Double Exposure–Text

Somerset, Pennsylvania 

As a child—and especially as a teenage girl—I was told I was too smart for my own good. During the summer of 1963, I proved them all wrong.

It all started on the last day of school of my junior year. “Not so fast!” Our homeroom teacher brought us back to reality. He’d noticed that we were anticipating the final afternoon bell.

Consistent with his usual teaching technique, Mr. Miller picked two of us and stared alternately into our eyes as he made his point. “I challenge each of you in this room to do something special this last summer before graduation, something you will remember for the rest of your life.”

As was his custom, he then paused, the implication being that he had said something of consequence that required further thought.

He continued. “I’ll let you decide what defines ‘special.’ But it could range from public service to a personal deed that benefits your family or a neighbor—anything that might make your parents proud. I’ll ask each of you to report to the class in September.”

I appreciated the sincerity of his request, but once school let out, I put our assignment to the back of my mind, because …

It was summer! Time to enjoy the freedom that completely enveloped me during that season. Until the autumn of 1963, when the nation lost its innocence following the assassination of President Kennedy, we were enjoying the momentum of the benign Eisenhower fifties. Life was good. I had time to spend on my newfound hobby of photography and to ponder the mysteries of life, such as boys—and the widow Sherman.

* * *

That summer and ever since I had attended grade school, I had been led to be suspicious of the widow Sherman. Kids at school said she was a witch, some said a murderer. Most stories said she had killed her husband.

These thoughts came to me often because my route to school led past her house. Every chance I got, I would observe her carefully. I thought it strange that I never saw anyone go inside her house. On one occasion I caught her eye in the local grocery store and persuaded myself I could see the evil straightaway.

One week after school let out, the widow Sherman increasingly became the focus of my attention. On the way past her house to the drugstore, I saw a basket of strawberries on the porch. Upon my return, the berries had disappeared, replaced by what looked like pies, covered with foil.

I had almost covered the distance to the end of the block when I looked back and saw a pickup truck pull up. A young girl jumped out and grabbed the pies. What was this sneaky switch about?

Because I babysat on that side of town, I had the opportunity to observe that pattern repeat itself weekly into the summer. Sometimes it was berries and sometimes vegetables as the summer progressed. On the reciprocating side, there were paper bags whose contents were hidden. It made me want to know what was going on.

* * *

I had always been the competitive one in my family, inquisitive and fearless to a fault. My military-trained father constantly reminded me to “maintain restraint.” I have long since learned that Dad had given me good advice. But well into July, I decided to take matters into my own hands, to find out what was happening on Mrs. Sherman’s porch. So I just walked up to the back door and knocked; in our town, it seemed that the rear door represented the friendlier entrance.

I knocked and waited, knocked some more and waited some more. No response. Through the sheer curtain that covered the door window, I saw the kitchen. I could make out a stove, a refrigerator—and someone on the floor! I caught my breath. I knocked louder and yelled through the door. Finally, I reached for the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open. It was the widow Sherman.

At that point in my life, the extent of my medical training consisted of a knowledge of first aid and lady’s hygiene from health class. Even so, thanks to my keen sense of observation, I noticed that her lips moved but said nothing. I was convinced that she was not dead. I looked around the kitchen for a telephone and dialed “O” for operator. Within ten minutes, an ambulance came, and five minutes later Mrs. Sherman was on her way to the hospital.

There I stood, alone. What a day! What a fifteen minutes, rather. In less time than it took me to shower and brush my teeth, I had come upon a medical emergency and handled it. Wow! Might this make me a heroine and set me up for Mr. Miller’s class assignment? It did occur to me.

I stood quietly for a good thirty seconds, taking in what I saw: a neat, uncluttered kitchen that opened into another room. It was the living room, since I could see the television through the doorway.

I walked through the curtained doorway. Family pictures were all around, some on the TV, some on the furniture, but mostly on the walls. All the pictures included a girl or a boy. Mrs. Sherman’s children, I supposed. The girl often appeared in her Brownie uniform. The boy must have been an accomplished athlete, as pictures showed him in football, track, and baseball uniforms. At that point, I felt like an intruder and left.

I thought about what I had seen. Why were there no pictures of the father, even with the children? Could this be an indication that Mrs. Sherman had, in fact, killed her husband?

* * *

I learned later that Mrs. Sherman had been close to slipping into a diabetic coma. Somehow, she had forgotten to take her insulin shot that day. I read all about it in our local newspaper: “Mrs. Rose Sherman was found in her kitchen, nearly unconscious, by a neighbor.” Neighbor? Gee whiz! Would it have been too much to expect the reporter to include my name? But eight days later, my deed had its reward when I received a phone call from Mrs. Sherman herself. She invited me for afternoon tea.

The next day, for the second time that month, I knocked on Mrs. Sherman’s door. I had almost forgotten why I had done so in the first place. The door opened, and this time, I looked into a kind face and into eyes considerably less sinister than I had remembered from the grocery store.

“Come in, my dear, please.”

Mrs. Sherman led me slowly into the living room, and we sat down in overstuffed chairs. She served me hot tea and cookies. Fine cloth napkins lay folded, with embroidered initials, RS.

“Would you like your tea with both sugar and milk? My guess is you will forgo the milk, but my English ancestry forces me to ask.” Mrs. Sherman smiled sweetly. “My diabetes doesn’t allow me sugar any more, but I still use milk.”

Mrs. Sherman asked polite questions about my family and me. During a pause, I reciprocated. “Are the pictures on the wall those of your family?”

“Why, yes. The girl and boy you see are my children. You may not know that Tom died in a motorcycle accident when he was eighteen.”

I hadn’t known and said I was sorry.

“Is the younger man in the center photograph your husband?” I asked.

“Yes. Frank passed away years ago. That’s my father standing next to him.”

Before I had the chance to quiz her further, Mrs. Sherman changed the subject. “You know, don’t you, that you saved my life?”

I displayed the modesty for which I am so well known. I reacted with mild surprise but agreed that it was good fortune that I happened to stop by.

“May I ask, what was the reason you came by? Are you selling magazines for your class? If that’s the case, I’m ready to buy.” Mrs. Sherman laughed. “I think I owe you a great deal.”

“No, ma’am. I think it was just God’s will that I chose that day. I had thought about stopping before.” I had avoided the truth without a lie.

“Oh, how nice,” Mrs. Sherman countered. “I must say I often scold myself because I don’t take the time to know more of my neighbors. Young people seem so busy these days, and I’m not the kind of person to push myself onto people.”

I placed my teacup back into its saucer and decided to make my move. “I couldn’t help but notice the lady and child in the pickup who stop to leave fruits and vegetables. Are they friends of yours?”

Mrs. Sherman’s face flushed. Though the opportunity had presented itself, I should not have pried.

“You’re right. That lady is a friend of mine, but we rarely find the time to talk. She is as private a person as I, I’m afraid to say.”

I changed the subject so as not to overstay my welcome. I also wanted to come right out and ask about Mr. Sherman and the rumors, but could not bring myself to do it.

As I walked home, I mulled over one conclusion I had come to, that Mrs. Sherman could not have committed murder. Call it intuition. But there was also one fact that made no sense. Why had one photograph in the middle of the wall been replaced by one of Mr. Sherman standing beside Mrs. Sherman’s father?

* * *

I then made up my mind to investigate further. I became driven. The details I had pieced together did not add up.

As the result of a legacy from a local business owner, all the town newspapers printed since 1930 had been microfilmed and made available to our library. If there had been a murder in our quiet little town, it would have been front-page news.

Without giving details, I asked to look at issues for the years before World War II. The librarian set me down in front of their new microfilm-reading machine. The years from 1936 to 1939 came as close as I could to narrowing down the date of the murder. To my relief, I discovered that, back then, the paper came out only twice a week, on Wednesday and Sunday.

Even so, it took me hours to find what I wanted, in an issue from May of 1938: “Local Mortician Found Dead.” “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered aloud. A mortician found dead. I had to contain myself.

Because the murder had occurred on Tuesday night, just hours before the Wednesday paper went to press, initial details were few:

            Local mortician Douglas Sherman, owner of the Sherman Funeral Home, was found dead at his home on Tuesday night, allegedly bludgeoned to death. A police report stated that Sherman’s wife, Rose, called police to report the incident at eleven o’clock Tuesday evening. Local sheriff David Armory is investigating.

Now that I had found what I wanted, I read each paper in earnest. Reports of the murder and subsequent trial dominated the front page through the summer of 1938, into October.

I was floored. The rumors were mostly true! Mrs. Sherman admitted that she had killed her husband. During the trial, Mrs. Sherman’s attorney convinced the jury that her husband had consistently abused her and that she had acted in self-defense. Herrings, red or otherwise, abounded. Sheriff Armory himself, the investigator for the case, had earlier been close to Mrs. Sherman before she married Mr. Sherman. Mrs. Sherman’s father testified during the trial that he suspected abuse and had never liked Mr. Sherman. And there was one more thing. From the extensive newspaper coverage, it looked to me like the prosecutor hadn’t put much effort into the case. Could that have been on purpose? The newspaper did mention that he and the Shermans went to the same church. When it came down to it, Mr. Sherman had few supporters.

The jury had taken four days before reaching its verdict: not guilty. Afterward, editorials and letters to the editor suggested that Mrs. Sherman had gotten away with murder.

Well, there you have it, I said to myself. The primary rumor about Mrs. Sherman had proved to be true, but the embellishments over the years that made Mrs. Sherman out to be some sort of monster were false. Probably.

By August, I had organized the summary I would present to our class, revolving around my saving Mrs. Sherman’s life. Unfortunately, my research made me question my earlier thoughts about Mrs. Sherman. Maybe intuition wasn’t all it was cracked up to be! Or maybe I had watched too much Perry Mason on television. My feelings toward Mrs. Sherman were now ambiguous, at the least. Moreover, when I considered everything that I had learned, there was still one minor detail that bothered the dickens out of me!

* * *

If anything further was to come of my investigation, I needed to talk to someone. I checked the phone book to see if anyone from the trial might still be around. I considered three possibilities: David Armory, the sheriff; Michael Ingram, the defense attorney; and Jim Mitchell, the prosecutor.

I found only Jim Mitchell, listed as an attorney. At least I had one warm body, so to speak. I explained to his secretary that I wanted to discuss a former case of his. My perseverance worked, because he agreed to see me.

I arrived punctually. Mr. Mitchell’s secretary escorted me into his wood-paneled law office. So, here was the guy who botched the prosecution—and who might even be a suspect!

I was surprised to find a man who hardly looked the part of an attorney. He was tall, gangly, with graying blond hair and tight facial features, dressed in slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, no tie. His first words and demeanor made me feel at home.

“Hello. I’m Jim Mitchell. Joan told me you wanted to talk about an old case of mine. I hope it’s one I’m free to discuss.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I have been researching the Sherman murder, and I understand you were the prosecuting attorney.” Nervous, I shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t understand everything that happened, and you are the only one from the trial I could find.”

“Whoa! That’s going back some,” he said, still standing in front of his desk and waving me into a chair. “The Sherman case came up as I was nearing the end of my five-year career as the county prosecutor. It still stands out in my mind, though it’s been, what, twenty-five years now? Come to think of it, didn’t I see Mrs. Sherman’s name in the paper a couple of weeks ago?”

So much for my idea that he had been a wet-behind-the-ears novice when he prosecuted Mrs. Sherman. And he came across as an intelligent man.

“What is it you think I can help you with?” Sherman asked.

I had to be careful, not wanting to appear judgmental. “As the prosecutor, did you think Mrs. Sherman had plotted to kill her husband?”

“You get right to the point, don’t you?” Mr. Mitchell turned, walked around his desk, sat down, put his hands behind his head, leaned back with his brow furrowed, and then stared into space. “That is a good question, young lady, one I’ve asked myself repeatedly over the years.

“At the time, I prosecuted the case because I had to. The evidence that Mrs. Sherman had been beaten and abused by her husband was scarce. Deep down, though, I believed her and probably didn’t prosecute the case as hard as I should have.”

“You just said, at the time. Have you changed your mind?”

“Many times, I’m afraid to say. There wasn’t much evidence for the abuse defense. Also, many folks questioned whether she had committed the murder at all—or whether she had covered for someone.

“For example, it was impossible to retrieve any prints from the fireplace poker used in the murder, and there was no blood on her clothes. I’m sure the jury questioned whether this small woman could have done what she said. There were other potential suspects, but their alibis seemed to hold. Nonetheless, she did confess to the crime.”

I pressed on. “When I read the accounts in the newspaper, there was never any mention of witnesses. Did anyone in the neighborhood hear or see anything that night?”

“No one could recall anything,” Mr. Mitchell said. “And Mrs. Sherman said the children were asleep. It was eleven o’clock when she called the sheriff. Mr. and Mrs. Sherman were among the first to have telephones in our town, you know.”

“I remember the mention of children in the newspaper, but their ages weren’t given,” I said.

“The Shermans had two children, a girl and a boy. The girl was six at the time and the boy fifteen. You may not know that the boy, Tom, died right out of high school in a foolish motorcycle accident. His death devastated Mrs. Sherman.”

“Does the daughter still live in the area?”

“Why, yes. But as I understand it, the daughter never did believe her father had been abusive and became estranged from her mother.”

At least one piece of the puzzle fit into place, I thought. Chances were good that the driver of the pickup was Mrs. Sherman’s daughter.

I pressed on. “From my understanding of the newspaper reports, the sheriff concluded that the assailant was right-handed. Is that correct?” I asked.

Mr. Mitchell leaned forward, aware I had done my homework. “Yes. Sheriff Armory referred to crime scene photographs during his testimony and was certain of that fact.”

“Did you rule out the children?”

“Yes, I did.” Mr. Mitchell grimaced, seemingly annoyed at so naive a question. “We never considered the six-year-old a suspect. In the case of Tom, the son, he was never under any suspicion either. I personally talked to two of his teachers who told me that he was left-handed. The bigger question in my mind after I was convinced that Mrs. Sherman had committed the act was whether the homicide had been spontaneous or premeditated. I have struggled with that question for years.”

At that point in the conversation, I sat quietly, deciding whether to go on. What the hell! I decided to ignore Dad’s advice just one more time.

“I think you don’t have to be worried, Mr. Mitchell. Mrs. Sherman did not murder her husband.”

If Mr. Mitchell had leaned any farther forward in his chair, it would have scooted across the floor. “How can you be so sure, young lady?”

I continued. “Because of an oversight by the newspaper, you may not know that I was the neighbor who found Mrs. Sherman. Then, three weeks ago, she invited me for tea to thank me. During my entire visit, we sat in the living room.

“On the walls, on the TV, everywhere, there were family photos. All the pictures, except for one, were of her children in different preteen and teenage poses. Those of her son had been taken in various sporting events.”

Taking a cue from Mr. Miller, I paused to let my words sink in, but the pause proved unnecessary.

“You said, ‘except for one.’ What was in that picture?”

“Of all the pictures on the wall, that picture was the only one of Mr. Sherman,” I said. “It stood out. Mr. Sherman stood beside Mrs. Sherman’s father.”

Instead of moving even farther forward in his chair, which was impossible, Mr. Mitchell shifted backward. After a second or two of silence, Mr. Mitchell responded, now in a state of controlled agitation.

“So what? Are you saying that if Mrs. Sherman had killed her husband, she then would not display his picture? Or do you think Mrs. Sherman’s father was the murderer? Which is it? This is naive thinking, young lady.”

It was becoming clear that Mr. Mitchell had had just about enough of me. He stood up, but I remained seated.

“Mr. Mitchell, I am not naive. I have not finished my story. What I have not told you, and what I am leading up to, is the fact that this visit to Mrs. Sherman’s living room was not my first. After the ambulance had taken her to the hospital, I walked into the living room. I stood there for only a moment but long enough to see the photographs on the walls. Mr. Mitchell! The photograph of Mr. Sherman was not on the wall that day!”

Mr. Mitchell thought for a moment. “How can you be so sure? You yourself said you stood there only a moment.”

“I have a photographic memory, Mr. Mitchell.”

Mr. Mitchell sat down. Seconds passed. “Even so, what does that prove? People are always rearranging things.”

“True, sir. But only one photograph had changed, not any of the others.”

“So? So?” Mr. Mitchell fidgeted.

“The photograph on the wall the day I found Mrs. Sherman on the floor had been there a long time. I know that because, on my second visit, the smaller framed picture of Mr. Sherman and her father did not completely cover the paint that had been shaded from the light all those years. That darker paint around this smaller picture stood out from the faded paint. What that has to mean, Mr. Mitchell, is that the photograph was replaced for my benefit alone, for when Mrs. Sherman invited me into her house.”

“Go on,” said Mr. Mitchell.

“Most people would not have thought anything of it, even if she had left the original picture in place, because the photograph she removed was a sports picture just like all the others.

“But this one showed Tom Sherman holding a bat. Mr. Mitchell! Tom was batting right-handed. Tom Sherman was a switch-hitter!”

At that instant, I recalled fictional stories about people reacting to shocking situations, with blood draining completely from their faces. I didn’t think that was possible, but I witnessed it firsthand in those next few seconds.

* * *

The rest, as they say, is history. Mr. Mitchell and I together went to see Mrs. Sherman. I was convinced she had protected her son’s honor to the last and switched the photographs before my arrival that afternoon. Although no one else had been inside that living room for more than two decades, she wasn’t about to leave even a shred of evidence that might implicate Tom. Ironically, I wouldn’t have focused my attention on that photograph, nor would I have initiated my investigation, if she hadn’t removed it.

Upon presentation of my evidence, Mrs. Sherman broke down. She had held it inside for so many years.

Mr. Sherman had indeed abused her. The parents could hide it from the younger child but not from Tom. And as it happened, on that horrid night after his mother had fled to the bathroom, Tom decided to stop his dad’s mistreatment of his mother for the last time. And he did. Mrs. Sherman made him swear never to tell the truth as to what happened.

Although the daughter could not believe her father capable of such abuse, in recent years she had started to reach out to her mother.

* * *

Summer faded into September, the days grew shorter and cooler, and I started my daily walk to school for my last year before graduation. I was pleased to see the pickup truck often parked in the driveway of Mrs. Sherman’s house. At that moment, all seemed right in the world.

And, I was damn sure—of anyone in my class—I would have the best story to tell.