Storymania - Still Unsolved by Richard Koss

Still Unsolved
Richard Koss

     Robert Manchester sat in the Columbus airport, recalling his tiring but nostalgic weekend, as he waited to board his flight back to New York. He never dreamed of being a mystery writer when he was a senior at Garfield High School, in that once quintessential, rural village, some 130 miles south of Columbus, Ohio. But that was 1968 and the world was different then.

     He didn’t have much of a social life in high school, working for his father at the funeral home after school and on weekends. His father was heartbroken when Bob went on to major in journalism at Ohio State, for it meant there would never be the Manchester & Son Funeral Home he had hoped for.

     Robert tried the newspaper field for a while, even thought about television reporting, but eventually a dormant longing to be a fiction writer emerged, and he began his long struggle which would eventually lead to national recognition as a mystery writer. He wrote short stories and novelettes and his best sellers were the whodunit gems created in a style similar to Agatha Christie, but he became most acclaimed for his accounts of unsolved crimes, with his controversial, but ingenious theories of the motives and profiles of these unknown killers.

      Now seated comfortably in the purring 747, he closed his eyes and thought about Doctor Howard and his triple bi-pass surgery scheduled for Tuesday. His doctor wanted to do it last week, but Robert made him reschedule the surgery, determined to make the trip to his old home town.

     His mind now drifted back to the Saturday evening banquet when the town honored him as its most famous son, recounting his many literary successes. Robert gave a short and sweet acceptance speech, then opened the floor to a question and answer period. There were the usual questions about his favorite works and how he got most of his ideas. After twenty minutes, the master of ceremonies interrupted the forum. “ Just a couple of more questions now. We’ve got to give Bob some time to mingle and say hello to a lot of old friends.” A high school student stood up. “I’m not aware that you’ve ever written anything using horror, fantasy, or science fiction like Stephen King. I wondered why not? And my second question is did you ever meet Stephen King?”

     “You’re quite right young man. I seem to have avoided the horror, fantasy genre. Actually, I prefer to write about the more common human emotions like greed, jealousy, revenge, and rejection.”

     He paused for a moment. “Take rejection, for example. Now there’s a powerful motive. It’s been said that men don’t handle rejection as well as women. Rejection often leaves in its wake, bitterness and anger. Anger can drive men to acts of violence, including murder.”

     “ Several of my killers were driven by that motive. Yes, rejection is one of the ultimate disappointments in a man’s life. Now, as to your second question. I did meet Stephen King a couple of times. He was very polite and even admitted he read one of my books, but he didn’t say which one.”

     That brought out smiles and chuckles from the audience. Then, a young faculty member stood up before the MC could cut him off. “My interest is not in fiction but in actual case histories and I’m curious as to why you never wrote about the disappearance of one of your own classmates?” The teacher’s question spread a blanket of silence over the entire room. Many of the older faculty members looked at each other, shaking their heads in disapproval of his timing, as well as his bad taste, while everyone else reflected back in time.

      It was the winter of Robert’s senior year and her name was Judy Summers. A very popular girl, Judy was a cheerleader, honor student, and the classic blonde, pony-tailed cutie all the jocks wanted to date. But her heart belonged to Jim Braun, the captain of the football team and Mr. Hollywood of the little high school.

     She vanished during the holiday break right after the new year. She went out alone late one afternoon and never returned. The only trace of her in the last thirty-five years was a white pearl earring she wore that day. The earring was found by one of her friends on a path near the library as the entire town combed the countryside, three days after her parents reported her missing to the Sheriff and State Highway patrol.

     Caught by surprise at the man’s question, Manchester stared at him with steely eyes, as everyone awaited his response.

     “Actually, I did spend a great deal of time studying the reports of the investigation, years later, when I began writing about unsolved crimes. The FBI, county, and local authorities performed a thorough investigation with the limited forensic evidence available. All known parolees, sex offenders, released mental patients, within a 2000 mile radius were tracked, traced, over and over again without a single shred of evidence to link anyone to her disappearance.” He paused to take a gulp from his glass of water. “It’s one thing to write fiction and even real stories about people and events from which you’re emotionally detached. It’s another thing, when you’ve been personally associated with the people and surroundings such as this one. Perhaps, it was just too close to home and I chose not to stir up unpleasant memories.”

     That ended the question and answer period and Robert mingled among the modest crowd for the remainder of the evening, exchanging chit chat and accepting their accolades. Others were still buzzing about his reference to unpleasant memories. They knew he was referring to the only real suspect ever considered in the disappearance of Judy Summers.


     Jim Braun was a handsome, athletic, young man; six foot two and 200 pounds at age eighteen. He was also a bully, known to have a violent temper. He was especially jealous of Judy Summers and any would-be competition knew they better stay away from her, lest they feel the ire of Jim Braun.

     Jim never liked Bob Manchester. Unlike Braun, Robert was quiet, non-athletic, much smaller in stature, and never really dated many girls. Jim frequently ridiculed Robert in front of other classmates, calling him a nerd and a fagot. Maybe he disliked Robert because he knew Judy Summers felt a certain fondness toward him. Robert’s sensitive and gentle nature appealed to her and she admired his scholastic achievements and creativeness, as well. He was the antithesis of Jim Braun.

     Most of the student body in this small class of 228 were unaware of any relationship between Robert and Judy Summers. Judy was careful not to be seen too openly with Robert because she feared Jim Braun would misinterpret their friendship and hurt Robert. Somehow, they managed to share time together studying and talking about books, plays, movies and other subjects Judy couldn’t share with Jim. It was the middle of their senior year that Judy decided to end their meetings. She felt Robert was becoming too fond of her and these were feelings she could never return. She also was afraid for Robert because Jim was becoming more suspicious of her movements and extremely jealous of any boy who came near her.

     Over a year after her disappearance, the investigation was all but concluded and the authorities had come up totally empty. The FBI encouraged local authorities to focus their attention on Judy’s relationship with Jim Braun. Because of his jealous and violent reputation, Braun was interrogated over and over and placed under surveillance for years after the investigation was formally concluded. Even the parents of Judy Summers, who never really liked Braun, were convinced that he had something to do with her disappearance. Other citizens of the little community close to the summers’ family began to treat Braun with suspicion and coldness. Jim refused to leave, however, and eventually turned into the town drunk. He lost his position several years ago, as janitor of the high school and was now relegated to working as a maintenance assistant through the graces of some loyal alumni who remembered his high school athletic achievements.

     The airliner began its circling and descent pattern as the fasten seat belt sign lit up. Robert thought about Jim Braun. He deserved what he had become. How could a sweet girl like Judy Summers have been enamored by such a macho, Neanderthal, bully like Jim Braun?

     He remembered the times Braun called him a little fagot in front of other students. This made him recall a time in his early writing career when he had to dispel rumors that he might be gay because he was rarely seen with a woman. Although he never married, Robert had several relationships with women. Unlike other successful artists and writers, he was just more discreet about it. No, Robert Manchester was definitely not gay. He had found love only once, but his love was ultimately rejected. That was a long time ago, and he never found anyone since then to measure up to his standards.

     He paid the Taxi driver, leaving a healthy tip and nodded to Heinz, the doorman on duty, as he entered the lobby of the apartment building not far from downtown Manhattan. Up the elevator to the sixth floor, and once again, he was home in his quaint looking, well decorated, $4,200 a month, two bedroom little dwelling. He would unpack later. Right now, he would have a taste of his expensive Grand Mon`ieau brandy and relax quietly. The blinking messages on his answering machine could also wait.

     Seated in his most comfortable chair, Robert waited for the melancholia to arrive. It was inevitable. He would have to do what he always did when this mood came over him. This time however, the intensity was stronger than he could ever remember. He set the glass of brandy on the end table and walked to the mantel next to the hutch. Turning over the empty blue vase, a small gold key fell into his hand. Setting the vase back down on the mantel, he turned to the hutch glass door, holding the little gold key in his now slightly trembling fingers. He tried to ignore the pain which had started from his left shoulder and was now shooting across his left arm.

     The glass door was now open and in the dim light of the room, sparkled all the crystal figurines and hummels and expensive antique pieces he could tastefully crowd into this exquisite glass and gold abode known to less affluent people as a hutch.

     The writer admired his possessions briefly, then reached for a black velvet jewelry box in the center of the top shelf of the hutch. He closed his eyes as he fought back the tears. The pain in his arm became more intense and he felt the tightness beginning in his chest. He set the opened jewelry box on a lower glass shelf and clutched his arm with his right hand. The pain was almost unbearable now and he felt dizzy and nauseous. He could hardly breathe and began gasping for air as he fell to his knees on the floor in front of the hutch.

     His mind was ablaze as thoughts of his youth flashed before him. He pleaded with her to break up with Jim and be his girl. He tried to kiss her, forcing his lips on hers. But instead, she rejected him. “No, Bobby, please stop, I just don’t feel that way about you.” His passion turned to anger. He grabbed her by the throat and wouldn’t let go. When his rage calmed down, her body was limp. There was nothing else he could do but hide her in the wooded area where they had met, outside the library. Later that night, he got his father’s car and took her body to the funeral parlor. He placed her in a container and cremated her that night. The next day he scattered her ashes in the wooded area by the library where they spent most of their time together. “Yes,” he thought, “rejection is the ultimate disappointment in a man’s life.” That was Robert Manchester’s final thought as he slumped forward on the floor.

     He had no heirs and left most of his estate to a charitable foundation his attorney created for him. His estate would auction off most of the valuable personal effects he left behind. The less valuable items would be discarded and thrown in the trash -- items like the inexpensive, white pearl earring in the little black velvet jewelry box. Without a mate, it was worthless.