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— Catherine Green
Chevrolet Camaro Red N26NIB
M.B., R.U., N.B., S.D.
L.G.
Obviously, this information was important, but what it means is not entirely clear to me. Only Lina could know. Perhaps I did not search the house well, perhaps I will have to visit there again.
22 June 2002
I was walking and casually turned to Lina’s house to assess the situation. From a distance, I saw many cars: one policeman and two black jeeps. Most likely, they were people from the FBI, on one of them I saw a branded jacket with the inscription «FBI». But what is the FBI doing here? I hurried away.
23 June 2002
I think again of Lina and who could have done this to her. I roll her paper in my hands, but I can’t figure out what’s what. Basically, everything is clear there: Marcus Peters is the man who was killed in ’76, Catherine Green is Lina’s mother, and everything else… A red Chevrolet Camaro and strange initials?
24 June 2002
Again I was at Lina’s house. It was empty, the door was sealed. I walked around the house and, seeing an open window, went inside. I couldn’t find anything else in the house. However, when I got out, I noticed that I was being followed. At that moment, my heart sank to my heels, and I decided that I had to run. I was being pursued. I was able to hide in the library. This is where I write these last lines, because if I were caught, I would be the prime suspect in this case. I will hide the diary here and leave the library after a while.
After reading the diary, on the last page I found the inscription: «H.H.» Were they initials or Roman numerals? Although, judging by the dot between the symbols, I concluded that they were still initials. And they belong to the author of this diary. But who is he? I was in a stupor, these lines struck me. I stared frantically at the fireplace in which the wood was burning. The diary was small, but the meaning and facts hidden in its pages impressed me very much. As an experienced journalist, it is difficult to surprise me with anything, but this diary simply trampled on me morally. It was difficult to think of anything else, all my thoughts were occupied only by this diary. Then I realized what I should write about, and it would not be just a story, it would be a bestseller, a novel that would excite the entire population of America in the same way that this diary had just excited me. But I have a lot of work to do, I am only at the beginning of the journey.
Still, I opened my laptop and began to write down all the information that I had gleaned from the diary, at the same time typing the diary in full, so that I could always have an electronic version of it. A shiver ran down my spine again. He was so honest, so direct.
Finally, I was exhausted, as if I had been squeezed. I closed my laptop, rubbed my eyes and looked at my watch: it was four in the morning. I did not notice at all how it flew by. A storm of emotions and inspiration was still raging in my soul, a kind of internal struggle of the physical body, which was exhausted, on the other hand, my emotionality, which wanted to do something, run somewhere, look for information. So far, two clues from the diary could be distinguished: the murder of Lina and the murder of Marcus Peters. And it was about this information that you could find out in the sheriff’s office of the town of Lingfield.
As far as I knew, the police station used to be run by Sheriff Martin Blackwood, but he has recently taken a well-deserved retirement. My father knew him, I think they were friends. Now Martin’s place has been taken by his son, Patrick. I remember him from childhood, although he was older than me. But he was not offended, because everyone knew that his dad was a sheriff. We haven’t seen Patrick in over a decade, and I hope he still remembers me and can help me get the information I’m interested in.
Time passed slowly, the clock showed only half past five. I made coffee and languidly walked up and down the room. It was already beginning to dawn outside, and I decided to go out onto the terrace. «Who are you, Lina Green?» flashed through my mind. At this point, I passed out in my chair with a cup of unfinished coffee in my hand. I passed out and didn’t even dream, just a black veil in front of my eyes.
A mug of coffee that fell to the floor brought me back to consciousness. The sun was in full swing and gleaming on the lake. I smiled; a pleasant warm breeze blew over me. I need more coffee, or I won’t last until noon. At that moment, my phone rang — the call was from Robert Wilson, my editor and publisher.
«James, how are you?»
«It’s okay, Robert, thank you!» I’m fine, I’m settling in.
«Were you asleep?» You have such a voice… Or are you sick?
«No, I’m fine, don’t worry. Yesterday I fell asleep late, indulging in memories.
— Have you found inspiration yet? Is there any story in mind?
«Not really,» I replied evasively.
«I believe in you, James. Our publishing house needs a bomb to stay afloat among these «sharks». You see, there haven’t been any really powerful works lately, no articles without high-profile investigations. People need action, dynamics, murders, debauchery. People love the spicy and the forbidden. In general, you understand this yourself! All hope is in you, my friend. I am waiting for news. I know you can do it!
«Thank you, Robert, for your trust, but I won’t promise anything for now. I’ll let you know if there are any shifts. Believe me, you will be the first to know about it.
«Okay, James, here’s on the line. Bye!
«On the line!»
I put my phone on the table and went to wash my face. There were a lot of things planned for today, first of all I need to get to the police station.
So, my investigation officially begins. Well, into battle, James Havebrook! Into the game!
An old friend
By 11 a.m., I was already near the police station.
— Good afternoon! I asked the cop on duty. «Where can I find Sheriff Patrick Blackwood?»
«Good afternoon, the sheriff is at home. Are you prescribed?
«No, but I’m an old friend of his, I wanted to see him.»
«I’ll let you know.» What’s your name?
«Tell me, it’s James Havebrook.»
«One minute…
The attendant, whose name was Max, called the internal phone to Sheriff Blackwood’s office and reported my arrival. A moment later, Patrick came out of the office and spread his hands to the sides with a smile.
«James, a hundred years, a hundred winters!» He hugged me in a friendly way. «Come on, come in.» I’ll make coffee.
«Oh, thank you, Patrick!»
We settled down in an office that had not changed at all since my childhood. It’s exactly the same as I remember.
«Tell me, friend, how are you?» I heard you’ve become a writer?
«Yes!» I’m writing! I work in a publishing house, part-time I write articles for the New Life magazine.
«Hello, James!» Congratulations! You’ve always been like that, you wanted to know everything and everything, and you had the word. You see how it happens, a vocation is from childhood. If you remember, I’ve always wanted to be a cop, so it’s fate, it’s us. So you came for work or to take a break from the hustle and bustle of the city?
«Probably both,» I replied evasively.
«I’m listening to you carefully, James Havebrook,» he jokingly encouraged me.
«I’ll get straight to the point, there’s no need to beat around the bush,» I replied seriously.
«I’m sorry, James, I didn’t mean to offend you, go on…»
Surely you have heard of the murder of Marcus Peters back in 1976?
— Yes, I am familiar with this case, but mainly from my father’s words, although I also studied the folder with the case. I know that he was severely beaten, the case was not solved, and not a single piece of evidence was found at the crime scene.
— Are the case materials still preserved?
«Of course, we do not close murder cases, although the case is no longer in our competence.
«And in whom?»
«The case was taken by the feds almost immediately.
«Can I take a look at the case?»
— I think so! Perhaps you can look at it from the other side, with fresh eyes.
«Thank you, Patrick!»
«But there’s more. The murder of Lina Green, she was found on the beach in 2002.
«James, you can doubt it, but these two murders were the only ones in the history of the town of Lingfield. It’s a tragedy for all of us, I hope you’re not going to spread panic in our close community?
«No, Patrick, what are you talking about, I want to know more about what happened, maybe I can help catch the criminal.»
«Good!» I’ll give you Lina and Marcus’s files.
«If you don’t mind, I’d like to study them at home.
«I’ll make copies for you.»
«That will be wonderful!» I owe you!
«Come on, Havebrook, come to dinner with my parents tonight, I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you.»
«Thank you, Patrick, I’m very pleased. See you tonight!
«See you tonight, Havebrook.»
I got home in a matter of minutes, my mind was seized by excitement, I wanted to immerse myself in this matter, feel it and find the culprits.
Flying into the living room, without bothering to undress, I sat down on the sofa and laid out the case materials on the coffee table. Both cases were handled by Sheriff Martin Blackwood, Patrick’s father.
No evidence was found at the scene of Marcus Peters’ murder. An autopsy revealed that he had died from a blow to the head with a blunt, heavy object, most likely with a stick or truncheon. In addition, he was severely beaten: literally the whole body was covered with bruises and abrasions, there were a huge number of hematomas on his face and a broken nose. The police believed that Marcus was not alone there, however, except for his body, nothing was found at the crime scene.
As for the case of Lina Green, everything is even more vague. She was found on an abandoned beach: her head was lying on a rock, there was a lot of blood around, but there was no evidence, as well as witnesses. An autopsy of the body showed that Lina was shot with a shotgun in the head. There was no other damage. There were no signs of rape or beatings. No motive, no evidence, no suspects. Complete zero. The police only found things scattered on the beach belonging to Lina.
«It’s not getting any easier from hour to hour, the police have nothing at all about these two crimes,» I cursed aloud.
To try to see the whole picture, I hung photos of Lina Green and Marcus Peters on the wall. And while I didn’t have a single idea — what happened?! Two crimes: in 1976 and in 2002 — 26 years difference. Everything was foggy. If it was still possible to understand the motive with the murder of Lina, because she was a journalist and could get into places where she shouldn’t have gotten in, and Marcus Peters? A young boy, who could he interfere with? What is the motive for his murder? I’m completely confused.
The clock showed six in the evening, and I only realized that I had not eaten anything that day. A little detached from the confusion in my head, I remembered the invitation to dinner with Patrick and his parents. I decided that I would combine two things at once: I would have dinner and maybe I could get some information from Patrick’s father, Martin Blackwood. Maybe he remembers some details or has his own opinion about these murders.
Dinner at the Blackwoods’
At the Blackwood house, I was warmly welcomed. In particular, Martin Blackwood himself.
«James, my boy, how you have grown! he stressed. «When Patrick told me that you had come to our town, I was very happy. How is your father?
«It’s all right, Martin,» I assured him. «He’s living in New York and enjoying his retirement.
«I’m very glad to hear that he’s fine. Let’s go to the table, let’s have dinner, we will always have time to chat,» he said in a native, even fatherly way.
Pleasant aromas were wafting around the house, and I drooled. Mrs. Blackwood sat me down at the table. I remember her from childhood: she was always a modest and very sophisticated woman, always polite and not particularly talkative.
«The dinner was splendid, Mrs. Blackwood. Lately, I haven’t been able to eat delicious homemade food often.
«Thank you, James, I’m very pleased,» she replied with a warm smile.
These people were close to me from early childhood, they are very kind and friendly, I was always welcome in this house, I even felt some kind of security from the outside world here.
After dinner, Martin filled two glasses of whiskey, and we went out on the terrace to smoke a cigar that the eldest of the Blackwoods adored so much.
«Patrick, are you with us?» I asked him.
«You go, I’ll come later.»
We sat down on two armchairs near the coffee table overlooking Mrs. Blackwood’s beautiful garden.
«Well, how do you like it here?» He turned to me kindly.
«To be honest, I’m here on business,» I did not hide.
«Yes, Patrick told me that you were interested in old, unsolved cases and took copies of them.
«I’m in the inspiration stage, that’s why I came to Lingfield to distract myself and maybe find an interesting storyline for my book,» I replied honestly again.
«I see, James. Do you have any questions for me?
«Yes!» As far as I know, you investigated both murder cases: 1976 and 2002.
«That’s right, James. But it was difficult to call it an investigation: there was no evidence, no witnesses either. In addition, in 1976, a few days later, the case was taken away from us…
«Who?»
— FBI. And I didn’t get involved in this case anymore, although I really wanted to get to the bottom of the truth. But I was still young and did not want to lose my job in the police, so, reluctantly, I stopped the investigation.
— And in 2002?
«The situation repeated itself there: the FBI took over the case, and I couldn’t do anything about it. To be honest, we had no experience in investigating murders. In our town, this is extremely rare, to be more precise, in the entire history of our town there were only two of them: the murder of Lina Green and Marcus Peters.
«Is it strange that the FBI took both cases?!»
— Not at all. As I said, we had no experience in such cases, and the murders were terribly strange.
«But why not the state police, but the FBI?» As I understand the whole policy, if the local police are unable to deal with this kind of case, they bring in experienced investigators from the state police. The FBI, on the other hand, deals with cases committed in several states.
«Obviously, James, there was a reason for the FBI to take these cases. Another glass? Martin suggested.
«Yes, I won’t.
Then we drank in silence, and it seemed that everyone was thinking about their own things. I blew out a puff of smoke and said thoughtfully to Martin:
«We’ll deal with it…
In response, he patted me on the shoulder and said:
«I believe in you, James…
At about ten in the evening I got to the house by the lake, it was already dark. I, a little devastated, sat down on the terrace, at the moment I had not a single thought. And I decided that the morning of the evening was wiser, and went to bed.
I haven’t slept like this for a long time: soundly and peacefully. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was my makeshift plaque on the wall with the facts about the murders of two young men. I stood up and attached two FBI memos above the photo of Marcus Peters and the other above the photo of Lina Green.
I picked up the diary of the mysterious H.H. In one of the newspaper clippings I saw the name of the journalist — Branson. K. — Why didn’t I notice it at once? I blamed myself.
I need to find out information about him! I was firmly convinced. Maybe he was still alive and could tell information or something like that. Immediately I called Sheriff Patrick Blackwood. He, in turn, redirected me to his father, Martin.
«He must know it!» Patrick told me.
After making another call, I got through to Martin.
«Martin!» It’s me, Havebrook.
«Hi, James. Glad to hear from you!
«Mutually!» But I’m on point.
«I’m listening very carefully and I’ll try to help!» What’s the matter?
«Do you happen to know a journalist named Branson K.?»
«Carl Branson?» I know! He once worked in a local newspaper, now he is retired, lives near a forest, leads a bachelor lifestyle, and rarely appears in the city. In short, a hermit. Will you write down the address?
«yes, I’m writing it down…
— 21 Forest Street.
«Thank you, Martin, you helped me a lot!»
«Not at all, James. You call if anything. Don’t be shy.
«I’ll be in touch!» Bye!
«Bye, James.
Wow! We can say that the day started very well. For breakfast, I decided to go to the diner, where I was happily greeted by Marcy!
«Good morning, writer! She turned to me affably.
«Good morning, Marcy!» I’ll have an omelet and coffee!
«I’ll be there soon,» she replied coquettishly and ran away to fulfill my order.
I thought Marcy liked me. And she was a very attractive girl, perhaps under other circumstances I would have tried my luck with her, but at this time I was least interested in love games, although… There is a time for everything.
When I had finished my breakfast, I got up in a hurry, left a tip, and almost ran out into the street, got into my Range Rover, and went to see Carl Branson. My way to his secluded dwelling took no more than 15 minutes.
Journalist Carl Branson
I arrived unannounced, because I didn’t know Carl’s number, but still persistently rang the doorbell. A moment later, the door swung open, and I saw a tall, sturdy old man on the threshold.
«Who are you?» The journalist asked inquisitively.
«I’m sure you don’t know me. My name is James Havebrook — I am a journalist and writer from New York — I did not hide it.
«James?» James Havebrook? Are you Hank Havebrook’s son?
«Yes!» I was surprised. «Do you know him?»
«Do I know?» The former journalist was surprised. — Of course! We were friends at one time! Come into the house, why are we standing on the threshold.
The house of the journalist Branson was clean and smelled of mint. I became curious, and then, as if reading my thoughts, Karl said:
«I’m just brewing mint tea. Pour you a cup? He offered cordially.
«I won’t refuse!»
Karl went to the kitchen to make tea, and I involuntarily looked around in his apartment.
All the furniture in the house, and the interior itself, have retained the spirit of the seventies of the twentieth century. Still, the house was very cozy. In the living room, where we sat on the sofa, there was a fireplace lined with stone. On the massive mantelpiece there are black and white photographs, apparently from Karl’s youth. There were more recent photos, but no later than the beginning of the millennium. In one of the photos, I saw my father surrounded by Karl and some other unknown man. I was interested.
Looking around Carl’s house, I came to the conclusion that he was a single man. It was felt that there had been no woman’s hand in this house for a long time. Carl Branson seemed to have lived as a bachelor all his life, but I could be wrong.
As I waited for the owner of the house, I replayed in my head the questions I wanted to ask Karl. At last he returned with a tray on which two cups and a transparent teapot with sprigs of mint and lemon were majestically adorned. Carl complemented this with some candy and cookies.
«Help yourself,» he offered me with a kind and light smile.
«It looks very attractive, I’d love to…»
«I saw my father next to you in the photo, and who is the third?» Without beating around the bush, I immediately asked.
«Oh, do you mean that?» He took the picture from the mantelpiece.
— As I said earlier, for some time we were friends with your father, and next to him is Edward Daniels, he, too, like us, was a journalist. A great journalist, experienced, with great connections.
«Where is he from?» I asked.
«From New York!» Once upon a time, fate brought the three of us together,» Karl sighed.
«How did you meet my father?» I began from afar.
«In fact, we have known your father for a very long time, we have crossed paths a lot in our professions, and in general we have known each other since childhood, but we have never communicated closely. Then your father went to New York and became an excellent journalist. But then fate brought us together again: a very good girl disappeared.
«Lina Green?» I blurted out.
Karl looked at me in surprise.
«Do you know anything about this?»
— I would not say that it is a lot. I only know that she was killed. To be more precise, they shot her and left her body on the beach in Lingfield — this was the second crime in the history of the town, so the murder of the young girl caused a wide public outcry. People were afraid to go out in the evening, locked the doors, although they had not done this before. The tight-knit community suddenly became suspicious of anything new in their town.
«Yes, you’re right, James, it’s hit the established society of our town very hard. However, over time, this subsided, everything somehow fell into place, because since then peace and silence have returned to Lingfield. Did you say you were a writer?
— Yes, exactly.
«Do you want to write a book on this topic?»
«Perhaps,» I replied evasively, «you see, Karl, I wondered why there were two murders so brutal in such a town. And in both cases, they were young people. Marcus Peters was only 17 years old, Lina Green was 25 years old. In both cases, there were no witnesses or evidence. It seems to me that all this is suspicious. There’s something hidden here, but I can’t yet find what!
«And you, James, want to interview me?»
«Well, if you can call our conversation that, then yes!
«I shall be glad to help you, my dear. This mystery has haunted me for many years. What are you interested in?
«That’s it!» Everything you remember and know about Lina Green or maybe Marcus Peters?
«I’m afraid it’s going to be a long story, my friend.
«I’m not in a hurry, so it’s okay. I’m ready to listen to you for ages.
«Well… Then let’s begin.
Carl Branson looked out of the window thoughtfully and began his story slowly.
Lina Green was a very beautiful, blonde girl. In addition, she was very intelligent, young and energetic. She had the same journalistic core. She would have achieved a lot in this field, besides, she had very good protégés and teachers.
In the early 2000s, she was very interested in the case of Marcus Peters. Surely you already know what happened: the guy was found on the side of the road with numerous injuries incompatible with life. She was very interested to know what happened on that fateful April day in 1976. The police at that time had absolutely no information, and in the future this case was a pure «capercaillie». However, this case did not let her go, she was immersed in it with her head, collecting information day and night. We, as experienced journalists, made fun of her, but she was unshakable. In all seriousness, she fished out information bit by bit.
At some point, shortly before her death, she suddenly came to see me. As I remember now, it was a terrible night — pouring rain. It poured with such force that it seemed that raindrops could split the tiles on the house. It’s pitch black all around, and she’s standing on my doorstep, Lina Green. She was standing without an umbrella, all wet, the mascara was smeared over her eyes and flowing down with the raindrops. When she saw me, she asked without greeting: