The first thing I wanted to do while I was in Atlanta was talk to Kane’s neighbors to see if they recalled anything they may have seen the night of the murders. Sometimes a little time can do wonders for a person’s memory.
I arrived in Buckhead and was amazed at the size of the houses. They were million dollar mansions. I drove up to the one next to the Kane mansion. The mailbox told me that ‘The Club’s’ lived there.
I rang the bell. A few moments later an elderly gentleman with a shock of white hair opened the door. He was wearing a blue cardigan sweater and khaki pants. Tennis shoes covered his feet. He was trim, tanned, and stood close to six feet tall I introduced myself and told him I was working for Helene Kane’s sister and I was trying to gather information on the murders. He said his name was Al Club and he didn’t believe me. I gave him Hilga’s number in Pewaukee and had him call. I waited on the steps. A few minutes passed before he reappeared.
“Ok, I guess you are legitimate. I saw a guy named Darrell Mason and his boy, Billie Bob, along with a cop I recognized, enter Kane’s home the evening they were killed. A dark Ford drove up to Christopher’s house. I got a glimpse of the driver. He was an Atlanta policeman in plain clothes. I recognized him as one who had stopped me for a traffic citation a few years earlier.”
“Why didn’t you report this to the police?”
“I did, later, at Kane’s funeral, to Captain Dorfmeier, but the cop who came up to my door during the murder scene investigation was the same one I saw driving the car. I was too scared to confront the cop with what I saw, so I kept silent. I don’t know the cop's name but he was over six feet tall, between 200 and 225 pounds, with brownish black hair parted in the middle, a thin beard and wearing glasses and, as I said, I passed that information along to Captain Dorfmeier, at the funeral. Wait a minute.” He turned and walked back in the house. When he returned he was carrying a metal box. He handed it to me.
“What’s this?”
“Candi Kane stopped by before she left Atlanta and gave it to me for safe keeping. It’s a strong box. I told Hilga Haller about it and she asked that I give it to you.”
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know, it’s locked and I didn’t feel I should open it, even after I heard she was killed. I don’t trust the Atlanta Police.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Club. I’ll see that Miss Haller gets this.”
I opened the car door and slid behind the steering wheel. I dropped the strong box on the seat next to me. I turned on the ignition and grabbed the gear shift and was about to put the car in gear when a thought crossed my mind. Mr. Club’s statement had shed some light on why this case seemed to be dragging along in the slow lane. A crooked cop isn’t uncommon but having one involved in the crime end up being an investigator of that very same crime would have a tendency to cause witnesses to clam up. And why did Candi give the strong box to her old man’s neighbor instead of the police? A lack of trust?I needed to speak with Captain Dorfmeier and that was my next scheduled stop; but first, I wanted to see what was in the box.
Every private eye has a lock pick. Every good private eye is good at picking locks. Occasionally, I get lucky and can open one. I get nervous at times and my hands perspire and slip off those little picks. This time, I was lucky, the lock was a