A little dicey on accuracy in this chapter. We're mostly making stuff up about the fine town of Tombstone, although we mixed in a little accuracy just to keep you guessing.
Chapter 6
Dean awoke to the soft rhythmical sound of Sam tapping at the computer keys and groaned inwardly.
More research.
He'd known it was coming after the disastrous graveyard foray last night, the unexpected appearance of three ghosts when they had only banked on one. But first thing in the morning? Before coffee? That seemed excessive.
He kept his eyes closed, kept his breathing even and aimed to defer his involvement for a little while. With any luck, Sam would shortly have a eureka moment and the research would be complete by the time he 'woke up'.
"I know you're awake."
Dean cursed silently.
"You suck at playing possum, you might want to remember that for the future."
Sam sounded a little peeved, a little insulted that Dean thought he could get away with the act and it pricked Dean's defenses, made him want to argue I do not suck at it, I just didn't commit to it early enough, but he didn't even have his eyes open yet and that would not be an auspicious start the day.
"And a good morning to you," he grumbled instead.
He yawned, stretched and felt the sting of the gash low in his back. Sam had slipped a few stitches into it when they had returned last night, the butterfly tape not holding up to the night's activities, the wound reopening, leaking blood.
"I think I know who two of the ghosts are."
Dean's lazy warm up came to an abrupt end. He snapped upright, fingers running through his hair to settle the unruliness.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Come look at this."
Dean padded over to where his brother sat at the small breakfast table, barely large enough to contain the laptop. He jostled Sam a little, shouldered him aside, so that he could view the screen, and Sam clicked his tongue but ceded some space.
There was a photo of a man on the screen in scratchy black and white and Dean recognized him as the second male apparition that had appeared the previous night, the last of the three.
He let out a low whistle when he read the name.
"Ed Schiefflin? The guy who founded the town? He's one of the apparitions?" He looked at Sam for confirmation, making sure he had identified correctly.
Sam eyebrows flickered in surprise at Dean knowing who Ed Scheifflin was. Then he remembered that the name had come up in his brother's research.
"Looks like."
"How did you figure that one out?"
Sam reached under his chair and picked up the tourist booklet he had been reading when they arrived in town.
"I thought I recognized him at the cemetery, so I looked in here and bingo, there he was…the founder of Tombstone."
Dean ran a hand along the nape of his neck. This hadn't really arisen before, a spirit who was someone, a historical figure. He wasn't thrilled about it. It felt like a complication. It felt like something that was going to make the job harder, he just wasn't sure how.
Sam tapped a few keys and pulled up another picture
Dean read the caption underneath then dipped his chin, "That's no real surprise. We knew Tranter was involved."
"So that just leaves the woman," Sam pronounced. "I'm still trying to figure out who she is. I was hoping the scar on her face would make her easy to identify but not so far."
Dean looked at him blankly.
"Big scar? Left cheek?"
Dean did a quick replay of the night's events in his mind and when it came to the female apparition he remembered scrambling, shooting, a little bit of panicking, but he was hazy on the physical detail. She hadn't attacked him (if you could call the booming plea an attack) she'd attacked Sam and Dean hadn't paused to take notes.
Sam shook his head in feigned disgust, because he knew that's what Dean would do to him if he missed a distinguishing feature. "Anyway. She had a scar on her left cheek, so I'm trying to search for scarred women in Tombstone in the late 1800s but I'm not having much luck, I haven't found anything yet."
Dean pursed his lips as he considered the problem, then without a word moved away from Sam, picked up his cell phone, scrolled through the contacts and initiated a call.
Sam frowned, wondering who his brother could possibly be calling to help identify a spirit that only the two of them had seen.
Dean slowly paced as he waited for the call to be answered, then stopped dead and shot Sam a look of wide eyed astonishment. Sam had no idea what it signified.
"Fuckface?" Dean barked into the phone. "You always greet your callers like that Ada?"
His eyes left Sam and wandered absently around the room. After a few moments he chuckled. "You know, that's the second time you've used the I thought you were Maud excuse with me. Is there something you're trying to tell me?" There was a pause then a sharp laugh, "Not many people could get away with saying that. I'm not sure that you're going to get away with saying that. You'd better watch your back lady."
Sam smiled. He liked that Ada teased Dean, there was an intimacy to it, a depth to the relationship that was uncommon. She seemed to have a grasp on how to handle Dean with both playfulness and authority. Maybe that was because of her own son, she had experience dealing with a complex, bruised character. It was a similar relationship to the one Dean had with Ellen, but with more humor and less intimidation.
"Hang on a minute, I've got Sam with me, I'm going to switch you to speaker."
Dean pressed a button on his cellphone and Sam jumped from his seat and moved to where his brother stood, wanting to be close to the receiver, even if it was on speaker. Dean held the phone between them and asked, "Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear fuckface."
"I thought we established that I wasn't the fuckface."
Laughter rang out of the phone.
"Hi Ada," Sam greeted.
"Hiya sweetie."
"Oh what?" Dean exclaimed with mock indignation. "I'm fuckface and he's sweetie."
There was renewed laughter down the phone line. "Deal with it fucker."
Sam snorted and Dean cocked an unimpressed eyebrow.
When Ada's laughter died down she asked, "So what is it you need? You boys alright?" There was a sudden seriousness to Ada's tone as it occurred to her that maybe something was wrong.
"We're fine Ada," Dean responded, "just need to pick your brains for a minute."
"Oh god," came the reply and Sam could imagine an eye roll accompanying the groan.
"Don't worry, it's not rocket science. We'd be calling Maud if it was something hard." Ada exhaled a breath that was equal parts amusement and umbrage and Dean continued, "Listen, do you know of any women in the late 1800s who had a prominent scar on their face?"
"Oh Christ, a history lesson," Ada mumbled. "Can it wait until Maud gets home, she's better at that sort of thing."
"You can't think of anyone?" Dean pressed.
"Alright impatient, let me think." The phone went quiet. After a few moments Ada suddenly exclaimed, "Oh! What about Madame Moustache. You heard of her?"
The brothers exchanged a look that revealed neither had. "No," Sam answered. "Who is she?"
"She ran gambling houses back in the day. Very successful, very shrewd woman, but she was knifed by a drunken loser one night, left her with a scar on her cheek."
Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother and uttered quietly, "That sounds about right."
Dean didn't acknowledge the comment, his forehead was deeply wrinkled as he repeated, "Madame Moustache?" like the words didn't make sense. "The woman had a moustache?"
"Apparently."
Dean's gaze slid to his brother, his eyes asking the question did last night's female spirit have a moustache? "Like a full on, twirl around your finger moustache?" Dean sought to clarify.
Ada laughed. "I don't think she was the bearded lady or anything, she wasn't a circus freak. Some women have noticeable hair on their top lip. Not me of course. But Maud, shit, you should see her before a waxing, whiskers from hell."
Both boys wrinkled their nose in distaste.
"Madame moustache huh?" Dean was looking at Sam as he said the words and the younger brother shrugged his shoulders in response, could be implied. "Did she have any connection to the funeral parlor?"
"I don't know," Ada answered. "Not that I know of."
"Okay. Well, we'll try and find a photo of Madame Furface, see if it's the woman we saw last night."
There was a pause and Dean realized his mistake, kicked himself for inadvertently revealing something about what they'd been up to. And even though the women knew more about their business than most people and had shown themselves to be allies, he still wasn't comfortable getting into a conversation that could include the admission we were out desecrating graves at a historical landmark last night.
"Last night? Where the hell were you last night?"
"Nowhere," Dean said quickly. "A strip club. Nothing you need to hear about."
"Uh-huh." The skepticism was clear in Ada's voice. "You saw Madam Moustache in a strip club?" She waited a beat for a response and when none was forthcoming, she huffed and asked, "Were you careful? In the strip club? Did anyone suffer an unfortunate injury?"
Dean laughed. The idea of someone suffering an unfortunate injury at a strip club was pretty funny, some wild possibilities sprang to mind.
"No injuries. But Sam had his sensibilities offended. He's such a sensitive boy."
Shut up Sam mouthed and smacked him on the arm, puzzled by his brother's need to persevere in the lie and insult him unnecessarily. Dean smacked him back, then skipped away to avoid a return. He pressed the button to take the phone off speaker and finished the call in a rush, "Thanks Ada, you've been a great help," then stood facing his brother with a smile on his face and a bring it on stance.
The brother's regarded each other adversarily, primed for a wrestling match, but then Sam stood down, took the high road before things got out of hand, and returned to his seat in front of the computer. His fingers flew over the keys, paused, and he pronounced, "Ada was right. It was Madame Moustache we saw last night. Real name, Eleanor Dumont."
Dean hesitantly drew up behind him, not sure if there was a truce between them, eyes flitting between the computer screen and Sam. When he viewed the photo his brother had found, satisfied it was the woman they had seen at the graveyard last night, he breathed, "Okay," and took a few steps out of his brother's reach, still wary. "So we know who the three spirits are. Now how do we get rid of them?"
Sam leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head as he considered the question. "I guess we need to find their connection. There must be a reason they're appearing together. Maybe if we can find the connection we can figure out how to separate them so we can do the salt and burn."
"Yeah okay," Dean agreed, pressing his lips together. He felt a flush of annoyance that this 'simple' job had turned into something complex. It was supposed to be a time filler. Identify the ghost, easy salt and burn, thank you for coming, onto the next thing. He didn't know why jobs never seemed to work out that way. Easy seemed to be hard to find.
Dean's thoughts were interrupted by a suggestion from Sam. "Why don't we head down to the Tombstone Epitaph and look for reports about the murder of Tranter's children, see where that leads us."
The enthusiasm in his voice, the sparkle in his eyes, told Dean that his brother had more than a professional interest in visiting the vintage newspaper. He hadn't forgotten Sam lingering at the storefront, peering into the windows on their first day walk around. This was a two birds with one stone suggestion. This was Sam seizing an opportunity to try and further the case whilst visiting a historical site he was keen to view.
Dean rolled his eyes. He didn't particularly want to indulge his brother's nerdish tendencies, but the suggestion did hold merit. They'd gotten as much information as they could from the library so newspaper archives was a natural progression.
"Ok…we'll go," Dean conceded, adding with a jab of his finger, "but no disappearing off to stroke the old machines or make out with ancient headlines. This is business, you can indulge your geekboy fantasies on your own time."
Sam's enthusiasm dwindled a little. The way his eyebrows dipped at the phrase on your own time made Dean think he was going to take issue, raise an argument that he was never on his own time. But he didn't. His countenance cleared and he accepted the terms with a slight smile and nod of the head which made Dean suspect his brother was going to indulge his geekboy fantasies whether it was authorized or not.
The boys quickly showered and exited the motel, stopping at a café for a hasty breakfast before making their way to the Tombstone Epitaph. Sam tried to modulate his steps, tried not to race to their intended destination, but as they got closer, when the storefront came into view his strides increased in pace and he reached the door with his brother yards behind, then tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for Dean to catch up.
Dean chuckled. It was kind of endearing seeing Sam so boyishly excited. It reminded him of Sam in high school, how keen he was attend, how eager he was to learn. Dean had never understood it but he always enjoyed seeing it. It was nice that despite the job, their unconventional lives, the tragedies of the past few years, Sam remained in essence the same kid, that it shone through every now and again.
Dean slowed his pace, dawdled toward his brother and delighted in the aggravation that flooded Sam's face.
They ducked into the Epitaph, an innocuous looking white washed storefront located at one end of the main street and Sam immediately veered right, toward vintage equipment displayed near the large windows while Dean sauntered further inside, surreptitiously checking out the place and the only person within view, a woman in her late thirties standing behind the counter engrossed in some paperwork. She unhurriedly lifted her gaze as Dean approached, then smiled sweetly as her eyes raked him up and down.
"Morning," she greeted. "You looking for a tour of the place?"
There was the sharp scrape of boot twisting on wood and without even looking Dean knew Sam had turned at the question, was hoping to hear a yes in answer.
"Maybe later," Dean hedged, with a twinge of guilt at disappointing his brother, knowing that maybe was realistically a no, that he didn't have the patience for a tour.
"Then what can I do for you?" she prompted amiably.
Dean's eyes flashed to the name badge pinned to her chest and with an engaging smile he said, "Anne, my brother and I are historical detectives." He ignored the way her brows drew down, her eyes narrowed dubiously and continued, "We heard about an unsolved murder a hundred years ago that might be right up our alley and we thought we'd come down and find out what might have been reported in the paper at the time."
"Historical detectives?" she echoed, making sure she'd heard right.
"Yep."
It probably had more to do with the dialed up smile than a belief in the cover story that the woman said slowly, "Okay. What murder are you talking about?"
"Couple of young girls, Madeline and Elizabeth Tranter. Killed around 1889."
"Oh right," Anne's eyes widened as her memory was stirred. "I think I remember reading about them." She stood up and flicked a lock behind the counter which allowed a hidden door to open. "Little girls were shot to death weren't they?"
"That's right," Dean confirmed and took the opening of the counter as an invitation to walk through. Sam quickly crossed the room to follow.
"Yeah," her focus drifted as she searched her mind for more details. "They were really young, like 7 and 5 or something. And they were kidnapped and found dead." She raised an eyebrow at Dean, not sure if she was on the right track. He nodded, didn't correct her and she shook her head sadly. "That's awful stuff. It should never happen, not even in the wild west."
"Can't argue with you there," Dean agreed somberly.
Anne walked the boys to the back room of the Epitaph, an expansive space floor to ceiling with filing cabinets.
"So this is the filing room," she introduced with a flourish of her hand Price is Right style. "We have every edition of the paper stored here, starting from 1880. They're in chronological order, so if you know the date of the newspaper you're looking for it won't be too hard to find. They start at the top left," she pointed at the farther left cabinet, "and run down by date then back up to the top of the next cabinet."
She gave the boys an awkward half smile and dropped her gaze to the floor as she considered how to proceed, whether she should stay with them, whether their was a security problem leaving them here. She drew in a breath, clapped her hands and raised her eyes to the men, decision apparently made. "Okay then. Good luck. I hope you find what you're looking for. If you need any help I'm right outside."
She moved toward the door and with her hand on the knob, paused and turned toward them. "So is this a job or a hobby?"
"We don't get paid for it," Sam offered, aware that it didn't really answer the question.
"And if you figure out who killed the girls what happens then?"
"We let the police know," Sam replied, "show them the evidence we found. They may still have a file on the matter." He shrugged mildly, like what came after was out of their hands.
She nodded at the explanation, gave the brothers a warm, understanding smile, and Sam felt both relieved that she was buying into the front and terrible that they had duped her so convincingly.
"Don't you mess up this filing system," were her last words as she left the room.
Dean walked over to the left cabinet, flattened his palm against the metal and let out a heavy sigh. More research. This job was setting new lows for research.
Sam drew beside him, patted his shoulder sympathetically, and pulled out a chest height drawer that was labeled 1885-1890.
Paper was wedged tight in the space, stuck into long held angles. Sam gingerly pried pages apart, looking to find papers from 1889 but froze at the sound of ripping and shot a horrified look at his brother.
"You're not destroying the historical records are you Sam?" Dean grinned.
Sam pursed his lips unhappily and withdrew his hand from the drawer. "Maybe you'd like to try?" he challenged.
Dean reached in and pulled out everything in the drawer in one large, solid bulk, dropping it onto the floor with a thud that pained Sam. The older Winchester knelt over the mound and gently pulled at the right corner edge, opening a gap about a quarter of the way down the stack, then slipped his hand between two pages and slowly worked his way from the top to the bottom prising apart the paper. He lifted the top of the stack clear from the pile with a triumphant look at Sam and deposited it behind him, out of the way.
"You just need to show some care," Dean condascended. "These papers are like delicate flowers."
"Yeah, yeah," Sam grumbled.
Using that careful method they located the editions for 1889. It became increasingly tedious separating pages to find the March 9 edition of that year, but their efforts were rewarded when the front page of that paper carried an article describing the sorry circumstances surrounding the disappearance and discovery of the girls. Shoulder to shoulder, the brothers read how the girls, aged five and eight, had been playing outside their house, in the care of a friend while their father was at work, and vanished when the carer went inside to prepare afternoon tea. A search was conducted and the bodies were found that evening two miles away, poorly concealed under shrubs, shot through the heart.
Sam was almost moved to tears by how tenderly and emotively the article had been written, how powerfully the scene was described without being graphic or macabre. If anything sexual had occurred there was no mention of it in the article and he really wanted to believe that the girls hadn't suffered in that way, but he couldn't help wonder about the motivation for kidnapping two little girls, couldn't help but draw the worst conclusion. And he felt a deep revulsion at the crime, at the sort of person who could do such a thing to two innocent girls, he understood why Joseph Tranter was so tortured in death, unable to find peace.
The brothers exchanged sober expressions when they reached the end of the article.
"Poor bastard," Dean said. "I almost feel bad about filling him with rock salt last night."
"Yeah," Sam agreed quietly.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "You're not going to cry are you?"
Sam gave him a withering look.
They continued the painful process of pulling apart the leaves of newspaper, trying to find follow up articles, reports of progress in the investigation. It was frustrating hours spent reading through the pages without reward. When they were scanning editions of the paper a year after the initial report they agreed not to read on any further, the likelihood of finding relevant articles was too remote and time consuming. To be sure they hadn't missed anything they returned to the March 9 edition and closely read each paper up to three months after, confirming that there was no follow up article to the initial report in that time.
It was baffling that such a sensational double murder would be so quickly dismissed, forgotten. Certainly life back then was cheap, people died with alarming regularity, but two young girls being killed in such circumstances was unusual, and Sam would have expected the public to demand justice, to want to be kept informed of progress.
It was weird.
But then, it was a different time. He didn't really know how society worked in the late 1800s. Maybe people didn't want to be reminded of such incidents, or maybe reporters just didn't do follow up stories back then.
With a yawn and a stretch the brothers carefully stacked the pages on top of each, Sam a little more careful about the order of dates than Dean was, and returned the papers to the appropriate cabinet. They traced their way back to the entrance of the building where they once again encountered Anne.
"Find what you were looking for?" she brightly enquired.
"Not really," Dean answered wearily. "We found the initial report of the murders and then nothing else. And I mean nothing."
"That's a shame," she commiserated. "I have heard that William Bonner, the original owner of the Epitaph, kept a very firm grip on what was reported. Not so much freedom of the press back then. Maybe there was a reason for keeping it all hush hush."
Dean looked at her doubtfully. What possible reason could there be for keeping a murder investigation hush hush? "Yeah, maybe," he agreed half heartedly.
"You should speak to Steve Tranter at the museum," she suggested. "He knows a lot about a lot when it comes to this town. And I think he's a distant relative of those girls. I'm pretty sure that Joseph Tranter is his great, great, great whatever uncle or something so he may have an inside running."
Sam's eyes lit up, he looked at Dean as if the woman had just suggested something that was ten kinds of fun, something they'd be crazy not to do and Dean groaned. Sam was going to insist they head to the museum as soon as they walked out the door. All this research, all this history, was going to kill Dean, he was going to waste away and die of boredom.
He shook his head in despair, gave Anne a wan smile and left Sam to obtain directions to the museum while he waited outside. They compromised about heading straight over there, agreeing to a short interlude at a diner to unwind and refuel, before walking the brief distance to their next destination.
The museum was surprisingly small. Dean snorted when he saw it. "That's not a museum, that's a…" his sentence trailed off.
"What?" Sam prodded.
"Dog kennel?" Dean responded half heartedly, and at the puzzled look on Sam's face shook his head ruefully. "Yeah, I thought something would come to me. It's pretty small is what I was getting at. How much junk could they fit in there?"
Sam was pretty sure the word junk was intended to rile him.
"I'm sure they cram it real tight," Sam replied and Dean frowned at the sarcasm, finding it uncharacteristic from his brother, a little disconcerting.
Sam pushed open the door, took a few steps inside and stopped to get his bearings. The museum comprised one large room with white painted walls, a dark hard wood floor, and glass cabinets that stretched to the ceiling along the edges of the room, with waist height glass cabinets in the centre, creating a walkway that could only be navigated single file.
Dean paused at Sam's left shoulder, surveying the interior. It was an Aladdin's cave of artifacts, mementos and curios. The displays had been efficiently designed to maximize space and all items were accompanied by neatly typed notes.
The words they cram it real tight echoed in Dean's mind and he chuckled quietly to himself at Sam's unintentionally appropriate comment.
A dark haired man not much older than themselves, regaled in authentic looking 19th century cowboy gear, most strikingly a suede fringed vest, entered the museum from a door in the back, his boots knocking loudly against the timber as he approached. He smiled warmly at the two visitors.
"Howdy guys. Welcome to the Tombstone Museum, take your time and enjoy. If you have any questions don't hesitate to ask."
Sam returned the smiled. He felt a real appreciation for how friendly the townsfolk were, they'd been to places where that wasn't the case, where strangers were greeted with suspicious hostility.
"Howdy" replied Sam.
Dean coughed at his brother's use of the lingo and moved a few steps away to disassociate himself. Sam took no notice and continued, "I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean."
"Hi, I'm Steve, nice to meet you."
There was a polite exchange of hands, which Dean participated in.
"Anne from the Epitaph pointed us in your direction," Sam explained. "We've been researching Joseph Tranter and Anne said he was a distant relative of yours."
The man smiled. "You mean funeral parlor Uncle Joseph?"
"Catchy name," Dean interjected and wandered past to peer into the cabinets.
Sam shot an exasperated look at his brother's back then returned to Steve with a nod. "Yeah. We read about what happened to his daughters and my brother and I are kind of amateur detectives, we try and solve historical crimes."
"Historical detectives Sam," Dean corrected. "We're historical detectives." He smirked at his brother's thinly veiled annoyance and returned his attention to the display cabinets.
"Right," Sam agreed through gritted teeth.
Small town like this, it made sense to use the same cover story wherever they went, as strangers in town there was a possibility of being mentioned in conversation, discussed, and spreading around conflicting accounts of themselves would be a quick way to create suspicion. And Sam was following the lead set by Dean with Anne at the Epitaph, he was describing themselves to the museum worker as detectives of historical incidents, but there was no reason why he had to use the exact same wording.
It was just Dean being bored. Dean amusing himself. Dean pushing his luck.
Steve accepted the cover story with barely a flicker, which Sam found amazing considering Dean's obnoxious behavior. The museum employee seemed intrigued. He raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together like he was impressed by the title, historical detectives.
Emboldened, Sam launched into the reason for their visit. "We found a report on the disappearance and discovery of Joseph's little girls in the Epitaph, but then found nothing else about it. Anne thought maybe you might have some inside knowledge into what happened."
"Gee, I don't know how much help I can be," Steve contended modestly. "It all happened well before my time..."
As Steve spoke, Sam's eyes skipped to Dean who was almost directly behind the museum man, bending at the hips to look closely into the display cabinets, apparently enthralled by what he was viewing. Sam felt a thrum of dissatisfaction at his brother's lack of concentration, his failure to follow the conversation. But what bugged him most was Dean's rapt attention on the historical items. It was wrong. It was unfair. Dean shouldn't be taking pleasure in the museum, not while Sam was focused on the job. Dean didn't even like museums, he had complained heartily about coming. It should be him conducting the interview and Sam delighting in the history
Dean's head suddenly snapped around. He caught Sam's gaze and quirked his eyebrows, straightened and moved to join the pair, to participate in the conversation. Sam realized with dismay that Dean had been listening, had been paying attention and Steve had just revealed something important which Sam had missed because he had been distractedly focused on his brother's lack of attention.
He cringed inwardly as he was forced to ask, "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"
Steve amiably replied, "I was just saying, it's kind of an open secret what happened to those girls."
And Sam understood his brother's sudden interest in the conversation.
"What happened to them?" he breathed.
"Well you won't find it in the paper, it was all hushed up, but within the family it was quite well known who killed Joseph's daughters."
"Who?" the brothers asked as one.
The intensity of interest made the museum guide falter. His smile slipped and he looked a little nervous. "Apparently," the emphasise was meaningful, a qualification, "it was a guy called Ted Bonner. He was the brother of one of the town big wigs back in the day."
"How do you know that?" Dean demanded and Sam thought he could have been a little more tactful, it almost sounded like an accusation.
"Apparently, there was some evidence that linked the murders to Bonner."
"You know what the evidence was?" Dean persisted.
"Nah," Steve scoffed. "It all happened a hundred years ago so the story is getting a little thin."
The brothers exchanged a look. Dean's mouth tightened in frustration. Reliable information was hard to come by in this matter. How much trust could be placed in a century old word of mouth?
"Could you tell us everything you know about Joseph?" Sam asked.
Steve scratched his head. "I don't know a lot. I mean he died eighty years before I was born. And what I do know is kind of hearsay and conjecture."
The museum guide chuckled and was surprised when the brothers waited expectantly for him to continue, undeterred by the admission that his knowledge was unreliable.
"Just tell us what you've heard," Sam gently encouraged.
Steve pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and took a few moments to silently search his mind for material about his long deceased relative.
"Well, I got the impression that Joseph was a good guy. Loved his wife, loved his daughters. He moved to Tombstone in the very early days of the town, looking for a decent income to support the family. I don't think it was even a year after they arrived that his wife died giving birth to their second child. There was talk of him moving back east but, I don't know, he decided not to for some reason."
The guide's forehead furrowed as he dug deep for more information. There was a long pause, he seemed stuck for detail.
"So the girls were killed…," Sam prompted.
Steve picked up the thread. "Yeah. And they were young." He shook his head grimly. "I don't remember their ages exactly but I know, they were young." He paused for a beat, letting the horror of that, of betrayed innocence, settle around them. "Joseph took it badly. I mean," he shrugged, "of course he did. That sort of thing…"
The brothers nodded in agreement. That sort of thing indeed. It was brutal and awful and must have been near impossible for a father to live with.
"Ted Bonner was arrested for the murders..."
Dean's eyebrows flew upward in surprise. "That wasn't reported in the paper," he interrupted.
"Bonner's brother owned the paper," Steve replied. "But the case never made it to court. 'Evidentiary irregularities.'" Steve's fingers worked the inverted commas and his tone hinted at conspiracy.
"What does that mean?" Dean asked bluntly.
"Evidence went missing. And then not long after, so did Ted Bonner."
"Really?" Dean pursed his lips as he thought about what that implied. "So Ted Bonner went missing dead or missing scarpered?"
"Who knows? I think at the time it was assumed he had done a runner, he was a bit of a transient, a bit unreliable, and town feeling was against him."
Dean nodded slowly. "Was he ever heard of again?"
Steve shrugged. "Not in Tombstone. Not that I know of. I mean only an idiot would return, right?"
The levity fell flat and all three men stood lost in thought for a moment, speculating on what might have happened all those years ago. Steve opened his mouth and looked like he was about to add something, but changed his mind and brought his lips together.
"Is there more?" Dean asked.
"Nooo…" The word was hesitantly stretched out, an unconvincing denial.
"Don't flake on us now Steve, we've come this far."
Steve gave a short laugh. "I guess I've already impugned this guy's character, what's a little more, right?"
"There you go," Dean shucked him on the shoulder.
"I seem to recall talk that Ted Bonner may have murdered in other towns." He held up his hands defensively. "Now I can't be sure, so don't quote me on that. It just seems to ring a bell."
"Before the Tranter girls?"
"I think so, yeah."
"In which towns?"
Steve laughed good naturedly at the persistence and folded his arms across his chest. "I don't know, man. I don't know if anything I've told you is true and now you want me to name towns?"
Dean accepted the protest with a smile but slid his gaze to Sam, a slight shift of expression indicating his desire to leave, that in his opinion they had learned all they could from the museum guide.
Sam piped up, "Was Madam Moustache a relative? Did she have anything to do with Joseph?"
Tranter rocked back on his heels with a nod and looked apologetic that he had failed to mention it. "Yeah. She and Joseph were good friends. I don't think they were in a relationship, I think it was more a case of her taking pity on him after his wife died. I think. I mean, I don't really know." He grinned self consciously, then added. "Madam Moustache was the one looking after the girls when they went missing, Joseph was at work."
Dean's eyebrows arched up. That was important. That linked both Madame Moustache and Tranter to the murdered girls. What it meant, how it was relevant, they would figure out later, but that was going to be their starting point.
Sam held out his hand to Steve to draw the interview to a close. "Thank you for your help. You have an incredible memory, you really saved us a lot of time."
The museum guide accepted the hand with a chuckle. "Well talking about it and proving it are two different things, but something salacious in the family history tends to stick. And I hope you fellas can finish the puzzle, find the missing pieces and put this awful crime to bed once and for all."
I hope so too Sam silently agreed.
Dean strode for the door and turned in surprise when he discovered Sam wasn't behind him. He spun on his heel and saw his younger brother strolling around the room, casually peering into the glass display cases.
To the sound of Dean's tapping foot, Sam took in his fill of historical and fascinating items. He felt no remorse at making Dean wait, he considered he was entitled to see some of what Tombstone had to offer, and Dean had copped an eyeful so why shouldn't he.
When he had seen enough, he joined Dean at the entrance and pronounced lightly, "Okay, I'm ready," and they exited the building in the direction of the motel.
A/N: It's going to be four weeks before we post the next chapter, Alibongo is going on a nice long vacation.