Manchester House by Donald Allen Kirch

the discovery.
    Picking up a soiled piece of Leslie’s clothing-a bra-Lt. Albert Wells did all that he could to keep his stomach from heaving. Dear God! He knew this child. His nephew attended her school and was in the same math class as she.
    No more.
    Lt. Wells, in his grief, lit up a cigarette. A young police officer approached Wells gingerly.
    “Did we manage to verify her identification?” Wells asked, hoping against all odds that even he had been wrong about the victim’s ID.
    The young police officer-Wells couldn’t remember his name-started reading his information from a sheet of paper in his hand.
    “It is Leslie Dean,” the officer stated. “Her parents stated that she was out selling candies for a local school charity. She had just finished calling her parents when she told them that she would soon be coming home&after&” the officer trailed off, uneasy. From the corner of his eye, Wells caught the young man looking down at the corpse in front of them. Wondering.
    “After what?” Wells asked, almost knowing where the conversation was heading.
    “Sir, she was last known going to Manchester House.”
    Hearing this last information, Wells put out his cigarette and tiredly headed toward his car. The young police officer followed.
    “Sir? Shouldn’t you stay until the Police Chief arrives?” the young officer asked, pointing back toward the crime scene. “I hear that he is very upset about all of this.”
    Wells let out a sarcastic laugh. “I would be too, considering it’s an election year.” Wells jumped into his car, closing the door. “No, son, I’m going to where results are waiting for me.”
    “Manchester House?” the office stated. Uneasy. Knowing.
    “Bingo.”
    Wells started his patrol car and drove off. In his rearview mirror, Wells noticed the young police officer he had left behind. The officer was returning to the tragic scene of the crime. Young Leslie Dean’s body was a pale beacon of death, glaring at him with an uneasy color. The young officer’s body shook. He started to cry.
    Wells could sympathize.
    Manchester House was less than twenty minutes away.
    Wells had hoped that he would never again have to venture out toward the cursed house. After all, it had been almost seven years since the last horrible “accident” which had caused him to take body bags out of the house. Things were looking up for the old place. It was almost as good as new. The city was once again starting to become proud of the site. Until now&
    When Wells parked his patrol car outside Manchester House, he knew that he was being watched.
    A curtain moved.
    Eyes were peering out at him.
    Wells prepared for battle.
    * * *
    It did not take long for the game to begin.
    Wells considered the task of getting his killer a game. A game of wits that seemed to taunt the criminal’s animal rage against his civilized virtue of law and order. It was not always an effortless fight but, all in all, Wells was pleased with his arrest record. One thing was for certain: rich or no, he was going to get Manchester House’s arrogant pie-baking son-of-a-bitch. And he was going to see him on Kansas’ death row if it cost him his soul.
    Wells slowly started to pace in the mansion’s main hall while Gilbert Lex sat nervously in a chair, looking up at the detective.
    :He knows nothing. Just deal with him as you would trash. Ignore it!:
    “Would you like a cool drink, detective?” Lex asked, nervous.
    Wells paused, noticing several cookbooks on a nearby end table. Picking up a few of these books, the detective noticed Lex’s picture on all the covers. He was playing with the arrogant cook and allowing his building nervousness to work against him. Wells opened one of the cookbooks and started reading.
    “No, thank you,” Wells stated, appearing interested in his reading. “I had a Coke before I got here. You really this good of a cook, sir?”
    Lex started to get jittery. It was as if the questions the detective had been