Hangman's Oak

Chapter Two

Nearly two hundred people attended George Cutter's funeral the next day. The Cutter home felt as if all of them came to pay respects afterward. The home is a Victorian 17-room mansion in the northern part of the city. Cutter Avenue, a major east/west throughway and—ironically—the locale for many gay-owned businesses, was named for George Cutter's father, Col. William Tecumseh Cutter, a WWII bomber pilot killed in combat over Germany.

After expressing my condolences to the widow and other relatives, I wandered. I had no idea what to look for or if there was anything to find. I was searching for straws. Something to give me a feel for George Cutter. Hoping beyond hope for a lead. In most of the rooms people whispered about Cutter's fine qualities and how shocked they all were by his lynching. Listening in didn't help. At last I came to a library momentarily vacant and stood staring at a wall of photos and many, old and antique cameras. Most of the cameras had a photo mounted above them that looked as if it had been taken in that particular camera's heyday.

"That's grandfather's favorite collection. He was quite proud of it."

I turned to see a medium tall man in his mid-to-late thirties.

"Hi. I'm John Quincy Boatwright."

"Rachel Cord. I don't think we met earlier. My sympathies for your loss."

"Couldn't take the receiving line claptrap. And, thank you. At least you didn't say sorry like most. Rachel Cord? I know that name. What do you do?"

"I'm a professional investigator." I gave him my card.

"Hmmm. Ever work for Marston & Marston?"

"On occasion."

"That's where I heard your name. You were mentioned during a legal action my company was involved in."

"Hope it worked out for you."

"It did. Thank you. So, tell me, besides paying your respects, what brings you here?"

"The police haven't many leads to your grandfather's murder. I was hired to see what I could find."

"Which of the family hired you?"

There was no need to tell him it wasn't his family I was working for.

"Sorry. I'm not at liberty to reveal my client's name."

"Well then, I wish you luck. What do you think of grandfather's work?"

"Work?"

"His photographs. Every one of those cameras works, and grandfather took every one of those pictures and developed them."

"Really? Even the daguerreotype?"

"Yes. I think you'll find that that young Civil War drummer is yours truly, age 10. Grandfather loved having people dress in appropriate costumes when using a particular camera. That's odd."

"What?"

"The picture above his first Leica is missing."

"Is that important?"

"It's unusual. His father sent him that camera a few weeks before being shot down in World War II. It arrived only days before the telegram notifying the family of Great Grandfather's death. Grandfather loved that camera. Said it always reminded him of his father. It started his interest in photography. If any photo were going missing, I wouldn't think it would be one taken with that camera."

"Do you recall what the picture was or when you last saw it?"

"Not sure. I like to keep in touch with my grandparents, as they are getting quite old, so I'm here pretty often. I think it was a tree. Yes, a spreading oak tree at sunset. Dark and moody. One of his early photos, he said. Feels strange that it's gone."

"Could he have removed it?"

"Possibly, but why?"

"I don't know. Maybe replace it? Perhaps it's in his darkroom. We could look."

"You seem excited all of a sudden. You think it important?"

"Don't know, but your grandfather was murdered at Hangman's Oak; a large spreading oak tree."