A Small Town's Secret (Grant Dawson Mysteries Book 1) - A.E. Stanfill

A Small Town's Secret (Grant Dawson Mysteries Book 1) by A.E. Stanfill

Book excerpt

Music Before Death

The day started off normally for the Norton family. Their two teenage sons, Danny and Billy, woke up with little resistance. Joined their mom and dad at the table for breakfast as usual. The two boys told the jokes of the day, like always. Betty, the boy’s mom, told them to knock it off, while their dad laughed at the whole situation. By far they were the all American family. Little did anyone think they would become part of a grisly crime.

Night had come, but something was different about Mr. Norton. Bob was in a mood, which rarely happened. He was snippy with his wife, and even sent his two sons to bed early over something trivial. After Betty gave her husband some time to himself, she joined him in the den with a glass of Scotch just for him.

“Bad day at work?” Betty asked, handing him the glass.

He smiled ever so slightly, “No, work went okay,” he answered.

“Then why so moody?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Just tell me already,” Betty smirked. She knew that if she tried hard enough, Bob would give up and tell her what she wanted to hear. “I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair before looking back up at her. “Join me on the couch.” He patted the cushion beside him. She sat down beside him, staring with those curious eyes of hers. “Now, listen to me.” Bob began. “You may not like what I have to say.”

“You’re scaring me.” Betty shivered.

“That’s not my intention.” He frowned.

“Then tell me what’s going on!”

“Someone called my cellphone using a blocked number. Whoever it was threatened our safety. Claimed that we would die tonight. Not just me or you … all of us.”

“That’s horrible!” Betty shrieked. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Some damn kid,” Bob grunted, taking a sip of Scotch. “At least that’s what the voice sounded like on the other end of the line.”

“So, there’s nothing to worry about?”

“I don’t believe so. Pranks are pranks. Honestly I wouldn’t doubt the boys being in on the whole thing.”

“Not something like that,” Betty assured him.

Bob finished off the glass of Scotch, “Let’s just go to bed; everything should blow over in the morning and go back to normal.” He placed the empty glass on the table and got to his feet, reaching down to help his wife off the couch.

***

Before morning, neighbors claimed they heard the song “I Fall To Pieces” by Patsy Cline, blaring from the Norton residence.

Three days later, friends of the family started to worry about the Nortons. Bob hadn’t been seen at work, which was very unlike him. Betty wasn’t making her usual rounds at the supermarket or joining her friends for a quick bite to eat. On top of that, the two boys had yet to return to school, and that was something Bob refused to allow.

Jerry and Donna Simpson were the ones who had finally called the cops. Worried for the neighbors’ safety, they prayed that it was just something simple keeping them inside. But deep down, they knew better; the town’s secret was rearing its ugly head again. This time it would be the Nortons that would pay the price.

***

When the police arrived and made their way inside the house, an all too familiar sight was lying in wait. The Nortons’ sons were found smothered to death in their beds, while their parents, Bob and Betty, were found bludgeoned to death.

It wasn’t easy to witness such a horrible sight, but the investigation had to move forward. Not that the cops were going to get far. This was one of those crimes that would go unsolved due to the fact that this wasn’t the first murder in the small town of Crimson.

The last murder like this one took place over five years ago today. Could it be the same killer from years ago that had killed four families in the same exact fashion? Or could it be a copycat killer? That was going to be a hard question to answer, for it didn’t seem like the cops pushed too hard to solve these type of cases.

Maybe it was due to the lack of evidence left behind, or perhaps it was because there was only four cops—plus the sheriff—in the whole town. Or maybe it went further than what met the eye; most small towns such as Crimson had its secrets. Perhaps that was the case here. Neither the townsfolk nor the police force wanted those secrets exposed. Could be a reason the cases went cold for so long.

Though that didn’t stop Ed Wilson, Betty Norton’s dad from doing his own investigation into his daughter and her family's death. He came up with some leads of his own; unfortunately, it didn’t get him very far. Even though the town was a tightknit community, nobody wanted to talk about the Norton family, nor the previous murders.

He was in a tight spot and wasn’t considered a local but more of an outsider. He didn’t grow up in Crimson; he moved to the town after his daughter married. Which was why he encountered more shut doors in face than people willing to talk.

Ed wasn’t one to give up. Someone had to answer for their crimes against his family. And he intended for that to happen, even if he had to bring in an outsider to do so. Ed did some research on private investigators that handled specialty cases such as these. One name continuously showed up: Grant Dawson. The man’s credentials spoke for themselves, but he also had a police record a mile long.

Ed was unsure if he could trust someone with such a background, but he had to do something if he wanted his daughter’s killer to be brought to justice. He made the decision that it was time to make a trip to New York, see this investigator for himself. It was time to do whatever it took to stop a murderer.

His plane landed in New York three days later; he didn’t bring any luggage because the plan was to leave the next day, after he talked with the investigator.

He walked out of the airport and flagged down a taxi.

“Where can I take you, mister?” the cab driver asked.

“Do you know anything about a Mr. Dawson?” Ed asked in return.

“I do.”

“Do you know where his office is?”

“Yes sir.”

“Take me there.”

The driver shifted the vehicle into drive and pulled away. As the car was going down the highway, the driver struck up a conversation with Ed. “So, what brings you to New York?”

“Just need to talk with Dawson is all.”

“Can’t be good if you need to talk with him,” the man responded.

“Why is that?”

“Only people that want to see Dawson is those that need help where there is none,” the man replied. “But let me warn you: that man is a walking curse. He gets the job done but leaves a path of destruction in his wake.”

“You know the man then?” Ed asked, curious.

“We’ve run into each other a time or two.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Fred,” the man told him. “That’s all you need to know.”

“My name is Ed … Ed Wilson. And I will do whatever it takes to get what I want.”

The cab driver pulled the car over, across the street from a rundown brick building. “We’re here, sir.”

Ed got out of the cab and made his way around to the driver’s side window. “How much do I owe you?”

Fred held up his hand, “This one is on the house. Be careful with what you get yourself involved in.” He rolled up his window and drove away, leaving Ed alone in the dark alley.

Ed took in a deep breath of the night air where he stood, which would have made most people nervous. But he had nothing left—his wife died years ago, and his daughter and grandkids had been taken from him. If he died, he wouldn’t have cared, but there was a nagging voice in his head, telling him he couldn’t die just yet.