Sunken Graves

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Sunken Graves Page 10

by Alan Lee


  “I know you can’t, son. I know. And that’s why Jennings is a problem.”

  16

  Daniel Jennings’ phone buzzed during second period Tuesday. He silenced it and waited until lunch to check. He had a voicemail from Kabir Patel.

  Sir, I am willing to talk with you. Face to face. If you are interested come to Richmond this evening. The Fan District at six o’clock. When you get close, you will call me and I will give you the location then. It is necessary for me to take precautions. Let me know if you are coming. When we meet, if you use my name, I will leave.

  Patel spoke with an Indian accent.

  Jennings spent the rest of lunch pacing. Up and down the columns of desks. Benji and another boy toiled silently on their makeup work.

  His pursuit of Peter Lynch felt like a series of point-of-no-return decisions. His chat with Ms. Pierce, the restaurant rendezvous with Craig Lewis, the meeting with Chief Gibbs, each with escalating consequences.

  Now here was another. Drive three hours to meet with the reporter who investigated Lynch. Most likely it wasn’t a setup. Most likely. Three hours there, three hours back, he wouldn’t return until late and he was on dorm duty tonight. He’d need to swap nights with Mr. Hogan.

  Of course he was going. No turning back now.

  It was a foolish fear but he didn’t want to risk a cryptic phone conversation with Benji in the room. So instead of returning the call, he emailed Patel.

  I’ll have to hustle and might be closer to 6:30. But I’m coming.

  Jennings bolted after school, forsaking the sign-out sheet. He took Interstate 81 to 64 East in the rented Nissan Altima. During the drive he kept checking his rearview. Like somehow Lynch could read his email and follow him.

  Relax, Dan. Paranoia is an enemy.

  The Fan District is the city’s hub for live music and art galleries and theater. Jennings left Interstate 64 for downtown Richmond and he called Patel.

  “I’m here.”

  “Go to the Curbside Cafe on Hanover. I will be right there.”

  Jennings found a parking spot in front of Red Salon Organics, closed for the evening. The Curbside Cafe was a diner built into an old house, now trendy and eclectic. He stepped out of the chill and requested a table for two.

  “Are you here to meet with a gentleman?” asked the waitress.

  “I am.”

  “He called. There’s a table for you already.” She led him to the back, away from the windows. “What can I start you with?”

  “A coffee, thanks.”

  She brought it and Jennings sipped it for ten minutes, waiting.

  Kabir Patel found me online, looked at my photos. He picked out the restaurant at the last minute to make sure he wasn’t walking into a trap. He watched me arrive, now he’s working up the courage.

  Can’t blame him. I did the same.

  Patel walked in. A short Indian man, thin, a lot of black hair.

  Jennings stood. Made sure not to use his name. “Good evening. Thanks for meeting.”

  “Do you understand this conversation is not happening?”

  “I do.”

  “If I determine you are using a recording device, I will leave.” Patel took off a cheap shoulder satchel and set it on the table. “I apologize for making you drive.”

  “You’re being safe. I get it.”

  The waiter came and Patel ordered coffee and the tuna teriyaki. Jennings asked for a reuben.

  They were alone again and Patel said, “In your note, you mentioned an unnamed source who referred you to me. Was it a young woman?”

  He meant Kelly Carson and he was wary of being recorded.

  “It was a woman in her early twenties,” said Jennings.

  “How is she?”

  “We had a short conversation. She seems…angry. And cautious.”

  “In general terms, tell me why you are here, please.”

  “I want to learn more about a man you investigated. That man is harassing me.”

  Patel held up his hand. “Harassing you?”

  “Yes. I think he’s angry about several things, including a woman.”

  “A woman. Go on.”

  “I suspect he beats his kids. He threatened my job and the job of my colleague. He’s making passes at a friend, the woman. He threw a dead animal through my window and destroyed my truck. And I want to know why the previous investigation has been erased from the internet.”

  Patel reached into his satchel and withdrew four printed pages. He held them up.

  “No photos, please. When you finish, you will return the pages.”

  “Okay. Deal.”

  Patel handed the top two papers to Jennings.

  Here’s the story.

  I was a reporter working for the Roanoke Post when Kelly Carson made her public allegations. There was significant evidence against Peter Lynch. I obtained photographs of Kelly and her mother displaying their bruises and bite marks, and I heard their testimony. The story was heating up until Lynch got the evidence sealed. The mother and the daughter signed agreements to stay quiet in exchange for monthly payments. $10,000 a month each, for the rest of their lives. Those facts should have made the news but they didn’t. I was told to drop the story soon after, but I kept digging. I even hired a private investigator with my own money, looking for dirt. Off the record I was told by producers at local news stations that Peter Lynch is their largest advertiser, buying up commercials and keeping them solvent. The same thing for the newspaper, Lynch was a Godsend. He spends over five million a year on commercials, and the loss would be devastating. He threatened to pull his advertising from any outlet that disparaged him.

  I turned in my story anyway and I told the editors that if they didn’t run the story I would go public with it. I knew I would be fired but the exposé would be big enough that I’d be headhunted into a better position soon after. The next day, Peter Lynch himself barged into my home. He dropped a thick stack of papers onto my kitchen table. A lawsuit. He was prepared to ruin me. Slander, defamation, all of that. Someone had snitched to save the paper.

  Jennings blinked and looked up as the waitress set plates in front of them. He took a bite, wiped his mouth, and kept reading.

  On top of the lawsuit, he listed recent headlines I knew well. Reporters like me losing their jobs and going broke chasing scandals. The message was clear—I would lose and I wouldn’t find help in the legal system. No defense attorney wants to end up like Rob Bilott in the DuPont fiasco. Lynch told me not to get myself killed. Before he left, he unzipped his pants and urinated on my couch. I’m not kidding, he ruined two cushions and he laughed while I watched.

  The next day, two things happened. I got fired from the Roanoke Post. And I got a job offer from the Richmond paper with a bigger salary. On the phone, the woman said, We’d love to have you work with us as long as you don’t bring any baggage. This is a one-time offer.

  I panicked. I had a wife and no job, and here was a big offer, especially in an age where most reporters are being laid off. So I took it. I am ashamed.

  Soon after, all the stories began vanishing from the internet. The local media was protecting their advertising budget. And that is precisely how crime gets covered up.

  Jennings laid down the papers.

  Patel’s food was half gone. Eating quick. He smiled without joy, like a man embarrassed of his scars, and nodded at the papers. “Do you understand?”

  “I do.” Jennings' mouth was dry and he drank the rest of his lukewarm coffee.

  “Don’t mention names out loud.”

  “Got it.”

  “He preys on the weak, like me. His advertisements bring in a constant stream of victims and he never goes to court, settling cases as quickly as he can. He settles them for fifty cents on the dollar, churning through volume. The victims are disabled or poor and they are happy to get some money quickly, and they do not understand their case is worth far more. He hires unscrupulous young attorneys to do the work.”

 
“How can he get away with this?”

  “Money and power. And he’s very intelligent.”

  “Do you know his brother?” asked Jennings.

  Patel handed him another paper.

  Peter and Francis Lynch. The private detective I hired dug into them.

  They were orphaned when Peter was five and Francis eight. Thrust into the foster system.

  Their files were TAMPERED with. It’s illegal and it’s maddening. The detective determined they were adopted but the evidence is gone, beginning when Peter was seven. It’s like they didn’t exist for ten years. I suspect their names were changed more than once.

  No school records until they begin college. We contacted references from their law schools and the Lynch brothers are remembered as unusually brilliant and angry. Country boys in a desperate hurry to shake off their past, to become gentlemen. Peter married during law school, quite young, and I was told he jumped at the first woman who showed interest. Francis obviously refused to cooperate with my investigation. I know little about him.

  There was a summary of Peter Lynch’s life starting at college, including his marriages and disbarment, to his recent history with details about large land purchases in north Roanoke County, but Jennings already knew most of it.

  Jennings laid down the paper. Good grief, who could tamper with foster records? Someone who was willing to be bought. Or intimidated.

  Everyone had something to lose if they stood up to him.

  Kelly Carson would lose her financial payments.

  Kabir Patel would lose his job. So would Coach Murray.

  His head still spinning, Jennings picked up the sandwich. Decided he didn’t want it and set it back down.

  “Um.” He pinched at the bridge of his nose and took a breath. Remembered what he was doing. “Do you think he could be a sociopath?”

  “I do not know. His anger issues are well documented.”

  “Do you know anything about Mod…about a podcast?”

  Patel handed him the final paper and the hair along Jennings’ neck raised to press against his collar.

  I had to quit my investigation when I ran out of time and money. In a final act of defiance, I alerted a podcast called Modern Monsters about the Lynch scandal. I could no longer pursue it, but the podcast could because it operated anonymously. Or I thought they did. The podcast producer began doing research, following some of my leads, including Kelly Carson. The final message I received from Modern Monsters was signed by Donald Blair, the producer. He thanked me and said he was meeting with a source, the biggest piece to the whole puzzle and the podcast would be ready soon after. Then nothing. Blair quit responding. I looked him up a month later only to discover he was missing.

  It is my belief that Peter Lynch killed Donald Blair. Or had someone else do it. The ‘source’ was a trap.

  Make no mistake, I’m suggesting murder. There is zero evidence implicating Peter Lynch—believe me, we looked. But it’s not a coincidence. Blair is dead because of Lynch. It’s not the first missing person Lynch could be linked to. We dug deep enough into his time in California to discover he was suspected in the death of a young woman and the disappearance of two more, but nothing came of it. The young woman had been found buried. Her ears were ripped and she had a hook through her mouth. But there was not enough evidence to even charge Lynch, much less convict him.

  Now you know why I live in fear. I half-expect to disappear any moment.

  I will not come forward with this information until Peter Lynch is in custody. I have a baby now, and another on the way.

  You MUST be very careful. There is more going on than I could discover. Lynch has powerful friends I could not find.

  Jennings laid the paper on top of the others. The word murder was screaming at him. A hook through her mouth.

  Patel said, “That is all I will share. Anything else would implicate me. Are you finished?”

  Jennings felt like he was falling. He nodded. “I’m finished.”

  “What is your goal, sir, may I ask?”

  “I’m not positive. I suppose…justice. Safety for my colleagues. Safety for his children.”

  “We do not live in a safe world, I find.” Patel collected the stack. He stuffed them into his bag and he stood. Dropped a twenty beside his empty plate. “Or a just one. A pleasure meeting you, sir. And good luck.”

  Patel walked out.

  17

  Jennings woke before the sun.

  This morning his alarm clock was the pounding of his heart, an alarm he couldn’t quiet. He stared at the black ceiling, sweating. Within a minute, despite the mental meditative exercises, he was gasping for oxygen. There’d been no nightmare, not that he could recall, but the dead howled between his ears just the same. A malaise of anxiety descended like a fog.

  He knew what came next. Headaches and then nausea.

  Jennings didn’t want to move. He wanted to curl up and wait. The anxiety hurt. But he’d lived with the episodes for a year, knew the enemy required his inaction to thrive.

  He counted backward from ten, out loud, and moved on two. Scrambled for his running prosthesis. His muscles protested and the air stung him. He needed the reassuring weight anchoring his knee.

  “You’re good,” he whispered. “You’re good, you’re good, you’re good. You got this.”

  Clicked on the light. Avoided looking in the mirror. Tugged on a shirt and shorts.

  Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.

  He shoved his right foot into a Nike.

  He flung open the door and ran stiffly from the haunted apartment. Ran from the anxiety. Reached the track, the sky showing a rim of pink to the east. He ran in the thirty-four degree chill, his sweat like ice. One lap, two laps, fighting the earth, he left behind the headache. Three laps, four laps, settling into the gait, he kept pumping and he left behind the nausea. Outrunning the gravel of Afghanistan.

  The ninth lap he walked. Hands on his hips, oxygenating. Ignore the knee throb. Ignore the panic.

  He ran another mile, the farthest total distance he’d gone in two years, the farthest since his third year in the Army, and relief flooded him as the cross-country team arrived, lead by Chad Riddle, the coach. People. They called to him, Mr. Jennings! And he knew he would survive. He walked another lap in the rich company of other humans and it healed him.

  Damn it, he told himself. Damn it, that was a close one.

  He hobbled home, soaked with sweat and dew. His apartment held no terror, the ghosts exorcised. He left the front door open, just in case, and he started the coffee.

  Jennings left his classroom door open too during his planning period. He welcomed the voices and laughter of students and faculty.

  He had upcoming weeks with no lessons prepared and the empty planner gaped at him. A void he couldn’t fill with his mind elsewhere.

  Dean Gordon had emailed Jennings as he brainstormed.

  Mr. Jennings,

  I called Haley Toyota. Your truck will be good as new next week. And the window to your apartment arrives tomorrow. Things are looking up.

  Let me know how I can help. My job is to make yours easier.

  -Gordon

  Jennings drummed his fingers on his desk, considering.

  His panic attack had been brought on by Peter Lynch, at least in part. The monster he suspected of physical abuse, sexual abuse, intimidation, bribery, and a host of other crimes might also be a murderer. Ripped ears and a hook through her mouth.

  What did Jennings do now?

  What could Jennings do now?

  The police had nothing to go on. No evidence, no testimony. Standing up to him was nearly impossible. His victims got paid off. The teachers could lose their jobs, the newspaper would fold, the reporters got fired or killed, Chief Gibbs had nothing…nothing, there was nothing Jennings could do.

  But he couldn’t just close his eyes and make Lynch go away.

  He needed more allies.

  At the final bell, his mind was m
ade. He walked out of Ol’ Monty with the flood of boys, the juniors and seniors running for their sports lockers—the football championship was two days away and Coach Murray was back at practice. Jennings circumnavigated the quad and reached James House, the admin building.

  Dean Gordon should be told. Maybe the man couldn’t help, but the more people who knew the better.

  The upper school’s secretary, on the phone, smiled brightly at him and waved with her finger. Jennings always got the one-finger wave. The two guidance counselors were busy in their offices, as was Ms. Nancy, the dean’s personal assistant. Jennings walked to the back, to Gordon’s office.

  The door was cracked. Jennings raised a hand to knock and Peter Lynch laughed from within.

  An unmistakable sound. Lynch’s voice neutered and mild, like the commercials, speaking softly to the dean. Jennings jerked his fist away as if scalded.

  The enemy was already in the gates! Jennings wrestled down the fear. Lynch was probably here about Benji, not him. Here about any number of other things.

  Lynch doesn’t know I went to the police. He doesn’t know I went to Richmond. Relax, Dan, relax, you’re good.

  Jennings left the James House, moving fast. Straight across the quad, ignoring friendly greetings, back to his classroom, to his home turf.

  He was developing paranoia. He knew it.

  Lynch laughing in Gordon’s office didn’t mean the dean was associated with his crimes. Nor did it mean the dean was hopelessly within Lynch’s pocket. Jennings kept telling himself that, trying to inculcate some rationality.

  Lynch wasn’t God. He wasn’t omnipotent, he wasn’t omniscient. He wasn’t even the devil. He was a man.

  It frightened Jennings, the awareness he might be more obsessed with Lynch than Lynch was with him.

  Someone was speaking. That thought rattled around his skull before landing.

  “Mr. Jennings? Hellooo?” A girl at the door.

 

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