Chapter 29 begins with Delores Sparne tiptoeing through her son's room.
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.
At the crack of dawn, Delores Sparne was tiptoeing around her son’s room. The elation she felt, caused by the end of the phase he was going through, stoked deep maternal instincts. Yesterday’s phone call made the sadness worthwhile. A simple “How are you doin, Mom?” and he was her baby again.
She had wanted to sit by his bedside and gently stroke his brow, just as she had when he was a little boy recovering from illness. That couldn’t happen now. She convinced herself that picking up and straightening his strewn clothes was enough. As long as she was tiptoe quiet, and didn’t touch him.
The room was a mess. Jeans, shirts, and socks scattered in small piles, like oversized ant hills on the sidewalk. Dog-eared school books lay stacked on his battered dresser. Crumpled papers and even a dirty dish or two that she had somehow missed.
The only thing orderly in the room was the row of trophies guarding the wall abutting the bed. Best this, best that, most valuable player, time and time again. Delores smiled as she counted the individual awards. Her husband had added the ledge to the wall when they ran out of surface space. The long wooden rack was quickly filled.
Echoes of his boasts saddened her a bit. “I’m gonna be a star,” she heard from deep in her heart. Now, he said it didn’t matter. Her hand was resting on his covered foot. She didn’t recall extending it. Delores indulged herself for a few more seconds and then began harvesting clothes.
The crumpled, dirty togs were piled near the door. The outfit, worn yesterday by Richard, had a few more days left. Delores lifted the jeans from the floor and tried to add crease, before draping them over a chair. She felt something in the back pocket and deftly removed it. Another three by five index card.
Delores squinted to read the inscription, straining the meager light from the still dim, venetian blinded bedroom. “Lawyer’s bitch,” and an address, whispered from her mouth. I have no idea in the world, what that means, she thought. The other side of the card said something about one man speaking for another. She shook her head. Kids always have their own brand of talk. I’m sure it’s important to Richard.
The jeans were still folded over her arm, and as she started to replace the card, Richard turned over. His stirrings commanded her attention. Her shoulders sunk in, her chin lowered, and she bent slightly, as if becoming smaller would erase her presence. It worked. Her baby continued on in slumberland.
She subconsciously deposited the card in the front pocket of her brightly flowered apron, then folded the pants over the chair. The shirt was hung across the seatback, left to unwrinkle itself. She softly tread across the room, retrieved the bundle near the door, and quietly exited.
Delores was too happy to start the laundry. She opened the basement door and flung the clothes down the steps, as much of a fling as an older, somewhat frail woman was able to perform. Some pieces littered the stairs. She would get them later.
Chapter 29 begins with Delores Sparne tiptoeing through her son's room.
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.
At the crack of dawn, Delores Sparne was tiptoeing around her son’s room. The elation she felt, caused by the end of the phase he was going through, stoked deep maternal instincts. Yesterday’s phone call made the sadness worthwhile. A simple “How are you doin, Mom?” and he was her baby again.
She had wanted to sit by his bedside and gently stroke his brow, just as she had when he was a little boy recovering from illness. That couldn’t happen now. She convinced herself that picking up and straightening his strewn clothes was enough. As long as she was tiptoe quiet, and didn’t touch him.
The room was a mess. Jeans, shirts, and socks scattered in small piles, like oversized ant hills on the sidewalk. Dog-eared school books lay stacked on his battered dresser. Crumpled papers and even a dirty dish or two that she had somehow missed.
The only thing orderly in the room was the row of trophies guarding the wall abutting the bed. Best this, best that, most valuable player, time and time again. Delores smiled as she counted the individual awards. Her husband had added the ledge to the wall when they ran out of surface space. The long wooden rack was quickly filled.
Echoes of his boasts saddened her a bit. “I’m gonna be a star,” she heard from deep in her heart. Now, he said it didn’t matter. Her hand was resting on his covered foot. She didn’t recall extending it. Delores indulged herself for a few more seconds and then began harvesting clothes.
The crumpled, dirty togs were piled near the door. The outfit, worn yesterday by Richard, had a few more days left. Delores lifted the jeans from the floor and tried to add crease, before draping them over a chair. She felt something in the back pocket and deftly removed it. Another three by five index card.
Delores squinted to read the inscription, straining the meager light from the still dim, venetian blinded bedroom. “Lawyer’s bitch,” and an address, whispered from her mouth. I have no idea in the world, what that means, she thought. The other side of the card said something about one man speaking for another. She shook her head. Kids always have their own brand of talk. I’m sure it’s important to Richard.
The jeans were still folded over her arm, and as she started to replace the card, Richard turned over. His stirrings commanded her attention. Her shoulders sunk in, her chin lowered, and she bent slightly, as if becoming smaller would erase her presence. It worked. Her baby continued on in slumberland.
She subconsciously deposited the card in the front pocket of her brightly flowered apron, then folded the pants over the chair. The shirt was hung across the seatback, left to unwrinkle itself. She softly tread across the room, retrieved the bundle near the door, and quietly exited.
Delores was too happy to start the laundry. She opened the basement door and flung the clothes down the steps, as much of a fling as an older, somewhat frail woman was able to perform. Some pieces littered the stairs. She would get them later.
Chapter 29
At the crack of dawn, Delores Sparne was tiptoeing around her son’s room. The elation she felt, caused by the end of the phase he was going through, stoked deep maternal instincts. Yesterday’s phone call made the sadness worthwhile. A simple “How are you doin, Mom?” and he was her baby again.
She had wanted to sit by his bedside and gently stroke his brow, just as she had when he was a little boy recovering from illness. That couldn’t happen now. She convinced herself that picking up and straightening his strewn clothes was enough. As long as she was tiptoe quiet, and didn’t touch him.
The room was a mess. Jeans, shirts, and socks scattered in small piles, like oversized ant hills on the sidewalk. Dog-eared school books lay stacked on his battered dresser. Crumpled papers and even a dirty dish or two that she had somehow missed.
The only thing orderly in the room was the row of trophies guarding the wall abutting the bed. Best this, best that, most valuable player, time and time again. Delores smiled as she counted the individual awards. Her husband had added the ledge to the wall when they ran out of surface space. The long wooden rack was quickly filled.
Echoes of his boasts saddened her a bit. “I’m gonna be a star,” she heard from deep in her heart. Now, he said it didn’t matter. Her hand was resting on his covered foot. She didn’t recall extending it. Delores indulged herself for a few more seconds and then began harvesting clothes.
The crumpled, dirty togs were piled near the door. The outfit, worn yesterday by Richard, had a few more days left. Delores lifted the jeans from the floor and tried to add crease, before draping them over a chair. She felt something in the back pocket and deftly removed it. Another three by five index card.
Delores squinted to read the inscription, straining the meager light from the still dim, venetian blinded bedroom. “Lawyer’s bitch,” and an address, whispered from her mouth. I have no idea in the world, what that means, she thought. The other side of the card said something about one man speaking for another. She shook her head. Kids always have their own brand of talk. I’m sure it’s important to Richard.
The jeans were still folded over her arm, and as she started to replace the card, Richard turned over. His stirrings commanded her attention. Her shoulders sunk in, her chin lowered, and she bent slightly, as if becoming smaller would erase her presence. It worked. Her baby continued on in slumberland.
She subconsciously deposited the card in the front pocket of her brightly flowered apron, then folded the pants over the chair. The shirt was hung across the seatback, left to unwrinkle itself. She softly tread across the room, retrieved the bundle near the door, and quietly exited.
Delores was too happy to start the laundry. She opened the basement door and flung the clothes down the steps, as much of a fling as an older, somewhat frail woman was able to perform. Some pieces littered the stairs. She would get them later.
The morning papers clunked against the outer door. Delores brought them in and positioned them on the kitchen table for her husband. She had ceased following stories about misery, problems, and slick politicians years ago. The headlines contained the word “Killers.” Nothing further was absorbed.
Richard Sparne, the elder, woke at 7:30. He found his wife at the kitchen table downing coffee. She still sported a glow. He kissed her temple, squeezed her shoulders, and sat next to her. She rose and served him his cup. No words were exchanged, but a lifetime of love and caring was expressed. He sorted the papers and began perusing the horror stories.
A sadness came over him as he returned the newspaper to the table. “They think it’s teenagers killing these people. What kind of parents raise a kid like that?”
Delores stoically pleaded, “Richard, could we please not talk about killing people?”
Richard continued, “I’m not talking about killing people. I’m talking about raising kids that kill people?”
“Richard, listen to yourself. You’re talking about killing people.”
The elder Richard insisted, “I’m not... I’m talking about raising kids. What kind of...”
His wife interrupted him, “Everyone does the best job they can. If you’re lucky, your child turns out okay. If you’re not lucky, you have problems.”
“It can’t be that simple. You have to make mistakes, do things wrong, for your children to turn out bad. It can’t just be a matter of luck.”
Delores smiled and patted her husband’s hand. “It’s the same kind of luck that keeps you from being in a car accident or keeps some disease carrying mosquito from biting you. You hope it doesn’t happen. But it could if you’re not lucky.”
He tested her further again. “So it doesn’t matter how you act as a parent?”
“No, Richard. You know that’s not true. You have to love your children, be there for them, know where they are, what they’re doing. If you do all that, with a little luck, everything will be okay. Like us.”
“We don’t know where Richard goes anymore, or what he does. He stays out until all hours.”
Delores fought harder. “We did, before. The entire time he was growing up. I can’t believe I’m about to say this. You have to cut the apron strings. He’s not a baby anymore.”
Richard the elder smiled and a loving laugh tripped from his lips. “Who started this conversation, anyway?”
Delores returned the tender look and said, “You did, my dear.” She hugged her husband. He returned to reading the paper. She began fussing around the kitchen, cleaning things that weren’t really dirty.
Richard, the Kid, straggled out of his room at about 8:45. He wore the jeans and shirt from the night before; they looked reasonably fresh. Both mother and father were somewhat surprised to see him so early on a Saturday morning.
The Kid didn’t drink coffee, so none was offered. He hadn’t yet smiled or said, “Good Morning.” Delores broke the ice. “Richard, how come you’re up so early?”
He didn’t immediately answer. A look of scorn was forming. He finally issued a terse, monotone reply. “I have important things to do. I’ll probably be gone all day.” The Kid proceeded to the bathroom and semi-slammed the door. Fifteen minutes later, he exited the bathroom, picked up the keys to the car, and left the house.
Richard, the elder, after hearing the outer door open and close, said, in a half serious voice, “Where did you say you were going?” Delores looked at her husband and they both laughed. She returned to the table and finished her lukewarm cup of coffee.
As Richard, the Kid, was driving away from his house he muttered, “Tomorrow I’m gone. I don’t need you people fucking with me.”
Delores and her husband puttered around the house doing simple Saturday morning chores. Nothing that broke a sweat. Tasks too trite to be included on any house cleaning agenda.
About an hour after Richard, the Kid, had left, as Delores was soaking ice cube trays she had emptied into a freezer bag, and her husband was dusting the back of the television, the doorbell rang.
Delores dried her hands and walked to the front room. Her husband rose from his kneeling position and opened the door.
A tall, bent over, balding man, dressed in a burnt corduroy blue shirt, simple beige tie, and black drapes stood on the porch. He was accompanied by a cute lady, clad in sharp jeans, white blouse, and a dark blue tweed sports coat. Neither of the Sparne’s recognized the two.
The slouched man, reaching for something from an inside coat pocket, said, “Sir, my name is Ray Grandisha. This is my partner, Margie Grenk, we’re police officers.” His arm came from under his garment, hand displaying a badge. “We would appreciate it very much if you would talk to us about some things.”
Sparne, the elder, had taken the badge and was inspecting it. He didn’t know what he should be looking for. Delores, halfway in the front room, said, “Richard, where’s your manners? Invite them in.” Her husband looked up from the badge, handed it back, and said, “Please come in.”
Ray and Margie entered. Margie, after a quick scan, said, “What a lovely front room. It looks and feels so homey. I’ll bet you spend a lot of time in here.”
Delores blushed and answered softly, “We like it. We do spend a lot of time in here, and in the kitchen. You know how old folks get.”
Grenk continued, “Are you kidding? My kitchen is the happiest place in the house. If I could cook better, my family would never leave it.” Delores was moving closer to Margie as they spoke.
Mr. Sparne, having moved away from the door to the side of the visitors, broke in. “What did you want to ask about?”
Grandisha said, “We had some questions for your son. That’s why we’re here. About one of his friends from school. Is he home?”
Delores spoke. “He’s not here. He left about an hour ago. Said he had important things to do. He’ll be graduating from high school soon, and going to college. You know when they reach that age everything is important to them.”
Margie touched Delores’ arm and asked, “What college is he going to?”
She answered, “We think he’ll go to State. That’s not settled yet, but we think that’s where he’ll go...” A proud glow lit her face. “He’s a basketball star. He wants to play basketball in college.”
Mr. Sparne broke in again, “Who is the friend you wanted to ask our son about?”
Grandisha said, “Well, maybe you two can help us. We have some questions about a young man named Ricardo Morales.
Mr. Sparne shook his head. “That name doesn’t ring a bell with me.” He looked inquisitively at his wife.
She said, “I don’t think I’ve heard that name. Not recently, anyway. But that doesn’t mean anything; it’s been a good six months since any of Richard’s friends have been in the house. Before that, there used to be kids here all the time.”
Ray said, in a serious tone, “Some people at the high school...”
Delores broke in, “You know what, I think I do remember the name Ricardo, I think he’s called here a couple of times for Richard.” She was proud of her ability to recall the name and phone calls.
Ray continued, “Some people at the high school are saying that this Morales kid and your son are the best of friends, always together. That’s why we came here. Because they were supposed to be such good friends.”
Mr. Sparne adopted a solemn appearance. He spoke to Grandisha, turning away from Margie and his wife. “What is this Morales kid supposed to have done?”
Ray sensed the husband tightening up. He didn’t want to start talking about the murders. That would have shut him up like a clam, but he couldn’t diminish the reason for the visit. That would have been a recognizable lie. “We think he’s involved in some serious things. We don’t know for sure. We’re trying to find out one way or the other. Talking to friends is sometimes the best way.”
Margie also felt the vibes. She had the woman under control, but the man was about to retreat from them. She followed, as soon as Ray finished. “We’ve talked to a few other families and everyone has been very helpful, but we still need more. You’d be surprised at the little things that help, and a lot of the important things come from the parents, rather than the kids. The kids don’t always like to talk to us. I’ve noticed that with my kids, too. I think it’s just the way it is.”
Delores didn’t perceive the lurking danger. She liked Margie Grenk. “You have kids? I’ll bet they go through phases, too.”
“All the time. Sometimes they’re as sweet as can be. Sometimes they’re impossible monsters. Mine are younger though, I was hoping they would grow out of it, by the time they reach your son’s age.”
Delores’ favorite topic was her son. Even sharing the minor slip ups. The growing pains. “No, they don’t grow out of it. Richard’s been going through a phase for the last couple months. Staying out late, ignoring us, but it’s over now. You just have to stay with them. Keep an eye on them. Keep checking on them.”
Grandisha joined the conversation between the two women. “I don’t have kids, so this may be a stupid question. Do you think this Morales kid may have had anything to do with your son’s behavior, the last couple months?”
Mr. Sparne jumped back in, still uncomfortable with the visiting police. “We don’t know Morales, so I doubt if he had anything to do with Richard. It was just a thing all kids go through.”
Delores contributed. “Richard always had basketball, so he was busy all the time. The last couple months, basketball’s over, so he’s had a lot of free time on his hands.”
Margie picked up the flow, “He’s gonna play basketball in college? He must be very good.”
Delores followed, “Oh, he is just beautiful to watch. He won so many trophies, you should see them all.”
Bingo. Both Ray and Margie felt their hearts flutter. A way to get invited further in the house. Away from the doorway. Maybe get into the kid’s bedroom. Margie said, “We’d love to see them. We have time. You’re our last family today.”
Delores said, “Really... They’re in his bedroom. But you have to promise not to notice the messy room. I try, but it’s impossible to keep clean.”
Margie grabbed her hand and said, “I can spend all day cleaning my children’s rooms, and as soon as I walk out, they’re a mess again. Don’t worry, I know what you mean.”
They walked away from the door, out of the front room, and into the heart of the home. Mr. Sparne was behind the other three. He wouldn’t have invited them this far. He noticed the stooped man straighten a bit.
The Kid’s door was closed. Delores wrapped her hand around the fake brass knob, and turned to her audience. “Now you promised. I’m a better homemaker than this.”
Margie softly touched the housewife’s shoulder. “Delores, I wish my home looked half as good as yours.” Delores turned the door knob with an appreciative smile creasing her lips.
The bedroom was dim. Mrs. Sparne approached each of two windows and slowly opened ivory white venetian blinds. Before the sunlight cracked the dusk, Grandisha discerned a concealed discord. Much the same as he had felt when entering the Donas apartment. As the walls brightened, the malignant vestiges scattered to the shadowed crevices of the room. The chill cemented his conviction. He was not leaving without proof or an arrest.
The row of trophies stole immediate attention. Red and brown and silver miniature pedestals balancing golden athletes. Inscriptions at the base, unreadable from a distance, honoring accomplishments.
“Wow.” Margie said. “You must be very proud of your son.”
Mr. Sparne finally spoke. “He’s a good boy. He worked very hard for all of these.” He inched closer to his wife and draped his arm across her back, resting his hand on her shoulder “We were at every game he ever played, all the way from when he was a child. Didn’t miss any.” His pride was trampling his concern.
Grandisha thought about asking to search the bedroom, but that would have been too quick. They had to ease into the murders, then get permission to pry. Given time, Margie would coax their trust, then snatch license to explore.
Delores gently touched Margie’s arm at the elbow. “I’m so embarrassed by the way this room looks, I’m sorry.”
Margie exaggerated looking from side to side. “Delores, this room looks lived in, not messy. I told you. I wish mine looked this good.”
She blushed. “You’re so kind... How would you like a nice, hot cup of coffee? It’s already made.”
Margie piped in. “That sounds great. We really haven’t had a chance to relax this morning. We’ve been running from place to place. I’ll bet my boss would love some.”
“Is he your boss?... I would have thought the two of you were the same. He doesn’t act like your boss.”
Margie agreed. “That’s because he’s a great guy to work for.”
Delores gazed at Ray, with a touch of admiration in her eyes. If her friend liked him, he must be a good person. She announced to the two men, “Let’s go to the kitchen for some coffee.”
Damn, Ray thought. His face didn’t convey his disappointment. He didn’t want to leave the bedroom. There were drawers and closets to go through. A bed to check under. He decided to go with the flow. Margie had handled everything perfectly so far. As they were leaving the bedroom, Ray asked Mr. Sparne, “Do you or your son own any shotguns?”
“I have two shotguns. Both are twelve gauge. I used to do a lot of hunting, but I haven’t used them in years. Why?”
“This Morales kid is suspected of using a shotgun. We checked with his family and they don’t own any weapons. If he’s the one we’re looking for, he had to get a shotgun from somewhere... Do you think your son would let him use one of yours?”
Mr. Sparne shook his head. “No. Richard wouldn’t take any of the guns without asking me.”
Grandisha waited for an invitation to see the weapons. None came. He’d see them sooner or later. He didn’t push it.
All sat at the kitchen table, with the exception of Delores Sparne. She set the table with fancy, flowered cups and saucers, then poured coffee. She joined the group, and noticed her husband looked a little sad, or worried. Mr. Sparne took a sip of his coffee, then asked, “How serious is this thing with this Morales kid…? And why do you think our boy is involved?”
Grandisha felt the time was right. He let the question hang for a few seconds. He finally spoke in a soft, sober tone, “It’s as serious as you get. If things prove out, the Morales kid is involved in the two recent, brutal murders.”
The morning papers were on the counter. Mr. Sparne rose and grabbed the front section. He returned, sat, and pointed to the headlines. Ray nodded his head, and said, “I’m afraid so.” The elder Sparne folded the paper and set it on the corner of the table.
Delores asked, “Do we really have to talk about this? Our son wouldn’t be involved in it.”
Margie tenderly patted Delores’ arm. “He’s probably not involved, but we have to ask. We have to do our job”
Delores said, “Well, we’ll help you all we can, but you’ll find out he probably doesn’t even know this person.”
Ray told them about the anonymous phone call, received in the morning, easing back on their son’s involvement. In the version he was describing, the two teens were just friends. No mention of being inseparable. Ray stressed his need for information.
Both parents now looked forlorn. The more Grandisha spoke, the deeper they sank. The mood needed time to settle. He drained his cup, and asked Delores if he could refill it. She was too heartsick to serve or object.
Grandisha left the table, stood at the counter, and poured. In open view, resting on the ledge, tilted against the wall, just behind and to the right of the porcelain white coffee brewer, he read Jim Donas’ name and address on an index card.
Adrenalin shot through his body. He gulped all the air near his face. He returned the pot to its roost, steadied himself, and reached for the card. Behind it was a twin, carrying the “Zola’s” name and address. Cold sweat beaded in minute specks on his partially bald head. He turned back to the table, held the cards at shoulder level, and quietly asked, “Where did these come from?”
Delores placed her hand against her front apron pocket, remembering, and said, “They were in Richard’s jeans. I found them before washing them. I saved them to ask him if they were important, but kept forgetting.” Her maternal instincts continued to blind any concern about her son being involved. “I found another one early this morning, but forgot to put it with the others.”
She reached in the apron pocket and retrieved the third card. Ray snatched it from her hand. “Jesus Christ... we need to call the station right now.” His heart was pounding, blood rushing to his head. He thought for a second that he was going to pass out. He remained standing, afraid to sit.
Margie eyed a wall phone near the refrigerator. She rushed to it without pause or question, called the office, then handed the phone to Grandisha. He gave her the cards.
“Get squad cars to the Sparne house right now. With sirens and lights. Then come back on the line.” He waited patiently, then began again. “Get me the home phone number for an attorney by the name of Regis Cahan.” Another pause. Ray had removed his small pad and pen. After another minute, he wrote a series of numbers, repositioned the phone, and continued. “Get on the radio to the team at the Morales’ house. Tell them to go in and secure it. If the Morales kid is home, bring him in.”
Grandisha dialed the series of numbers. “Regis, this is Ray Grandisha. Don’t ask questions. Just give me the information I want... What’s your secretary’s address?” Another pause. He closed his eyes and tilted his head. “Give me her phone number and then get off the line. Leave your house and go directly to the police station. Wait for me there.”
He dialed the new series of numbers. It rang fifteen times. No answer. Ray hung up and returned his attention to the Sparnes. “Your son is involved in these murders. We can talk about it later. Right now I need to know where he is. Additional lives depend on it.”
Delores had begun sobbing. Her husband went to her side. Through her tears and breath shortage, she indicated to the best of her ability that she did not know where her son was. She had no more words left. Neither did her husband.
The wail of the Police siren grew from a vague rumor to a shattering presence. Margie walked to the front room and opened the door. The uniformed officers were breathless when they entered the home. Ray said to them, “Secure this residence.”
He pointed to the Sparne’s. “These are good, decent people. If any of you fuck with them, I’ll have your ass. If their son comes home, arrest him, outside if possible, and take him to the station.”
He had recopied the “Lawyer’s bitch” address and handed it to one of the officers. “Call the station. Get squad cars to this address, quick. Tell them a murder is probably going down. Don’t fuck with the family. If teenagers are there, unrelated or unknown, arrest them.” He looked at Margie. “Let’s go.”
They tore off. Siren blazing. Heading for Gina’s house.