Free A Child's Garden of Death by Richard; Forrest

suburban towns and cities were still sleepy hamlets. An immigrant settling in the area, and likely working in a factory or foundry, would probably live in a metropolitan area near his place of work and not too distant from fellow immigrants. At that time, the North End of Hartford held the Jewish ghetto. Although the murdered family lived in a trailer, he thought it unlikely they would have moved far from the city.
    They were lucky on the first call to the Hartford Board of Education. The impatient clerk, after rummaging through old records, gave them a verification on two of their names. Each had a child in the public school system in the early 1940s; each of the girls was of the proper age.
    They made an appointment to see the records on the following morning.
    Lyon sat in the police cruiser in front of the post office while Rocco Herbert wrote out two tickets for overtime parking. When the large man finally heaved himself behind the wheel with a satisfied grin, Lyon turned to him impatiently.
    â€œOvertime parking, when we’re trying to find a murderer?”
    â€œThat’s a fifteen-minute zone by the post office, and I know damn well they’ve been there for over an hour.”
    â€œWe’ve got an appointment at the Board of Ed.”
    Rocco shrugged. “I know. Too many years, too many parking tickets. It’s become a thing.” He threw the car in gear and they started toward the highway. Near the entrance to the Interstate a housewife in a station wagon filled with children ran a stop sign. The cruiser began to slow until Lyon put his arm on Rocco’s.
    â€œI know. I can’t help it,” Rocco said.
    â€œI hate to see crime run rampant in Murphysville for a whole morning, Rocco, but …”
    â€œAll right, wise guy,” the big man replied. “See how you’d fare if you’d been doing the same thing for twenty years and then … say, in your case, if you had to write a book with more than two syllable words.”
    â€œTouché.”
    The neat blue badge with white lettering read, “Miss Louella Parsons.” The wearer of the badge, a gaunt, white-haired woman in her sixties, stood defiantly at the counter, separating her protected school records from the remainder of the world. “It is immaterial to me what they told you in the front office,” she said. “These records are only available to certain persons on written request.”
    â€œThis is a police matter, lady.”
    â€œThat patch on your sleeve says Murphysville, not Hartford.”
    â€œWe try to cooperate with all local authorities,” Rocco said, impatience edging his voice.
    â€œI suggest you get authorization from the local police,” she replied.
    â€œLouella Parsons,” Rocco said, authority ringing his voice. “That name’s familiar to me. I bet you have unpaid parking tickets in Murphysville. Right, lady?”
    She stepped back from the counter. “I don’t even drive.”
    â€œJaywalking then.”
    â€œWait a minute,” Lyon said softly. “Louella Parsons was a movie gossip columnist, Hearst syndicate, I believe.”
    â€œNo relation,” Miss Parsons said primly.
    â€œIt might help if I explained why we’re here,” Lyon said. In quick strokes he painted her a picture of the grave site and briefly sketched their investigation so far, and their hope that the file of one of the two girls might give them a lead to the identity of the victims.
    In a few minutes they were sitting at a small table in the well-protected sanctity of Miss Parsons’ record room. Each held a folder in his hands while Miss Parsons stood nearby, part instructor and part protector of the realm.
    The serious eight-year-old eyes of Rebecca Meyerson stared out solemnly at Lyon. The corners of the lips seemed slightly stretched as if smothering a smile and fighting to maintain composure. A black-haired girl with raven eyes and