title: Death in the Winter Solstice: A Narrative of a True Murder Mystery in Homer
author: Mr. Martin Sweeney
description: After close to forty years in a classroom bringing the past to life for students of United States history, Martin A. Sweeney, now retired, enjoys serving as the historian for the historic town of Homer, NY, He is interested in researching and writing about the lives and values of past people, especially those at the intersection of local and national history. A life-long admirer of our Civil War president, Sweeney was the Co-chair for "Homer's Celebration of Lincoln in Paint &amp; Print," a week-long event in 2009 endorsed by the national Abraham Lincoln Bicentennial Commission.<br /><br />Sweeney earned undergraduate and graduate degrees in education at the SUNY College of Cortland and an MPA from the Maxwell School of Citizenship and Public Affairs at Syracuse University. He is also a Rotarian and a member of the Homer Board of Education. He is married to a retired Homer teacher, and they have two grown children in graduate school.<br /><br />His book, LINCOLN'S GIFT FROM HOMER, NEW YORK, appeals to both the casual reader of historical non-fiction and the academic insisting on sound scholarly research. A second book, DEATH IN THE WINTER SOLSTICE: A NARRATIVE OF A TRUE MURDER MYSTERY IN HOMER, is a compelling tale of a bludgeoning death in 1894 and the ensuing trials. It is a real-life "who done it?"
zlib_text: **Chapter 1**
  
    
    
    
  
  Murder respects no traditions. It ignores sentiment. It takes no holidays.
  
  Because murder was her business, Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood in the predawn
  freeze of Christmas morning coating the deerskin gloves her husband had given
  her only hours before with Seal-It.
  
  The call had come in less than an hour before and less than six hours since
  she'd closed a case that had left her shaky and exhausted. Her first Christmas
  with Roarke wasn't getting off to a rousing start.
  
  Then again, it had taken a much nastier turn for Judge Harold Wainger.
  
  His body had been dumped dead center in the ice rink at Rockefeller Center.
  Face up, so his glazed eyes could stare at the huge celebrational tree that
  was New York's symbol of goodwill toward men.
  
  His body was naked and already a deep shade of blue. The thick mane of silver
  hair that had been his trademark had been roughly chopped off. And though his
  face was severely battered, she had no trouble recognizing him.
  
  She'd sat