Murder at 250 Center Street

Chapter One

“State desk, Shelby.”

“Hi. This is Doc Thornton, your stringer from Moundsville.”

(I think to myself, of course you’re my stringer from Moundsville, Doc. Who else do I have there but you?)

“What’s up, Doc?” (I cannot help but pull that corny Bugs Bunny quip with him.)

“Friend of mine works at the hospital’s emergency room. She tells me they got an abandoned baby that needs a lot of attention.”

“Doc, that’s worth about a paragraph. Just give me what you’ve got, and then keep in touch.”

(He had not been one of my more aggressive small town correspondents. Sure, he called in those items that mainly interested small town people, but once in a while he fed me an item that I could use for my weekly column. Still, I figured he was worth the $25 a month retainer I paid the other 30 stringers I supervised.)

The next day, Doc called again.

“I hope you’re sitting down,” he began. “You ain’t gonna believe this. I figure it might be worth a little something extra in my paycheck.” (Yeah, sure, Doc. Dream on.)

“You’re treading on thin ice here, my friend. Whatcha got?”

“How about a second abandoned baby”

“Get outta here, Doc.”

“Well, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet. Would you believe the second one also was found in the same basement?”

“You’ve got my attention now, Doc. Keep going.”

(Doc probably could hear my typewriter clicking away in the background.)

“The first one, a girl, has red hair. The second, a boy, has dark hair. And . . .”

“You’re pushing your luck again, Doc.”

“Okay, okay. They’re both preemies.”

“So what? Lots of twins are preemies.”

“Yeah, but the woman doctor who works the emergency room says they’re from the same mother.”

“Doc, I know you’re not a doctor but a retired pharmacist with that nickname, but what you’re talking about is what we call fraternal twins. So, anything else? By the way, did you say they were found in a basement?”

“Oh, yeah. I guess I better find out more about that angle.”

“Yes, I guess you better had. That intrigues me.”

Shelby’s boss, the state editor, was off that day, so she went to City Editor Jack Clowson. (The story may not sound much, but the basement angle might make for a good story and get me back into good graces with Clowson.)

* * * * *

When Jake and Sally Cummings moved into their second floor apartment at 250 Center Street, they did not have much furniture, but the one bedroom unit was all they could afford.

After unpacking their few boxes, they took them down to the basement. As they were about to leave, Sally said she thought she heard a noise. “Probably some rats,” Jake joked. Sally headed in the direction of the sound. As she came around a corner of a dark area near the furnace, she turned to Jake. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I hear a baby crying.” Jake did not move toward her, but added, “Probably a cat, not a rat.” Sally did not appreciate his attempt at humor. “Jake, go back upstairs and get a flashlight. I can’t see a thing here.”

When he returned and turned it on, the beam focused on what looked like an old wrapped-up rug, but what turned out to be a blanket. Sally gently unwrapped it and almost dropped the whimpering baby. “Jake, get the apartment manager to call for an ambulance. The baby needs to get to the hospital quick.

The ambulance arrived 10 minutes later.

* * * * *

As slowly as Doc gave his last detail, the faster Shelby typed. (At least Clowson said six paragraphs would be worth an 18-point headline, so that’s a start. Damn, that’s not enough for a byline. Shit.)