Agent Connors drove through the streets of Idaville and imagined what it might have been liked when Chief Justice Leroy Brown had grown up in it. She imagined that back then, some fifty years ago, it was closer to the reality that it currently posed as. Nearby Glenn City had grown and enveloped Idaville, especially in the 80s when the quiet suburb was a safe haven for the city’s fleeing whites. Supposedly Wilford Wiggins, another of the town’s local boys made good, had started his fortune with real-estate deals then, buying up post-war 2-bedrooms and reselling the land to developers looking to make gated enclaves. These days it was filled with minivans, picket fences, and basketball hoops, all designed to suggest a wholesome, family-friendly environment for the families that never left their minimansions.
The house where Brown had grown up was no longer there, having been transformed into a three-story behemoth that squatted on what now seemed like a postage-stamp sized yard. Brown had left Idaville after graduating college and although he had often spoke of his incredible childhood, neither he nor Idaville seemed to recognize one another. Connors had thought there would be some hubbub regarding the murder of the town’s famous son, but apart from an added line or two in the local stories, the news was treated about the same as elsewhere.
To be honest, she had no idea where to start with the town of Idaville. The people who were the most interested in Brown were ones who were too young to have been there when he was. The older generation acknowledged that he’d lived there, but didn’t have much else to say about him. Some even seemed uncomfortable about the subject.
She knew only the general details. Brown had grown up there, and his father was the Chief of Police. Leroy had shown a knack for detective work and had helped his father on many cases. He even served as a detective for his friends. Everyone assumed he’d grow up to do police work, but he ended up one the other side of the law & order ampersand, heading towards law school as soon as he could. Those were the basics, and most biographies of him sketched them out in a few sentences before jumping to his role as Attorney General. It was assumed that his career really began when he got to Tallahassee.
But the “clue” sent to Connors by an anonymous tipster had pointed to Idaville. Was there someone from those Idaville days who still held a grudge? Brown was ten years old at the time; most of the criminals he’d helped his father catch would be dead by now. And surely a bullet in the head from a highly-paid hitman would be a bit overkill for revenge against a stolen bicycle crime, or whatever he’d helped his grade-school friends with.
Agent Connors knew there wouldn’t be a big X painted where she needed to look. She’d requested files on the cases Brown’s father had closed while Chief there, but also took a look at the newspaper archives there. Not the Glenn City Times, which most current Idaville residents subscribed to these days, but the Idaville Gazette, which had stopped publishing in the early 90s. Sure enough, Leroy Brown — often referred to with the nickname, “Encyclopedia”, which Connors thought was charming — was featured a few times, usually in connection with some minor crime that would barely have received any notice if an adult had solved it. Connors paged through about a dozen of these and found no pattern to them, but there was one constant other than the boy detective: his partner, Sally Kimball.
A search for her quickly gave Connors a possible lead. Sally had married an artist named Pablo Pizarro, and was now living in New York City. Connors was going to want to have a word with Sally Pizarro.
(to be continued)