The Fate of The Elmsleys
This is Fiction
Roger blew off the dust from the early editions of Live Magazine down in the archives. They had been barely maintained since the cost-cutting measures of their new owners; their librarian, Cheryl, had been let go months ago. Perhaps it had been years. Roger couldn't remember the last time he had laid eyes on her.
No wonder the old issues were falling apart. He distinctly remembered a piece being published in 1967 when he was eight years old. He recalled how his parents devoured it cover to cover—just as the entire country did. The world was obsessed.
What drove Myles Elmsley to kill his wife and three kids, bury them in the trunk of his station wagon, and sink it in a nearby lake? An eternal mystery.
The family was discovered thirteen years later after a random tip-off.
It was a particularly hot summer, and the lake that had once sat on the property between the farmlands of Elmsley and his nearest neighbor, Pecker, had dried up to a mere pond. Elmsley blamed Pecker for the destruction of the natural water supply that had fed the swamplands and housed a plethora of native birds.
Neither man enjoyed the other's company. In fact, Pecker went out of his way to avoid his neighbor at all costs—whether in the grocery store, the barbershop, or church on Sundays. Even after Elmsley’s wife and children disappeared in 1954, Pecker didn’t extend so much as a pat on the shoulder when the two men found themselves nearest to each other at a town hall meeting six months later.
The community of Falls Hill wanted answers—answers that would allow the mothers and fathers to sleep at night, knowing they, too, would not suffer a fate worse than that of the Elmsley family.
The summer of ’67 changed all of that.
Roger approached the stately manor of Walter Pecker and buzzed the intercom, speaking with the staff to identify himself upon arrival.
"Is Mister Pecker expecting you?" a voice asked.
"No, I tried to make an appointment earlier in the week, but there was no number listed."
"Mister Pecker doesn't take unsolicited house calls."
"Well... I'm a journalist, and I’m doing a story on the late Myles Elmsley. It was Walter Pecker who tipped off the police about the car in the pond, which led to Elmsley’s arrest and conviction," Dayton explained.
"I'm sorry, sir. Mister Pecker is busy for the remainder of the day."
"I'm happy to pay."
The intercom went silent and then clicked off. Suddenly, the gate's remote access activated, unlocking and swinging open, allowing Roger to drive his hatchback up the gravel road toward the covered canopy.
Roger rang the doorbell and heard the rustling of a curtain in a nearby window. He didn’t look, fearing he might embarrass his would-be host.
The door unlocked, and the face of a man in his mid-seventies peeked through the narrow gap created by the still-latched chain.
"Yes?" the man said.
"Hi, are you Walter Pecker?" Roger asked.
"Who wants to know?"
Roger handed him a business card through the crack in the door.
"Roger Dayton. I'm a journalist with Live Magazine."
Pecker glanced at the title on the card before handing it back through the gap.
"What do you want?"
"I wanted to ask you about the Elmsley murders if I could, sir. They happened about thirty years ago now..."
"Yeah, I remember them. What about them?"
"Well, sir..." Roger cleared his throat. "Myles Elmsley just passed away in Sandowne Prison. He was eighty-six."
Pecker drew a breath through his nose, the hairs inside twitching.
"Good riddance," he said and went to close the door.
Roger placed his palm on the latch before it could shut him out.
"I just wanted to know if I could ask you a few questions, sir. That's all," Roger said.
"What for?"
"Well, Live Magazine is doing a follow-up on the crime and… well, you know. It shocked the nation, sir. It’s in the public interest to retrace the scene of the crime and try to figure out what drove this man to kill his wife and children," Roger explained.
He released his hand from the door. This was his final pitch—if it didn’t work, nothing would.
The chain unlatched, and the door swung open. Pecker emerged wearing a polo shirt that didn’t fit but was brand new, along with a pair of slacks held up by suspenders. He walked with a cane. He was seventy-four years old, but the years had taken their toll.
"We can talk out here," he instructed as he followed Roger under the canopy at the front of the mansion.
"I offered your staff money for your time, sir," Roger explained.
"Do I look like I need the money?" Pecker said. "You probably spoke with Marge, my staffer. She's a real tight-ass. No wonder she opened the gate. You can pay her when we're done here. Clever little devil—always looking to shake down the unsuspecting," he added with a chuckle to himself.
"So, if you don't mind," Roger began. He took a tape recorder from his back pocket and started recording the conversation. He didn’t ask for permission.
"The police records and court transcripts state that you were on your roof, fixing a tile, on the day you pointed out the station wagon in the pond," Roger said.
"That's right."
"And judging from the size of the place, it's no wonder you could make out the car from that height. I was just wondering—you’re a wealthy man, Mister Pecker. Why were you fixing the roof yourself?" Roger asked.
"This wasn’t my house at the time. I had an older place. I didn’t have any money back then," Pecker explained. "Myles lived about three miles down to the left," he added, gesturing with his left hand. "I was up on the roof one day and, yeah... I saw the car in the pond. I thought, that’s odd... So I called it in. Police came, looked inside. Rest is history," he said.
"You refused to give testimony at the trial. Why is that?"
"The police told me not to bother—said they had the murder weapon and that was enough to pin the crime on Myles. I said, no problem, and so it didn’t happen."
"So, you’re saying it was the police who requested that you not take the stand?"
Pecker looked Roger over with intrigue, as if reassessing the man standing before him. Suddenly, he saw him less as a friendly reporter making factual inquiries and more as a potential threat.
"That's right," he said.
"Okay, it's just that... that's not what the District Attorney told me," Roger said.
"Well, it's the truth," Pecker replied forcefully. Dayton ignored the shift in mood.
"The pond where the station wagon was found—it used to be a lake, is that right?"
"That's right."
"And it dried up during the drought?"
"That's right."
"Okay, because some new environmental assessments of this area have shown that artificial drainage lines ran through the lake and were used to feed a nearby cotton farm."
"So?"
"So, it wasn’t really the drought that caused the thinning of the waters, was it?" Roger leaned in.
"It’s whatever you say," Pecker muttered, shifting uncomfortably. He started to turn away, but Roger stopped him with a rapid relay of questions.
"In 1953, the cotton farmers five miles over made an offer to you and Mr. Elmsley for your lands. Is that right?"
"I can't remember that far back."
"And you wanted to strike a deal with Elmsley so you could both profit. Is that right?"
"No."
Pecker began shuffling back toward his front door, his weakened knees preventing him from moving quickly. The weight of his upper body made his cane wobble.
"In fact, Mr. Pecker, you begged Elmsley to sell his land along with yours and hounded him week after week," Roger accused.
"That's not true," Pecker snapped, inching closer to his front door.
"So you made a deal with the cotton farmers and ran a pipe under your land to feed into Elmsley's, stealing his water," Roger pressed.
"Get away from me!" Pecker yelled.
"And when he found out, you had his family killed."
"Bullshit!"
"But he didn’t know you had killed them—he thought you had kidnapped them. And still, he wouldn’t sell you his land."
"Grace! Marge! Open the door!" Pecker shouted.
"So the water drained, and you called it in. He was pinned for the crime—thanks to a gun you left at his house."
"GRACE!!!"
"The bank forecloses on his house and then you buy his land cheap while he was in prison and were able to build this pretty little estate—on the back of the blood of an innocent family."
The cane gave way, and the old man collapsed to the ground. The house staff rushed over to assist Pecker. When they rolled him over, his nose was bloody, and his front tooth was chipped.
"You got no proof," he muttered. "You got no proof."
Roger turned away and walked back to his car. He started the engine but couldn’t bring himself to drive. He hadn't anticipated cornering the man the way he did. Everything he had accused him of was just a hunch. None of it could go to print. All of his so-called proof was anecdotal—town gossip. None of it could be used to convict Walter Pecker of anything.
A knock on his driver’s side door startled him. It was Marge, the housekeeper.
"You said you'd pay?" she reminded him.
Roger rolled down the window and dug a hand into his pocket.