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pedges-world · 4 days ago

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In Cold Blood; The Prison

Grab a Latte! lounge around in the foyer with this sweet fic "Foot Fettish" @absurdthirst before heading into the Bookshop!

Triggers: mentions of smoking, direct references "In Cold Blood", PTSD, previous abuse, profanity, romance, fake marriage, prison, slight harassment, workplace romance, descriptions of murder, true crime drama...

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 11k

You weren’t sure when you had awoken, all you knew, was that in this moment, you never wanted to fall asleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, Tim had found his way atop your body, strewn across your torso, his hands embracing your ribcage as though holding you in place. It was well into the morning hours as you watched his steady breathing, and a look of peace that you hadn’t often observed with him, even in repose. He looked younger still, though there remained some sun kissed remnants of well-earned wrinkles serenading his face. Your eyes ravenously drifted over the entirety of his body, mapping the territory as though dreaming about a future travel destination. Freckle. Divot. Curve. Scar. Watching him in this moment of tenderness, a single tear cascaded down your cheek and splashed saltily across his exposed shoulder. You sniffled, attempting to stifle a cold-driven cough, but the “damage” was already done. His feather like eyelashes began to flutter in the relative quiet of the morning. His fingers drifting to life, exploring the silky fabric of your negligee. His hips shifted over yours, revealing his morning arousal against your thigh. You gasped slightly in surprise as his eyes finally opened dreamily, his head positioned just below your breasts, housed happily in the soft curvature of your abdomen.

“Morning, doll….” he smiled, a lopsided grin painted across his face, holding your gaze for what felt like an eternity. Your mouth dipped open slightly, utterly speechless at the sight before you. A relaxed Rockford. What a dreamboat. Your hand shot up abruptly to cover your mouth as a fit of coughs ruined the rare moment, and Tim hoisted himself up on his elbows to look at you with concern. He looked around the room helplessly, clocking the late time.

“Nine a.am!” he sputtered, more with delight than reprimand, particularly as he looked at your rosy complexion. “I haven’t slept this late since….since never!” he exclaimed, rolling to his side, and conspicuously bringing the covers in front of his morning arousal while clearing his throat awkwardly. “Red, I squashed you flat as a pancake…” he lamented, bringing a hand up to your forehead, and sighing with relief. “But fevers broken, I think…” he observed, resting on one elbow and swallowing thickly. You smiled mischievously once your coughs died down.

“As a secretary, I rely on excellent therapeutic measures to keep my employers happy…” you squeaked, your voice a bit lost in the morning haze. Rockford returned your smile tiredly, rubbing at the back of his neck with chagrin.

“Well, you shouldn’t have to put up with an old army brat like me” he apologized, shifting his weight back so he could get a proper look at you. “About last night…” he began before you held up a kind hand in protest.

“I don’t want to hear another word about it” you reprimanded, poking him in the stomach, and watching him crumple with a shy embarrassment. “I invited you into my bed. OUR bed, and I would just assume it stay that way for the remainder of our visit”. Rockford’s eyes softened as he listened quietly.

“I just….don’t want you to feel…” he ventured, trying to choose his words carefully.

“Tim, I know all about an abuse of power” you stated bluntly, watching his eyes darken with acknowledgement. “William wasn’t half the man that you are, and I let him bully me into submission. I’m not making that mistake again. So you just be you. And I’ll be me. And we happen to sleep in the same bed together. We are MARRIED after all…” you joked, relaxing on to your side and mirroring his body beside yours. He tittered in response, shaking his head from side to side.

“Guess I shoulda gotten a secretary a long time ago” he returned, reaching up to find a lock of your auburn hair and pulling it with a teasing bravado.

“I don’t want to be untoward…” you managed, biting your lower lips slightly “…but I’m also very good at dictation” you whispered, inching a hair closer and watching his pupils dilate in response.

“Holy hell” his voice raspily whispered. You were finally poised to enjoy your first faux marital kiss when the phone rang. You both groaned with annoyance, as Tim shook his head bracingly. How many times was he going to find himself in this position? You winked brazenly, before twisting at the torso to grab the nearby receiver.

“Rockford and Associates, how may I direct your call?” your voice nearly sung before your stomach plummeted in realization. An unknown male voice stuttered to life on the line.

“This the P.I. they told me about at the Sheriff’s?” the voice sounded tinny, as though it were coming from another country, though you breathed a relative sigh of relief, realizing that it was not another “anonymous” phone call from Perry.

“Let me redirect your call, hold for a moment please” you bantered, delighted that the case was continuing to move forward in progression. “Mr. Rockford” you mouthed silently, dragging the phone cord across your chest and handing it to him tauntingly. He smiled roguishly, allowing the cord to dangle precariously against your covered breasts before answering, “Rockford, P.I., what can I do you for?”. You pressed your lips together slyly, wondering what new anonymous tip had been directed your way through the Sheriff’s office. It was no wonder, what with hosting the F.B.I, cataloguing the crime scene and dealing with a city-wide personal loss that Rockford had been contacted in the first place. Maybe this was just the break that could blow the case wide open.

“And where are you calling from, Mr. Wells?” Tim’s countenance shifted from one of playfulness to seriousness as he ascertained the nature of the phone call. His eyes met yours in mutual knowing, as he nodded excitedly. “And you’re willing to speak with me today?” he confirmed, as he motioned enthusiastically for the nearby pencil and notebook. “Kansas State Penitentiary, Lansing, Kansas…” you notated as Rockford’s eyes grew wide with intrigue. He looked to the nearby clock, wondering aloud, “…Lansing is clear cross Kansas. I won’t be there for another four hours, at least…”. Your eyebrows pitched upwards. Guess it would be another solo journey. “Alright sit tight. Don’t suppose you’re going anywhere. I’ll be there as soon as I can…” Rockford handed you the receiver, his eyes beaming youthfully as you hung up the phone.

“Well, who was that?” you questioned, meeting his vibrant glow with curiosity.

“Red, I think this might be the linchpin to this entire case! Floyd Wells, an unfortunate resident of The Kansas State Penitentiary has some important information about the Clutter Family murders! But he hasn’t been to Holcomb in nearly eleven years!” Rockford wondered, busily sliding out of bed and starting to hop into his pants excitedly. “Don’t hardly think you want to come with me to prison, but I could still use your help here!” he parried, comically sticking his arm into the wrong sleeve before laughing with self-deprecation.

It’s true you were starting to feel mildly better, but the thought of a one-way four hour road trip into a den of criminal iniquity wasn’t high on your list. Besides which, you DID wonder if Perry might phone again. There seemed to be a new well-spring of information coming your way, and you could cover twice as much territory with two people.

“If you’re feeling lively, Agent Dewey should be holding a press conference this afternoon at City Hall. Could be some other townsfolk you might want to interview, if you’re up to it!” he wondered, nearly tripping over his scuffed dress shoes in an attempt to put them on.

You nodded energetically, throwing the covers back and standing up quickly. Too quickly, as it turned out, as you sank back down onto the bed with a groan. Tim was on his knees in a second, concernedly sitting before you and holding your hips fixedly. “I’ve got a bit of a clumsy gal on my hands, I see” he tried to jest, bringing a finger up to your chin and tilting your head back slightly. “Should I stay? Is this too much?” he genuinely asked, looking into your eyes for any hesitation whatsoever.

It was in this moment that you should have told Rockford about Perry. You should have told him about your concerns, and you should have invited him into the potential dangers of where the case was headed. But unlike classic literature, even main characters such as yourself weren’t actually omniscient, and you couldn’t have surmised the very real jeopardy that was about to grace your own doorstep. So you lied.

“Just stood up too fast is all” you looked down your nose at Rockford jokingly and patted his shoulder with reproof. “I got this, Boss” you assured him, as much as yourself before Rockford hesitantly agreed.

“Take it easy, and head to City Hall if you can” he finally acquiesced. “I’m already a day late and a dollar short, so I won’t be back until the late hours if you can manage?” he questioned one last time before you nearly shoved him out the door.

“This is our big break, Boss!” you encouraged, nudging him out the door as he lingered tentatively in the doorframe.

“Wish me luck, doll!” he exclaimed, before leaning in and planting a very quick peck to the side of your mouth and rushing down the hallway with a new spring in his step. You stood in the doorway, relatively shocked and positively delighted.

Well that was unexpected.

Agent Dewey sat in Hartman’s Cafe, scouring the trades for any additional information he hadn’t already heard. Most of the information was conjecture, and the result of an idyllic, midwestern town desperately trying to make sense of a completely irrational event. He didn’t blame them. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the atrocity himself. And for it to happen to a family he had known personally. The pressure to find a quick solution was so overwhelming, he was already sleep deprived, losing weight, and running in circles. Perhaps the town hall meeting could at least provide some solace.

Dolores approached his dejected figure at the counter, repeating her oft heard phrase, “What’llyahave?” as he tiredly asked for more coffee. She clicked her gum judgmentally before disappearing into the kitchen. Running point on a national case of this magnitude was already proving overwhelming. Though somewhat loathe to admit, Dewey was quietly thankful for the Sheriff’s Office and the gumshoe…what’s his name…for the morale boost, if not the additional legwork provided by Holcomb County and the 18 agency men that were currently scouring the city for whatever details they could find. Dewey didn’t even hear the cafe chimes as you entered the cafe in search of breakfast.

Dolores met you at the counter, as she topped off Dewey’s latest cup of joe. “Morning, Mrs. Rockford! Heard you were down in the dumps the last few days…” she bluntly stated, looking you up and down in observance. Dewey turned in recognition of the name…Rockford. That’s right. The P.I was called Rockford. This must be the missus.

“On the up and up, D!” you piped up, still visibly sick, but on the mend nonetheless. Dewey extended a polite hand in your direction.

“Agent Dewey ma’am; K.B.I…” he introduced himself, inviting you to join him. “Had the pleasure of meeting your husband at the crime scene yesterday”.

“Oh very good Mr. Dewey…He spoke very highly of you and suggested I attend the town hall meeting this afternoon. Have you had any success since the start of your investigation?” you didn’t want to press the matter, but an opportunity like this wouldn’t present itself very often.

Dewey hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I suppose you’re on the case as well, though I’m glad you weren’t present at the Clutter Farm yesterday. No place for a little lady…” he advised, incurring only a small bout of rancor from you, which you decided to keep to yourself.

“I’m happy to provide secretarial support in whatever way I can” you politely offered, looking around the cafe at the small group that seemed intent on listening to your morning conversation. Dewey lowered his voice in apparent recognition.

“Have Rockford drop by the Sheriff’s tomorrow, maybe we can compare notes. We developed the crime scene photos and there seem to be some hidden footprints we located in the basement”. Your eyes widened with curiosity, thankful for the this enigmatic piece of information. You retrieved the small notebook from your purse and began jotting down. Dewey seemed emboldened by your interest and continued. “The prints weren’t hardly noticeable to the naked eye, but they registered on film. TWO distinctive boot prints mind you. TWO. A diamond shaped boot, and a Cat’s Paw half sole”. The diner’s ambient ruckus quieted down as Dolores emerged from the kitchen once again.

“You want your regular, Red?” she inquired, squinting at Dewey and smacking her gum unceremoniously.

“Sure thing, D” you retorted, hiding the notebook to your chest as her roaming eyes attempted to peruse. She left in somewhat of a huff as Dewey smiled with fatigue.

“The town hall meeting will be a relief, at least for some…” he reasoned. “But there’s only so much information I’m willing to reveal, at this time”. You nodded in affirmation. The murderer could be roaming among the residents of Holcomb County. At this stage in the investigation, one couldn’t be too careful. “I sent Harold Nye over to question the extended family. That was a thankless job. It’s painful for him and painful for the family” he observed, wincing at the necessary but ill-timed interrogation. “Beverly and Evie don’t even live in Kansas anymore. I’m sure you saw the Rupp boy, he already did a lie detector test. Boy’s barely old enough to drive, let alone own a shotgun” Dewey sighed heavily, drawing a hand across his face with exhaustion. “Did Rockford mention the vagrant?” he asked you pointedly, as the rest of the dinner attempted to listen in once again.

“No, are you adding someone to your list of suspects?” you wondered, ignoring any listening ears.

“I don’t hardly think so” Dewey acquiesced, deflating slightly. “The aforementioned, a Mr. Adrian WAS carrying a concealed weapon, but seems to have a valid alibi for the night of the murder. As a former patient under confinement of Topeka State Hospital, his only crime seems to have been an unfortunately timed curiosity. We’ve been questioning some locals that may have had a beef with Herb…that is Mr. Clutter, but nothing concrete as of yet. Sheriff Robinson keeps fielding phone calls from all over. Every drunk and town misfit seems to be coming out of the woodworks, looking for some kind of reward” he lamented, shaking his head in disbelief. You swallowed dryly. Was that all your investigation was going to amount to? Rockford on a wild goose chase to Kansas City Penitentiary and you wasting your time with a woebegone anonymous caller?

“What time is the town hall meetin’ Dewey?” a voice interjected, causing you to turn in your seat towards it. “The missus and I had a little talk ‘bout movin’. A body just can’t sleep with all the goings on. Wife can’t sleep, and she won’t let me none”. Another voice chimed in, “Neighbors and I are startin’ to feel the same way! Thinking about pulling the kids out of school come summer!”. Assorted voices began to agree as Dewey shifted in his seat awkwardly. “Heard you arrested someone prowling round the Clutter Farm!”. The cafe started to take on a decidedly riotous ambiance as Dolores watched from afar behind her perch of a cashier’s register.

“There have been no formal arrests at this time” Dewey finally turned and held up a conciliatory hand. “If y’all will attend the town hall meeting this afternoon I’ll try to clear up any misinformation…”. The cafe seemed unimpressed as a few more customers began to join the conversation.

“Well, if you arrested the wrong un, why the hell don’t you find the right un? I got a houseful of women won’t go the bathroom alone!” Another voice accused, “Kind of you to drag your high and mighty back to Finney County! If you ever run for sheriff again, just forget my vote, cause you ain’t gonna get it!” Dewey shook his head dejectedly, grabbing his fedora from the counter and bidding you a polite farewell.

“I’ll see you at the town hall” he mumbled, averting his eyes from your compassionate expression. The midwestern mindset could be a withering force, but it seemed heightened by paranoia and fear. Dewey fished unsuccessfully for his wallet as Dolores had a rare moment of empathy.

“That there’s on the house, Alvin” she barked, shushing everyone else in the cafe. You smiled appreciatively as Agent Dewey headed out the door and Dolores’ voice could be heard in the distance, “Y’all just hush your meanness! We’re all in the same boat, and Alvin’s doing as good as he can. You can just be thankful it wasn’t your sorry asses over at the Clutter Farm that day!”. Dolores managed to shut them up right quick as you winked in response, quieting a dull, foreboding that had crept up the back of your neck.

Was it just a matter of time before the entirety of Holcomb County began to turn on itself? And would you and Rockford be caught in the crosshairs of a town scandal, as much as the dangerous view of a criminal mastermind?

It was already late in the afternoon when Rockford’s trusty Ford Falcon finally pulled into the parking area of the Kansas State Penitentiary. Somehow he had anticipated the four hour drive would have exhausted him, but he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this refreshed. Was it just the optimistic intrigue of breaking open the Clutter Family case? A wry smile tickled the corner of his mouth as he thought on your neglige’d silhouette, hopefully waiting back at the Windsor Hotel for his triumphant return. Maybe there was a bit more to it than that. Rockford tried to hold his expectation in check, but he was nearly beaming with excitement as he approached the somewhat ominous barbed wire fence. He couldn’t help but imagine a swath of reporters and photographers clambering over each other to ask him about his investigative prowess. And in his mind’s eye, you stood beside him, proud as a peacock, holding his hand in solidarity. Rockford tried to shake the aggrandizement from his mind as he showed his identification at the front and purposefully strode towards the visitor’s area to locate Floyd Wells. Pride goeth before a fall, he thought, but isn’t my luck due to turn around soon? Upon further inspection, it seemed as though Floyd Wells’ good fortune had all but run out.

Floyd Wells sat unceremoniously in the center of the Visitor’s Hall, nervously picking at his inmate uniform, and adopting a stereotypically guilty expression. As Rockford approached he stood hurriedly as the nearby guards took a cautionary step forward and Tim motioned him to remain seated. Floyd Wells appeared short and nearly chinless. As Rockford would soon learn, he had attempted several careers as soldier, ranch hand, mechanic, thief, the last of which had earned him a sentence of three to five years in Kansas State Penitentiary.

“You the P.I from L.A?” he asked humbly, setting his hands atop the table and gazing at Rockford imploringly.

“That I am” Rockford replied, taking stock of the oppressive atmosphere, which was currently sparse other than the somewhat chaotic conversations of nearby, unseen inmates and guards. “How’d you come by my information Mr. Wells?” Tim haltingly began, trying to find his bearings in such an unsettling venue.

“Well, I been watching the newspapers as much I could. And the whole thing just seems kinda clueless. One big bewilderment! I been waitin’ as long as I could, but I knows things! I just gots to tell somebody. A told a particular friend, a Catholic mind you, that I just couldn’t live with this on my mind. And he told me to seek out the proper folk. So the next day I got word to the deputy warden, and told him I wanted to be ‘called out’. I was rightly scared, but I’ll tell you right now, I knows things!” Wells lowered his voice conspiratorially as he continued, “I’m no snitch, mind ya. If the wrong people get word of this conversation I won’t be worth a dead coyote. But I also read that there was a reward. I read it in the Hutchinson News. A thousand dollar reward!” he exclaimed, before returning to his aforementioned whisper. “And I don’t want to be implicated in any crime that I didn’t participate in, see? But right is right. And the deputy…Mr. Logan Sanford, he took to callin’ the appropriate authorities over at Holcomb County. And they transferred me right on over to you”.

Rockford sat in a curiously befuddled state, trying to absorb Wells’ monologue. What could he possibly know, related to a situation that happened so many years ago?

“Alright, let’s just start at the beginning…”. Rockford withdrew his notepad and steeled himself for a lengthy description. Prison held a horrible isolation. In his previous interviews of inmates, they seemed to oscillate between one of two extremes. Either they spent the entire time tight lipped and stubborn willed. Or, much like Mr. Floyd Wells, found themselves loose-lipped and aimin’ for attention. All Rockford had to do was listen.

“Well just about a week or two ago I was listening to the news broadcast and fallin’ asleep. You know how news can be. Dronin’ on and on about Eisenhower and the budget for space explorin’. How can we rightly be thinking about outer space when I can’t even get a job at the local Piggly Wiggly?” Rockford just nodded supportively as Wells prattled on. “Anyways, I woke up right quick when they mentioned the Clutter Family! Tragic slaying of four people, and anybody with any knowledge should come forward to aid the investigation! And the details was just horrible! Bound, gagged, shot through the head with a .12-gage shotgun. I mean, I might be a thief, but murder is where I draw the line, see? Right is right. I might not have taken to the Clutter Family, but…don’t think they rightly deserved that” his voice trailed off with regret.

“So, you knew the Clutter Family?” Rockford encouraged, jotting down a few key points from Wells’ testimony.

“Well, it was a long time ago, see? Nearly eleven years ago, round about 1948. I was a real youngin’ then. ‘Bout nineteen is all. Sort of drifting around the country, taking jobs as they came. And one way or another I found myself in western Kansas, and I heard they could use some help over at the River Valley Farm, and sure enough Mr. Clutter put me on. I stayed there, I guess a year, all that winter anyway, and when I left it was just ‘cause I was feeling kind of footy. Wanted to move on. He treated me fine, same as he treated everybody that worked for him, like, if you was a little short before payday, he’d always hand you a ten or a five. He paid good wages, and if you deserved it he was quick to give you a bonus. The fact is, I actually liked Mr. Clutter much as any man I ever met”. At this Wells paused, a stoic sheen registering across his face. Not one of overt empathy, but of recognition, or remembrance. He continued, “The whole family. Mrs. Clutter and the four kids. When I knew them, the youngest two, the ones that got killed, Nancy and the little boy what wore glasses, they were only babies, maybe five or six years old. The other two, one was called Beverly, the other girl I don’t remember her name, they were already in high school. A nice family, real nice. I never forgot them. When I left there it was sometime in 1949. I got married, I got divorced, the Army took me, other stuff happened, time went by you might say. And then I got sent to the pen because of breaking into this appliance store. Course nothing come of it, ‘cept I drew a three-to-five. If I hadn’t, then I never would have met Dick, and maybe Mr. Clutter wouldn’t be in his grave. But there we are. There it is. I come to meet Dick”.

The hairs on the back of Rockford’s neck began to stand up in anticipation. There wasn’t any rational reason for his reaction, but something about Wells’ testimony had captured his interest in a way no other investigative point had. The main challenge continued to be identifying a motive for a quadruple murder of “the nicest family in town”. If it wasn’t emotionally motivated, perhaps there was some sort of lucrative or financial gain to be had. Perhaps this was related to the insurance policy Myrtle had previously mentioned.

“Dick was the first I celled with. We celled together I guess a month. He was just finishing a three-to-five, and due for parole. He talked a lot about what he planned to do when he got out. Said he thought he might go to Nevada, one of them missile-based towns, buy hisself a uniform and pass hisself off as an Air Force officer. That was one idea he told me. Never thought much of it myself. He was smart, I don’t deny, but he didn’t look the like the part like no Air Force officer. Other times, he mentioned this friend of his, Perry that he used to cell with. And the big deals him and Perry might pull when they got together again. I never met him, Perry. Never saw him. He’d already left the pen, was out on parole. But Dick always said if the chance of a real big score came up, he could rely on Perry Smith to go partners”.

Rockford hadn’t heard tell of either of these characters in the town of Holcomb, but it would at least explain the possibility of a criminal partnership that could have incapacitated Mr. Clutter, along with his strapping young son, Kenyon. But was there enough of a motive to risk such an outlandish attempt?

“I don’t exactly recall how Mr. Clutter first got mentioned. It must have been when we were discussing jobs, different kinds of work we’d done. Dick, he was a trained car mechanic, and mostly that was the work he’d done. Only, once he’d had a job driving a hospital ambulance. He was full of brag about that. About nurses, and all what he’d done with them in the back of the ambulance. Anyway, I informed him how I’d worked a year on a considerable wheat spread in Western Kansas. For Mr. Clutter. He wanted to know if Mr. Clutter was a wealthy man. Yes, I said. Yes, he was. In fact, I said, Mr. Clutter had once told me that he got rid of a thousand dollars in one week. I mean, said it sometimes cost him then thousand dollars a week to run his operation. After that, Dick never stopped asking me about the family. How many was they? What ages would the kids be now? Exactly how did you get to the house? How was it laid out? Did Mr. Clutter keep a safe? I don’t deny it, I told him he did. Next thing I knew, Dick was talking about killing Mr. Clutter. Said him and Perry was gonna go out there and rob the place, and they was gonna kill all witnesses, the Clutters, and anybody else that happened to be around. He described to me a dozen times how he was gonna do it, how him and Perry was gonna tie them people up and gun them down. I told him ‘Dick, you’ll never get by with it’. But I can’t honestly say I tried to persuade him different. Because I never for a minute believed he meant to carry it out. I thought it was just talk. Like you hear plenty ‘round here. That’s about all you do hear; what a fellow’s gonna do when he gets out, the holdups and robberies and so forth. It’s nothing but brag, mostly. Nobody takes it serious. That why, I when I heard what I heard on the earphones, well I didn’t hardly believe it. Still and all, it happened. Just like Dick said it would”.

Jesus Christ. Rockford felt his breathing still to a shallow depth, though his heart was pounding vociferously in his chest. This was it. This was the break that would blow this case wide open, and it was here, hidden in The Kansas City Penitentiary. Wells looked as deflated as a spent balloon, hunching his shoulders forward, his face a sunken mask of resignation.

“Did ya know the Clutter Family? At all?” Wells’ voice hung around his neck like a heavy anvil as Rockford heard an aggressive voice yelling contrastingly in the background.

“No, I can’t say I had the pleasure” Tim observed, unfortunately reflecting on the crime scene photos as his only point of reference. The relative stillness stagnated between them, something like a long exhalation that is still devoid of release. Rockford tentatively stood, anxious to touch base with Deputy Sanford before heading back on the four hour return.

“Think there’ll be a reward of some kind?” Wells brightened slightly, though it seemed immediately dimmed in the graying and isolated atmosphere of the all but empty Visitor’s Hall.

“I’ll be sure to keep you apprised if I hear of anything related to that” Rockford sighed, placing his hands on his hips resolutely. “I’m sure the Clutter Family would be real grateful…for your….testimony” Tim hesitatingly offered, though secretly wondering if Wells hadn’t inadvertently done more harm than good.

“I hope so…” Wells’ voice trailed off, as his vision blurred slightly, looking off into some distance that couldn’t be seen beyond the iron and concrete walls of his present imprisonment.

“Nice family” he observed, grasping his hand fixedly in his lap and looking downward. “Real nice family”.

Balancing the newest box of files and peripheral crime scene evidence you had received from the Sheriff’s Office, you jammed the hotel door open abruptly in an attempt to answer the already ringing telephone. There was barely an hour before the Town Hall Meeting and you desperately wanted to prove yourself useful before Rockford returned. Thus far, as a secretary you felt relatively inadequate, stumbling, bumbling and mumbling your way through the proceedings and doubtful that you had anything to offer besides a rather overt and unprofessional attraction to your boss. Even if he reciprocated, it could only prove to make the situation more complex and distracting to the investigation. You were grateful to be a source of solace, but you’d have to shelve your feelings quickly if you wanted to be remotely helpful. If you were honest, Rockford was probably much more adept at maintaining the facade of marital bliss, without actually investing any real emotions in the relationship. He was a big city private investigator, and you felt like a mismatched, mid-western ingenue, tripping over your own high heels in an attempt to keep up.

If your time with William had taught you anything, it was primarily to distrust your own conclusions, particularly when they related to feelings of love. Love? You swallowed brusquely as time seemed to be moving more slowly in your attempt to juggle the looming responsibilities of the day. Affection. Admiration? You’d just have to pull up your big girl panties and double down on the secretarial fortitude.

WHILE you were sharing a bed.

You sighed defeatedly as you raced to pick up the bombastic phone receiver. “Mr. Rockford and Mrs…Associates, how may I direct your call?”. Great.

“You never told me your name…” the voice pointedly stated as you crinkled your eyebrows confusedly.

“Perry?” you squeaked, dropping the box heavily on the bed, and looking around at the somewhat disheveled hotel room. You really needed to clean things up.

“Can’t hardly be helpful in the investigation if I don’t know your name…”. Perry seemed to have adopted a lighter, more playful approach since your last conversation, but there was still something mildly unsettling about the interaction. You reflected that he hadn’t really been helpful to the investigation at all, and you had yet to conclude if he wasn’t just another looky-loo or attention grabber.

“Uh…you can call me Mrs. Rockford, Perry. Is there something I can help you with this afternoon? I’m just about to head out the door to an important Town Hall Meeting…” you wanted to wrap up the conversation as quickly as possible. Receiving the anonymous calls from every Tom, Dick and Perry was starting to weigh heavy, and the investigation was finally gaining some traction. Rockford was the one really making the headway, and as usual you were mostly slowing him down.

“I had a dream…” Perry nonsensically shifted, as you placed a defiant hand on one hip with impatience.

“A dream?” your voice held a bit more bite than you intended as you looked at the nearby clock. Thirty minutes.

“I seen a bird. A sort of parrot. Taller than Jesus, mind you. Yellow like a sunflower…”. Oh boy. You were fairly certain Perry wasn’t a Holcomb County resident. If anything he seemed to be located somewhere in Mexico if your intuition was right. Maybe he read about the Clutter Family Murders in a newspaper and now found himself pining for more than just judicial attention? Everybody wanted a piece.

“Perry, I don’t mean to be rude, but did you have some insightful information to our case? I really need to get going…” you politely deflected, smoothing out the inescapable wrinkles of your a-line skirt. Probably should do some more ironing too.

“It wasn’t no regular bird, mind you, a sort of warrior-angel who can blind folks with its beak, slaughtering injustice wherever it goes…” Perry proceeded as though your words had little impact. “I’ve had this dream since I was a youngin’. My deliverer, you could say. I’m in a jungle, mind you, and I’m moving towards a tree that standing all alone. Jesus, it smells bad, that tree; it kind of makes me sick, the way it stinks. Only it’s beautiful to look at. It has blue leaves and diamonds hanging everywhere. Diamonds like oranges. That’s why I’m there, to pick myself a bushel of diamonds. But I know, the minute I try, the minute I reach up, a snake is gonna fall on me. A snake that guards the tree….” you had begun to tidy up around the hotel room, nodding your head absentmindedly while Perry prattled on. You gazed over at the work table strewn with disorganized files, postcards and newspapers. Somehow you’d have to attend to that later. One of the newest finds from the Sheriff’s office was Nancy Clutter’s diary, and you wanted to see if that held any tidbits of information.

“This fat son of a bitch living in the branches. I know this before hand, see? And Jesus, I don’t know how to fight a snake. But I figure well, I’ll take my chances. What it comes down to is I want the diamonds more than I’m afraid of the snake. So I pick one, I have the diamond in my hand, I’m pulling at it, when the snake lands on top of me. We wrestle around, but he’s a slippery sonnofabitch and I can’t get a hold, he’s crushing me, you can hear my legs cracking. Now comes the part it makes me sweat even to think about it. See he starts to swallow me. Feet first. Like going down in quicksand”.

Could Nancy have met her attacker in Holcomb County? Would she have mentioned it in her journal? The girls had stated her recent troubles with Bobby Rupp. And there was the strange, mysterious passing of the family cat. You thought you’d even heard tell of a beloved mare named Babe, that Susan Kidwell was trying to re-home after the atrocity at the Clutter Family Farm. Could any of these random occurrences help you identify a pattern?

“And then, there’s the bird. The deliverer, you know? A hovering avenger. The snake never had a chance. Devoured completely before we start the ascent. Some kind of paradise, you know? Some kind of feeling of power? A red place. Like out of a movie. Maybe that’s where I saw it. Where else would I have seen a garden like that? White marble steps? Fountains? And way down below, if you go to the edge of the garden, you can see the ocean! Terrific! And a long, long table covered in food. That’s the worst of it. More food than you could imagine. Oysters. Turkeys. Hot dogs. Fruit you could make into a million fruit cups. And listen—it’s every bit free. I mean I don’t have to be afraid to touch it. I can eat as much as I want, and it won’t cost a cent. That’s how I know where I am…”.

Perry hadn’t stopped talking since he began. It had started to transform into an audible white noise in your ears as you attempted to salvage the mess before you. Twenty-five minutes. “Do you believe in fate?” his mood shifted as you bustled around the hotel room in an agitated state.

“What?” you spat, searching for a blank notepad since so many of yours had been filled to the brim.

“Fate. You know, like Mother Nature or somethin’. Like once a thing is set to happen, all you can do is hope it won’t. Or will, depending. As you long as you live there’s always something waiting, and even if it’s bad, and you know it’s bad, what can you do? You can’t stop living….”

“Listen Perry I’m real thankful for all of your insights, but if we need any more information about…your dreams we will be sure to contact you” you attempted to avoid any other conversation before you completely lost your head. The stress of the last few days was starting to catch up with you, and you’d nearly had enough.

“Did you get my postcard?”.

You sighed heavily, biting your lower lip with frustration. This was quickly progressing into some sort of haphazard, hang-dog crush from afar. How could you extricate yourself from one more anonymous phone call? “Sure did, Perry. Glad you are enjoying Mexico. Look, about that meeting…”.

“Reminds me of my motorcycle accident is all. I saw the whole thing happen before it did. Saw it in my mind. The rain. The skid tracks. Me lying there bleeding and my legs broken. That’s what I’ve got now. A premonition...”.

You took a steadying breath as you sideswiped this most recent revelation. You were starting to feel sorry for Perry, you really were. He obviously needed someone to talk to, but you couldn’t fulfill that need at present. All you had to do was get out the door and high-tail it to the town hall meeting, before missing anything important. “Perry, I really need to go. But if we need anything else, we’ll call you” you heard Perry’s plaintive voice echoing in the background before you hung up;

“We’re not in Mexico anymore…” his voice disappeared against the phone cradle, as you raced out the door, empty notebook in hand. Finally, an opportunity to gather some real intel, and hopefully make an investigative difference. No more wild goose chases. It was time to get down to business.

Rockford headed back, already an hour into his four hour return trip, with plenty of time to think about the important aspects of this case.

You.

The important investigative points that Floyd Wells had revealed….

Revealing negligee.

Stop. The deputy had provided a report of the men in question that Mr. Wells had mentioned, and the particular whereabouts of a Mr. Dick Hitchcock, and his family.

How many kids would you want?

Rockford swerved with annoyance to avoid a tumbling tumbleweed, as he backtracked home. Snap out of it soldier. You weren’t ACTUALLY his wife.

But what if you were?

Rockford lit another cigarette, intent on “getting it out of his system” before returning to you. He didn’t want to exacerbate your cold however mild it might appear. He couldn’t believe what a rock of solace you had been the previous night. Although his neck reddened with embarrassment at his relapse, the details of the Clutter Case and fatiguing stress of the situation had intensified a wound that had remained untended. If anything, this was making him more aware of his own inadequacies and the ways you fortified his resolve.

And how damn sexy you looked when you woke up.

Rockford jammed the cigarette butt into the car’s ashtray and considered lighting another. He knew it was a long shot, but maybe there was a local radio station that was broadcasting the town hall meeting. He was still in Kansas after all, and this was the crime of the century. Flipping the radio dial he encountered bouts of static, along with song excerpts…

They asked me how I knew My true love was true I of course replied Something here inside cannot be denied They said, "Someday, you'll find all who love are blind Oh when your heart's on fire You must realize, smoke gets in your eyes…

A din of radio static permeated the car cabin. Maybe Wells’ testimony related to that newly purchased insurance policy. Herbert Clutter MUST have been a man of means, and it was only good luck…or incredibly BAD fortune that had alerted a man like Dick Hitchcock to its existence…

Put your head on my shoulder Whisper in my ear, baby Words I want to hear Tell me, tell me that you love me too

Rockford glanced repeatedly at the reports sitting beside him on the passengers seat of the Ford Falcon. He had skimmed the information about Mr. Hitchcok. A flimsy, dingy blond youth of medium height, sunken-chested and lanky. The report indicated several tattoos including the face of a cat, blue and grinning, covering his right hand. Other distinctive indicators were a blue rose-blossom tattooed on his shoulder, and more markings that were self-designed and self executed; the head of a dragon with a human skull between its open jaws, bosomy nudes, a gremlin brandishing a pitchfork, the word "peace" that was highlighted by a sun-lit cross, a bouquet of flowers in deference to MA+PA, and a heart that seemed to celebrate the young love of “Carol”. Hitchcock would be a walking art museum if it weren’t for the seeming ugliness lodged in his heart.

Sunshine, Sunshine, laundry bright, Gets your clothes so clean and white! Stains and dirt just fade away, With Sunshine, every single day!

Rockford lit another cigarette, letting it hang loosely out of his mouth while he pondered the nearby reports. The jailhouse practitioner had notated in his medical logs that Hitchcock suffered a particularly bad car accident in 1950, resulting in an almost tilted, slack jawed appearance, distorting the positioning of his left eye which was lodged slightly lower than its counterpart. The misaligned eye pupil had an almost serpentine like sheen, and sickly blue squint that inadvertently communicated a venomous, almost bitter cynicism, juxtaposed by his slightly askew nose.

The static jittered to life before Rockford finally hit on something recognizable and paused in his search. “…facts and not theories. Now the big fact here, the thing to remember is we’re not dealing with one murder but four. And we don’t know which of the four was the main target. The primary victim, it could have been Nancy or Kenyon, or either of their parents…” the familiar voice of Agent Dewey was barely recognizable through the garbled air waves, but noticeable nonetheless. Rockford smiled, imagining you in attendance, and offhandedly wondered what you were wearing. “Some people say, ‘Well it must have been Mr. Clutter’, because his throat was cut-that he was the most abused. But that’s theory, not fact. It would help if we knew in what order the family died, but the corner can’t tell us that; he only knows the murders happened sometime between eleven p.m Saturday and two a.m Sunday”.

Maybe Wells was right. If the investigating authorities couldn’t make sense of a crime of violence, perhaps the main motivation wasn’t one of retribution. If the crime itself was somehow motivated by financial impetus, maybe they were looking at a hold-up gone drastically wrong. Rockford’s eyes shifted sideways to the distorted, neutral expression of Hitchcock, whose photo had become an unsettling passenger in his return home. But did he seem like a criminal mastermind? Who knows how many accomplices he had enticed with Wells’ information, and what their individual objectives may have been.

“No, there is no evidence that the women had been…otherwise ‘abused’ in any way shape or form” Dewey paused to take questions from unknown attendants that remained anonymously quiet in the unrecorded silences. “We are not aware of any major items that have been stolen from the house, save a small billfold and assorted knickknacks” the radio silenced again as a barrage of unheard questions drifted in the ambience. “I confess that does seem mighty strange that Mr. Clutter had taken out a life-insurance policy so close to the events of the murder. But considering the nature of theories and facts, it might amount to nothing more than a sheer coincidence…”.

Rockford quietly nodded his head in affirmation. If anything, it indicated that Herbert Clutter was a man of foresight, preparation and resources. But Rockford was pretty darn sure that there wasn’t a direct connection that existed between this purchase and the crime. How could there be, when the only people who benefited financially were Mr. Clutter’s surviving children?

Dewey offered a joyless laugh as the questions began to wrap up, “Yes, in fact, I DO have an opinion as to whether this was the work of one man or two, but I prefer not to disclose it at this time. Please continue to reference important developments in your local newspaper, and don’t hesitate to keep law officers informed of any key informational points you might become aware of…” Dewey’s voice disappeared amidst a nonsensical din of questions and comments, as Rockford turned the radio down with thoughtfulness.

Hitchcock’s family was listed in Kansas, perhaps that would be a good place to continue the conversation. Then Rockford could finally reunite with his girl in their investigative efforts while the K.B.I continued to process the scene and other national resources.

His girl. Red.

The cigarette unceremoniously burned down between his fingers as he winced with irritation. If he didn’t pay attention his adolescent fantasies and professional ambitions were going to bite him in the butt. The Clutter Case might be enigmatic, but the only thing more mysterious was ascertaining your romantic interest and how to keep you safe from the dangers Rockford was certain loomed large around every corner. He would have to say something this evening to set things right between the two of you, regardless of your protestations or possibly apathy. Would he reiterate his desire to isolate you from any possible jeopardy and insist on a more professional distance? Or was it time for him to stop ignoring his own desires and needs, and invite you in, regardless of the professional or personal risks? As Rockford lit another cigarette and turned the radio up, he didn’t have the faintest idea what he SHOULD do. It only seemed to be juxtaposed by the throbbing in his heart and an aching in his chest that spoke to everything he couldn’t easily say…

There goes my baby, movin' on down the line Wonder where, wonder where, Wonder where she is bound? I broke her heart, And made her cry Now I'm alone, so all alone What can I do? What can I do?

You had felt a key sense of belonging at the Town Hall Meeting, and even reconnected with Sheriff Robinson in support of the stellar work that was being done. The widowed Myrtle Clare had been a vociferous objector, but had still managed to find you post-meeting and inquire about your infirmity and the obvious absence of your husband. While you remained polite and purposefully reticent, you were skeptically moved by her observations. You even spoke with a few individuals you remembered earlier from Hartman’s Cafe and jotted down any relevant details.

One such Holcomb resident, Paul Helm, was running his mouth off about a recent recollection he emphatically relayed to Agent Dewey. Apparently, one recent afternoon Helm was pruning the patch of florals that Bonnie Clutter had prized in her membership to the Garden City Garden Club. It was a melancholy task, for he was reminded of another afternoon when he’d done the same chore. Kenyon had helped him that day, and it was the last time he’d seen him alive, or Nancy, or any of them for that matter. At this rate, no one seemed to know what was going to happen to the Clutter Property. He’d heard tell that the girls, Beverly and Eveanna, intended to the sell, but didn’t think nobody would buy the spread, so long as the mystery lasted. He didn’t cater to strangers harvesting Kansas land. Mr. Helm minded. He minded for Herb’s sake. Once Herb had said to him, “I hope there’ll always be a Clutter here, and a Helm too”.

And so Helm had found himself tending the Clutter garden on the day of the murder and noticed something peculiar. He had informed Agent Dewey that “a pair of strangers, one mustachio’d and the other pockmarked had appeared at River Valley Farm”. He had seen them knock on the door of the Clutter office and seen Herb outside and talk to them on the lawn, and possibly ten minutes later watched the strangers walked away, “looking sulky”. Mr. Helm figured that they had come asking for work and had been told there was none. Unfortunately, though he’d been called upon to recount his version of that day’s events many times, he had not spoken of the incident until this very moment because, as he explained it, “I just suddenly recalled it. But those are the words of truth, mark my word. I’ve said my prayers and earned my bread, that’s the God’s honest truth”.

This seemed immediately juxtaposed by Bob Johnson, the insurance salesman who claimed to have spent all of Saturday afternoon conferring with Mr. Clutter in the latter’s office, and who was “absolutely positive” that from two to ten past six he had been Herb’s sole visitor. Mr. Clutter had begun to set up a double indemnity clause in the case of his accidental death, bringing the payout to nearly $100,000 for the remaining family. While the coincidence was striking, it was Johnson and Helm who were nearly coming to blows arguing about the validity of their observations as you attempted to make a quick exit.

You were anticipating the auction and subsequent land purge, and were determined to view the Clutter Farm before everything began to revert to “normal”. It was possible that Rockford’s interview might have been a bust, and you wanted to offer whatever insights you could when he returned from his day-long exhaustion. The sun was starting to set in the west and you were determined to make quick work of Nancy’s diary. You knew it was a long shot, but perhaps she had notated something of value. Returning to the Windsor Hotel, you wondered if your fever had returned, or if the fatigue of the day was starting to catch up with you, as you let the phone ring without a response. Perry and Myrtle had been the greatest offenders lately, and you were desperate to catch up on any organizing you could. You puttered around the room, folding clothes, and removing old lunch boxes from Hartman’s Cafe. You paused to fragrantly inhale Rockford’s bathrobe, enjoying tinges of soap, cigarette smoke, and cologne.

That was totally normal secretarial behavior.

The phone rang again as you begrudgingly decided to answer, against your better judgement.“Rockford and Associates, how may we help you?” the line crackled to life as a slurring voice hiccuped through the receiver.

“S’this the sheriff?”

You rolled your eyes with annoyance, sitting on the edge of the bed dejectedly. “Something like that, how can I assist?”

“(hiccup) I’d like to report a crime…”.

You pouted, wondering if Rockford was taking good care of himself and eating anything today. You tried to focus on the newest anonymous caller, but it was proving difficult amidst his obvious inebriation.

“The murder. I did it. (hiccup) It’ssssme…”

Okay. This day was proving exhausting in more ways than one.

“Morrrrrrrre importantly, I’d like to report a reward. I mean, claim the rewarrrrrd (hiccup)….”.

“Sir, I don’t believe there is an established reward in place. But if that develops I can contact you, what is your name and address?”

“Oh no, you don’t” said the man his voice thick with intoxicated indignation. “I’m not going to tell you anything. Not till I get the reward. You send the reward, then I’ll tell you who I am. That’s final.”

“Okay, thank you for your testimony, I’ll be sure to let the proper authorities know…”.

You shook your head with incredulity, hanging up the phone and finally sitting down at the makeshift work desk to assemble your thoughts. Nancy’s diary sat in a paper bag, atop the new pile of reports and files you had procured from the Sheriff’s Office. There was a copy of the newest life insurance policy from Bob Johnson, as well a list of upcoming auction items from the Clutter Farm. Your hand drifted over the crime scene photos, coming to rest on a small stack of enigmatic postcards that had continued to arrive at the office. You untied the twine encircling them and perused.

In this world today while we’re living Some folks say the worst of us they can, But when we’re dead in in our caskets, They always slip some lilies in our hand. Won’t you give me flowers while I’m living…

The phone irritatingly rang again, as you pinched the bridge of your nose with exhaustion. You wondered about the possibility of another discussion with Myrtle about the state of your sickness, and the absence of your husband. The phone continued to ring before eventually dying out…

My home's across the Smokey Mountains, And I'll never get to see you any more Goodbye honey, sugar darling And I'll never get to see you any more Rock my baby, feed her candy And I'll never get to see you any more…

You looked at the clock with anticipation wondering when Rockford might be returning. Maybe things had finally progressed to the point where sleeping in the same bed was a given, and things could naturally take their course. Wait a minute, what the hell were you even thinking? It was obvious the magnetic and charming connection that had developed between you and Tim. But you were both here to do a job. It had been nearly a year since the falling out with William, but were you so anxious to avoid the abuses of your past, that you were willing to jeopardize the possible relationships of your future?

Late at night in the shadow of the moonbeams I felt the ill breath, and the light leaving me. The walls fall away, the sky came down, and I see the yellow bird. She lifted me, I could have been light as a mouse. We went up, up, I could see the square below, men running, yelling, everybody sore as hell because I was free. I was flying, I was better than any of them.

The damn bird. Perry had mentioned something about that earlier today. How were all of these seemingly disjointed facts going to amount to a useful conclusion? Anonymous tips, insurance policies, crime scene photos. The whole thing was swirling in front of you in an overwhelming haze. You laid your head atop your forearms, closing your eyes tiredly. What were you missing? The phone rang again as you jolted to life with adrenaline, hazarding yet another anonymous goose chase.

“Rockford P.I, how may I assist you?”. The line crackled sinisterly without any verbal response. You suddenly wondered how Rockford might contact you if he encountered trouble of any kind. Maybe you should keep the line open for the possibility. You waited another few seconds before lowering the receiver to the handle.

“You didn’t listen to me”.

Grabbing the receiver quickly before hanging up, you nearly dropped the phone to the floor.

“Perry! I’m here, just tired from the day’s events. I was thinking you should maybe direct your calls back to the Sheriff’s Office, they might prove the most useful…” you tried to gently redirect him in an effort to multi-task. Rockford could have easily gotten a flat tire, and you didn’t want to find yourself unavailable.

“You didn’t listen”.

Oh. The playful and distracted banter of your previous conversation seemed to have evaporated. You didn’t even entirely remember the discussion, Perry had just seemed hell bent on poetic interpretations and nonsensical dreams.

“I’m….sorry I gave you that impression Mr….I mean, Perry. Uh, I have a moment to listen now. What important details can you provide me regarding the Clutter Case?”. The line remained silent as you looked around the room for your notepad.

“I don’t know why no one seems to listen to me. I’m real smart, and educated taboot. Maybe not in a school sense, but I have street smarts, you know what I mean?” the entitlement was dripping off his tonality as you squinted with skepticism.

“I’m sure you do Perry” you placated, standing to your feet and pacing idly, thumbing through the postcards once again.

I was born Perry Edward Smith Oct. 27th, 1928 in Huntington, Elko County, Nevada, which is situated way out in the boon docks, so to speak. I recall that in 1929 our family had ventured to Juneau, Alaska. In my family were my brother Tex Jr. (he later changed his name to James because I believe he hated my father in his early years; my mother’s doing). My sister Fern who later changed her name to Joy. My sister Barbara. And myself. In Junea, my father was making bootleg hooch, and it was during this time my mother became acquainted with alcohol.

“I have lots of plans and adventures regardin’ the future, you know. Maybe my past wasn’t the greatest, but I’ve made something of myself. I got the Bronze Star in Korea, mind ya. But I’m not one to rest on my laurels…”.

Another Army man. Entire generations of young men shipped off to war. What a sacrilege. No wonder Perry was having dreams and nightmares the same way Rockford was.

“That’s impressive, Perry. My…uh…husband was also in the Army. I think I might be looking at your postcards right now…” you stated absentmindedly, noticing the amount. Perry must have been writing to the Sheriff’s Office for a while now…

Mom and Dad quarreled a lot. I remember my mother was “entertaining” some sailors while my father was away. When he came home a fight ensued and my father, after a violent struggle, threw the sailors out and proceeded to beat my mother. I was frightfully scared, in fact all of us children were terrified. Crying. I was scared because I thought my father was going to hurt me, also because he was beating my mother. I really didn’t understand why he was beating her but I felt she must have done something dreadfully wrong….

You shivered slightly at the retelling as the descriptions hit a bit too close to home. William hadn’t done nearly so much damage, but you protectively reached to grasp your upper arm in remembrance of bruises past.

“Oh so NOW you’re readin’ my postcards? Now I’ve got your attention?” Perry’s voice had a serrated edge as your eyes widened in recognition. “You know, maybe if…people…had listened to me sooner we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in…”

The next thing I can vaguely recall is living in Fort Bragg, California. My brother had been a presented a B.B gun. He had shot a hummingbird, and after he had shot it, he was sorry. I asked him to let me shoot the B.B gun. He pushed me away, telling me I was too small. It made me so mad I started to cry. After I finished crying, my anger mounted again, and during the evening when the B.B gun was behind the chair my brother was sitting in, I grabbed it and held it to my brothers ear and hollered BANG! My father (or mother) beat me and made me apologize

The hotel room was starting to feel claustrophic, as you unbuttoned the top button of your blouse, swallowing dryly. “What kind of a mess is that, Perry?” you wondered, a contrasting chill riding up the back of your spine and pin-picking your neck.

“Murder is messy, is all” his voice flatly stated, seemingly devoid of emotion, but somehow immediately more chilling.

Eventually Mom took us kids to San Francisco. She run off with Dad’s truck and all the souvenirs he bought from Alaska. In 'Frisco I was continuously in trouble. I had started to run around with a gang, all of which were older than myself. My mother was always drunk, never in a fit condition to properly provide and care for us. I run as free and wild as a coyote. There was no rule or discipline, or anyone to show me right from wrong. I came and went as I pleased, until my first encounter with trouble

A key rattled in the door as you jumped to your feet once again. Rockford. It must be Rockford. “Tim is that you??!!” the words were out of your mouth before you had a chance to withdraw them, dropping all of the postcards to the floor in haste as the door flew open abruptly.

“Goddam bitch, are you even listening to what I’m saying???!!” Perry’s voice reached a surprising fervor, particularly in contrast to his otherwise emotionless delivery as Rockford’s concerned silhouette appeared in the doorframe.

“You okay, doll?” Rockford stood, poised with manilla folders and another serving of chicken noodle soup.

“Yes, yes I’m fine. I mean…I’m listening. I’m listening…” your hands were starting to shake uncontrollably, as Rockford quietly shut the door behind him trying to ascertain the situation. “Go on….”.

“Who is that? I thought it was just us…” the voice inquired as Rockford deposited the items on the desk and mouthed his own question; WHO IS THAT? You shook your head abruptly, tears springing to your eyes in fear.

“Oh it’s nobody…” you lied, trying to formulate a plan of attack. Maybe the Sheriff could bug the phone. Perhaps you could keep Perry on the line long enough to determine if he had any involvement in the murders whatsoever. But something told you this conversation was going to prove more revelatory than you had previously thought. Rockford started to remove his raincoat as you continued. “Perry, these postcards are very telling, and descriptive. But I don’t see what they have to do with the Clutter Family Murders” you offered, attempting to quiet your breathing, and still the adrenaline pumping through your system.

“What did you just say?” Rockford’s voice interjected, as he froze mid-action, his eyes gaining a steely sheen of stoicism.

“Who said I had anything to do with the Clutter Family Murders?” the voice almost playfully teased as Rockford strode towards you with worry.

“Gimme the phone…” Rockford commanded, as you gulped heatedly attempting to diffuse the situation.

“Perry, I’m going to put you on the phone with our head investigator…” you anxiously offered as Tim doubled down.

“Gimme the goddam phone, Red” he nearly yanked the receiver out of your hand as you crumpled to the bed, in a somewhat numb state. “Who is this?” Rockford spat, casting a quick glance in your direction to confirm. “What’dya say your name was?” the hotel room was eerily silent as the conversation progressed, unknown to you other than Rockford’s replies. “Now you listen here you sonnofabitch. Don’t you dare bother my wife again. You just watch your back so as I don’t come crashing down on top of you like a ton of bricks, you hear me?” Rockford’s posture had set itself in a towering structure of protection and austerity, as you tugged at his shirt sleeve ineffectively. “I don’t care what goddam information you have! You just leave her alone and don’t even think of calling this number again!” Rockford slammed the phone down violently before pleadingly turning to look at you. He didn’t say a word but the look of betrayal and distress played clearly across his emotive face. Attempting to hold back the tears that started to fall unbidden down your cheeks you quietly confessed amidst sniffles,

“I think….I might have made a horrible mistake”.

@littlemisspascal @lizette50 @beefrobeefcal @sawymredfox @anelva @wordywarriorwrites @burntheedges @inept-the-magnificent @timelordfreya @schnarfer @devineconjuring @mermaidgirl30 @galaxyedging @joelalorian @joelmillerisapunk @jennaispunk @sheepdogchick3 @marcus-is-my-muse @guiltyasdave @copperhalfcent @bluesweaters15 @drewharrisonwriter @darkheartgatita @harriedandharassed @brittmb115 @confusedpuffin @yorksgirl @quicax3 @shaunasflannel @shinyanchorobject

#pedro pascal #tim rockford x reader #tim rockford x you #tim rockford fan fiction #in cold blood #truman capote #true crime

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pedges-world · 13 days ago

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In Cold Blood; The Crime Scene

Grab a Latte! lounge around in the foyer with this sweet fic "Nebble Files" @inept-the-magnificent, before heading into the Bookshop!

Triggers: mentions of cigarettes, huge spoilers for the Truman Capote classic "In Cold Blood", profanity, romance, common themes from 1959, slight misogyny, murder, PTSD, graphic nightmare, pretend marriage, blood (crime scene details)...

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 7k

Rockford knew it was a dream, but had long since attempted to extricate himself from it with any success. Much like WW2 itself, the memory seemed nearly impossible to escape. Everything was so visceral. So nightmarish. And so very real. He noticed it even more so in moments of stress and fatigue. He noticed it the way he noticed his army shoes now, caked with mud and crusting in the dry heat. He noticed it in the blinding white light of the overhead sun, silhouetting faces he hadn’t seen in years, but still managed to remember in his sleep. The faces of youthful men who were inexorably frozen at the pinnacle of vibrancy. Unlike Rockford, they never had the chance to mature into the potential that only existed in the phantasm of this elusive moment. The moment before all hell broke loose.

What memory would it be this evening? The stinging nettle of exploded grenades, dulling the senses and numbing Rockford’s hearing? Would it be the taste of iron adrenaline in his mouth, the grains of sand, rubbing at salty wounds newly formed, both within and without? Please, not the faces. The faces of friends and stranger alike, frozen in a death mask, sullied with blood, mouths agape with surprise. The ongoing realization that death had come, not as a friend, but as a grim reaper. A cold blooded bastard that could yank youth right out of the army boots in which it stood, leaving nothing but a shell of incredulity and insult. A sharp, knife-like impalement twisted at Rockford’s heart as he caught the adventurous smirk of a nearby comrade before it eventually melted into a child-like visage of terror and sorrow. There was no adventure to be had in war, only eternal defeat. Seemingly the defeat of humanity itself, even in comparative moments of triumph. One long, serrated question that never seemed to provide an answer. A bomb shattered the stillness of the march, knocking Tim off his feet, jolting him back into the chair which he slept in.

He gripped the armchair keenly, senses heightened, his heart thudding violently against his chest, sweat sticking to the curly locks at his temples. Another nightmare, greeted by another dream as he took in the drowsing countenance of you, sleeping fitfully before him. Your arms were splayed above your head, like a Sleeping Beauty, auburn curls fanning around your head like a halo of flames licking at the headboard. Rockford caught the soft silhouette of your breasts beneath your silky negligee, as his fingers twitched at his side with anticipation. Such a contrast to the hellish nightmare he had temporarily escaped. You looked nearly angelic, but for the pinch of consternation in your brow, as though telepathically linked to Rockford’s own tumult, and powerless to retrieve him. What in God’s green earth had given him such an opportunity to be in the presence of your light, when he had previously experienced so much darkness?

Rockford shifted painfully in the armchair as it squeaked beneath him, pausing as your eyelids fluttered in sleep, increasingly aware of the dawning, morning light that held its breath with expectancy. No longer a boy of eighteen, Rockford was immediately aware of his aching lower back and stiff limbs as he creaked to his feet lamentably. He took a bracing, shuddering breath, looking towards the worktable strewn with photos and files. He wasn’t looking forward to inspecting the crime scene, however revelatory it might prove. Cases like this only intensified his shell shock, and the more he tried to stifle the nightmares, the more insistent his memories became. He noticed a transparent sheen of perspiration dotting your forehead, and absentmindedly wondered if you found yourself in a similar nightmare. This case was no place for a classy doll like you, and he was becoming increasingly ashamed that he had subjected you to such dangers and violence in your introductory, secretarial attempt.

Noticing a translucent flush in your cheeks, he moved forward automatically as a small whimper escaped your plump lips. Shoving aside his arousal he downshifted to concern, moving towards you quickly with hand outstretched, deciding if he should deprive you of more sleep, but rescue you from your own nightmare. He tenderly sat at the edge of the bed, gently dragging a strand of hair, noticing it seductively thread across your chest in retreat, before tucking it behind your ear. He hazarded a sensitive caress of your shoulder, resting on your forearm as his raspy voice tried to whisper, “Time to get to work Mrs. Rockford…”. You stirred slightly, licking your dry lips in response. “Doll, if it’s okay with you I’m gonna head over to the Sherrif’s and see if he can make the introductions…”. Somehow his thumb had found your lower lip in an almost sacred plea, which he barely registered, but quickly savored. “Red?” his baritone voice gained some momentum as your eyelids fluttered open, first with confusion and then relief. Tim smiled wearily, resting his palm against your clavicle as though grounding himself to something soothing, before your eyes immediately shut with irritation.

“Noooooo….” you whined, dragging a hand across your face sluggishly as Rockford chivalrously removed his grasp. You sat up too quickly, swaying with disorientation, as he resumed his vice-like grip of your neck in support.

“Easy now, we don’t want to take another tumble like we did on Interstate Ten” he advised, moving his other hand to your forehead with concern.

“Too late…” you croaked, sniffling with irritation and squinting at him dopily. “Don’t get too close, my head is pounding and my throat feels like a cheese grater” you coughed, a small shiver starting from the top of your head and migrating all the way down to your toes. Rockford pouted in response, shaking his head from side to side. “Now Red, I give all my secretary’s strict instructions that they are not allowed to get sick and come in to work…” he attempted to jest, imploring you to lay back down, and helping you carefully lower your body back to the mattress.

“Really, how many secretary’s did you have before me?” you wondered, sniffling pitiably and attempting to swallow the shards of glass that now littered your throat.

“None. Unless you count a stray cat that occasionally visits the office building where we work. Very inconsistent hours” he teased, placing his entire hand over one side of your face, as you closed your eyes in temporary surrender. “Don’t need you at the crime scene anyhow” he lied, already solidifying last night’s promise to keep you as far away from the danger and violence as he possible could. You nodded in affirmation, before your stomach plummeted inside you with a newfound awareness.

The anonymous caller. The night had been restless with worry and anxiety, as this enigmatic persona had chased you through your own sleepless mindscape. Your breath caught in your throat hesitantly, momentarily considering a confession. Rockford’s eyebrows knit together with apprehension, stalling between professionalism and personal desire.

“Are you okay today, alone? Maybe I should….” he ventured before you waved him away intentionally, a new bout of coughs tickling your throat and chest.

“No sense in both of getting sick” you encouraged, smiling weakly. “I’m just gonna hold you back on your solo flight” you advised, though Rockford couldn’t help but feel lonely in his upcoming pursuit. But he wasn’t a child of eighteen anymore. He was a man. A man with a job to do, and he wasn’t going to be dragging his secretary into the pit of horror, particularly when she found herself in such a vulnerable state.

“Okay” Rockford sighed with defeat, looking around the room dejectedly and taking stock of the options. “I can visit the local drugstore and stock you with enough tissues and aspirin to get you through the day. And then I’m headed to the Clutter Farm, come hell or high water” he thought almost absentmindedly, steeling himself in preparation for what was sure to be a challenging atmosphere, whether it was permeated by F.B.I agents or not. You nodded quietly, determined to keep your newfound fears to yourself, at least temporarily. You were probably over-reacting, and still had a lot of work to do in organizing the police files from yesterday. You paused a moment taking in his disheveled appearance, that looked a bit more harried than his usual befuddled state.

“You seem to have migrated back to your armchair boudoir. Did you sleep okay?” You watched Tim’s mouth drop open slightly and close quickly, as he determined what to reveal before the nearby phone jarred you both out your reverie. Rockford reached for the phone, relieved to escape the topic of conversation, as your tension heightened. Had the anonymous caller returned?

“Mr. and Mrs. Rockford, how may I assist?” you rolled your eyes at Tim’s theatrics, though he seemed to be taking to even faux matrimony very well. Blushing with more than a fever you breathed a sigh of reassurance as he continued.

“Sheriff Robinson, I’m delighted that you called! I don’t mind telling you I’m worried I’ll be strong armed out of the investigation before we’ve even got started” Rockford’s look betrayed his concern as you watched him tentatively. This was a totally new game now that the F.B.I was here. Would either of you be able to make any headway now that the investigation had become so official?

“Oh that’s remarkable!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet and starting to check his pockets and scratch at his morning stubble. “It would be my pleasure. I imagine that invitation is due to your insistence, thank you Sheriff” he beamed at you like a pleased teenager, gripping the cord with determination. “I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. The missus has been struck down with a bit of a cold. No place for women anyhow…” he surmised, which you unfortunately agreed with in this moment. The photos were entirely graphic enough, and you certainly didn’t want to be underfoot, coughing and sneezing up a storm. One of the perks of being a great team, was knowing when to split up, and work independently. You nodded in affirmation as Rockford finished the call and made quick work of getting ready for the day.

“Alright doll, you just call the front desk and ask them for anything you need. Charge it to the room, and see if you can make any headway on those files. Naps included” Rockford retorted, the door already halfway open upon his exit.

“You got it chief!” you squeaked, hiding behind a new roll of toilet paper, your nose already red rimmed and irritated. The phone rang once again as Rockford smiled, “Back to work!” and headed out the door. You sighed with relative contentment, happy to be of service, even working from bed as you picked up the receiver.

“Mr. and Mrs. Rockford, how may we assist?” you blanched at the change in greetings as you mirrored Tim’s response. This was becoming a familiar title you could get used to. The line was relatively quiet, but for ambient noise in the background and heavy breathing. Goosebumps splayed across your already feverish skin as an all too familiar yet anonymous voice greeted you.

“Pleased to continue our conversation from last night….MRS. Rockford….”.

Rockford gripped the wheel of the Ford Falcon pensively as he approached the Clutter Family Farm with trepidation. The governmental entourage had already arrived in force, along with the local Holcomb County Sheriff’s Department, and Rockford was continuing to feel insecure. Not only was he accustomed to working in relative anonymity, the nightmarish details of the last few days permeated his vision as a slight tremor moved through his body with discomfort. Just another investigation. He heard the sound of gravel beneath the Falcon’s tires, encountering yet another barrage of government officials with outstretched hands.

“He’s with me!” a voice rang out as Sheriff Robinson ran out of the house, intercepting the barrier and greeting Rockford with the same small town welcome he had at the start of this investigative journey. He leaned through the window after Tim had parked, conspiratorially remarking, “Glad you’re here Tim, I’m already feelin’ like a fish oughta water” he admitted, grasping Rockford’s hand bracingly.

“S’always different investigating someone you know” Rockford encouraged, stepping out of the car and tucking his shirt a bit more tightly.

The F.B.I.

Jesus.

Rockford took a deep breath and entered the house at Robinson’s heels. The front garden had seemed immaculately kept, with beautiful fruit trees adorning the entrance as Rockford heard the hushed conversation of technicians and photographers who were busy at work. With his hat in his hand, Sheriff Robinson strode towards a tall man with kind eyes and a weathered face. Clearing his throat with humility, he stumbled upon an introduction, “Mr. Alvin Dewey, sir, this is the man I spoke of earlier, Mr. Rockford. Finney County has taken it upon ourselves to hire Mr. Rockford as a private investigator with a fresh, Los Angeles perspective. I hope you’ll see fit to include him in your conversations…”. Mr. Dewey was finishing up his discussion with a nearby agent, and finally turned his once kind eyes upon Rockford before they took on a steely gaze of skepticism. Rockford extended his hand graciously, as Dewey stood, somewhat resolute.

Sheriff Robinson cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing, “I was Mr. Dewey’s replacement those many moons ago, when he left us for the Kansas Bureau of Investigation. But Alvin’s a Jaywalker through and through. Close friends with the Clutter Family, may they rest in peace” a glint of recognition flashed across Dewey’s face before he hesitantly took Rockford’s hand with a melancholy reconciliation.

“Robinson tells me you’ve been hired especial from the City of Angels” Dewey’s voice somewhat sarcastically dripped, as Rockford met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Yes sir, just waitin’ on your lead. Only getting a lay of the land, now that me and missus are here in person. All those years in the army taught me a thing or two about taking orders” Tim deftly included, as Dewey’s face relaxed noticeably.

“Just so long as you understand who’s in charge” Dewey’s face lowered, clapping Robinson on the back good-naturedly and letting his countenance drop for a moment in pensivitiy. I haven’t seen the Clutters since Nancy was a thimble. Couldn’t hardly believe it until I saw….” his voice trailed off absentmindedly, wincing with pain in the inescapable reality of the situation.

“Been talking to the boyfriend, Rupp, and local friends. Visited with Myrtle…I mean, Mrs. Clare at First United yesterday. Quite a handful of characters you’ve got here…” Rockford observed, watching agents come and go with a heavy intensity of focus.

“Old Myrtle the Turtle still over at the post office these days?” Dewey scoffed, pocketing his handheld notebook and tucking the pencil quickly behind his ear. “That old gossip will outlive us all” Dewey jested, forlornly looking at a framed photo of the Clutter Family, that hung nearby on the wall. “Bet she knew about the insurance policy Earl was telling us about before you arrived. I’ve a mind to question the extended family next, but Beverly and Evie can immediately be ruled out as suspects. Neither one of them would harm a fly…”. Rockford’s shoulders drooped, simply with the acknowledgement that their first real motive for murder was slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. Besides which, what robbery would search for a life insurance policy but not take advantage of nearby jewelry or other assorted valuables?

“Trying to lay your finger on the pulse of the motive?” Dewey surmised, catching Rockford’s surprised expression. “When you find out, be sure to let us know” he lamented watching the agents carry out bags of bloodied fabric and pillowcases. “‘Spect you’ll want to start in the upstairs first” Dewey immediately moved through the dining room and up the stairs as Robinson and Rockford followed narrowly behind. “Difficult to tell if anything is missing, but jewelry is laying out, practically untouched. Even Nancy’s gold wristwatch was curled up in the toe of a nearby shoe.” Dewey’s voice drifted behind him as the men gingerly ascended the narrow stairwell. “There seems to be a missing radio as well as an absent pair of bincoculars. Assorted billfolds are empty, and Nancy’s purse was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. But all of that couldn’t have amounted to more than fifty dollars. Who kills an entire family over 50 dollars?” Dewey rhetorically asked, actually knocking on Nancy’s bedroom door before entering. The room was already oppressively hot, and over populated with agents and officers alike as Rockford stood transfixed in the hallway. It was exactly as the crime scene photos revealed, but thankfully Nancy Clutter’s body had been removed, and the scene was being processed. Rockford caught an unsavory view of blood-soiled bedclothes, mattress, bloodied bedside rug, and a woe-begone Teddy Bear that was covered in an unsightly splotch of red. He pressed his lips together firmly, wishing for a cigarette to cover the stench of death.

“Been talking to some of the neighbors early this morning” Dewey lowly intoned “…and they brought up some good questions. Wondering why they didn’t hear nothing in the evening hours. Figured the wind might have covered up the shotgun blasts. There’s a big milo barn between this house and the one up yonder. But how would the perpetrators know that? Shut me up right quick when I heard tell of the crime. The strangeness of it. Coming in to Herb’s house…after such a long while, and being greeted by such a sight” he reflected, shaking his head in disbelief. Rockford caught sight of plastic bags filled with adhesive tape and bloodied yards of cord. “And how could someone incapacitate a family, including two fit men, with such unabashed rage and violence, but also have the steely cold rationale to plan an attack? Don’t make no sense”.

Rockford leaned back against the railing to make room for exiting attendants, and anchor himself to something grounded. “This can’t be the work of just one man” Tim ventured, as Dewey nodded grimly.

“My thoughts exactly” Dewey replied. The small troupe began their dismal journey to the end of the hallway to view the master bedroom. Dewey cast a long arm against the door, which eerily swung open with a creaking, rust-colored squeal. “Found someone in the house when we got here” Rockford’s breath stilled haltingly, looking to the agent with anticipation. “Just a vagrant by the name of Adrian…” he consulted his notepad after a moment “…Jonathan Daniel Adrian. Town wanderer, usually set up in downtown squats. Got him at the sheriff’s now for questioning later”. Here, Dewey paused reflectively, casting a downward glance at the large patch of dried blood splayed across the mattress. “Bonnie and I were schoolmates back in the day, did you know that?” he observed, tiredly leaning against the doorframe for support. Rockford remained silent, while making eye contact with the Sheriff who still grasped his hat timidly between his fidgeting fingers. “Used to tell me how terribly sure she was that trees and flowers were the same as birds or people. Got a real laugh out of that in secondary school. at the time” his mouth curved upwards in remembrance. “Thought they talked amongst the themselves and we could really hear them if we tried. It was just a matter of emptying your head of all other sounds. Being quiet and still, and listening very hard. I wonder if she was right” he reflected, hearing one of the fruit trees scratching against a nearby window as the technicians bustled around the crowded room. “Can’t ever seem to get quiet enough” he stated sorrowfully, and eventually breaking the gentleman apart as he sallied back down the stairwell. Rockford attempted to quell a bodily tremor that snuck upon him unannounced before hearing the agents voice down the hallway.

“Then there’s the basement”.

You clasped your hand over the receiver, waiting for Rockford to proceed further down the hotel hallway. You weren’t going to disrupt what was already a tumultuous morning, and you desperately wanted to prove your utility, even while sick. Taking a deep breath you stifled a tickling cough before proceeding. “Thank you for calling back, can I take your name for notation?” you asked, grabbing the nearby notebook and pencil.

“I suppose you’re used to anonymous callers by now” the voice dripped mellifluously, as your eyes narrowed with skepticism. You still had many townsfolk to interview, but you didn’t immediately recognize the voice. Perhaps if you kept them on the line as long as possible, you could determine what testimony or information they were withholding.

“Holcomb County has much to offer, and it pales in comparison to what I’ve read in the trades lately. Such a friendly town for such a deplorable thing to occur…” you ventured, trying to spark a nerve. The line was noticeably quiet as you attempted to discern any background noise you could identify.

“Plenty of people and circumstances that aren’t nearly so neighborly as they seem…” the voice curtly observed, while you attempted to interpret. Were they speaking of themselves? Was this another example of a wronged resident, finally complaining about their misplaced spot in a world of isolation?

“Well, if you prefer to be anonymous, perhaps I could take your address misterrrrr….” you let the question hang loosely in the air, hoping to antagonize them enough for a more definitive reaction.

“I’m not a nobody, if that’s what you’re getting at” the voice immediately responded, as you heard a refrain of “La Bamba” serenading in the background. That was unique. Were any of the ambient songs actually in English?

“Absolutely, any information you might be able to provide would be of IMMENSE help” you paused, noting the callers seeming inferiority complex. Maybe you could use that. “Who knows? You might even be able to break the case misterrrrr….” you tried once more, acting on a hunch. You might have thought the line went completely dead if not for Richie Valens singing in the background,

Yo no soy marinero Yo no soy marinero, soy capitán Soy capitán, soy capitán Bamba, bamba Bamba, bamba Bamba, bamba, bamba

“Perry….” the voice cracked un-assuredly for the first time in your conversation, betraying a sensitivity previously unheard.

“Perry…” you repeated kindly, scribbling quickly in your notebook. “And how can we help you today?” you waited patiently once again, the nearby ticking clock suddenly magnified in your hearing. Who was this guy? The pauses between conversation seemed interminable at this point, and you wondered if anything could come of it before Perry softly stated, “J’ever feel like your life was one big story? A story that somehow you weren’t a part of? And you didn’t want to keep going, but you were desperate to know what the next chapter was? Like you just HAD to know what was going to happen?” he nonsensically questioned, as you stilled in your note-taking.

A character in a story…What was he talking about? A feeling of helplessness? Or disassociation? This conversation was starting to take a dark turn, particularly if this individual didn’t ‘feel like going on’. A small heartstring of concern was plucked as you sighed heavily.

“Well I can tell you, Perry, that sometimes I feel as though life is just happening to me. As though things were out of my control. Sometimes I don’t even feel that my life makes a lick of difference, and then I remember the Clutter Family” you knew the best lie was one based in reality, so you were doing your darnedest to string together a fabrication that was mostly based in the truth. Empathizing with the plight of this individual could only bring about a sense of comradry, whoever they were, and that was good for the investigative business. “And I remember that my small life might make a difference in discovering the cause of their death”. The line stilled once again, as you were unsure if Perry were really listening to you, or even buying the epicenter of your message. “Do you feel….unimportant? Or unheard? Because I hear you Perry. I’m listening…” you waited. And waited. And waited.

“The newspapers have it wrong, is all” the voice finally stated, somewhat coldly as an unbidden shiver traveled down your spine. Probably your sickness, gaining intensity. “I was readin’ the Telegram News. Here. I got it right here. ‘Some may think the eyes of the entire nation are on Garden City after this murder, but they are not. This is a sad commentary on the state of crime in our nation. Since the four members of the Clutter Family were killed, several other such multiple murders have occurred in various parts of the country. As a result, this crime is just one of many such cases people have read about forgotten’. Now what do you think of that Mrs. Rockford?” the voice questioned, a bit of a plea entering its tonality.

You were a bit dumbstruck, trying to decide whether this individual required your compassion or skepticism. But no sooner was the quandary in your mind, than you heard a sharper, more distinctive male voice in the background, “Perry, will you get off the goddam phone with your sister! I can’t find any aspirin, and international calls ain’t cheap. I’ve got a right mind to…..” but the line abruptly ended, as the receiver went silent, leaving you with more questions than answers.

The three men stepped into the bowels of the basement, as though descending into hell itself. The stench of death was even more apparent in the underground area, and Rockford easily began to feel a claustrophobia he batted away like an unwelcome mosquito. Just another case. Just another case.

“I don’t mind telling you that Herb would’ve fought like hell if he figured his family was in danger” Dewey began, arriving at the “playroom” first, where the body of Kenyon was previously discovered. It seemed almost empty without the body Rockford had viewed in the original crime scene photos.

“If Herb had thought his family was in danger, mortal danger, he would have fought like a tiger. And Herb was no ninny; a strong guy in top condition. Kenyon too, big as his dad, bigger, a big-shouldered boy. It’s hard to see how one man, armed or not could have handled the two of them. Maybe one held the shotgun, and one tied the knots? All four had been bound by the same type of knot, a half hitch”. Rockford numbly stared at the playroom couch that was similar stained with a large amount of blood. There must have been an accomplice of some kind who helped subdue the family, tape and tie them. Dewey’s voice cut through Tim’s thoughts like a jackknife, “If the murderer was someone known to the family, a member of this community; assuming that he was an ordinary man, ordinary except that he had a quirk, an insane grudge against the Clutters—where did he find a partner, someone crazy enough to help him? It doesn’t add up. It doesn’t make sense. But then come right down to it, nothing does”.

Rockford’s mind flashed on the photographic evidence that had so insidiously burned itself onto his mind. The twenty blown up glossy print pictures of Mr. Clutter’s shattered skull, his son’s demolished face, Nancy’s bound hands, her mother’s death-dulled staring eyes and so on. The entire atrocity spread before him, like a demonic puzzle, demanding attention and resolution. There were some details that immediately stood out to him, the way that only personal, intimate details could. The old baseball mitt, Kenyon’s mud-spattered work boots sitting in the corner, his pathetic abandoned spectacles.

“Let’s get this last part over with before I lose my lunch” Dewey confided. “I don’t want to stay any longer in this house than I absolutely have to”. The three men begrudgingly trudged to the lowest part of the basement where Herbert Clutter had been found. Rockford swallowed painfully, reflecting on the many losses he had also endured during his lifetime. He couldn’t imagine investigating the quadruple murder of a family he was associated with. Perhaps Agent Dewey was grateful to receive a fresh perspective, at least to offset the tremendous pressure of a criminal case of this magnitude.

Reaching the final room of inquiry, Rockford grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his nose and mouth. With no ventilation, the darkened area was particularly grim, as jagged shadows were cast by a nearby hanging light bulb that swung eerily from side to side. This room contained an obscene amount of blood, cast over the nearby wall and oddly placed mattress box, sitting in the middle of the basement floor. “This might be the most confounding area of all. As I’m sure you read in the police reports, at some point Herb must have been strung up, tied to the basement rafters. Can’t figure WHY the killer or killers might have done that, particularly since his throat was later cut AND he was apparently executed with a final shotgun blast”. Rockford looked over at Sheriff Robinson whose eyes were understandably rimmed with unshed tears. In comparison, Dewey seemed to have transformed into a vision of stoicism and unfeeling logic. “So, why would you drag a mattress box to the center of the basement floor, after the victim was already dead or dying?” he uttered this final question, almost as a sacred prayer. Rockford quickly identified the bloody drag marks, seeing the dried pool of blood that was revealed beneath the mattress box, as the technicians removed it awkwardly, carting it up the basement stairs. It seemed an odd, almost conciliatory action after so much comparative death and destruction. Did the killer have a conscience?

Agent Dewey took one final look at the dismal scene, gesturing quickly with the sign of the cross, turning on one heel and brushing past both gentleman with an unfeeling exit. Rockford felt rooted to the spot, but for Sheriff Robinson’s quiet voice in his periphery. “Damn shame if you ask me. I’ve seen a lot of crime in my day, but the thing that makes this case the most distinctive is how arbitrary the whole thing feels” his voice cracked with emotion. “The Clutters are the one family ‘round these parts that I never woulda figured to be murdered”.

The bright flash of a photographic bulb jolted Rockford out of his grisly reverie, before he quickly exited the basement in search of a breath of fresh air, and any possible insight from Agent Dewey to shed new light on the most horrific case of his career.

You had managed to haul yourself out of bed by the late afternoon, and began to devour the take away dinner from the previous night. Sandwiches made more sense for lunch anyhow. Putting your Olympia G1 Deluxe Typewriter to good use you had begun to catalogue the crime scene reports, town-folk interviews, lie detector tests and more. After several hours, your cold had simmered to a reasonable ache, but as dusk approached you were becoming more and more worried about Rockford’s absence. You gazed dejectedly at the pile of tissues that had begun to supplant the files and reports, before your eyes glanced at the graphic photos you were attempting to avoid.

Depositing the crime scene photos in the corner of the room, far from your view, your head jerked abruptly to the sound of the phone ringing. Holding your head gingerly in your hands from the relative whiplash, your heart plummeted shakily, wondering whose voice might greet you. God, please let it be Rockford. Hearing your husband’s voice would be so soothing right now.

Um. Employer. Hearing your EMPLOYER’S voice right now would be very bracing….and informative! You sighed heavily through your cold-induced migraine, sitting defeatedly on the edge of the bed, clearing your ailing throat before proceeding.

“Rockford P.I and Associates, how may I assist you?” the line crackled ominously before a familiar, nasal voice cut through the ambient sound.

“Noticed the Kansas City Bureau of Investigations wasted no time in cataloguing the crime scene” Myrtle’s voice penetrated your illness infused haze, jolting you back into reality.

“Mrs. Clare, I’m so glad you called” you hoped the sarcasm wasn’t too pronounced in your tone, as she deftly sidestepped you in the conversation.

“You’ll forgive me if I forgot to mention that Bonnie Clutter was considered an invalid after her supposed resignation from nursing duty…”. The notepad was all the way across the room. You trudged across to the make shift work table, plopping down unceremoniously into the squeaky chair while Myrtle’s voice droned onward. “The births of Beverly and Evie led to bouts of depression and despondency, but it wasn’t until Nancy and Kenyon were born that her mental state REALLY started to deteriorate…”. Your fingers drifted across some of the miscellaneous files you had uncovered. There was a bizarre postcard that had been mailed to the Sheriff’s office and included in the box Rockford had toted over from yesterday’s mail. “Bonnie was under the impression that her recent maladies could be attributed to a ‘pinched nerve’, but I had always wondered about the solidity of her marriage, if you catch my drift….”. Myrtle’s voice had started to recede into the background, as your eyes lazily took in the enigmatic text;

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in, A race that can’t stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin; And they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain’s crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don’t know how to rest. If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true; But they’re always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new.

At this, the door flung wide open, and Rockford’s tired posture stood silhouetted against the dusk sunlight. “How do we feel about chicken noodle soup?” his voice nearly boomed as you relaxed into the squeaking chair.

“Are you listening to me???” Myrtle’s voice interjected, as you attempted to stifle a new bout of coughs brought on by a fit of giggles.

“Absolutely Mrs. Clare!” you finally gasped “I was just pausing to take notes. Would I be able to call you back tomorrow? I seem to be battling a cold of some kind….”

“A cold?! Are you sure that’s all it is? Are you experiencing any morning sickness???…” Myrtle’s voice could be heard squawking on the other end as you crossed the room to gently lower the phone back to the receiver.

“Sounds like you’ve had a busy day…” Rockford teased, setting the soup nearby and placing an immediate hand to your forehead with concern.

“What’s the diagnosis, doc?” you croaked, your body temperature immediately spiking, though most likely not from illness.

“I think you’re gonna make it” he whispered. Your breath caught in your throat as he kissed you on the top of the head and tiredly meandered toward the washroom.

“Wait a minute, what happened at the Clutter Farm? Did you make nice with the F.B.I agents? Anything you can tell me outside of what we learned from the photos?” you hadn’t meant to interrogate Rockford, but it seemed that a day of silence and listening added a sharp desperation to your need.

He paused in the hallway, his back a stolid wall of armament, “S’okay if we talk tomorrow, doll? I’m real tuckered out from…everything…” you bit your lower lip reticently, wincing internally. Seems like you weren’t the only one who’d had a stressful day.

“Sure thing, Boss. Whatever you say” you agreed, opening up the chicken noodle soup and looking after him sorrowfully. How you longed to comfort him, or support in whatever way you could. You looked back at the mysterious postcard, and reflected on your nebulous conversation with “Perry”. There was something forebodingly ominous about the entire interaction, but relaying that to Tim in his current state of melancholy seemed unwise. He desperately needed a respite, and you were determined to provide it.

He eventually emerged after a hot shower, and you delightedly took in his slumberous appearance. “Is this the official uniform of private investigators?” you teased, having polished off the soup and cozily returned to bed. Rockford rubbed at the back of his neck with embarrassment, turning in a slow, lazy circle to reveal the full glamour of his striped pajamas hidden beneath a thick bathrobe.

“Pretty sure I didn’t wear anything like this in the Army…” he noted, collapsing into the armchair and reaching for the box of photos you had banished from your sight.

“What are you doing all the way over there? Aren’t you coming to bed?” you were surprised at your audacity, but ever aware of your increasing need. Forget sex. You had been cooped up in a hotel room all day and were starting to feel downright vampiric.

“Red, we might be married, but I’m still a man of honor” he set the photos to the side, his eyes drooping heavily as he seemed to melt into the armchair. “If Sleeping Beauty has a cold, the last thing she needs is someone tossing and turning beside her…” his words were starting to mumble slightly as he tucked into the upright position he had adopted the previous night. “I’ll just catch a few winks over here….” he murmured, before yawning tiredly and finally relaxing.

Shaking your head with disbelief, you noted his almost immediate snoring with some relief, before reaching beside you to turn off the table-lamp. Army man. You settled in for a much needed night of recuperative sleep. But it wasn’t until hours later that you awoke to find him in a much different state….

They were everywhere. Crawling underneath him, spiraling around him. Tendrils that wrapped around his arms, his legs, his torso…pulling at his neck and invading his mouth. He could never pinpoint what they were. Vines? Fingers? Limbs? He was reaching. Reaching for you. Reaching for solace. Something to anchor him to a reality that he could endure. Not this nightmarish landscape that always felt inescapable. Face, after face, after face. People he recognized. Many he didn’t. But something had begun to shift. Memories had bizarrely wrapped themselves around new people, places and things. He was army crawling through the pebbled and disintegrated streets of Berlin, that somehow wound through the center aisle of First United Methodist. Reaching around to his back to find his M1911 Pistol, it transformed into a shotgun, covered in blood. He looked to his army commander for some directive, who turned and revealed himself to be Agent Dewey, shouting orders amidst a din of battle cries and tumultuous chaos.

The steady ringing in his ears, was overlaid on top of an iron-like oppression as he made his way down the claustrophobic hallway of the Clutter Family House. Gazing behind him, he saw the disfigured corpse of Kenyon Clutter rising from the stairwell and joining ranks with a grisly Bobby Rupp, who clapped him on the back. This was no place for the young, he thought, wondering if that still applied to himself. It was nonsensical. It was bizarre. It was terrifying. But once again, he couldn’t escape. THIS was his new reality, one in which he felt totally helpless and alone.

Until you. You were there with him, and he felt a surge of relief until a growing, gnarling tension bitterly entrenched itself deeper still. You shouldn’t be here. Beauty doesn’t belong amidst so much horror. You had appeared in the hallway, almost like an apparition, and Nancy had joined hands with you in solidarity. As you moved past him in the hallway, the back of Nancy’s head revealed an exposed skull that was daintily shrouded in a night kerchief, draped haphazardly at an angle. The corpse of Mrs. Clutter somehow emerged from the master bedroom, floating in a macabre fashion, eyes wide with a simultaneous unknowing and other-worldly wisdom. She pointed at Rockford, as he reached towards you with the bloodied shotgun. He couldn’t release its vice-like grip, as the tension within him threatened to explode. Your eyes were full of compassion and love, but the shotgun seemed to claw itself out of his own hands and move with a mind of its own. He cautioned you to stay away, but you kept moving towards him as he protested. He yelled, he screamed to no avail as the distance between you grew closer and closer and closer until…

...You were kneeling on the floor, gripping his thighs imploringly. Your face was wet with tears, real tears, as he looked around the hotel room in disorientation, his throat raw with shouting. “Red?” his voice croaked, as he reached out to cup your face questioningly. The tremor in his hand was uncontrollable before it reached your cheek in earnest. You couldn’t stifle your gasps of fear, bringing your hand up to his with encouragement.

“Tim?” your voice was small and almost unrecognizable as Rockford felt the sweat drenched pajamas cling to his body oppressively. “You’re having a n-nightmare…” you stuttered, digging your fingers into the muscle of his upper thigh, trying to ground him in whatever way you could. You didn’t know much about shell shock, or how to help someone in that state, but his sleeping cries had awoken you so severely you worried an imminent threat was barreling down on both of you.

“Red?” he shivered slightly in the cooling temperatures, questioning you again, as though disbelieving of this new reality.

“It’s me. It’s me, Tim, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere” you repeated, moving your hand in a soothing motion across his leg, and finally resting your head on his knee tentatively. He looked completely unravelled, locks of hair curling at this temples with perspiration. His breathing ragged and erratic, but starting to smooth into deeper pulls of inhalation. You stayed that way for several minutes, with his thumb moving in small circles across your cheek, his eyes slowly shifting from a look of wild terror to one of fatigued humility. You wished you had something comforting to say, but everything seemed trite in comparison. The most important thing seemed to be your presence as you watched him with doe-eyed intensity. His lip trembled with emotion before he finally rasped, “Didn’t want you to see this, doll”.

You swallowed thickly before sitting up on your knees emphatically and gently pulling at the bathrobe that fixedly clung to him. “Ease out of this now” you encouraged before Tim finally acquiesced. He never took his eyes off of you as you peeled the heavy fabric down his arms, undressing him like a small child. “Now here’s what we’re gonna do, and I don’t want any arguing about it. You’re going to take a long, bracing shower, get into some new pajamas and then you’re coming to bed, and there’s no two ways about it. Okay?” you tried to speak with assured confidence, but felt more helpless than ever. This was an emotional wound that couldn’t be ignored, it could only be stitched and soothed, however inadequate the attempt seemed.

Rockford’s eyes softened in defeated sorrow before he finally relented, “Okay, doll” and shakily stood to his feet. You gripped one another tightly, unsure if you were holding him up, or resting against one another for strength. He squeezed your arm sweetly before trudging to the washroom with exhaustion. When he finally emerged several minutes later in boxer shorts and a white tank top, he held his hands humbly across his body as though restrained. His locks had curled into wet ringlets against his head, as you admired the crinkling wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“This how ya want me?” he shrugged, suddenly boyish and unsure of himself. Your bedraggled smile and tired eyes welcomed him over, as you patted the bed next to you.

“YOU need sleep” you beckoned, rolling the covers back and sinking down into the mattress with your own weariness. You could see one final war of chivalry waged, before he surrendered and plodded towards you sheepishly.

“Still don’t think it’s right for me to be disturbing your sleep is all…” he almost whimpered, before tentatively joining you in bed.

“I’m going to turn off the lights now, okay?” you asked, watching him intently as he awkwardly sat in an upright position against the headboard, gripping the covers nervously at his lap. One curt nod of his head was given in affirmation, so you reached over to the nightstand and turned off the light, bathing you both in the evening midnight. You tried to calm your breathing as the cool of the evening drifted over you before speaking further. “Tim. You can relax now if you want to. I’m not going to bite…” you teased, your fingers achingly clenched against your hip.

“Oh, right” he stuttered, shifting his weight lower on the mattress and placing his arms tightly against his body above the covers. You concentrated on your breathing, waiting for Tim to fall asleep, but it didn’t easily materialize. Several moments would pass before his body would jerk awake in surprise. Or you would feel the weight of the mattress shifting beneath you as he wrestled with an unknown adversary you couldn’t fight on his behalf. In the darkness, he finally heaved a heavy sigh of worry, as your fingertips found his in the relative darkness. He twitched with surprise, but then warmly gripped your hand, enveloping it completely as the mood seemed to settle into a comfortable silence.

“Doll?” his voice lulled you out of a twilight haze as your eyelids fluttered open in dim awareness.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks”.

You smiled with fatigue, gripping his hand all the more tightly before drifting into a contented slumber. At some point during the night, Tim finally found his way to the cleft of your bosom, housed securely amidst your light breathing. Your hands easily found their way to his head, drifting lazily through the now dried lock of curls. And that’s how you remained until the early daylight hours, before reality, and a new sense of purpose would crash down upon you.

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