Cold Case

Bill shifted in his chair.

The reporter looked at him.

Old Man Jamison, in his late eighties, was a World War II vet who survived the Nazis unscathed, but kept going up against the basement stairs and getting his ass kicked. He was a sweet old man. Used to own the Texaco south of town.

“He was all in an uproar. Said he heard gunshots next door and saw a big black Lincoln peeling off.”

Next door was the Raymond residence, an old dairy farm gone to seed; most of the land belonged to the county now, except for the house and a few achers back. At one time, it produced all the milk in the county.

The Maspeth Creamery, as it was called, closed down in the fifties, and went through a couple owners before James Raymond, a short, bulldoggish man who wore big sun glasses, bought it in ’91. Bill didn’t know much about Raymond. Unlike the other residents of Maspeth, he was cool and standoffish, something of a hermit, even. There wasn’t much to do in Maspeth, admittedly, but there was a diner, a tavern, and a church.

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