of the tricks Bobby had taught him and impress the coach. Finally, when it was time to meet the Varsity player, Art used a couple of the moves Bobby had showed him the night before and was able to get around the player and actually even make a shot.

  Art was amazed when the coach stood up and applauded. “That was great, O’Reilly,” he said. “I haven’t seen moves like that since…”

  “My brother, Sean, right?” Art asked, his happiness fading.

  “No, I was going to say since Forester,” the coach replied.

  “Forester?” Art asked. “Bobby Forester?”

  The coach smiled. “Yeah, he was a great kid,” he said. “Could have gone pro.”

  A chill ran up Art’s spine. “What happened to Bobby?” he asked.

  “He was killed in a car accident coming to the last game of the season,” the coach explained. “Some drunk driver ran a red light. But, you know, sometimes I feel like he’s still here with us.”

  “Yeah,” Art replied slowly. “I feel that way too.”

  Chapter Six

  Margaret turned to Tom after Art had finished his story. “So, you were both you and your brother for the whole night?” she asked, her eyebrows raising. “And just how many times have you done that?”

  Tom grinned. “Oh, just once or twice, Ma,” he replied. “Just once or twice.”

  “And what would have happened if your brother had been in trouble and we didn’t know it because you were pretending to be him?” she asked.

  “I would have known Ma,” he replied easily. “I always know when Art’s in trouble. It’s a twin thing.”