Deceived (13 page)

“You wrapped it up in a few sentences to me,” he said, his eyes on the road as he maneuvered his car through lunch-time foot traffic and a construction zone. “Succinctly, without sounding pathetic.”

“There’s something about you that makes me capable of saying exactly what’s on my mind,” she paused. It was because he was nice. Really, really nice. “And I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t blab. I don’t usually, you know.”

“You’ll figure it all out.”

With the disappointment of leaving the district attorney’s office so fresh, she wasn’t sure. “I hope so.”

The stark, khaki-green exterior of the museum came into view, reminding her of Lisa’s research. Taylor asked, “Have you spoken with Joe this morning?”

“Briefly, to tell him what Marvin has uncovered. Since I dragged you to Marvin’s house last night, I thought I’d keep you in the loop, if you’re interested.” He glanced at her. She nodded. “Evidently, according to Marvin, some bad-ass named Tilly Rochelle went around town last night bragging about killing Lisa as his entry into a gang called the Gravier Street Kings. Marvin also told me that one of the kids that Tilly bragged to is at the station, trying to help himself. You may already know that.”

Taylor nodded as Brandon pulled into the parking lot. Marvin really was good. So far, he had picked up on everything the police had learned.

“Also,” Brandon continued, “Marvin called to tell me that someone found Lisa’s backpack and purse in Central City, yesterday, on Calliope Street, not five blocks from Tilly’s last known address.”

“That’s news to me,” Taylor said, “Does Joe know that?”

“If he doesn’t know it yet,” Brandon said as he parked the car, “according to Marvin, he will shortly.”

“So if Tilly killed her as a gang-initiation rite, it makes the theorizing that we did last night about Lisa’s research somehow playing a part in the murder seem far-fetched, doesn’t it?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m ready to forget about the theory, because I’m not sure it’s as simple as a gang thing. The Gravier Street Kings don’t require murder as an entry fee. The Kings are a pretty sophisticated bunch and, from what I’ve learned from Marvin, Tilly is well-known on the streets as a stupid punk from a long line of dumb criminals. The Kings wouldn’t let Tilly anywhere near them, but Tilly might not know that and want a kill to impress them. According to Marvin, Tilly is claiming on the streets that Lisa was shot in the head,” Brandon paused, “and as far as I know, that fact hasn’t been released to the public. So Joe and Tony have to take this news about Tilly seriously, because Tilly knows a critical fact that hasn’t been released to the public.”

“Well, it is logical for the police to focus on Tilly,” Taylor said. “How would Tilly know that she was shot in the head, if he wasn’t involved?”

“Small-town mentality runs rampant even in the big city. Hell. I know that Lisa was shot in the head, and I didn’t learn it from Joe or Tony. I know it because Marvin talked to the right people. Tilly may know it because people who work in the coroner’s office have talked. Or,” he shrugged, “Lisa was there for a while before her murder was called in. Tilly or one of his punk friends could have seen her before the police received the call, and, as far as I know, the police still don’t know who made that call.” Brandon paused. “The kicker is that if Joe and Tony focus on Tilly, they won’t be focused on Lisa’s research.”

“I looked up Tilly Rochelle’s picture,” Taylor said, “he’s not the person who flashed his lights on Melody Street while I was there. Tilly also isn’t the person who was looking in the window at Lisa’s house.”

He gave her a kind but doubtful glance. “Last night you couldn’t describe either man to me.”

“I know,” she said, “but as first impressions go, I’d say no. Tilly is small, almost scrawny, and he’s dark black. The person on Melody Street and at Lisa’s house was either a light-skinned black man or a white man, and he wasn’t small.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure what that means, but after I saw the photograph of Tilly, I placed a call to Joe. I figured I better tell him what happened and my observations regarding Tilly.”

Brandon asked, “Is there any reason why anyone would be following you right now?” She shook her head. “Did you get the alarm company to your house?”

“They’re coming at three. Carolyn will meet them.”

The stark lines of the museum beckoned them. Taylor stepped out of the car, as Brandon did. The complex had sprawling buildings that covered two city blocks. Three of the buildings were open to the public and had been, in various phases, since 2000. The fourth and largest building would be open on July 4th. Taylor gestured with her chin in the direction of the original building, as her phone buzzed with a text message. She pulled her phone out of her purse.

Andi wrote, “
I have a date this evening. Can you do something with Colette?
”

Taylor responded,
“Sure.”

“Good. C. promised she’d go for a walk today. She was down last nite, but better this a.m. Even said she might try to stop taking so many meds.”

“Great news. Really.”

Collette was on antidepressants and, after Alicia’s death, she had a habit of mixing them with anti-anxiety medicine and sleeping pills. Taylor and Andi had grown concerned to the point of being alarmed.

Taylor sent a quick text to Collette,
“Hey. Want to do something tonight?”

She held onto the phone as she and Brandon walked towards the main entrance. Collette did not reply. Taylor dropped the phone in her purse. She made a mental note to call Collette after she left the museum.

Chapter Eight

Brandon had been to the museum before, but not for history’s sake. The museum and especially the Paul Taylor Atrium, named after Taylor’s maternal grandfather, was a popular venue for large fundraisers. The atrium was the official entryway and led to the museum’s other exhibits. Glass ceilings were three stories high. World War II era fighting planes hung from steel supports. Military craft were parked on the floor. A red, white, and blue banner announced the July 4th opening of the new Infamy Wing. The only names of benefactors that warranted placement on the banner were Hutchenson, Bartholomew, and Westerfeld. The HBW names were also carved in a marble wall that displayed the museum’s original founders.

When he could, Brandon avoided the museum, the same as he avoided anything that related to his family’s history. His presence had been required there at a handful of large political fundraisers over the last few years. He usually walked in late, found the people he needed to see, said what was necessary, then left.

Now, the atrium wasn’t nearly as crowded as it was for fundraisers. His stomach knotted as Taylor walked through the atrium and straight to a Hutchenson Landing Craft, which was part of the museum’s permanent display. The boat’s functional simplicity seemed archaic when compared to modern military transportation devices and high-tech weapons, yet there was genius in the simplicity. The stark atrium paid proper homage to the large vessel, isolating it from other displays.

Minimalist signboards explained the features that made the boat unique. The khaki-green, flat-bottom craft had a ramp in the bow, which was open in the display model. The ramp enabled troops to disembark, combat ready, and enabled jeeps to drive into and out of the boat.

“When I was young,” Brandon said, “my father built a tabletop model of the boat and explained to Victor and me how my grandfather had designed the ramp. It seems like a simple concept now, but at the time, it was revolutionary. According to my father, my grandfather came up with the idea to put a ramp in the bow and to make the ramp extend across the beam of the boat. The width of the ramp was important, because it meant that there wasn’t a bottleneck of troops.”

Taylor’s attention was focused on him. She had a slight frown. “I’ve never had the impression that your grandfather designed anything on the boat. As these displays explain, it was named the Hutchenson Landing Craft because Hutchenson was the primary designer.”

Brandon shook his head. “My grandfather didn’t have money to invest or connections with people in charge of military contracting. Why else do you think they made him a partner?”

“I don’t know, but the exhibits here don’t support your father’s theory.”

Brandon hadn’t expected the museum’s exhibits to make long-forgotten memories return, but they did. “My father had original design drawings. I can still see them in my mind. He’d unroll them on the kitchen table, and go through each line, each idea, each concept, explaining how his father was a maritime genius, despite the lack of a formal education. He even had the original stamp that my grandfather used to mark his drawings.”

The museum’s signboard that explained the landing craft’s features told of how Hutchenson, Bartholomew, and Westerfeld built the prototype for the boat, with Hutchenson being the primary designer.

“Thank God the museum wasn’t built in my father’s lifetime. The absence of my grandfather’s name would have killed him.” He returned his attention to the signboard, which explained that the landing craft that had enabled the United States to secure a victory on the Normandy beaches was a hybrid of a Louisiana swamp boat and a combat boat that was used by the Japanese. Below the description, President Eisenhower was quoted as saying that the Hutchenson Landing Craft had enabled the Allies to change the course of the war.

The next signboard explained that when it was developed, the boat had been a tough sell to the United States armed forces, and the men of HBW faced financial pressure. Hutchenson, the original founder of HBW and an engineer with boat-building expertise, was nearly bankrupt from the depression. Bartholomew had family money and an engineering degree. Westerfeld, also an engineer, had contacts in the Government and political savvy. Westerfeld persuaded his Government contacts to attend a secret beach trial on Lake Pontchartrain around the same time that Hitler succeeded in seizing major European ports. After a 1940 trial showed that the landing craft could enable an army to land on a beach and therefore make ports irrelevant to an Allied landing, the Marines placed an order for 20,000 units. Bartholomew was credited with developing plans for assembly-line, mass production, while Hutchenson was credited with the major engineering innovations that were incorporated into the boat.

One small signboard near the rear of the display explained that somewhere between the perfection of the design and the beginning of its production for the military, one of HBW’s workers and a partner in the early days of the business, Benjamin Morrissey, had contacted the Nazis. Brandon’s heart pounded as he read the short account of his grandfather’s criminal offense.

Only words on a board,
he told himself.
Only words.

The board said that before Morrissey managed to give the Nazis the design plans and tell them that there were 20,000 boats on order, he was arrested. Benjamin Morrissey was charged with attempting to sell military secrets to a known enemy. A jury had convicted him of the crime in 1944. Morrissey died in prison. The company that was once named HBW&M became the modern day HBW Shipbuilding Enterprises.

Son of a bitch.
One day he’d have to explain this bullshit to Michael. His gut twisted as he stepped away from the exhibit. He sure as hell hoped that he did a better job than his own father had.

“Tough to read?” Taylor placed a hand on his arm, a soft gesture of compassion as he absorbed the reality of the hard facts that pre-dated his existence.

“Not easy to see in black and white,” he said, “but I have my mother to thank for the fact that those words, and my grandfather’s misdeeds, didn’t wreck my life like they wrecked my father’s.”

“How is she doing, with the news of your brother?”

Taylor’s soft tone, the quiet pause in her words, combined with her expressive eyes, conveyed genuine concern. “I haven’t told her. I’m going to visit her after my hearing,” he shrugged, “Kate will go with me. I’m taking Michael. You know, bad news with good.” He glanced around the atrium. “Lisa’s notes indicated that part of Rorsch’s memoirs were here,” he said, referring to the U.S. Government agent who, according to Lisa’s notes, had been instrumental in his grandfather’s arrest. “And I don’t see design drawings of the landing craft.”

“There’s more upstairs,” she arched an eyebrow, “where I’m guessing you’ve never been.”

He looked into her eyes. “Not once.”

Taylor led the way, stepping through a troop of cub scouts, then into a time-lined exhibit room. Brandon stopped at a spy exhibit, remembering that Lisa’s notes had a cryptic notation that included Rorsch, documents, and Dallas. Brandon found Rorsch’s name amidst timelines and graphic depictions of people who had been caught by government agents in treasonous activities. The exhibit indicated Rorsch oversaw the investigation that had resulted in his grandfather’s arrest and conviction. A few pages of handwritten notes were displayed, one describing that South Louisiana, with the port of New Orleans, was a hotbed of spy activity, and another describing a meeting that took place in 1940, in the restroom of Antoine’s Restaurant. According to Rorsch, he worked undercover as a Nazi sympathizer when Benjamin Morrissey had attempted to sell to Rorsch the design drawings for the Hutchenson Landing Craft.

“Lisa was looking for a complete copy of Rorsch’s memoirs, right?” Taylor asked.

Brandon nodded. “And now Pete is tracking that down, along with trial transcripts and other open-ended questions from Lisa’s notes.”

They entered another room, where display cases housed architectural drawings of the landing craft. His heart pounded as he paused at each one. “My father had these drawings.”

The first drawing depicted the landing craft with the ramp sealed shut. Along the left margin, his grandfather had marked neat, hand-written measurements for every conceivable angle of the boat. He could hear his father’s voice.

Look Victor. Look Brandon. In this drawing, the landing craft is an ordinary boat. But your grandfather’s numbers, here, tell of the possibilities.

The second drawing had two renderings. In the first, the ramp was one-third of the way open. In the second, a side view, the ramp was half open and the boat was approaching a beach.

You see, the Allies had lost control of the ports. To have any hope of beating Hitler, they needed to land troops, weapons, and vehicles on the beaches. Your grandfather’s boat could land on a beach, bow first, the ramp would open, and troops could walk off.

The third and final drawing had been the best, the one that always held Brandon’s attention the longest. It was a frontal view with the ramp wide open, and it showed men in full uniform stepping off with weapons ready for combat. Centered in the bow, a jeep was driving onto the beach.

Your grandfather understood the mechanics, the weights, the measures. The boats never failed, Brandon. Remember that, Victor. Your grandfather’s boats delivered the men who made World War II turn in our favor. Don’t you ever forget that.

Brandon retraced his steps, stopping at each drawing. With each short step, his heart pounded harder. “My father showed these drawings to us. Night after night. He didn’t teach us the alphabet, or how to throw a baseball. He didn’t help us with our homework. He showed us these drawings,” he paused. Other museum patrons stared at him. He stood closer to Taylor and dropped his voice, “And the original drawings that he had were signed by his father.” Brandon pointed to the signature at the bottom of the maps. “Not Hutchenson, as these are signed. Benjamin Morrissey signed each drawing, and his name isn’t on any of these.”

Taylor shook her head. “Maybe each engineer prepared their own drawings.”

Her eyes were leveled on him, her arms were loose at her sides, and she was as composed as he’d ever seen her. It would take way more than his childhood memories to make her doubt the story that the museum told. Still, what she was saying didn’t make sense to him. “They would have had duplicates, but not multiple, competing versions. That’s not how engineers work.”

“Maybe your grandfather’s plans weren’t used, or maybe they all played a part in the design.”

“And maybe my father got it wrong?”

“Maybe,” Taylor’s voice dropped to a low whisper, “until now, I didn’t think that you believed your father.”

Her words hit deep and brought to the surface complex feelings from his childhood when he was faced with a parent whose mental thought processes were less than healthy. “I don’t know that I ever disbelieved him. I do know that his obsession scared me. As for now,” Brandon paused. He breathed in deep, then exhaled. His pulse slowed, thank God. He lost the feeling of being a vulnerable kid and he was able to focus on the reason why he was roaming through the World War II museum with Taylor. His son’s mother. Lisa. Her research. Her questions. “I’m not sure whether I believe his theory. Until now, I can’t say that I cared one way or another. But now, Lisa was asking the same questions, and I’d like to know if she found answers.”

“Lisa’s notes indicated that she was looking for the original drawings.” He paused, staring at the uniform, black ink on the drawings. He’d have sworn that his grandfather’s drawings were in blue ink. The paper in the museum wasn’t aged. “These documents look like copies to me.” He glanced at the explanatory signboards, retracing his steps to the room’s initial display regarding the Hutchenson Landing Craft. Taylor followed him. “The archives of HBW Enterprises are credited with providing documentation regarding the landing craft. Last night you mentioned that the corporate office has documents and your father has a private library. These copies are probably from documents that are in one of those places. I’d like to see the originals.”

Taylor folded her arms and turned to him. “You’re insinuating that the museum is selectively displaying historical artifacts. Are you suggesting that someone from the World War II museum, or HBW, or possibly my own father, removed your grandfather’s name?”

“Yes,” Brandon said, “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

Her back was straight, her shoulders were squared, and her eyes were narrowed. “That’s offensive.”

He shrugged. “Sorry. I know what I saw. I know what my father’s documents indicated, and he had originals.”

“Where are your father’s documents now?”

“Our home burned in a fire when I was seven. The documents were destroyed.”

“You said that your father died when you were seven.”

“He did,” Brandon said. “It was one hell of a bad year.”

Greenish-brown eyes held his gaze, imparting sympathy. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It was a long, long time ago. I’m past it.”

He guessed that his callousness was contagious, because her eyes hardened as she studied him. “You can’t use your memory from when you were seven years old to accuse people of forgery.”

It sounded implausible, he knew, but he remembered staring at his grandfather’s rough signature. Night. After night. After night. “I think that I can.”