A History of Death

While Joe was chatting up the neighbor across the street, Garrett and Thomas were making a circuit of the house at 1206 Spooner Ave. Beside the front door was a large bay window; inside they could see what looked like a dining room, or den. There was no furniture, but the floor was cluttered with stacks of cardboard boxes. As they worked their way clockwise around the house, most of the windows were masked inside by curtains – possibly bedrooms. There was a back door at the rear of the house, next to a chimney. Peering through the window, they could see a living room, also devoid of furniture but cluttered with boxes, along with scattered Styrofoam drinking cups.

“Let me try those keys,” Thomas said, looking around to make sure no one was watching. Garrett handed him the three identical keys they’d found in the Green Box, and Thomas slid one into the door’s lock. It was the right make, and slipped in easily, but it wouldn’t turn. Shrugging, he continued the circuit. A wide window on the other side of the chimney showed a kitchen and small breakfast nook. Beyond that were more curtained windows. The eastern side of the house was mostly garage. It looked to have been built well after the rest of the house, and room above it looked like it could possibly be even newer. The garage door was locked, and the keys from the Green Box wouldn’t fit.

That brought them back to the front of the house. Thomas did a quick scan to make sure the coast was clear, and began to slip a key into the front door lock. But at that moment, the door of the house to their left opened and an elderly man stepped out. “Can I help you fellas?” he asked suspiciously.

“Hi there!” Garrett said quickly, stepping in front of Thomas to hopefully block the view of the key in his hand. “We’re looking to buy a house in this neighborhood, and saw this one listed.” Garrett was fumbling for something to say. “Can you tell us - was the garage built after the rest of the house?”

The old man looked uncomfortable. “I can’t rightly say. It was here when my wife and I moved in in ’55, but I think I heard it was added on to the house at some point. Have you talked to the realtor?”

“Not yet. We just started looking on our own first.”

The man nodded. “You need to talk to the realtor first. He’ll have some things you need to hear before you get too interested in that house.”

“What kind of things?” Garrett didn’t have to fake being interested – he wanted to get some first-hand insight on what was going on with the house.”

The man’s discomfort seemed to grow as he shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Well, that’s not really for me to say. Realtors are supposed to be required to disclose this sort of thing. All I’ll say is that there’s a dark cloud over that house, and everyone who’s ever lived in it.” An elderly woman emerged from the house at this point, pulling a heavy sweater tight against the slight chill in the air. “Is everything all right Alfred?”

The man nodded. “These boys were interested in the Wheeler house, but I was telling them they should look for something else.” The woman shuddered, and nodded in agreement. “Pardon my manners,” the man continued, turning back to Garrett and Thomas. “I’m Alfred Uleski, and this is my wife, Juliet.”

Thomas and Garrett shook hands and introduced themselves. “I guess I’m confused,” Garrett said. “Is there something structural wrong with the house? Termites, cracked foundation, that sort of thing?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Mr. Uleski said quickly. “It’s in far better shape than it has any right to be. It’s just …”

“It’s cursed,” his wife interjected, with surprising venom in her voice. “And haunted. I hear music sometimes at night, when nobody’s home – someone playing the piano in the dark. Ask Mrs. Klasky, back on Valley Road – she bought some of Mrs. Wheeler’s furniture at the estate sale, including her piano. Ask her about the piano.”

This took them by surprise. “Haunted? By who?”

“Take your pick,” Mr. Uleski snorted. “Everybody who’s lived in that house has had at least one death.”

Garrett and Thomas were shocked into silence. They knew about Yamilla Isari’s suicide, and the Turé boy. But everyone who’d lived there? “Are you sure?” Thomas finally managed to ask.

“Since we moved here in 1955. Starting with Mrs. Wheeler. Now she was really old and sick when we moved in, so her death was no big shock. But the Creases? The Greeleys? Hell, George Weaver was a good friend of mine. I tried to talk him out of buying the place, but he laughed me off, only to die just nine days after moving in.”

“Why doesn’t the city just tear it down?” Garrett asked as he tried to wrap his head around what they were hearing.

Alfred Uleski snorted. “On what grounds? You can’t condemn a property for having bad juju. You need a legal basis. You boys are asking the wrong question anyway. The real question is, why do people keep buying it?”

Garrett tried to recover, to slip back into their cover story. “But this is such a great neighborhood. We’d really love to live here.”

“I think you and your partner would be very happy in this neighborhood.” Alfred agreed. “Just not in that house.” Garrett bit his tongue while Thomas struggled to suppress a smile.

Thomas saw Joe making his way back across the street, having completed his conversation with the neighbor across the street. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he told the Uleski’s, “and we’re so glad we talked to you – you’ve given us so much to think about. Hopefully we’ll still end up being neighbors.” As they turned to leave, he slipped his arm around Garrett’s waist, chuckling as he felt him stiffen.

They met back at the car, and each filled in the others with what they’d learned. “It looks like the neighbors are a gold mine of information,” Joe observed. “Let’s see what else we can learn.” Margie Finney, the neighbor across the street, had told him that a Ms. Cooper had warned her not to attend the open house at 1206 Spooner – he wanted to find out why. Garrett decided to wait in the car while Thomas and Joe went to speak with Cooper. She lived on the opposite side of 1206 from the Uleski’s. Joe’s knock was answered by a woman in her mid-sixties. She didn’t look to pleased to see two strange men on her doorstep. “Can I help you?” she asked through the closed storm door.

Joe turned on the charm. “I hope so. You’re Ms. Cooper, right? Margie Finney across the street suggested we talk to you. We represent a real estate investment firm that’s interested in buying the house next door. Have you lived here long?”

Ms. Cooper relaxed slightly on hearing that her neighbor had referred the strangers, but was still on guard. “My parents bought this house in 1965, when I was 11. I moved back here after college, and then inherited it after they passed. You say you’re interested in that house?” She nodded towards 1206 Spooner Ave.

“That’s right,” Joe said with a big smile. “Mrs. Finney said you’d warned her not to attend the open house. That’s seems … curious. I’m just wondering why you’d say that.”

Ms. Cooper bristled. “Everyone in the neighborhood knows not to set foot inside that house. It does something to you. Why else do you think it’s never been vacant more than a few months? All those deaths, and still people keep buying it. Why? Because it wants them to. I have to ask – are you planning to live in the house, or rent it?”

“Oh, we’d rent it.”

Ms. Cooper’s cheeks flushed with color and her eyes blazed. “If you rent that house to some unsuspecting family, then God have mercy on your soul.” she said vehemently. “It would be a death sentence.” She closed the door on their surprised faces.

Thomas turned to Joe, who was still staring open-mouthed at the closed door. “Sounds like we need to burn it to the ground.”

They returned to the car and filled the others in. “Mrs. Uleski suggested we talk to Mrs. Klasky, on Valley Road,” Garrett said. "I was checking Google maps while you were gone – Valley Road is the next street back – they share back yards with these houses.” Everyone climbed into Joe’s Town Car, and they circled the block to park in front of 389 Valley Road. Joe and Thomas again got out for the interview. Their knock was answered by a very elderly woman, easily in her nineties.

Joe once again made the introductions, trying to charm the old woman. He apparently succeeded. “Oh yes,” Mrs. Klasky said in answer to his question, “we’ve lived here all our lives. My husband and I bought this house in 1940, when we got married. I was pregnant with our oldest when the War started, and John joined the Marines. He survived Guadalcanal and Okinawa, and then came back and we raised our family right here. He passed twelve years ago in October.”

“Did you know Mrs. Wheeler, in the house behind you?”

“Oh yes, I remember Isabelle well. She was quite the lady – came from a very proper family, prominent in all the right social circles. That’s why I never understood that riff-raff she let live with her. Bunch of garlic-eating Italians. I think they were all related to that nurse of hers. Don’t remember her name – something Italian – but everybody in the neighborhood just called her the Crone. I think one of the others was her son, and the rest would come and go. Everyone gave them plenty of distance. Then one day, they all just left. One day they were there, and the next they were gone. Must’ve been ’55 or so, shortly before Isabelle got sick again.”

“Got sick again?” Joe asked.

That’s right. Apparently she’d been very sick back in the teens, twenties, before we knew her, then got better.”

Joe paused. “We were speaking with Mrs. Uleski, and she told us you’d bought Mrs. Wheeler’s piano. Can you tell us about that?”

At the mention of the piano, Mrs. Klasky grew very quiet, and began to tremble slightly. She was silent for some time, and when she did speak it was barely a whisper. “When Isabelle died, I went to her estate sale. She had such lovely things. I bought her dishes, an armoire, and an end table. And her piano. It was a beautiful upright piano, walnut with ornate carvings. It had a mirrored backdrop for the keyboard – Isabelle always did love her mirrors. One evening I was walking through the living room and happened to glance over at the piano. There was no sound, but I could see Isabelle, reflected in the mirror, playing the piano. The next day, I had someone take it all away – the piano, table, everything I’d bought from that house. I didn’t want that taint in my house.”

“Do you know what happened to the piano?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I had a local dealer take it all away and sell it for me.”

“Do you recall his name?”

Mrs. Klasky knitted her brow, and Joe wondered if the old lady’s memory would be up to the task. “Let’s see,” she said at last, “it was a local shop. Some Scandinavian name … Anderson – that was it. Anderson Vintage Furniture.”

Joe was impressed. “We’ve talked to the Uleski’s, and to Ms. Cooper,” he said pointing back towards Spooner Ave. “Is there anyone else in the neighborhood who might remember Mrs. Wheeler, or know anything about her house?”

“Mrs. Klasky nodded. “Lucas – Lucas Dryer, next door.” She pointed to the house next to hers, directly behind 1206 Spooner Ave. “He’s almost as old as I am, and grew up here in Meadowbrook.”

They thanked her for her time, and went to the house next door. A wizened man answered. “Yeah?” he asked gruffly. Joe went into his usual song and dance, and while the man seemed less than charmed, he did open up. “Oh yeah, I remember Mrs. Wheeler. And that witch who lived with her. DiVetello was her name, but everyone called her the Crone. Claimed to be Wheeler’s ‘nurse’, but everyone knew she was a witch, especially after what happened to the Harrigan boy.”

This was a new name, and a surprising revelation. “Um … what happened to the Harrigan boy?” Thomas asked.

“This was back in the 30’s sometime – I was just a kid, but my older brother was a friend of Matt Harrigan, and knew the whole story. The Crone had started bringing a bunch of her family in to live with her in the Wheeler house – bunch of Italians.” He pronounced it ‘Eye-talians’ and Joe was starting to notice a pattern in the locals’ attitudes towards his people. “One of them was her son, Antonio. Some of the local boys decided they needed to clean up the town and run these greasers off. Matthew Harrigan got a bunch of them together and they caught Antonio and roughed him up, warned him that he and his mother needed to get out of town. Within two weeks, Harrigan and every single person who’d been with him had some strange disease – deep bleeding wounds like burns all over their bodies. Most recovered, but Harrigan died. After that, everyone steered clear of the Crone and her family.

“And the animals. For twenty years no one in the neighborhood could keep a pet. Dogs, cats – they’d all disappear, never be seen again. Everyone knew the Crone was killing them, but no one could do anything.”

They thanked Dreyer for his help, and returned to the car. “I’m telling you,” Thomas repeated, “we need to just burn it to the ground.” No one had a strong argument against that solution, but Jamal, for once, was the voice of caution. “Maybe we should check in with our handler.”

He pulled out the burner phone they’d gotten and called Agent Eduardo, putting him on speaker phone. “Go,” he answered.

Jamal explained what they’d found and learned so far. “We’re thinking the best course might be to just burn the place down,” he concluded.

“Not yet,” Eduardo responded quickly. “There’s too much we don’t know. Is it the house itself, or is someone or something using the house as a channel, or focus? And what or who is it? If you burn it without knowing what’s going on, you might just shift the problem to someplace we don’t even know about.”

“One more thing,” Jamal said as Eduardo sounded like he was about to hang up. “What do you know about Elder Signs?”

The line fell silent, and for a moment he thought they’d lost the connection. “Why do you ask?” Agent Eduardo finally responded.

“In Donnelly’s notes he talked about an Elder Sign,” Jamal answered. The others noticed that he avoided telling their handler they’d actually found one. "We weren’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, and if it might be useful in this case.”

There was another long silence. “Well, I don’t have any first-hand experience,” Eduardo finally responded, “but Elder Signs are supposed to be very powerful against entities from … outside. To offer protection from them, or shield you from their notice, or even to be used against them. Of course, there are other stories that an Elder Sign can mark you as having allegiance to a particular unnatural being or power. If you were to find such a thing, I would say to keep it close, but not to rely on it too much.”

“That settles it,” Jamal said as he disconnected the call. “I’m going back to the Green Box to get that Elder Sign.”

By the time they’d done that, the sun was setting. They stopped at a local diner for dinner, then returned to their hotel. Over breakfast the next morning, they discussed the plan for the day. Their buddy at the courthouse had said he’d have the complete list of everyone who’d ever owned 1206 Spooner Avenue by late morning – that left them with some hours to fill. Thomas had been clicking on his phone throughout breakfast, and now he pushed it away in disgust. “Damn it! This place is SO backward. I’ve been looking everywhere, but I can’t find any on-line archive of the local newspaper. Do these people think it’s still the nineties?”

“Why don’t you just call them?” Joes suggested, inwardly shaking his head that kids these days thought phones were only for looking at the internet. Thomas gave an overly-dramatic sigh, then placed an old-fashioned voice call to the Meadowbrook Sparrow, the local newspaper. “Yes, I’m looking for an on-line archive of back issues,” he said when an actual human being answered.

“I’m sorry,” the voice responded. “We’ve never had the budget to digitize our archive. Times are tight in the newspaper business. We do have all our back issues on microfilm. If you come in, you’re more than welcome to access them. Although I’ll warn you, we don’t have any staff to help you, so you’re on your own. The local library has the same microfilm catalog we do, and their librarians might be able to help you find your way through them.”

That seemed like the best plan, so they piled into Joe’s car and made their way to the Meadowbrook Public Library. The librarian at the Reference Desk was more than happy to show them into a small room containing a pair of microfilm readers. Next to it was a larger room with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with boxes of microfilm spools. “There are all the back issues of the Sparrow,” she said cheerily, “going back to 1875.”

“How do we find what we’re looking for?” Thomas asked skeptically.

“We have an index,” The librarian pointed to a pair of thick, three-ring binders, “but I’m afraid it’s only partial.”

“Partial?” Thomas was getting even more skeptical.

The librarian nodded sympathetically. “We’ve indexed by name, but that’s about it. Nothing by topic, or address, or keyword I’m afraid.” Thomas rolled his eyes. “But I’m happy to help if you’d like,” the librarian added.

“Oh no, that’s all right,” Jamal interjected quickly. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.” However, twenty minutes later they’d decided they were anything but fine. They were able to locate a series of entries for ‘Wheeler, Isabelle” in the index, but the string of numbers after each entry were a mystery. “Look,” Garrett said at last, “there’s nothing in here we need to keep secret from her. We need her help if we’re going to find anything.” Jamal reluctantly agreed, and they called the reference librarian back in.

They started with Isabelle Wheeler, searching for any articles they could find about her, working backwards in reverse order. The first, not surprisingly, was her obituary:

Aug. 12, 1956

Isabelle Wheeler, a prominent figure in local society circles, died yesterday at age 69. At the time of her death, Mrs. Wheeler lived alone with a caretaker nurse, the illness that plagued her younger years having returned. Mrs. Wheeler was preceded in death by her husband, Michael Wheeler, and her parents, Adolph and Regina Nacht. Mrs. Wheeler bequeathed her remaining fortune to the Meadowbrook Community Hospital.

The next article related to Isabelle Wheeler was all the way back in 1937, and referred to her only in passing:

Nov. 3, 1937

Antonio DiVetello was released from police custody yesterday after Mrs. Isabelle Wheeler posted the required bond. DiVetello was charged with assaulting several local youths earlier in the week. It is believed that young DiVetello is the son of Adele DiVetello, Mrs. Wheeler’s longtime nurse and that Mrs. Wheeler’s charity towards the young ruffian is out of gratitude to his mother.

“DiVetello! That’s the Crone!” Garrett said excitedly. “This must be about the assault on her son that Mr. Dreyer told us about.”

“Make a note – we’ll come back to that,” Joe said. “For now, let’s stay focused on Isabelle Wheeler.” They consulted the index, and found the next reference to her in 1927, a small article in the Society section of the paper:

June 12, 1926

Isabelle Wheeler has made an astonishing, seemingly complete recovery from the debilitating ailment that has long afflicted her. For the first time in 20 years, she was able to make appearances in public, attending several society functions. Mrs. Wheeler’s friends are delighted to share in her company once again.

The next article was actually her late husband’s obituary:

Oct. 18 1910

Wealthy stonemason Michael Wheeler died tragically yesterday during construction of the new County Seat in Mt. Holly, when a falling slab of marble struck him fatally on the head. He is survived by his wife, Isabelle Wheeler. The couple had no children.

Three more articles rounded out the picture of Isabelle Wheeler’s young life, all in the Society pages:

May 23, 1907

Stonemason Michael Wheeler has begun construction of a small house at 1206 Spooner Avenue for himself and his invalid wife, Isabelle. Isabelle Wheeler suffers from some form of palsy, which has resisted the treatments of the many doctors her desperate husband has hired from out of state.

 

Nov. 28, 1905

Isabelle Wheeler, newly married at 18 and the darling of Meadowbrook society, has begun to suffer an unknown ailment. It renders her bed-ridden with convulsions, and incapable of walking. All who know Mrs. Wheeler wish her a speedy and full recovery.

 

May 13 1905

Meadowbrook celebrates the marriage of Michael Wheeler and Isabelle Nacht. Wheeler, 30, is a quintessential “self-made man,” a dashing young stonemason who prospered from contracts with governments and churches around the region. His business specializes in gargoyles, marble cuts, tiles, and monuments. Nacht, 18, is the daughter of Adolph and Regina Nacht, who have property holdings throughout Burlington County and the surrounding area. Michael and Isabelle are the darlings of the town. This article was accompanied by a grainy wedding photo: Isabelle looked slim and proper, while Michael had a pencil mustache and movie-star good looks.

"Let’s see if there’s anything for ‘DiVetello’,” Thomas suggested. “And Harrigan,” Garrett added. DiVetello turned up very few hits. One was about Antonio DiVetello’s arrest:

Nov. 1, 1937

Matthew Harrigan, son of Meadowbrook alderman Cranston Harrigan, and several friends were accosted on the street yesterday by Antonio DiVetello, an Italian immigrant recently living at 1206 Spooner Ave. Fortunately, the boys were able to defend themselves admirably, and overpowered DiVetello until police arrived. Police say DiVetello, who was battered and bruised but not badly hurt, let loose a ‘stream of foul and incomprehensible Italian curses at the lads as he was led away’. DiVetello was arrested on charges of assault. Young Harrigan and his chums were not badly injured.

“Wow – they completely flipped that story around,” Jamal muttered, remembering how Mr. Dreyer had told them that Harrigan and his friends had attacked Antonio. “Is there anything else on DiVetello?

There was, one short article from a decade earlier.

May 23, 1926

Nurse Adele DiVetello was dismissed from Meadowbrook Sanitarium for improper behavior. Patients and coworkers made numerous scandalous accusations against the Italian immigrant, including charges of practicing witchcraft and animal sacrifice. A physician at the sanitarium marks her as a woman of low moral standards and a heathen.

“Holy shit!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds like the neighbors weren’t the only ones who thought she was a witch!”

“And look at the timing,” Jamal added, flipping through the notes he’d been taking. “In May of ’26 she loses her job at the sanitarium. Less than a month later, Isabelle Wheeler makes a complete recovery from her strange illness. Maybe she really was a witch.”

Each of these lookups had been a time- and effort-intensive affair, taking 10-15 minutes each just to locate the right article. By the time they’d finished with Isabelle Wheeler, it was after 11:00. “Our friend at the courthouse will think we forgot about him,” Jamal said, checking his watch. “We should get over there and see what he’s got for us.”

“Let’s split up,” Thomas suggested. “You and Joe can go to the courthouse, and Garrett and I will keep checking the other names we’ve got.” That sounded like a plan, so Joe and Jamal left the other two huddled in the microfilm room while they drove to the courthouse, making a stop at Starbucks on the way.

When they arrived, the clerk gave them a big grin as Jamal slid a Grande Mocha (with extra whipped cream) across the counter. “Perfect timing,” he said as he wiped cream off his upper lip. “I just finished tracking down all the previous owners.” He slid a piece of paper across the counter.

Joe gave a low whistle as he scanned the list. “That’s a lot of names,” he said. “Did they all die?” He turned back to the clerk. “Can you pull the death certificates for all these folks?”

The clerk’s expression changed. “Well, I could, but that’s a lot of work. And there’s no guarantee it would find everyone. This is just a list of the people who owned the house, not everyone who lived there. Or died there. If that’s what you’re looking for, your best bet might be to talk to the county coroner. He’ll have records of all deaths. Course, he might not be willing to share that information with just anyone off the street – he might take some convincing.” Jamal fingered the FBI badge in his pocket – he didn’t think that would be a problem. They thanked the clerk again for all his help and set off for the coroner’s office, in a county office building in Mt. Holly.

As they drove, Jamal said, "I've been thinking about that piano. That Friendly, Tucker - she specializes in finding family heirlooms. Maybe she can track it down for us." Without waiting to hear Joe's opinion, he pulled out the burner phone and hit Tucker's contact entry. After a couple of rings, she answered: "Elizabeth Tucker, AntiqueTracker.com - how can I help you?"

"Hi, Elizabeth," Jamal replied. "My name's Jamal Jackson, and I'm a friend of the Green family. I'm hoping you can help us out."

Tucker was momentarily confused. "The Green family? I'm not sure I ... Ohhhh - the Green family. I haven't heard from them in quite some time. I'd be happy to help if I can. What do you need?"

"We're trying to track down some furniture that was sold back in the fifties. It was originally part of the Isabelle Wheeler estate, but was purchased by one of her neighbors at the estate sale and later resold."

Tucker interrupted him. "You're looking for furniture from the Wheeler house? That's so odd, because last year I had a client who was looking for the same thing."

"Who was that?"

"Her name was Yamilla Isari, and she'd just bought the house - actually her father had bought it for her. She was keen to restore the house to its pre-50s style. She went on a bit of a buying spree with several local antique dealers, and approached me to try to track down any of the home's original furnishings. I was able to identify the dealer who's handled the estate sale, but he'd died in the early sixties and left behind no records, so that turned into a dead end. It was probably just as well - Isari apparently lost interest in her project. The other dealers I talked to said she stopped coming in and didn't even return phone calls."

"Well some of the pieces were purchased by one of Mrs. Wheeler's neighbors, Mrs. Imogen Klasky," Jamal explained, "and we know who later sold them for her - an Anderson Vintage Furniture."

Tucker got excited. "I've worked with them before! Well, not directly - they went out of business in the early seventies. But they kept great records, and the family still has them. I'm sure I can find out who bought the pieces you're talking about. I'll warn you though - they could have been resold multiple times since then, so there's no guarantee this will actually get you to the pieces you're looking for."

"I understand," Jamal acknowledged, "but anything you can find will be a help." He made sure Tucker had their number and hung up.

When they arrived at the County offices, the coroner’s office was in the basement; a brass plate on the door identified him as Dr. Elmer Perkin. Inside was a fairly sparse office with a single secretary. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked as they entered.

Jamal held up his FBI badge. “Federal agents,” he said, sounding official. “We’d like to speak with Dr. Perkin about a case we’re working.” She seemed suitably impressed, and stepped through a door to an inner office. She emerged half a minute later. “Dr. Perkin would be happy to speak with you.”

Elmer Perkin was a bony man with longish hair and a constellation of burst veins across his nose. Jamal flashed his badge again as they shook hands. “Thank you for meeting with us,” he said as they sat down. “We’re following up on Agent Donnelly’s death, and we understand that you handled the scene.”

“That’s correct,” Perkin nodded. “Damnedest thing – it was almost a mirror image of the death of the previous owner. I didn’t put this in my report, but I have to believe Donnelly had gotten hold of crime scene photos from the Isari case and staged his death to be a copycat. Everything about it was almost identical.”

“That’s related to why we wanted to speak with you,” Jamal said, nodding. “We’re trying to understand what provoked Agent Donnelly’s actions, and we’ve found that he had developed something of an obsession with this house and the people who had died in it. We have a list of previous owners, and were hoping you could help us fill in some blanks, tell us if any of these other residents had suffered violent or unusual deaths.” Joe was looking at Jamal with newfound respect – he’d been speaking for almost five minutes and hadn’t threatened bodily harm even once.

Dr. Perkin didn’t respond for a moment, seeming to be engaged in some internal debate. But then he nodded. “Of course. I’d be happy to help the Bureau if I can. What would you like to know?”

Joe and Jamal both let out little sighs of relief. Jamal slid the list of owners they’d gotten from the courthouse across the desk to Perkin. “Can you tell us if anyone on this list, or possibly any family members, died under unusual circumstances?”

Perkin scanned the list. “Well Isari you already know about. I will say this – there were no hesitation marks on the cut on her throat. For female suicides in particular that’s pretty unusual. Falcone - I remember that one. She was another suicide. Tied a plastic bag around her neck. Not a common method of suicide, and would take a hell of a commitment. Let’s see, Braintree – oh yeah, that’s another memorable one. Mauled to death in her own house by some animal. Never found the animal, but from the bite marks they thought it was a dog. Family didn't own a dog though. And Louis Tycroft. I actually knew him – he was a lawyer who handled my estate planning. He started going downhill, mentally. Got really belligerent towards the end. Somehow managed to shoot himself twice in the chest with a pistol. Not sure how he managed that – the first wound would have been damn near instantly fatal. Let’s see, John Tyler.” Perkin got up and pulled open a drawer of a file cabinet, riffling through files. “Here it is. Oh yes, this was shortly after I became coroner.” He read through the file, frowning. “I ruled this case a suicide, but only because there was no concrete evidence of foul play. Tyler was found dead in the master bedroom, his lungs full of water. The tub was bone dry and the plug was in the drain, and the house locked up from the inside.” He shook his head.

Perkin continued working down the list of names. “Now we’re back to before I took this job, so I’ll have to rely on my predecessors’ records, and I’ll warn you, some were better at keeping records than others.” He turned back to the file cabinet and flipped through more files. “OK, here’s Janine Aiken. Looks like accidental death – apparently she died from a gas leak.” He spent a few minutes thumbing through more files. “Gareth Gedjos – another accident. Slipped and hit his head on the tub. Although the case notes say the floor was dry when they found him. Diaz …” More searching. “Another suicide. Hung himself.” He switched to a different file drawer as the dates moved back in time. “Greeley … here it is. Holy shit! This one’s down as a murder/suicide. He pulled out a much thicker file and paged through it. “Neighbor called the fire department after he saw smoke coming from the kitchen. Firemen found the bodies of Thomas and Imogen Greeley in the kitchen. The fire had been intentionally set – he’d doused the place with gasoline and set it ablaze. The wife died of massive third-degree burns, and he died of smoke inhalation – apparently he doused her, too. Three kids asleep in the house survived, thank god.”

Perkin’s hands were starting to shake as he continued his search. “Dr. George Weaver – my god, I knew him, too! He was our family doctor when I was a kid. Cause of death is listed as accidental electrocution. Apparently brushed against a hot wire in the garage. Let’s see … Jonathan Reese. He’s just listed as a suicide, no additional information.” He looked up apologetically. “We’re back to one of my predecessors who was less than thorough.” He turned back to the files. “Turé … nothing on the parents, but one of the kids died of accidental drowning. Nine years old. No more info.” He continued searching. “Michael Dougherty just lists “Accident” for cause of death. Sorry.” He shifted to yet another file drawer as they moved farther back in time. “Crease … Oh my god! Another murder/suicide!” He pulled out another thick manila folder and read through it. “George Crease shot his wife, Margaret, with a 12-guage shotgun and then turned it on himself. Blew most of his head off. Apparently he’d set the house on fire before he offed himself.”

Perkin slid the folder back into the drawer, then paused for moment, as if steeling himself before he continued his search. “One more name,” he said, more to himself than the others. He thumbed through more files, then pulled one out. “Isabelle Wheeler – natural causes.” He breathed a sigh of relief, then looked up at the two agents. His eyes were red and his hands shaking. “What the hell is wrong with that house?”