a street sign and take off my heels. The sidewalk was cool against my feet, and kind of sticky. I tried not to think of all the disgusting stuff I was probably stepping in. Barf, urine, pizza grease, spilled beer—no, I wasn’t going to think of that, but the moment I got home I was scrubbing my feet with that anti-bacterial stuff.
It was a long walk before I hailed down a ride, and the taxi from the Inner Harbor to my apartment was stupidly expensive. My feet were filthy. I was angry at Dario, and angrier at his Mistress. I was also worrying about my looming deadline.
But first things first. After scrubbing my feet practically raw, I curled up on the sofa and opened my laptop. I typed in “Lincoln Robertson”, his date of death, and “Baltimore”.
God bless those Google people. I was well aware that there were still things that would require my journeying into the dark recesses of a records room with miles of microfiche, but computers made preliminary research so easy. Even the Templar Librarians had begun cataloging electronically and scanning manuscripts. They’d never be available over the internet, but it was nice to know there were back-up records and a speedier way of searching than sitting at a table, paging through papyrus with gloved hands.
The obit came up first. Funeral service details and place of eternal rest were given for the family. No “in lieu of flowers” request to hint at cause of death. The pre-deceased by list was short, and one name stuck out—a daughter, Shay Robertson. I made a note of the name. There hadn’t been a marker for Shay Robertson at the cemetery that I could remember. She could have been buried elsewhere, especially if she’d died as an infant. Still, it was worth checking.
The survived-by list was much longer. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Lincoln’s mother had still been alive as well as his wife’s parents. They’d come from large families, both with multiple brothers and sisters with their spouses and children. I was going to need another piece of paper if this continued. Finally I paused at the last name. Russell Robertson, a son.
I frowned. The whole family had died on the same day, minus a daughter that had died before them…and this Russell. The eldest child’s grave had been Lincoln Junior, so I assumed Russell was a younger child. Where had he been? What had happened that shielded him from whatever killed the rest of his family?
I closed out the tab with the obituary and pulled up the next one. Parents and Three Children Found Murdered . I winced at the pictures of the family smiling at the camera in their Sunday finest, at school photos of the children. They’d been found by the surviving child and his aunt, who had been bringing him home from a sleep-over. There was some conjecture that the murders were gang related.
I didn’t know much about gangs, but I couldn’t see them just randomly killing a family of five. It seemed a bit excessive to be an initiation rite. Could Lincoln Junior have been involved in a gang, and this was revenge by a rival group? I made a quick note to check, even though juvenile crimes weren’t public record.
Follow-up articles to the murder were scant on information. Police asked the public to come forward with any information. There was a suspect questioned, but released. That was it. No charges made. It seemed as if this remained an unsolved case. And the only way for me to dig further would be to get off my butt and check police records. Tomorrow. When it was daylight and normal people were up and working.
Which left me staring at the books I’d been perusing prior to Dario’s arrival. This was the other end of the project, the one that got me paid and kept me from dying an early death. I fingered my personal grimoire. Why not? It was almost midnight on a Thursday, I was wide awake thanks to caffeine that even a few glasses of wine couldn’t negate. I might as well summon myself up a demon and put this project to
It was a long walk before I hailed down a ride, and the taxi from the Inner Harbor to my apartment was stupidly expensive. My feet were filthy. I was angry at Dario, and angrier at his Mistress. I was also worrying about my looming deadline.
But first things first. After scrubbing my feet practically raw, I curled up on the sofa and opened my laptop. I typed in “Lincoln Robertson”, his date of death, and “Baltimore”.
God bless those Google people. I was well aware that there were still things that would require my journeying into the dark recesses of a records room with miles of microfiche, but computers made preliminary research so easy. Even the Templar Librarians had begun cataloging electronically and scanning manuscripts. They’d never be available over the internet, but it was nice to know there were back-up records and a speedier way of searching than sitting at a table, paging through papyrus with gloved hands.
The obit came up first. Funeral service details and place of eternal rest were given for the family. No “in lieu of flowers” request to hint at cause of death. The pre-deceased by list was short, and one name stuck out—a daughter, Shay Robertson. I made a note of the name. There hadn’t been a marker for Shay Robertson at the cemetery that I could remember. She could have been buried elsewhere, especially if she’d died as an infant. Still, it was worth checking.
The survived-by list was much longer. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Lincoln’s mother had still been alive as well as his wife’s parents. They’d come from large families, both with multiple brothers and sisters with their spouses and children. I was going to need another piece of paper if this continued. Finally I paused at the last name. Russell Robertson, a son.
I frowned. The whole family had died on the same day, minus a daughter that had died before them…and this Russell. The eldest child’s grave had been Lincoln Junior, so I assumed Russell was a younger child. Where had he been? What had happened that shielded him from whatever killed the rest of his family?
I closed out the tab with the obituary and pulled up the next one. Parents and Three Children Found Murdered . I winced at the pictures of the family smiling at the camera in their Sunday finest, at school photos of the children. They’d been found by the surviving child and his aunt, who had been bringing him home from a sleep-over. There was some conjecture that the murders were gang related.
I didn’t know much about gangs, but I couldn’t see them just randomly killing a family of five. It seemed a bit excessive to be an initiation rite. Could Lincoln Junior have been involved in a gang, and this was revenge by a rival group? I made a quick note to check, even though juvenile crimes weren’t public record.
Follow-up articles to the murder were scant on information. Police asked the public to come forward with any information. There was a suspect questioned, but released. That was it. No charges made. It seemed as if this remained an unsolved case. And the only way for me to dig further would be to get off my butt and check police records. Tomorrow. When it was daylight and normal people were up and working.
Which left me staring at the books I’d been perusing prior to Dario’s arrival. This was the other end of the project, the one that got me paid and kept me from dying an early death. I fingered my personal grimoire. Why not? It was almost midnight on a Thursday, I was wide awake thanks to caffeine that even a few glasses of wine couldn’t negate. I might as well summon myself up a demon and put this project to
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