She was disappointed not to be having a dinner party, especially now that Ryan was coming out of his hermit crab shell. She remembered how Trooper Flores had looked yesterday evening when she returned to the station house. The girl had been glowing. And when Jayme had asked, “Did he behave himself?” the young woman had blushed and answered, “Perfectly.”
So Jayme knew that he had been kind and warm and considerate of the greenhorn. He was certainly capable of those qualities, but, around people he did not know well, he tended more toward a reserved civility. Yet ever since the miscarriage, he had been showing a more open side to his personality. Lathea had told her, only a few days before the miscarriage, “Everything happens for a reason.” She had even insisted that Jayme repeat the phrase, almost as if she had known what was about to befall them.
What if Lathea were right? What if that tiny little soul had come into their lives too briefly only so that Jayme could not merely understand but feel Ryan’s grief for his lost son, and so that Ryan could learn to step out of his own misery so as to comfort her in hers? It seemed too much of a sacrifice, and too cruel a lesson.
She tried not to let the tears come again but there was no stopping them.
He looked up from the bowl of fruit, saw the streaks down her cheeks and the wide, confusing smile. “Baby,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m just crying because I love you.”
Twenty-Three
“Luthor Reddick, with an o” was the first thing Joe Loughner said after DeMarco tapped the phone icon and said hello. “You got the spelling wrong.”
“Hey, Joe. How’s it going?”
“You spelled Luthor with an e-r. He spells it o-r. After Lex Luthor, Superman’s archrival. His real name is Thomas. Thomas Reddick Jr.”
“He does sort of resemble Lex Luthor, I guess. How do you know him?”
“Him, not so much. But if he’s anything like his old man, and I’m betting he is, he’s our guy. I’d bet my life on it.”
“How do you know his father?”
“He was my number one pain in the ass back in Elk County. A small-time drug dealer, though we could never nail him for that. Had him before the court on at least five different assault charges, though. He liked to beat people up, especially his wife and kid. Put him away for three years, which was about one one-hundredth of what he deserved.”
DeMarco needed a moment to process the information.
Fifteen seconds later, Loughner said, “You still there?”
“Still here. How did you hear that we were looking at Reddick?”
“I checked in with Trooper Boyd this morning to see if you had any leads. He told me the five persons of interest your team came up with. And the moment I heard Reddick’s name, my radar went crazy. I’m telling you, DeMarco, this guy is bad news. You need to get him behind bars ASAP. Frankly, I’m surprised somebody hasn’t put him there already. Surprised and more than a little disappointed it wasn’t him nailed to that tree.”
All this from knowing the father? DeMarco thought.
DeMarco glanced at the time. “Any chance you’d be free for lunch? Meet you halfway? In Meadville, say?”
“I could use some eggplant parm, sure. Chovy’s at…let’s make it one. Give the business crowd time to thin out.”
“See you there,” DeMarco said.
He ended the call, then placed a call to Trooper Boyd, from whom he learned that several of the individuals canvassed the previous afternoon had rap sheets, but mostly for misdemeanors such as driving under the influence, domestic abuse, drunk and disorderly, simple possession. Nothing suggesting an individual who could drug and crucify a man and torch two females.
“So they are definitely female?” DeMarco asked.
“Skulls and femurs say so, yes. Ages early to late twenties. Cranium morphology confirms one Asian, one white.”
“That young? Any chance the male could be their father?”
“No, sir. Unrelated.”
“Dental records?”
“That’s going to take a while. Especially since the vics don’t appear to be local. No outstanding missing person reports.”
“Hmm,” DeMarco grunted. “So we still have two Jane Does and one John Doe.”
“Yes, sir. I have the male’s photo out nationwide. No hits yet.”
“Flores and I both got bad vibes from a Wetzel and a Reddick yesterday. She was going to look into both of them.”
“Yes, sir, she did. Wetzel is unemployed, was a janitor for GE a while back but got fired for coming to work drunk. Now apparently subsisting on welfare. His two sons, though, bear looking into some more if we can track them down. Apparently a couple of bad characters, starting when they were still in their teens.”
“Bad how?” DeMarco asked.
“Shoplifting, breaking and entering, assault—the usual progression. They both spent several months in the county jail last year for burglarizing summer homes at Lake Latonka. They were released within a couple of weeks of each other. Haven’t been seen around here since. The old man claims he has no idea where they are.”
“They have cell phones, don’t they?”
“The old man has a landline. I’m hoping to get his records today.”
“Let me know if anything turns up.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll be having lunch with Joe Loughner today. He has some strong suspicions concerning one of the men Flores and I spoke to yesterday.”
“Yes, sir, he shared those suspicions with me. I ran Reddick and he came up clean. Though not sparkling clean.”
“Meaning what?”
“Other than a less than honorable discharge from the army. For homicidal tendencies.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, sir. That’s how it reads. I got in touch with his former squad leader, who said it’s not as bad as it sounds. Says Reddick was just too gung ho for their comfort. Kept begging to get sent to a war zone. They were afraid his ‘undue ferocity and zeal’ would endanger others.”
“That’s what they called it? Undue ferocity and zeal?”
“Exact words, sir.”
“I thought the army wanted gung ho soldiers.”
“Different times, I guess.”
“And now he sells antiques online. Undue ferocity in an antique dealer. Does that jibe for you, Trooper?”
“Depends. Twenty years and modern medicine can work wonders.”
“You have been of no help whatsoever today, Mace.”
“Sorry, sir. I will try to do better.”
“As will we all,” DeMarco said. “You’re welcome to join me and Joe for lunch if you’d like.”
“I’ll have to take a rain check on that. Going to work the computer all day, see if I can dig up something shiny.”
“Good luck with that. And hey, how’s Flores today?”
“Confidentially?”
“If that’s how you want it, sure.”
“Confidentially, I think you’re lucky to be spoken for. Else you might be having some girl trouble right now.”
“Oh boy,” DeMarco said. “Do we have a young trooper with daddy issues?”
“You might say that. When the captain asked how you two got along, she called you a very sweet man.”
“What’s so surprising about that? Haven’t I always been sweet to you?”
“I’m going to take the fifth on that one, sir.”
DeMarco chuckled. “Have a good day, Mace. Either Joe or I will be in touch.”
“Ten-four, Sergeant. Oh, by the way, Captain wanted me to let you know he got approval to reimburse your expenses. One meal per day each for you and Jayme, plus mileage.”
“Tell him for me that we didn’t ask him to reimburse our expenses. And that he should put the money toward those testosterone injections he nee
ds.”
The call ended with both men chuckling.
In the kitchen, where Jayme was plugging in her laptop, he filled her in on the context of both calls and invited her to join him for lunch in Meadville.
She pulled out a chair, sat, and flipped up the screen. “Thanks for the invite, babe, but next time maybe. I’m still full from breakfast. I think I’ll stay here and see what I can learn about our young Norman Mailer.”
“He strikes me as more like a preppy Jack Kerouac. Shy on self-discipline. Anyway that’s what Mailer said about him. ‘Kerouac lacks discipline, intelligence, honesty and…’ something else I can’t remember. ‘His rhythms are erratic,’ he’s blah blah blah something else, and oh yeah, yeah, this is the good part. He’s ‘as pretentious as a rich whore, as sentimental as a lollypop.’”
She laughed. “As sentimental as a lollypop?”
“Good stuff, huh?”
She couldn’t stop laughing. “Go see Joe. Enjoy yourself.”
“Want me to bring something home for dinner? How about that pasta Michelangelo you like?”
“Ooh, yeah. But what was that tortiglioni you had last time? That was really good too.”
“The all’arrabbiata. I’ll bring home one of each. I’ll just have the bruschetta for lunch. That way I’ll be hungry with you.”
“Lollypops for dessert?” she asked.
He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Research Mr. Miller, my love. And don’t be a sucker.”
Twenty-Four
The truth was, she could not stop thinking about her baby. Still wondering about the goodness of a God that would allow a pregnancy to begin, only to end it a few weeks later. Such events were a good argument against the existence of a God. And Jayme didn’t want to agree with that argument. More than anything, she needed to disagree with it. If only it weren’t so difficult to do.
It was a good thing she had work to distract her, or else she would sit there brooding and drive herself crazy. Into the Google search box she typed Chase Miller.
Darn, not an uncommon name. Chase Miller the country singer. The model. The race car driver. The golfer, the hockey player, the soccer player, the police officer, the infant murdered by his brother, the lawyer, the actor, the Chase Miller dead at twenty-seven, dead at fourteen, dead at forty-six, dead at eighteen months… And that didn’t include the Chases who weren’t Millers or the Millers who weren’t Chases.
She sat back and took a few breaths. Then leaned forward and typed “Chase Miller” Facebook.
Okay, that was encouraging. Only 614 Chase Millers on Facebook to sift through.
She pushed back her chair and stood. Went to the refrigerator, opened it and stood there looking inside.
No, not hungry. Not thirsty.
She glanced under the kitchen table. Rambo was awake, lying there as before, chin to the floor, eyes raised to hers. “You want anything?” she asked. His tail flicked once, then lay still.
She closed the refrigerator door and went to the sink. Looked out the window at the backyard. Empty. “Need to go pee?” she asked.
That was usually enough to get him racing to the back door. But not today.
She sat down at the laptop again, slid her feet forward until they touched a warm body. There was something about the contact that made her feel better. She hoped it had the same effect on him.
She sat with fingers poised over the keys. What to type? She had done hundreds of name searches on criminal and military databases, knew how to search court dockets and outstanding warrants, sexual predator and deadbeat dad lists, but a law-abiding citizen? Her brain was full of fog, full of thoughts she wished would go away for a while.
She typed “Chase Miller” writer “Greenville Tribune PA.”
Here we go. His most recent article, the embarrassing one. Byline at the top, and…bingo. At the end of the article: Follow Chase on Twitter @ChasetheACE.
He had 2611 followers, fewer than a hundred tweets. Not much of a bio. Ace reporter, blogger, social critic, boat rocker. Have pen, will scribble.
His tweets were mostly statistics, intended, she assumed, to rock the boat:
Over ONE-THIRD of the total US population is on WELFARE! Read about it at DireWireFunFACTS.com
US Taxpayers fund secret BLACK OPS to the tune of $81 BILLION this year! Read about it at DireWireFunFACTS.com
The sordid tale of the Birmingham CANNIBAL! Read my latest blog post at DireWireFunFACTS.com
MASSIVE Global Pedophile Ring linked to Washington ELITES! Read about it at DireWireFunFACTS.com
Average American family shells out $6000/year to subsidize giant transnational corporations already making BILLIONS in profit! Read about it at DireWireFunFACTS.com
US taxpayers soaked TWO BILLION $$ every year to pay for anchor babies born to illegal aliens! Read about it at DireWireFunFACTS.com
Miller’s blog, Dire Wire Fun Facts, expanded on such tweets, providing information from not only legitimate sources but also questionable ones. His favorite targets appeared to be welfare fraud and the United States government in general:
Mr. H’s tenant weighs, by his estimate, at least 400 pounds. She has difficulty walking from the bedroom to her living room sofa. Yet she is paid $16 per hour, for 60 hours per week, to be the “caretaker” of another tenant in the same building who weighs over 600 pounds. Her check comes from an agency that subcontracts from the state, which pays that agency $32 per hour. Both tenants receive free housing through HUD, plus Medicaid, food stamps, Meals on Wheels, and other subsidies. Would exercise classes be cheaper? You figure it out.
When Donna went to prison for cooking meth in her kitchen, the county placed her two children with Donna’s mother, who was paid approximately $600 per month per child. Twenty-eight months later, Donna was released from prison and regained custody of her children and the $600 per month per child subsidy, as well as collecting social security disability for diabetes, food stamps, rent support, utility bill support, and free medical care for the family. At this point Donna’s 16-year-old son, who had been living with his father, moved back in with his mother, who was then paid an additional $16 per hour FOR TAKING CARE OF HER OWN SON!!!!
Do you know where the swamp begins in Washington DC? It’s called CONGRESS.
Are you aware that every member of Congress works an average of 2.7 days a week and gets a salary THREE TIMES that of the average American, and CAN VOTE RAISES FOR THEMSELVES IN ADDITION TO the annual Congressional cost-of-living adjustment?
They ALSO receive a $900,000 ANNUAL ALLOWANCE for a staff, a QUARTER OF A MILLION $$ expense budget, FREE parking at the office and at airports, FREE meals at the legislative dining hall, GENEROUS healthcare and retirement packages, FREE travel between DC and their home districts AS OFTEN AS THEY LIKE, and FREE “business” travel vacations to OTHER COUNTRIES!
If a member of Congress dies in office (AND NOT ENOUGH OF THEM DO!), their families receive DEATH BENEFITS 75% HIGHER than those awarded to families of SOLDIERS KILLED IN BATTLE!
Members of Congress undergo NO PERFORMANCE REVIEWS, and the ONLY way to get rid of an INCOMPETENT is at the voting booth!
Who is stupid enough to pay for all this without demanding accountability?
THE AMERICAN TAXPAYERS!!!
Members of Congress are supposed to be serving YOU but they take the biggest servings FOR THEMSELVES and give you THE CRUMBS!
Other blog posts were graphic recreations of violent crimes committed throughout the world, which Miller had read about and researched online. He called these pieces “fictionalized true stories in the manner of In Cold Blood and The Executioner’s Song”:
How long Freddy Sheffeld simmered in rage before deciding to act upon his cannibalistic fantasies is unknown. But what else does a lifelong doper and welfare parasite have to do? His days were filled with the trailer trash circuses of Maury Povich
and Jerry Springer, and his nights with shambling along the mean streets, doing his best to mooch a joint or a hit from the pipe. He even leeched off the leeches. The wonder is that he was ever able to muster the initiative for his first kill. But once he got a taste of firm, ripe flesh, nothing else could set his perverted taste buds to singing…
Jayme read three of these crime blogs, then did her own research to verify that the crimes had actually occurred. Miller frequently took liberties with the details, and his prose was too often florid and sensationalistic, but the gist of each story was true. Despite her training and experience, every tale sickened her a little more. Yet she read on, mesmerized by the duplicity, stupidity, and depravity of which human beings are capable.
Over two hours passed before she decided that she’d had all the dire fun facts she could stand for one day. Most fascinating and confusing of all was that the narratives had been rendered by such an attractive and clean-cut young man. She knew enough about human behavior to know that one’s outward appearance can be either a mirror of the inner self or a cloak concealing it, but she did not feel up to the task of plumbing deeper into yet another labyrinthine psyche.
She cut and pasted excerpts from a half dozen blogs into one document and printed it out for DeMarco to assess. Then she took her throbbing headache to a kitchen cabinet, shook two Advils into her palm, and chased them down with a mouthful of tepid water.
She turned away from the sink and looked again at the dog. “I need to lie down for a while. I could use some company.”
But he wasn’t interested. He looked at her—admonishingly, she thought—but made no move to rise.
In the bedroom she stripped off her jeans and put some soft music on the CD player, the Eagles’ Long Road Out of Eden, disc 2, a CD she listened to only when DeMarco wasn’t home. He wouldn’t have complained but she knew that the Eagles weren’t his kind of music. She liked the CD because it took her back to high school and community dances, to a time before she felt bad about anything, to when her body had become her own and she could do anything with it that she wanted and not hate herself the next day.
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