STANTONVILLE JEWELER HOMICIDE VICTIM
A longtime Stantonville resident and businessman was found dead in his shop, Excellent Jewelers, late last night. Police responded to a phone call saying the door to the shop was open even though the Closed sign was still hanging in it. Officer James Kotziwinkle found Wilhelm Heinrich in the back room, the door of which was also open. When asked if the motive was robbery, Stantonville Police Chief William Yardley said, “Although this crime is still being investigated, that would appear to be a no-brainer.” When asked if anyone heard sounds of a struggle, or perhaps gunshots, neither Chief Yardley nor Detective Israel Butcher of the Illinois State Police would comment, except to say that most of the businesses at the west end of Stantonville’s main street have been vacant since the advent of the mall outside of town. Excellent Jewelers was a notable exception. Yardley and Butcher have promised “a swift resolution to the case.”
The lunch bell went, but I sat where I was and called Mr. Bowditch. He answered as he always did: “If this is a telemarketer, take me off your list.”
“It’s me, Howard. Mr. Heinrich has been murdered.”
Long pause. Then: “How do you know?”
I looked around. The library was a no-lunch zone, and now empty except for me, so I read him the article. It didn’t take long.
“Damn,” Mr. Bowditch said when I finished. “Where am I supposed to trade off the gold now? He’s been my go-to for almost twenty-five years.” No sympathy whatsoever. Not even any surprise, at least that I could detect.
“I’ll do some Internet searches—”
“Carefully! Discreetly!”
“Sure, I’ll be discreet as all hell, but I think you’re missing the point here. You did a big deal with him, a huge deal, and now he’s dead. If someone got your name out of him… if he was tortured, or even promised that he wouldn’t be killed…”
“You’ve been reading too many of my old paperbacks, Charlie. You traded those six pounds of gold for me last April.”
“Not exactly the Dark Ages,” I said.
He paid no attention. “I don’t like blaming the victim, but he simply wouldn’t leave that shop of his in that saggy-ass little town. The last time I did a deal with him in person, this was probably four months before I fell off the ladder, I told him ‘Willy, if you don’t shut this place up and move out to the mall, someone is going to rob you.’ Someone finally did, and killed him in the bargain. That’s your simple explanation.”
“Just the same, I’d feel better if you brought your gun downstairs.”
“If it will make you feel better, fine. Are you coming after school?”
“No, I thought I’d go out to Stantonville and see if I could score some crack.”
“The humor of young people is crude and rarely funny,” Mr. Bowditch said, and hung up.
By the time I got in the lunch line it was a mile long and whatever slop the caff was serving would probably be cold. I didn’t mind. I was thinking about the gold. Mr. Bowditch had said that at his age it was just a bucket of metal. Maybe so, but I thought he was either lying or being disingenuous.
Otherwise, why would he have so much?
9
That was on Wednesday. I paid for the Elgin newspaper so I could get it on my phone, and on Friday there was another story, this time on the front page of the Area News section: STANTONVILLE MAN ARRESTED IN JEWELRY STORE ROBBERY-MURDER. The arrestee was identified as Benjamin Dwyer, 44, “of no fixed address.” Which I assumed meant homeless. The proprietor of the Stantonville Pawn & Loan called the cops when Dwyer tried to pawn a diamond ring “of considerable value.” At the police station he was also found to be in possession of a bracelet studded with emeralds. The police rightly considered these rather suspicious possessions for a man of no fixed address.
“There, you see?” Mr. Bowditch said when I showed him the article. “A stupid man committed a stupid crime and was arrested when he tried to convert his spoils to cash in a stupid way. It wouldn’t make a very good mystery story, would it? Even of the paperback-quickie type.”
“I guess not.”
“You still look bothered.” We were in the kitchen, watching Radar eat her evening meal. “A Coke might cure that.” He got up and went to the refrigerator, hardly limping at all.
I took the Coke, but it didn’t cure what was bothering me. “That back room of his was filled with jewelry. There was even a tiara with diamonds, like a princess would wear to a ball.”