David Dominé - A Dark Room in Glitter Ball City: Murder, Secrets, and Scandal in Old Louisville

Murder, Secrets, and Scandal in Old Louisville

A Dark Room in Glitter Ball City

David Domin

For Louisville

PROLOGUE

OUT ON Fourth Street, the asphalt shimmered under the light patter of rain. A crow cawed from its perch atop an ornate Flemish gable, then raised its wings and hopped into the air. Soaring across the grassy median and walkways of Fountain Court, it alighted seconds later on the steep parapet of the Victorian house on the other side. It shook out its wings and crowed again, unbothered by the drizzle.

You see how big that crow is? Ramon raised his hand and pointed.

Its loud, thats for sure. I looked down at the mound of Courier-Journals that had collected at the front door. I was too lazy to reach down and pick one up, so I toed the pile with my shoe, scattering the newspapers to better see what had made the front page in the last week or two. Or three. There had to be at least two dozen newspapers on the porch.

Youd think the real estate agent would have cleared those away by now. Ramon walked over to a window and peered inside. Nothing says break and enter like a pile of newspapers outside the front door.

I studied one of the headlines near my feet. Local activists were alleging media bias in the coverage of Nakhia Williams, a transgender woman murdered by a group of men outside her Louisville apartment, and that the police had conducted a very lackluster investigation into the death. Another front page reported that police arrested three local teenagers for plotting to kill a fellow student over the weekend.

A soft crackle of lightning flashed through silver-gray clouds hugging the distant treetops. Seconds later, a thunderclap rumbled. Across the road, a disheveled man stumbled down the sidewalk, an overstuffed garbage bag slung over his shoulder. He mumbled unintelligibly, but several identifiable curse words managed to punctuate the air. Ramon turned away from the window and stood at the edge of the porch, where rainwater dripped from the soffit. Its really starting to look like a dump in there. He shook his head and exhaled loudly as the man continued his rantings. I dont know why youd want to move back to Old Louisville anyway.

What are you talking about? You suggested we come and look at this house in the first place, not me.

Ramon crossed his arms, his gaze shifting again to the crow across the street. It shrieked and flew back to the rounded gable on the other side of the walking court. I know how much you love Old Louisville, he grumbled.

Im fine with living in the Highlands. Definitely much quieter than Old Louisville.

You were happier down here, though. When we had the house on Third.

I was happy in that house, but the ballooning mortgage had become too much to handle in the end. And now we were talking about buying a home twice the size. Over nine thousand square feet.

Theyre not asking all that much for this place. He sidled up to me, using his foot to push one of the newspapers back onto the pile. A photo of David Camm, a local state trooper accused of murdering his wife and two children, took up most of the front page. He was preparing for a third trial after the reversal of his second conviction.

Well, lets take one last look since were here, I said.

Just then, the real estate agent rushed up the walkway, collapsing her umbrella under the cover of the porch. Sorry Im so late, she said. Police had the two blocks north of Oak Street cordoned off. I heard they found a dead body in an alley dumpster.

Ramon rolled his eyes and muttered. Old Louisville.

The agent jiggled a handful of keys and pushed open the front door. Sorry, did you say something?

No, no, he didnt. I cut in front of Ramon and followed her through the leaded-glass doors.

The lights were off, and I paused to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Despite the gloom, the foyer glowed. The parquet floors, the wooden moldings, the walnut wainscoting and elegant fireplace mantel, the elaborately carved newels and balustersthey all gleamed with the silver sheen of storm clouds sifting through stained-glass windows.

The agent hit a switch and a light bulb flashed, dull and yellow. She walked to a card table and folding chair in the corner and set down a clipboard. Since youve been here already, Ill just let you wander around on your own while I do some paperwork. You can actually go inside the carriage house now. She removed a pen from the front pocket of her blazer and began scribbling. Let me know if you need anything.

Thanks. I turned to go up the stairs but stopped. Say, Ive heard lots of stories about this place. What do you know about the previous owner? The elderly lady who lived here. When the woman didnt look up from her clipboard, I raised my voice. Excuse me. The old nurse who had this house since the 60swhatever happened to her?

Still, the real estate agent acted as if she hadnt heard.

Ramon walked over and tapped the tabletop. So, what about the old lady who lived here before? The nurse?

Without looking up, the agent stopped writing and cleared her throat. Oh, she was old. She, um died. She died. The scribbling resumed.

Oh, okay. Thanks. I turned away and exchanged glances with Ramon.

He went up the grand staircase. That was weird.

I know. I followed.

We entered the hallway on the second floor and poked our heads into sparsely furnished bedrooms, where peeling wallpaper and ceilings with water stains and cracked plaster greeted us. Dull brass numbers on the heavy wooden doors hinted at the days when the old mansion had served as a rooming house. The spaces on the third floor appeared to be in need of even more attention. A broken windowpane let cool air stream into one room and in another a huge jagged fissure worked its way across the wall. As we descended the back stairs, Ramon shook his head and chuckled. Looks even worse than it did last month. Hobo central.

Lets check out the back and the carriage house, I said. Then we can go.

The kitchen looked a fright, as we already knew, with crumbling plaster ceilings and peeling wallpaper. Linoleum floors buckled with water damage. A cracked window over an old porcelain sink afforded a glimpse of the unkempt backyard. Next to the rear door hung a framed lithograph of a regal-looking gentleman from the late 1800s, probably from one of the old city newspapers. Before stepping outside, I paused to read the caption underneath: Richard Robinson, a most honored and respected resident of the city. His unfaltering honesty, his kindly purposes, his recognition of the good in others, his broad sympathy and unbounded charitythese endeared him to all with whom he came in contact.

Whos that? Ramon peered over my shoulder.

The original owner, maybe? A dry goods merchant.

Im sure hed love seeing what the house looks like today.

Whatever. I playfully pushed Ramon out the back door, and we stopped in the middle of an overgrown garden. The drizzle had turned into a fine mist, but angry storm clouds still roiled overhead. Weeds grew atop piles of dirt. Near the entrance to the carriage house stood a mound of rotting timber that I assumed had come from the interior. A grimy disco ball, still sparkly in patches, crowned the top of the heap.