Burying the Lede Page 2

  Couple Found Shot to Death in Rural Orney Home

  Motive, Circumstances Are Mysteries

  Tony Harrington, Staff Writer

  ORNEY, Iowa – Jerry and Anne Ennis were found dead in the second-floor bedroom of their rural Orney home early Saturday morning, according to Quincy County Deputy Sheriff Daniel Bodke. The couple was discovered by one of their two young daughters, who had been asleep on the main floor of the home prior to the killings, Bodke said. Names and ages of the children were not released.

  Bodke, who is the chief deputy in charge of criminal investigations, said it appeared the couple died of gunshot wounds to their heads, but the official cause of death would not be known until after examination by the county medical examiner.

  When asked if the killings were a murder-suicide, Bodke said no further details would be released until after officials had a chance to conduct at least a preliminary investigation.

  “However,” Bodke said, “I discourage any speculation at this point regarding any aspect of the incident. I also encourage the news media and the public to remember that two young girls have lost their parents. We should focus our attention on supporting and praying for them, and not on speculation about what might or might not have happened last night.”

  The Iowa Division of Criminal Investigation has been called to assist in the investigation. When asked, Bodke acknowledged the DCI mobile crime lab was already at the scene where the bodies were found.

  He declined to comment about the condition or location of the two daughters, except to say they had been taken out of the county and would be staying with relatives.

  No further information will be released until the next press conference, currently scheduled for 11 a.m. Monday, Bodke said.

  The apparent murders are the first in Quincy County since 2013, when Barbara…

  Chapter 2

  Tony Harrington gazed out the large plate glass window of Willie’s Bar onto the town square. It was an overcast September day, warm and threatening rain. Almost no one in Iowa wanted rain now. A five-ton John Deere tractor mired in the mud of an Iowa cornfield was not conducive to getting the harvest done. The trees on the square were still green. It would be another month before their leaves exploded in color, making everyone who had endured the long, hot summer feel like Dorothy stepping out of the black and white Kansas farmhouse into the spectacular scenery of Munchkinland. It may be September, Tony thought, but today is a summer day.

  As Tony watched, a handful of young people with long hair, tattoos, and various forms of metal protruding from their facial features were playing Frisbee by the fountain on the square. He found it remarkable that whenever the weather was nice there were Goth kids hanging in the square. It was remarkable because he rarely saw kids like these, with their brightly colored spiked hair, tats, and piercings, anywhere else in town. He never saw them with parents or in stores or at school events. He supposed that was why they were called alternative lifestyles. They didn’t socialize at the same times or in the same places as the majority of Iowans. Tony decided he would walk over to the square one day soon and get to know them. I’ll bet there’s more than one good story there, Tony thought. But not today.

  Tony would spend this day in the Quincy County Courthouse. He, his media peers from across the state, and 200 or so other interested spectators would cram themselves into the old, ornate courtroom, to see Ralph Adam Wells go on trial for the double murder of Jerry and Anne Ennis eight months ago. Although Tony was more than an interested spectator, he felt the same morbid curiosity as the retirees, store clerks, and professionals who crowded into the courtroom. He also felt a familiar stress, a tightness at the back of his neck and shoulders that came from covering a major trial. As a writer for Orney’s Town Crier, Tony was the eyes and ears for all those people who couldn’t leave work for the day to watch or who were turned away at the courthouse door. Tony took his responsibility seriously, and as he thought about the murder case, he rolled his head on his shoulders to try to shake the stiffness. At least he didn’t have to fight the crowd. As a member of the press, he would have the privilege of sharing one of the two front benches. It was a spot from which he would easily be able to see the subtleties of the trial’s progress and all the visual cues for which he had learned to watch: the posture of the defendant, the eyes of the jurors, the expressions of the attorneys as they performed for the judge and jury…and the media. Tony smiled grimly, as he acknowledged to himself for the hundredth time that his birds-eye view and his self-proclaimed insights into the process added nothing to his work. In the end, all he could do was report what was said and done in the courtroom and let the readers and the jury draw their own conclusions.

  ***

  Tony knew he had to guard against his own high opinion of himself – his writing as well as his so-called insights. His ego was a direct result of his upbringing, but he knew not to let it get in the way of his work. Fortunately or unfortunately, Tony had been told since he was six years old what a wonderful writer he was. The person doing the telling, Charles Anthony Harrington, was someone who should know. Charles was his dad. He was also the man known to millions of readers as C.A. Harker. Writing as Harker, his dad was the author of more than twenty novels, seven of which had made the New York Times best seller list and three of which had been converted to movie scripts for Hollywood.

  Charles and his wife, Carla, lived in Chicago for years as Charles published one successful book after another. It was there that Tony and his sister Rita were born and raised through the early years of their lives. They lived in a nice home in Highland Park, north of downtown, and grew up enjoying all the wonders the city had to offer: the lake, the zoo and aquarium, the museums and festivals, the sports teams and music. His mother, especially, loved music. From the time Tony was old enough to sit up in a chair or a theater seat, he had been to every conceivable type of music venue. He had heard the Chicago Symphony, the Lyric Opera, traveling Broadway musicals, concert bands, jazz groups, and even marching bands. His mother loved them all, and her enthusiasm was infectious. She also made each of the musical excursions special for her children, taking the time before each performance to explain to them the background of what they were about to see, telling them what to watch for, and explaining why they should be excited to hear a particular performer or piece of music.

  From this, both Tony and Rita grew up appreciating music and, inevitably, studying music in varying degrees. Tony took the obligatory piano lessons. While he had a good ear and learned quickly, it never competed with his love of writing.

  Rita, however, found her soul among the notes and time signatures of musical scores. In absolute terms, she may not have been a prodigy, but she was enormously talented. By the time she entered middle school, she was taking lessons in cello, flute, voice, and piano. Tony often envied her enthusiasm and clear understanding of where her life was headed. He also envied her ability to reach into her soul, and everyone else’s, with whatever instrument she held.

  The event that most changed both their lives occurred one evening during Tony’s sophomore in high school. As he, his mother, and his sister were eating pasta and salads at the kitchen table, his dad arrived home. After the typical greetings and hair tousling, his dad announced they were moving to Iowa. His shocked children listened as Charles explained he was tired of traveling. A successful writer spends a lot of time on the road conducting book tours, speaking at events, and meeting with industry professionals. Tony’s dad had decided the toll it was taking was too great. So, he said, he had accepted a position as a writer-in-residence at the University of Iowa in Iowa City, and as director of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

  It was, of course, the worst possible time for a move from Tony’s perspective. He was in high school. He had great friends and was involved in many activities. In just a couple more years, some of Chicago’s best attributes, such as the live music bars and comedy clubs, would be accessible to him. Iowa, Dad? Really? Iowa? Tony must have aske
d himself a thousand times.

  Carla assured her children they would return to Chicago frequently. It was an easy drive from Iowa City and they wouldn’t let the distance keep them from enjoying the city. Tony found it small comfort. However, because he loved and respected his father, he tried to be a good soldier. He promised his dad he would do all he could to make it work and, for the most part, lived up to his promise. Because Rita was younger, it was less of an issue for her. She and her friends cried, but once Rita had been assured there were excellent music teachers available to her in Iowa City, she was fine.

  Once they arrived and settled in, Tony quickly realized he actually liked Iowa City. This was a revelation almost as shocking as the announcement of the move. The city of 76,000 people, including 33,000 college students, had more to offer than he had imagined. As host to a Big Ten university, the community had a lot of the attractions of the big city: music, culture, beautiful girls, and of course, Big Ten sports. It didn’t have Lake Michigan, but the Iowa River was a prominent feature flowing through the center of town, and one of Iowa’s biggest recreational lakes wasn’t far away. Looking back on them now, Tony knew his years in Iowa City were nearly perfect; certainly far better than he dreamed possible when he first learned he was leaving the city. He benefitted from a great education, terrific friends, a close-knit family, and the security that comes from feeling like your home is, well, home. The old stone and hardwood house his father had purchased on a bluff above the Iowa River wasn’t exactly a mansion, but it would have cost more than a million dollars in Chicago. Tony didn’t know what his dad had paid, but whatever the cost, it was worth it. He and Rita each had a bedroom on the second floor. Large and comfortable, the rooms overlooked a big back yard.

  In fact, Tony had enjoyed Iowa City so much that after graduating from Regina Catholic High School, he decided to stay and attend the University of Iowa.

  During his time in Iowa City, Tony could only remember ever having two complaints. The first was autumn, when he and Rita were expected to rake and bag the leaves from more than thirty big oak and maple trees scattered throughout the family’s five-acre property. Their first fall, they filled five dozen Hefty lawn bags. They learned their lesson and in all subsequent years did not bag the leaves at all. They realized it was easier to remove a couple of rails from the fence at the back of the property and push the leaves over the edge and down the bluff toward the river. Their mother was in a constant state of panic whenever they were outside the fence at the top of the bluff, but as always, she bit back her urge to make them stop.

  The other complaint was the predictable weirdness of being a celebrity’s son. Because his dad was a famous author, and now ran the nationally-renowned writers’ workshop, Tony learned that nearly everyone he met brought some pre-conceived ideas to the encounter. Some people resented the family’s money and social status. Some people liked or disliked him based on their opinions of his father’s novels, or even worse, a character in one of the novels. Nearly everyone made assumptions about Tony’s intentions and likelihood of success when he began telling people he wanted to be a writer.

  Fortunately, his dad was as unassuming as a successful man can be. He was also good at giving advice and guiding his children through their various tribulations, usually by simply encouraging them to ignore the pettiness of strangers and focus on the support of family and friends. As a result, the problems were minimized and kept in perspective.

  Tony encountered one more very big surprise while in Iowa City. He had agonized for weeks, early in his college career, about how to tell his dad he wanted to write for newspapers. When he finally worked up the courage to announce he would be majoring in journalism, and not in English, he said it almost apologetically, assuming his dad would want him to do something more creative or meatier and would want him in the department of English, where he taught, rather than in journalism.

  To Tony’s surprise and relief, however, his dad thought it was a wonderful career choice. He sat and talked with Tony at length about the impact some of the great reporters and columnists at the Chicago Tribune and the Sun-Times had on him as a young man.

  Then his dad surprised him further by offering to help him financially. Charles was careful how he offered, not wanting to offend his son, and Tony was careful how he accepted, not wanting to be too beholden to, or a burden for, his parents. However, both Tony and his dad knew newspaper work would pay very little, and Tony would benefit greatly from some financial security early in his career. In the end, his dad set it up as a trust, which paid Tony an annual supplement to his salary. Tony could use the money for travel or a home or a hobby or whatever he pleased. Tony only accepted after his dad assured him Rita would receive the same accommodation when she graduated two years later.

  This arrangement had allowed Tony to accept the position at the Orney Town Crier for a modest salary plus an even more modest benefit plan. Tony hadn’t believed he could enjoy living in a town even smaller than Iowa City, but after five years in Orney, he had to admit he couldn’t be happier.

  ***

  Tony glanced once more around the square and considered what was really remarkable about the scene. Everything looked so normal: mothers ducking into Drugs and Things with small children in tow; Harold taking advantage of the clear fall weather and washing the windows of his appliance and television store; Betty stealing a quick smoke in the doorway of her beauty shop; and the mystery kids playing Frisbee in the square.

  Similarly, here in Willie’s Bar, farmers, bankers, mechanics, car salesmen, and retirees crowded in to have their morning coffee with Erma’s homemade cinnamon rolls or a Hostess powdered donut. The trial was a topic of conversation, but not the only topic. As Tony turned his attention inside the bar and grill, he could hear discussions of the weather, the soybeans, the corn prices, the latest threat of an interest rate hike, and the damn Cubs. Nobody ever said just the “Cubs” or the “Chicago Cubs.” Always it was the “damn Cubs.” Despite the fact the team wore the mantle of World Champions not so long ago, neither their fans nor their critics had changed their banter one bit. This morning the fans were grumbling about last night’s loss, ending a three-game series with the archrival St. Louis Cardinals without a win. The playoffs just might be out of reach again this year.

  “Hey, Earth to Harrington.” The voice was Doug Tenny’s, his best friend in Orney and his most frequent partner for coffee or a meal at Willie’s. Doug was a reporter for KKAR, the local AM radio station. In a town like Orney, competition between the only two news media outlets was almost nonexistent, at least at the staff reporter level. Tony often thought he and Doug kept a small remnant of competition alive only so they would have something to joke about when their conversations dragged.

  “This is Harrington,” Tony smiled as he spoke into his cupped hand. “I read you loud and clear. Houston, we have a problem.”

  Doug laughed and dropped into the nearest vinyl-covered booth. “You’ve got a problem all right. And it ain’t a broken space capsule.”

  “Yeah, yeah, give it a rest,” Tony said as he followed Doug to the booth and slid into the opposite seat. “I was just thinking about how normal everything and everyone seems while this extraordinary murder trial is about to begin in their courthouse.”

  “Well, what did you expect?” Doug asked. “Most folks in town can’t drop everything to stand in line at the courthouse door, even for a murder trial. That’s why they need us.”

  “No, that’s not all,” Tony quickly replied. “As I was wondering why people weren’t more focused on the trial, I ended up thinking about the Chicago Cubs.”

  “The Cubs?” Doug’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled and said, “Well, yeah, I guess I can understand how thinking about a murder could remind you of Garcia’s error in the eighth last night. If he hadn’t had his head up his butt, the Cubs actually might have salvaged one in that series with the Cardinals. Now everyone wants to kill him.”

  Tony smiled again. “My point,”
he said, “is that while I was wondering how everybody else could think about everyday stuff, I ended up doing the same thing. Don’t you find that ironic?”

  “My friend the psychologist,” Doug sighed. “You should try just thinking sometime, without thinking about why you’re thinking what you’re thinking.”

  “Hmm, sounds kinda dull, but maybe I’ll give it a try,” Tony grinned and finally turned his attention to the coffee Doug set in front of him. Steam rose from the cup like smoke from a tiny volcano. Tony knew from experience it was about the same temperature as molten lava. It remained untouched as he let it cool.

  “Speaking of normal things,” Doug said, “would you like to grab a date for Friday night and join me and Ellen for some steaks in the backyard? …Tony?”

  “Huh? Sorry. What was that?”

  “What is it now, more murder trial, or contemplating the likelihood the Bears will make the Super Bowl? I said steaks, Friday night.”

  “Well, it sounds great, but there’s no way this trial is going to wrap up by Friday, and I wouldn’t put it past old Schroeder to make them work on Saturday, which means I gotta get out of bed that morning. Either way, there’s a 90% chance I’ll be working Friday night, writing the latest for the Saturday paper.”

  “You know your job is putting a serious damper on your social life, and as your best friend, it’s not doing mine any good either,” Doug replied, trying to sound put out. “If you keep working nights, how are you going to meet any decent women?”

  “In the first place, Mr. Love Connection, please consider the possibility I don’t want to meet decent women. Secondly, as you well know, Lisa is all the woman I need right now. Not to mention she is both faster and stronger than me. If she caught me cheating on her, I’m pretty sure I would regret it, in more ways than one. And by the way, I only work two nights a week.”