The Cantor Dimension (14 page)

"Oh God, no I don't! Jimmy?" Ellen turned to Jimmy, who shrugged his shoulders.

Detective Gorman turned to him. "What's your name and your relationship to the missing girl?"

"Jimmy Watson. I'm her friend," he answered uncomfortably.

Detective Gorman stared at him intently before jotting this down. He had noticed Jimmy's discomfort and made a mental note to question Jimmy later, in private. "Your address and phone number?" the detective asked. Jimmy told him and the detective turned back to Ellen. "Now, Miss Beamon, when was the last time you saw or spoke with Miss Phillips?"

"Yesterday afternoon. We were supposed to go to a wedding reception last night only she never showed up. Never even called."

"Do you know what she was wearing?"

"She was supposed to be wearing a blue dress with a white belt but I didn't see her in person yesterday."

"Those are photo albums, aren't they?" He glanced at the pile of albums on Ellen's lap.

She looked down. "Yes."

"Any pictures of Pat in there?"

"Oh yes, lots!" Ellen showed him several.

"May I have a few of these? I'd like a couple of the recent ones from last summer, and a couple of the earlier ones when she was a child."

Ellen pulled out a few pictures and handed them to Detective Gorman. He studied them. "May I have a couple of the ones that include Fred Phillips and the woman... what did you say her name was?"

"Norma, his wife," she emphasized
wife
and handed him a few more pictures.

Edna had briefed him well. He would check on these for forgery including the computer aging process that would compare the childhood photographs to the adult woman ensuring that the two were one in the same. His pen raced across the pad then he slapped it shut. "Okay then, I guess that's it for now. We'll put out an APB right away." They all stood up. He continued, "Now, if I could escort you to your car? Mr. Phillips is understandably distraught. I think we should leave him alone."

The two detectives steered Ellen and Jimmy expertly out to the driveway. "You go on home and stay close to the phone in case she calls. It would be a good idea to keep your line clear. If you're that good of a friend and she's in trouble, she might call you first. Okay?"

"Okay," Ellen and Jimmy agreed simultaneously.

As they turned away to get in Jimmy's car, Detective Gorman winked at Fred Phillips. Mr. Phillips answered with a wan smile. Meanwhile the other detective was busy jotting down Jimmy's license plate number. Ellen and Jimmy left. The detectives remained behind to talk with Mr. Phillips. Four pairs of eyes followed Jimmy's car as it disappeared down East Avenue. Mr. Phillips was the first to speak. "What do you think then, blackmail? Extortion?"

"We won't know until we can verify that these photographs are forgeries. If they are, they've been done professionally." He studied one. "They look genuine even to me! But our labs can spot a forgery no matter how well done. Don't worry, Mr. Phillips, we'll get to the bottom of this. That Jimmy," he said, almost to himself, "he's the one to go after. He was obviously not very comfortable with this whole scheme. He'd be the first to crack. What I don't understand is why someone would do such a professional forgery job and then send a couple of amateurs like Ellen and Jimmy?"

"Am I in any danger?" Mr. Phillips interrupted the detective's musings.

"No, I wouldn't think so. Not yet anyway. If anything happens call us immediately." They shook hands and the two detectives left.

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Chief Hunsinger was not eager to face the day that stretched out before him. Already he'd been reminded of UFOs and he'd been frustrated in his attempts to help a young boy. Don needed to be treated with respect, a commodity which Mrs. Duckley seemed to be lacking. Karate classes would have given Don confidence in his dealing with the bigger boys who tormented him over his name. If Don had been his own son... for a moment Chief Hunsinger regretted the absence of children in his own life. Abruptly, he shoved the thought aside and turned his attention to the matter at hand, which was locating Ann Weissmuller.

Chief Hunsinger called the police headquarters in Joliet to get a print-out of all the Weavers. He was beginning to regret his promise to Bob Weissmuller that he'd break the news to Ann.

"Lieutenant Cromwell. What can I do for you?"

"Lieutenant, this is Police Chief Hunsinger in Utica. I'm investigating a missing person's case and I need a list of all the Weavers in your area."

"Utica? Isn't that the town about halfway between Ottawa and LaSalle?"

"Yes."

"Well I'll be darned! What a coincidence! My son just moved to Utica chasing after a skirt. You know how boys are," he laughed. "It's a pretty small town, isn't it? I expect you'd know just about everyone around there, huh?"

"Just about," Chief Hunsinger answered politely, not wanting to offend the Lieutenant. He didn't want to waste time in idle chit-chat when Eric's life could be at stake. He repeated his request, "Now, about that list of Weavers..."

Cromwell interrupted. "You'd probably even know, for instance, the skirt my boy went chasing after. Her name is Debbie Darnell." Lieutenant Cromwell waited expectantly.

Chief Hunsinger sighed. He'd have to play the game - information for information. "Yes, I'm familiar with her."

"Good! Good! Then perhaps you could ease an old man's mind and tell me a bit about her."

"What exactly do you want to know?"

"Oh, nothing much. What sort of family she comes from, whether she's a troublemaker, whether many boys chase after her, just the usual."

"Miss Darnell comes from a good family, an old family who's been in the area for generations. They're farmers, a hard-working bunch. Debbie hasn't had much time for the boys. Most of her time's been spent helping out on the farm."

"And her family? Any skeletons in her closet?"

Debbie Darnell's grandfather had courted Billy Starnes' fiancee Emily before Billy had come along. In fact, Billy stole Emily away from Doug Darnell. When Billy was found murdered in his bed, the suspicion rested squarely on Doug's shoulders. Nothing was ever proven and Chief Hunsinger didn't believe that the sins of the father, or grandfather in this case, should rest on the shoulders of the descendants. "No skeletons," he answered.

"Good, good. Glad to hear it. Is she a girl a man could be proud of?"

"Well, as I said, I don't know her very well. I've encountered her a few times briefly, but yes, I'd say so."

"Good, good. Now what can I do for you?"

"Weaver. I need a list of all the Weavers in your area."

"No problem. Glad to be of assistance. Is Weaver spelled the way it sounds?"

"Yes. W-E-A-V-E-R. Weaver."

"Any particular first name? Any address?"

"No. A broad search including alternate spellings."

"Sure, no problem. Anything for a comrade, right?" Lieutenant Cromwell chuckled. "And you'll keep an eye on my boy, won't you?"

"Yes, I'll keep an eye on him," Chief Hunsinger promised.

Lieutenant Cromwell faxed him a print out of all the Weavers. Hunsinger called every single name and not one had heard of Ann Weissmuller. He tried calling all the Weissmullers and got the same dead end. He concluded that Eric's father had been more distraught then he appeared when he'd given the information about his wife. Hell, Bob had probably already called his wife and she was on her way back to Utica while he, Chief Hunsinger, wasted his time on the telephone.

He'd wanted to call her personally to gauge her reaction to the news. Often a disappearance turned into a murder and family was usually involved. So far the reactions to Eric's disappearance were decidedly bizarre. Perhaps Bob Weissmuller could provide more useful information than he had previously. The Chief called Eric's father.

"Mr. Weissmuller? This is Chief Hunsinger. Has your wife returned from her sister's yet?"

"Naw, not yet."

"Have you spoken with her?"

"Naw. Now that's a funny thing, too. I called over there to her sister Mary's and nobody'd ever heard of Ann. They didn't know who I was, either."

Bob Weissmuller sounded far too calm for a man who'd been informed that his sister-in-law didn't know him. "Are you sure you called the right number?"

"Yeah, ahm sure. It's right here next to the telephone. Ann's always kept us organized around here."

"Doesn't it bother you that you can't find your wife?"

"Naw. I heard about them lights in the sky. Strange things always happen when you see lights in the sky. No use t'worrying over it. God's will be done, I reckon. Nothin' I can do about it."

Chief Hunsinger grimaced. He felt the beginnings of a migraine headache. "Well, if you hear from your wife let me know," he instructed before hanging up. He fumbled through his desk drawer for a Valium. He wasn't supposed to be taking it for headaches but the sedative properties helped him sleep which was usually the only way to throw off the headache.

He thought about Eric. It looked as if the whole town believed that space aliens had come visiting. He'd never solve this case with all these crackpot theories floating around. What was beginning to bother him more than Eric's disappearance were the odd denials surrounding his mother, Ann, and Bob Weissmuller's bland acceptance of it.

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Another theory regarding the murder of Edmond Halley was connected to his business as a soap-boiler which was full of political intrigue and dead bodies.

On excavating a cellar for the New Fountain Inn in Strood, thirty-one skeletons were found buried therein. They were presumed to have died in the hospital which had once been located there. These gruesome fragments of humans past were not taken to a graveyard and given a proper burial as one would expect; they were conveyed to a bone merchant who collected the carcasses, bones, horns and hooves of dead animals and they were treated the same as animal remains. While a reputable bone merchant would purchase only animal bones, a disreputable bone collector would not be so discriminating.

Animal fat could be extracted and turned into tallow for candles and soap-making. The low quality tallow would have a greenish-brown color and was used for laundry soap and lubricants. Higher quality tallow, which was not contaminated with stomach waste, could be used for personal soaps, candles and cooking lard.

Hooves were turned into buttons, hair pins, fertilizer and glue. If the entire carcass was available, the intestines and bladder became sausage casings, brewer's hose and snuff packages. Tail hair produced stuffing for mattresses and upholstery. Bones were turned into buttons, glue, polish, and leather dressing. Other body parts were used as well and no part of the carcass went to waste. Carcasses and bones were a profitable business.

Glue could be sold to a drysalter, who was a merchant that specialized in glue, varnish, dye, salt, pickles, flax, hemp, potash, and dried meat. Tallow was sold to the soap-boilers. Edmond Halley was both a salter and a soap-boiler so he would have been a good customer of the bone merchants.

The big soap-boiler operations used iron boilers called
soap pans
or
coppers
which could hold up to thirty tons of material. They could produce a variety of soaps including curd soap, mottled soap, yellow soap, marine soap, silicate soap, soft soap, toilet soap, arsenic soap, and medicated soap.

The business of soap boiling in England did not exist until the 1500s when a monopoly of soap-boilers was created in London. The London soap-boilers produced as much as 5000 tons of soap per year. As Edmond's father was a vintner who was in the business of making wine, presumably Edmond did not inherit the soap business from his father but built it himself sometime in the 1600s.

At the height of the monopoly of the soap-boilers of London in 1631, Sir William Russell acquired a patent for soap-making which was promptly transferred to Sir Henry Compton. A corporation was formed to manufacture the new type of soap and a legal battle began between the new corporation in Westminster and the London soap-boilers.

Fish oil was one of the primary ingredients in the London soaps but not the Westminster soaps, and thus became a target in the legal battle. In 1632, the soapers of Westminster obtained a proclamation from King Charles I prohibiting the use of fish oil in soap, and which also prohibited the sale of any soap not approved by their own assayers. This put the soap-boilers of London at the mercy of their Westminster competitors.

Complaints arose from the townsfolk over the new Westminster soaps which were said to burn the hands of the washerwomen and spoil and burn the linens. As the soapers of Westminster were paying money to the king for every ton of soap they sold, the king sided with Westminster and the accusations were dismissed.

The fish oil prohibition did not stop the soap-boilers of London from making their soaps with fish oil, which they began to sell in unmarked packages at a higher price. The townspeople much preferred the fish oil soap and were willing to pay the higher price for it.

In retaliation, the soapers of Westminster pressed charges and sixteen of the soap-boilers of London were put on trial for the violations. The Londoners argued that the Westminster patent was a monopoly, which put the patent at odds with the laws of the kingdom. As the king himself was profiting from the patent their arguments fell on deaf ears and all sixteen were committed to Newgate Prison, which was an odious place filled with robbers, murderers and witches.

The sixteen soap-boilers were:

James Baker
William Barber
Robert Barefoot
Richard Cox
Edwin Griffin
John Hardwicke
John Hayes
Richard Hinde
Thomas Munck
Thomas Overman Jr.
Thomas Overman Sr.
John Revell
Jacob Troughton
Thomas Washer
Symon Weeden
Edmund Whitwell

Of the sixteen, two died in Newgate Prison and the rest were imprisoned for no less than ten months after which they agreed never to make soap again. Halley was not among them, so he was not bound by the agreement.