The Case of Mr.Groman
Clay Face | Madeleine Cook | Ceramics
The Case of Mr. Groman by Sebastian Martinez and Cole Tarte
The broken shutters hung precariously from paint-chipped window sills. The wind whistled through the shattered window. I looked on in disappointment at the state of disarray that my old family home was in. A long winding path led up to a dilapidated porch, with rotted planks and nails sticking out. A place where my mother and I would sit and watch the sunsets on the warm July evenings. It had been so long since I had seen them. Memories of a joyful childhood filled my mind as I crept along the path. Suddenly something in the bushes caught my eye. A beam of light shot up into my eyes as I reached down into the shrubbery, my fingers grasped at a smooth circular item. When I pulled my arm out I was met with a gold pocket watch, its luster was dampened by the dirt caked on. As I wiped it off, I noticed the clock hands appeared to be stopped.
I gently placed the watch into my coat pocket as I ventured forward towards the house. I reached for the doorknob but the door seemed to swing open on its own. Wandering down the long hallway I peered into the open doors off to the sides. One room in particular caught my eye, an old painting watched on from the back wall over an old desk and chair. The desk lay messy from its last use as if the previous owner had just been here. Gently I swept off the thin layer of dust that coated the dest. On top was a small newspaper, its headline reading ¨Mis-trial causes notorious crime boss to walk free¨. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat next to the newspaper, the bright red logo of my father's favorite coffee shop branded on the side.
My eyes followed a series of marks leading from the table and down onto the dusty hardwood floor. Upon closer inspection, the marks appeared to be fingernail scratches, as if someone had been dragged across the room and had been trying to escape. The scratches led into the hallway until they suddenly disappeared. I looked around attempting to piece together what I was seeing.
My mind flashed back to two weeks prior. On headlines across the globe, ¨Famed Lawyer missing after controversial mis-trial¨ appeared in bold font. Only days prior my father had been on the losing end of what has been dubbed, ¨The biggest case this decade¨. Infamous Mobster Dimitri Nikitin was able to escape prosecution following a mistrial caused by a juror mysteriously vanishing. This case had consumed my father, he labored day and night for months attempting to put Dimitri behind bars.
I hurried upstairs, there was not a second to lose. I passed my childhood room, the bed still made, untouched since I had left for college. My posters of action heroes and movie characters now hung limply from where the tape had unstuck. In the hall, I saw a picture of my dad standing next to a now open sign, beside him was a man whose face had been covered up. It was my dad's old law partner. He didn't talk about him much, he had gone to jail but my dad never mentioned why. It seemed to be a touchy subject as he was never really mentioned anymore. I walked into my parent's room and rifled through the drawers, files, and files of old cases, thousands of useless documents. I was almost ready to give up my search when I stumbled upon a letter addressed to my father, in it was a note made of cut-up newspaper letters, it read “Give up, when I walk free, I’ll make sure you never do again.” I was taken aback by the letter. I knew my father had worked some dangerous cases, but never did I think my dad would be getting death threats. Instantly I knew it had to be the monster Dimitri. It was an open secret that he was a ruthless killer, exacting revenge on those who wronged him. I remember stories of my father talking about his case over dinner, recounting horrible stories of men who were left with their hands cut off. If I wanted to find my dad, I would have to find Dimitri.
I knew I couldn't go and talk to the police because Dimitri had cops on his payroll. If I was going to solve this case I would be doing it on my own.
I wandered through the house, and even with this new information, I was no closer to finding the whereabouts of my father. I stood under the latch that opened up to the attic. The string dangled in front of my face, I yanked down on the chord and a cloud of dust blew over me. Carefully I climbed up the steps, the rickety ladder creaked with each step. I popped my head into the dark room, my eyes danced around as I saw dust curling in the air. Illuminated by the single window, I saw an old safe highlighted by a single beam of light.
Its once shiny exterior was now nothing more than a rusted box. A small keypad was the only thing between me and the secrets that lay inside. I searched around the poorly illuminated room for something with which I could attempt to break open the safe. An old baseball resting against a pile of boxes caught my eye. I gripped the handle of the bat and swung as hard as I could. A loud metallic scream echoed through the attic so loud I hardly heard the gold watch fall out of my pocket onto the dust-covered floorboards. The pocket watch hit the floor with a soft clank, the back panel of it dislodged. As I bent over to pick it up, I noticed a tiny piece of paper, no bigger than a sticky note that had been folded inside. Carefully I removed the note and read the back, only four numbers were written in a scribbled font, “1987¨. I flipped the note over once more to ensure that was all that was written. My eyes darted back from the note to the safe, its keypad allowed for seven numbers to be entered and yet I only had four. I tried to think of any important seven-number combinations that might unlock the keypad.
Suddenly I climbed back down the rickety ladder and grabbed the photo of my father on the wall. I plucked it off the wall and gently pulled it out of its frame. I flipped the photograph over and noticed a faded inscription on the back.
“Founded June 23, 1987, To the greatest partner, I’d probably be in jail if it wasn't for you.” - Your friend, Oliver K. Groman
I rushed back to the attic with the photo in my hand. Hunched over the safe I dusted off the keypad and tiny electronic screen. Rapidly I typed 6-2-3-1-9-8-7, the safe whirled, a familiar CaChunk sound was made, and the safe door hinged open with a groan. Inside the safe was a neat stack of paper, the top sheet reading “The Case of Oliver K. Groman”
My eyes widened with shock and my face turned ghostly pale as I pulled the file out of the safe. I stared at the pile of evidence, page after page going into detail over the case and conviction of Oliver K. Groman for a series of crimes including money laundering. In the case file, was a photo of Oliver, He was walking around what appeared to be a rundown strip mall, and most of the signs on the buildings said under lease. But one stood out, a neon sign ran down the front of one of the stores tucked away in the back of the photo.
¨Mr. Gromans …¨
The rest of the sign was undecipherable as Mr. Groman himself stood in the perfect spot to obstruct the camera's view. I quickly scanned the rest of the photo, in it I saw the faint logo of the cafe my dad frequented. Swifty I ran down to my father's office and grabbed the cup I saw earlier. Sure enough, the logos were an exact match.
I hastily rushed down the stairs, my feet barely touching the ground. While running to escape to my car I looked up the cafe shop and learned that there was only one in my area. Tossing the front door open I hastily sprinted out to my car which sat idle, waiting for me.
Promptly I rushed to the shop, my tires burning as I sped down the narrow side roads trying to get to the store. I hoped finding Mr. Groman might help me to learn the whereabouts of my father. I took the fastest route I could manage. to get to the tiny strip mall where I would surely find my father. I turned hard into the parking lot, my car nearly hitting the parking signs. I hopped out and desperately sprinted to the glass door. Through it, I could barely make out the silhouette of a man sitting down in a plush office chair. I saw his familiar head and close-cropped haircut. I was about to pull the handle when I noticed a second man, this one with a gun pointed at my dad
