Chapter 19 starts Delores Sparne rising early to clean her son's laundry.
Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.
Richard’s mother, Delores Sparne, rose early. She was unaware of the previous night’s quasi-confrontation between her husband and son. But that didn’t matter. Her child could do no wrong.
She tiptoed into Richard’s room and gathered up his pile of dirty clothes. Pausing by his dormant form, she resisted an urge to reach out and brush his tussled hair. Satisfied that his sleep was peaceful, she began her household chores.
The washer and dryer were in the drab, concrete block basement of their old home. The early morning creak of her aging bones rivaled that of the open railed stairs she descended. Some day soon she wouldn’t be able to hear the steps at all over her own reverberation.
Once in the basement, she emptied her basket on a dinged and dyed rectangular table. Delores separated and inspected the clothes prior to washing. Richard’s brightly colored plaid shirt and old jeans contained brown flecks that reminded her of blood stains. She knew they weren’t blood stains though, because Richard wasn’t a little boy anymore, running around the neighborhood getting banged up. Probably food and oil and grit and all the other things a young man would deal with.
Delores sprinkled detergent on the shirt and tried to scrub the larger spots. She held the jeans by the waist and laid them straight across her stand. When she ran her hand across the fabric, she felt something in the back pocket. Another index card with a name and address. Richard may need this, she thought, and placed it in her apron pocket, trying at the same time to recall what she had done with the other index card. When all the clothes had passed muster, she loaded them, started the cycle, and trudged back upstairs.
Halfway up, she heard a stirring in the kitchen. At the top of the stairs, she said good morning to her husband. He was standing at the counter, pouring coffee. They met in the middle of the room and hugged each other. She joined him at the table for a morning cup. He spared her his concern about their son.
When Richard straggled out, he didn’t join them. Didn’t hug anyone, either. By then, Delores had forgotten about the white lined card in her apron. Later, she found its mate and put both of them on the counter, standing them against the wall near the coffee pot. She’d see them whenever she got a cup of coffee as a reminder to return them to Richard.
Carol Lombard heard the alarm at seven. Her and Ray had slept in semi-fetal positions on their sides, backs facing each other. Carol’s backside extended over the midline of the bed, into Ray’s space. He was up at the third ring of the clock and curled his bent form, half on/half off the bed. His big hands went to his face and he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes.
After a few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder, recognized Carol’s attractive, rounded flesh and reached over to pat the moon. Through tired lips, without moving, Carol managed a “Hey, Baby.” She didn’t hear him shower, dress, or leave.
Chapter 19
Richard’s mother, Delores Sparne, rose early. She was unaware of the previous night’s quasi-confrontation between her husband and son. But that didn’t matter. Her child could do no wrong.
She tiptoed into Richard’s room and gathered up his pile of dirty clothes. Pausing by his dormant form, she resisted an urge to reach out and brush his tussled hair. Satisfied that his sleep was peaceful, she began her household chores.
The washer and dryer were in the drab, concrete block basement of their old home. The early morning creak of her aging bones rivaled that of the open railed stairs she descended. Some day soon she wouldn’t be able to hear the steps at all over her own reverberation.
Once in the basement, she emptied her basket on a dinged and dyed rectangular table. Delores separated and inspected the clothes prior to washing. Richard’s brightly colored plaid shirt and old jeans contained brown flecks that reminded her of blood stains. She knew they weren’t blood stains though, because Richard wasn’t a little boy anymore, running around the neighborhood getting banged up. Probably food and oil and grit and all the other things a young man would deal with.
Delores sprinkled detergent on the shirt and tried to scrub the larger spots. She held the jeans by the waist and laid them straight across her stand. When she ran her hand across the fabric, she felt something in the back pocket. Another index card with a name and address. Richard may need this, she thought, and placed it in her apron pocket, trying at the same time to recall what she had done with the other index card. When all the clothes had passed muster, she loaded them, started the cycle, and trudged back upstairs.
Halfway up, she heard a stirring in the kitchen. At the top of the stairs, she said good morning to her husband. He was standing at the counter, pouring coffee. They met in the middle of the room and hugged each other. She joined him at the table for a morning cup. He spared her his concern about their son.
When Richard straggled out, he didn’t join them. Didn’t hug anyone, either. By then, Delores had forgotten about the white lined card in her apron. Later, she found its mate and put both of them on the counter, standing them against the wall near the coffee pot. She’d see them whenever she got a cup of coffee as a reminder to return them to Richard.
Carol Lombard heard the alarm at seven. Her and Ray had slept in semi-fetal positions on their sides, backs facing each other. Carol’s backside extended over the midline of the bed, into Ray’s space. He was up at the third ring of the clock and curled his bent form, half on/half off the bed. His big hands went to his face and he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes.
After a few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder, recognized Carol’s attractive, rounded flesh and reached over to pat the moon. Through tired lips, without moving, Carol managed a “Hey, Baby.” She didn’t hear him shower, dress, or leave.
The meeting began at 9:00 A.M. sharp. Grandisha gave the appearance of a well rested, refreshed man. Looks were deceiving. His back was getting progressively worse, unable to frame the strain of the past couple weeks. People who saw him every day didn’t notice the increased crouch. Those who hadn’t seen him recently, lamented internally at the vulture like form. Four hours of sleep didn’t relieve any of the strain, but at least Ray was able to maintain the facade.
Everyone was present, with the exception of Margie Grenk. She had a pass for as long as she needed. Half of the assembled team had worked through the night. They had nailed down paper trails. The two cars in the parking lot were identified. One belonged to Jason Grenk. The other to Donald Recker.
The other two men in the tavern lived within walking distance. One married with a family, the other single, living with his mother. One mid thirties, the other mid forties. Notifications had been made.
Ray, leaning against a metal desk, continued eliciting information. “What about the woman behind the bar? Anybody run her down?”
One of the officers to Ray’s right began reviewing his notes. “She worked at the bar four nights a week. Her sister-in-law’s family owned the joint. Her husband took her to work and picked her up. He arrived at about two. He took it pretty hard.”
Grandisha asked, “What about the owners? Is there a Zola?”
A different detective answered. “No. There’s nobody named Zola. The family bought the bar ten or eleven years ago. It was already named ‘Zola’s’ then.”
Grandisha followed, “Do we know where the money came from to buy the place?”
The same man continued his report. “Settlement for the brother-in-law. Construction worker. A scaffold collapsed. He got enough money to buy the place. Him, the wife, the kids, and relatives run it. Nothing more than a neighborhood bar. Mostly a shot and beer joint.”
“Anything at all, in anybody’s background, make sense with a hit?”
Still the same detective. “Nothing. Everybody checks out. It was a neighborhood bar. Neighborhood people. Football pools, parlay cards, poker machines, stuff you find at any joint. No complaints from neighbors or other businesses. No drug or hooker complaints. The only beef registered in the station is a squad car sent to bust up a fight between two drunks, about twelve years ago. That’s it. Nothing since then.”
The Lieutenant directed a general question to no one in particular. “Could something have started recently?”
One of the other female detectives began reading from her notes. “No. No increased traffic. Parking lot never more than half full. Nobody, not even the little old ladies sitting by their windows all day had anything bad to say. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Another general question. “Anybody hear or see anything other than our pisser?”
The female detective continued. “Nope. Nada. Zero. Nobody heard anything.
“When’s Mr. Recker coming down?”
A different voice. “This afternoon, two o’clock.”
Ray took a shot, hoping to get lucky. “Mary can’ or ‘Many cones’ mean anything to anybody?”
A dozen blank faces shook in unison. Complete silence.
“Well fuck... Keep at it. Anything develops, let me know immediately. Even if it’s three in the morning. Anything clicks between the Donas case and this, same thing... And nobody talks to the media but me. I read or hear about an unnamed source, your ass is mine. Everybody got it?”
Again blank faces moved in unison. The meeting broke up and bodies scurried, some going home, some to continue tedium.
Grandisha had decided to give the media everything he had. Maybe the information would cause somebody to make a connection the Police didn’t know about. Sometimes that worked.
He brought the press, radio and T.V. into his office, and closed the door. It was crowded. He told them he would be upfront. Also told them they could only use victims’ names. No witnesses or other people connected to the case. Any violations and the person responsible would be hounded until dark secrets were discovered and revealed.
Everyone in attendance understood the threat. Drive home after one drink and there would be a D.U.I. conviction. The wife or husband would find out about the little chippie or hunk you screwed that one time. The medicinal grass would suddenly become a drug pipeline.
Most of the media had dealt with Grandisha on prior occasions. They knew he was good to his word. After Ray laid everything out, answered stupid questions, and repeated his warning, they left to disperse details, facts, and deductions, in a manner designed to pander and sell. Trying not to make it obvious.
Grandisha had a quiet minute and used it to phone the Pranets. He covered everything with Liz. Nothing rang a bell. No connections. She had never heard of “Zola’s.” Didn’t know any of the people involved. Ray tracked down Jules and spoke to him for a few minutes. Same result.
John Lupico knocked on Ray’s open office door and entered. The coroner had been up all night and was starting to resemble a corpse himself. Ray served him a cup of bad coffee. He knew it was too early, but went through the motions anyway. “Are all the reports ready?” Lupico gagged on the bad coffee. Ray laughed for the first time that day. Through sardonic lips, he asked, “How long before you can tell me anything?”
Lupico ran his tongue across stained teeth, trying to wipe away the horrid taste, then answered. “Three, four, five days. I’ve brought additional people in.”
“Any preliminary information?” Ray asked.
“Yeah. They were shot with shotguns.”
“John, go home, get some rest. You’re too old to be pulling all-nighters.”
The coroner finished the black mud and left. Ray drove back to “Zola’s.” He wanted to see everything in daylight. The two cars were still in the rutted clay lot. Different uniformed officers guarded the scene. A handful of technicians were still hard at work. Grandisha knew some of them and spent time chatting.
He went into the bar bathroom and had one of the remaining crew yell “Many cones.” The walls were paper thin. The first shotgun blast must have resounded. Good thing the guy had finished pissing. Ray exited the washroom and stood in the middle of the bar.
Again it didn’t make sense. Why wasn’t the place robbed? Why not check for witnesses? Anyone worth their salt would have seen the full beer at the end of the bar. It had to belong to somebody. It was obvious someone was unaccounted for. They were either incredibly stupid or didn’t care. Or both. He shook his head and returned to the office.
Donald Recker was waiting for Ray. No additional information was developed. The Pisser thanked Ray for bailing him out with his wife. Grandisha wasn’t aware of the early morning phone call, but bluffed his way through the discussion.
After an incredibly useless and boring day, Grandisha departed for friendlier confines. Carol Lombard had dinner with him at the “Fine Time.” She was working. It was early evening, uncrowded, and she sat with him for an hour. He told her about the Pisser and “Many Cones.”
The term meant nothing to her, but she opined the full bottle of beer meant kids did it. Ray was sipping an after dinner Galliano at the time. He held the glass and slowly swirled the ice and yellow liquid, then asked, “What are you talking about, kids?”
“Somebody under twenty one. Somebody who’s never been in a bar before. What other explanation could there be?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t imagine kids running around killing people for no reason. It doesn’t make sense.”
“There’s a reason. You just haven’t discovered it yet.” Carol went back to waitressing, Ray to see Ramon. Carol’s suggestion was tucked away. Grandisha had seen enough through the years to keep all avenues open. Ramon sensed the need for chatter. They talked about everything but murder.
Carol Lombard cozied up to Ray after a few hours of carrying large silver trays. She had a drink and left the bar. She said her mother gave her another pass for tomorrow night, then warned Ray to be ready.
The elder Sparne had decided to share his concerns about Richard with his wife. Their child was still not home when they retired. As Delores joined him in bed, he said, “Have you noticed anything different about Richard the last two or three weeks?’
Delores was fluffing her pillow and smoothing the covers. The question hurt her, and she resisted answering. Finally, she said, “What are you talking about? Richard’s no different than he’s always been.”
“Yes he is. He’s got no interests. He doesn’t practice basketball anymore. His friends never call or come over. I haven’t seen him crack a book in over a month. He stays out until all hours. We have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. He treats us like we’re, I dunno, intruders.”
Delores, by now resting on her back, head nestled into the soft blue pillow, gently bit her lower lip. “He’s becoming an adult. It’s a phase he’s going through. He’ll be fine. When you were his age, you were getting ready to move out. You thought your parents were the worst people in the world.”
Mr. Sparne sat half way up, prepared for a lengthy discussion. “That was different. I had a job lined up. We were together. We knew what we were going to do with our lives.”
Delores extended an arm to a bed side lamp and plunged the room into darkness. She arranged her covers. “You’re imagining things. He’s the same person he’s always been.”
Neither slept for an hour or so.
In the morning, the media began saturating the public with horror stories. Details, facts, and deductions. Names of victims only.