Who Killed Thomas Kean? And I Heard the Mourner Say Chapter One.

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Chapter One, Who Killed Thomas Kean?

Small towns are rarely used to news—especially a town such as my own, once home to 144 people tucked away in the mountains, several hundred miles west of the next nearest town. It should come as no surprise to you that when there is news to be shared, Mrs. Edinburough’s gossip was capable of traveling faster than the printing press could print, which explained the cobwebs and rust dusting the idle machine. In all honesty, I could not recall the last time the press was used for a genuine news story, but the death of Thomas Kean surprised everyone. 

Thomas Kean was about my age—twenty-three, so two years older than me at the time. He was a thin guy of modest height, however, very physically capable. Dark hair made up a ratty mullet, and dimples ran right the way up his cheeks. He was the son of whom I only knew to be Mr. and Mrs. Kean. Derek and Etna were their names. Derek was a dark-haired, short, gaunt man, but a gruff man, nonetheless. What he lacked in height, he made up for with sheer and sturdy toughness. He was among the strongest men I ever had the privilege of knowing.

Etna Kean was no giant, but she stood half a head taller than her husband. Part of what made up the height difference was her fiery orange curls, many of which stood upright as they had a way of doing as they pleased. She was the only person I had ever known to have such a wild conflagration for a head of hair. It was the uniqueness of her hair that made her beautiful.

Thomas and I were never close. As young boys, we did not get along much, and a hint of that antipathy grew up with us. He seemed courteous enough the few times we talked, but it was only ever small talk about the weather or the game. We were both the town’s Huntsmen. Thomas sought big game—bear, elk, moose—while I would hunt fowl. Regardless of what I could or could not tell you about Thomas, I could certainly never think of a reason why someone would have killed him.

The paper made the death out to be a hunting accident, but Mrs. Edinburough had assured the townsfolk that the boy was found dead in the woods with a bullet in his back—and not one from his own gun. The news itself was shocking, to be sure, but nothing shook me quite like the news that Mrs. Edinburough accused me of the murder.

One thing that should be noted about Mrs. Edinburough is that her gossip was regarded as truth. Though behind Mrs. Edinburough’s back, most people disapproved of her gossip, her words were never questioned, and her stature dared anyone to doubt her. She was a large woman with sagging cheeks, two flaps of loose flesh wringing her neck, and breasts that sat atop her stomach like two melted cantaloupes on a desk. She also happened to be the mayor’s mother, deeming her indisputable.

As a child in the musty church Sunday school room, she once threatened to sit on me if I misbehaved. The Good Lord knows I sat up straight and listened to her every instruction from then on. But now was the time for her to sit on me—her word was against mine, sitting upon my chest like the woman herself. The stress of the situation smothered me. I would gasp for air but receive little to no relief. When Mrs. Edinburough says something is so, it is so. 

Mayor Simmons Edinburough, who is the son of our ‘beloved’ town gossip, along with my mother, Elle Brink, Pastor Connally, and Doc. Ryor, as well as two or three of my mother’s friends, were the few people who could truly comprehend that it was against my character to murder someone. Nonetheless, I stood trial for a crime I did not commit. The only thing going in my favor was the fact that Mayor Simmons doubled as the honorable judge for our town, and he was a very good friend of mine. My trial would essentially be Simmons and me against our town and its occupants.

The time came, and with Mrs. Edinburough’s string-like fingers puppeteering the minds and wills of the jury, the evidence was brought forth. A small stack of papers was placed at Simmons’s desk. 

“This is it?” Simmons asked. No one answered. “What is this?” Simmons questioned again. This time, a voice spoke up. It was his mother. 

“It consists of the eyewitness testimonies of those who know Ezekiel Cottrell killed Thomas Kean.” Simmons glanced towards my mother and me with a look of reassurance. 

“Why can’t those to whom these testimonies belong speak for themselves?” the frustrated judge asked. 

“The prosecutors would like to remain anonymous,” Mrs. Edinburough responded with a pompous tone in her speech. Simmons' eyes fell upward and around the room in frustration.

The room fell still as the judge picked up the papers and began reading. It was during this long, silent, and anxious period that I noticed how small the courtroom was. The room could comfortably fit about eighty people, but it certainly appeared that the entire town had shown up, and few were ready to let me leave without a guilty sentence.

With a single silence-shattering crack, Simmons realigned the stack of papers against his desk. After taking a moment to scrutinize everyone in the room with silent yet boisterous disapproval, Simmons spoke. 

“These have got to be the sorriest excuses for eyewitness testimonies I have ever read.” I felt a heaviness in my heart lift off me and fall upon everyone who stood against me. Fervent, Simmons expanded, “Most of these testimonies begin with ‘Mrs. Edinburough told me’ or ‘I heard from Mrs. Edinburough that.’ So, apart from the words of Etna Kean and my own mother—whose own testimony isn’t even among these, thank God—in fact,” he cut himself off, “none of you have even claimed to have seen Ezekiel Cottrell on the day of Thomas’s murder.”

The tempered judge attempted a moment to compose himself but was interrupted by Mrs. Edinburough, who stood, requesting to give her own testimony publicly. This was either a means of defending her own reputation or a greedy grab at more time in the spotlight. I saw it to be a mix of the two. Simmons, knowing the underhanded persuasiveness of his own mother, resentfully permitted her to speak. The old wooden chair groaned as Mrs. Edinburough took a seat at the witness stand. She began as a showman.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I will now bring forth my eyewitness evidence that Ezekiel Jedadiah Cottrell is responsible for the murder of Thomas Elijah Kean, and with this evidence, justice can be had.” I could almost taste the honey from all her sweet-talking. After an extensive time of compliments directed toward the jury, Mrs. Edinburough got to the point, saying, “The day Thomas Kean went hunting and did not return, I was with Etna, and we saw Ezekiel, who was also going hunting.” The old woman was smug, but it went mostly unnoticed as her smile sagged downward with the rest of her flesh. The sagging caused a slight lisp in her speech as well as a reliable piece of spit that took flight upon her pronunciation of the letters ‘S’ and ‘F.’ She continued, “Now, I know Ezekiel and Thomas to both be huntsmen for our town, so it was not that unusual, but then Etna Kean made a remark that Ezekiel responded strangely to…” She paused for what I could only presume to be a dramatic effect. Her audience was captivated. Simmons, who had become exhausted by his mother’s increasingly lackluster performance, interrupted his mother with an unenthused “What was Mrs. Kean’s statement?” 

“Well,” the fat woman answered, milking every second of her time in the spotlight, “she said… she said ‘if you’re going out into the west wood, don’t go shooting my son...’” 

“And how did Ezekiel respond?” Simmons asked. 

“Well,” she swallowed as if it had just dawned on her that her story was entirely unconvincing, “He laughed.” She tried to recover her theatrical flair. “The laugh was almost maniacal.” The jury might have stripped me of my namesake there on the spot had Simmons given them a chance.

“But you did not see Ezekiel murder Thomas Kean?” The judge asked. Hesitant, his mother replied.

“Well, no, but—” she began, but her son cut her off once again.

“So, what exactly are you an eyewitness to?”

“The laughter.” Her voice quivered, demonstrating her decreasing confidence. The longer Mrs. Edinburough was permitted to speak, the more beside myself I became.

“It was a chuckle!” I stood and shouted, defending my namesake. All the frustration and stress of the situation boiled over at once, and it was aimed directly toward the fat woman on the stand. My words were bitter, and my tone was harsh, but I could hardly feel bad for it as she actively sought to have my head. I seethed, continuing my rant. “Mrs. Kean said something I thought to be funny, and I chuckled and walked away. I did not murder Thomas Kean! I barely even knew the guy; yes, we were both the town’s Huntsman, but we hunted in entirely different places. And if laughing at a joke should be considered a crime, then lock me up because you, Mrs. Edinburough, are the biggest joke in this room!” My words were like the purposeful deconstruction of a dam; the room flooded with animated talk, causing me to raise my voice, causing others to raise their voices, causing me to raise my voice further, causing others to… you get the picture. Apart from Simmons and my mother, the courtroom stood ablaze in opinionated prattle.

“Enough!” Simmons shot up. His chair fell behind him, sounding a report that further emphasized his demand for silence. The room of 142 people became still and silent. All eyes were on the judge—well, almost all eyes. 

“That's exactly what we should expect him to say as the murderer,” Mrs. Edinburough whispered toward the jury. Her words sliced through the silence without hindrance. Every ear heard what she had said.

Now, I had known Simmons for a long time; apart from his being twelve years older than me, we grew up together. But the man I saw standing stern as stone in the front of the town was different. He was furious. In a still, quiet voice, softer than the guileful whispers of his mother, Simmons broke what silence remained.

“Mother, justice will indeed be had. You have nothing. You have brought shame upon yourself and your family and upon our town. Go home, Mother. Go home.” All eyes and ears were on her. All the attention she had been craving was wrapped in a small box and placed in her lap. She stood; her chair cried a sigh of relief. She stepped down from the witness stand, and carrying her humiliation, she left. No one made a sound until the door closed behind her.

If you have ever wondered what freedom sounds like, it sounds like the click of a door latch falling into its place. Mrs. Edinburough’s shame fell upon the hearts of everyone who believed her. 

“This is a human being,” Simmons pleaded with the remaining townsfolk—with his people. “In your arrogance and your foolishness, you believed a woman who attempted to condemn a good man to death. I hope you can feel the shame you carry.” These were not the words of the mayor nor of the judge; this was Simmons—a humble friend who bore deep love for every one of his townsfolk. I could see in his brow the heartbreak for his people as he shared in their shame. But I could not understand his heartbreak. I felt no pity for these people. Rather, I was beside myself with joy and relief. 

“Do you want to know how I know Ezekiel could not have killed Thomas that day?” Simmons asked the jury. There was no response. “Ezekiel could not have killed Thomas. Thomas’s body was found in the Woodsman’s valley, and I know Ezekiel was hunting the northern lakes because I was there with him!” Anyone on the jury who remained unconvinced was refused the chance to speak. Simmons announced insufficient evidence. “Go home, all of you!”

The courtroom filtered out. Many of the townsfolk were hesitant to leave—likely because their zeal was left unsatisfied. Nonetheless, the unsatisfied mob left—few with the fortitude to speak. The room was all but empty; I was free.

End of Excerpt.

From here, Ezekiel’s life takes some wild twists and turns through heavy griefs and quiet joys. I encourage you to check it our for yourself!