The Last Innocent

by Rebekah Strong

  He heard another blast and blinding pain seared up his right leg and slammed him to the ground. Twisting around he saw Charlie advancing through the kitchen with a rusty double barrel shotgun. Bobby cowered behind him. Sam crawled down the hallway toward his bedroom. A crack appeared in Tully’s bedroom door. A small frightened face peered through it.

  “Hide,” Sam choked out.

  Willing himself to move, he stood up and limped to the dark bedroom. Moonlight streamed through the curtains bathing the room in pale light. Sam almost reached the door when his leg gave out. He grabbed the wall for support and reached into the closet feeling for the prize. His hand wrapped around the cold steel. He pulled it out.

  Sam kept the gun chambered so it made no noise as he raised it to his shoulder. The light from the living room lamp backlit the smaller Hayward. Bobby had the shotgun now. Charlie pushed him forward urging him to take the finishing shot.

  “You ain’t to take a Hayward to jail, Bobby.” A huge plug of tobacco muddled Charlie’s voice. “You make sure that this pig learns it.”

  Bobby looked frightened and dropped the gun muzzle low. Charlie shoved his brother and the pair forgot about the wounded deputy for a split second. It was all Sam needed.

  Sam pointed his barrel down the hallway and pulled the trigger. The blast sent Bobby reeling backward, arms flailing. A red circle bloomed on Bobby’s plaid shirt as the lead slug found its mark. Bobby staggered back then fell. The whites of his eyes glinted in the moonlight pouring into the hall from the bedroom.

  Sam pumped another round into the chamber. He leaned against the wall and shook his head. He tried to focus on the hulking Charlie kneeling over his dead brother, but the hallway swirled. Charlie grabbed the shotgun Bobby dropped and disappeared into the living room.

  A trail of blood smeared the wallpaper behind Sam as he limped past Bobby holding the wall for support. At the living room door, he fired around the corner without looking. He knew he was close to blacking out and he had to kill this son of a bitch before that happened.

  The blast came from his left. Charlie stood by the front door across the room from Sam’s easy chair. A wisp of smoke curled from the rusty shotgun.

  Sam didn’t feel any pain. Strange. It should have hurt like hell. Instead he felt the floor hit him with a dull thud. The room grew fuzzy and the lamplight dimmed.

  “Daddy?”

  Tully’s small voice cut through the thickness like a razor. She stood in the doorway, her eyes wide looking back and forth from the big blond man to her father on the floor.

  Charlie’s face twisted with satisfaction. He was so focused on the fallen deputy that he didn’t notice her until she screamed and ran at him.

  Furious, she kicked and scratched and beat on his thick leg with her fists. Charlie Hayward looked down surprised. His beefy hand caught her in the chest like he was batting at a mosquito. She flew backward slamming into the coffee table in front of the couch. The glass top shattered and shards flew across the carpet. Tully rolled to a stop on her back and lay still. A red line sprang up on her left cheek. It widened until blood flowed freely from her slashed skin onto her neck.

  Sam’s head flopped toward his unmoving daughter. The pink ruffle on her nightgown was visible through the darkness pushing down hard. He reached out to touch her, but his hand closed around glass. Sam didn’t look away from Tully as Charlie stepped up to point blank range and aimed his gun at the fading deputy’s chest.

  The little girl jolted awake at the loud blast. She opened her eyes and tried to focus, but she couldn’t. Her cheek felt wet and she wondered faintly why she’d been crying. She spotted her father lying on the carpet and crawled to him. The glass crunched underneath, tearing her nightgown and ripping her arms. She made her way to her father and rested her aching head on his arm. Everything would be okay if she could get to him. Everything would be okay.

  BANG.

  Tully’s body jerked so hard her arm slammed into the wooden coffee table. The great room spun violently as she opened her eyes. Pain seared down her arm and up her neck, and she realized carpet pushed up against her face. She was on the floor.

  Rolling to her back she grabbed her shoulder and felt sticky goo. The room seemed tilted and her head weighed a thousand pounds. She quit trying to lift it and closed her eyes again as darkness settled on her like a heavy blanket and she blacked out.

  SIX

  A week later Luke and Thaddeus sat in the conference room of the Atlanta Field Office. The long glass table was piled high with boxes and bags sealed with red tape, delivered a few hours earlier.

  “Newton said it. Not me. It’s not some new-fangled idea I came up with just now.” Thad stopped typing. “It’s simple cause and effect.”

  Black mesh chairs lining the table twirled as Luke elbowed them.

  “You’re psycho pacing again,” Thad said eyeing Luke over his laptop screen. He'd never been so happy to see an evidence delivery. For a week straight Thad listened to Luke complain about how long it was taking. Five days was lightning fast for evidence processing.

  “Why would he kill himself?”

  Thad clicked the laptop shut. “He got caught in the hen house. He committed political suicide, so he musta figured the best way to deal was actual suicide. That’s all the evidence says.”

  “But that’s not right is it?” Luke lapsed back into thought.

  Thad wasn’t having it. He tried goading Luke out of his haze. “Nobody cares about a dead politician. Right?”

  When he got no response Thad pressed on, annoyed. Getting information was a full-time job when Luke got like this. “The evidence. You know, all this crap we gotta make sense of?”

  Luke pointed at Thad like he made an excellent point. “It wasn’t political suicide. There is no such thing.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Politicians don’t kill themselves when they get caught with their pants down. Literally or figuratively.”

  “What do they do?”

  “They run for office again.”

  Thad laughed. Luke elbowed another chair into a spin. “Twomey’s been implicated in several major scandals before, and he keeps getting re-elected. Three times if I’m right. Does the Lake Lanier incident ring any bells?”

  Thad’s eyebrow shot up. “That was him?”

  “He was neck deep in allegations and still won that fall. Most politicians are Teflon coated and he’s no exception. This,” Luke gestured to the pile of bags, “is just another day at the office.”

  “Somebody had pictures this time.”

  Luke waved his hand. “Somebody’s always got pictures. Name one politician that committed suicide because he got caught in an affair.” Luke dragged his hand through his hair. Thad shook his head and shrugged.

  “One other time Twomey was caught in an affair. The woman and her husband went quiet and fell off the radar.” Luke stopped and propped his elbows on the back of a chair.

  “That was nice of them.”

  “Paid off, no doubt. It’s a stretch that he would roll over at a simple blackmail threat. I’d bet a month’s pay this guy has been down that road.”

  “I don’t like to gamble. I always lose. Are you saying you think he was murdered?”

  “No. I’m not saying that. I want to make sure we’re not missing anything.”

  Thad relaxed a little. “Not much to miss. We’ve got definitive rope marks. A suicide note and a very good reason for him to be swingin from the rafters.”

  “There was a struggle,” said Luke.

  “He liked it rough. Doesn’t mean foul play.”

  “I know. That’s what bothers me.”

  “What?”

  “Why was he tied? There's no way those tiny teenaged girls were going dominatrix on him. It had to be the other way around. But there were marks on his wrists.”

  "Yeah that's a little weird,” Thad admitted. “Then again, this whole thing is weird.”

  “And that crime scene was one of the clean
est I’ve ever seen. Everything in place. Staged. Wiped clean. Strange for someone who commits suicide on a whim to wipe the place for prints. And why bother putting a chair back up?”

  “Unless it wasn’t on a whim. People plan suicides, you know.” Thad spoke slowly trying to emphasize his point. “It’s common for them to clean up. So whoever finds the body will think better of them; that they weren’t a slob. It’s basic psychology.”

  “An image obsessed man kills himself in the shittiest apartments in Atlanta and leaves out the riding crop and the handcuffs. Sure doesn’t seem like he was trying to control perceptions. I do agree with you though. Nothing’s as consistent as vanity.” Luke resumed pacing.

  Thad closed his eyes and spoke deliberately. “And the evidence?”

  “What about it?”

  “Look, I know I’m the new guy here, but there’s nothing to support anything but a self-inflicted death. This,” he gestured to the pile, “is the equal and opposite reaction to the initial action or actions. That’s why it’s called evidence. Murder leaves evidence of murder, and suicide leaves evidence of suicide. Even tampering leaves a trail. That doesn’t change simply because it doesn’t answer every question.”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you.”

  “And yet you’re still arguing,” Thad muttered.

  Luke spun and headed back down the carpeted aisle. “You were the psych major. Explain it to me.”

  “W…well,” faltered Thad, “I don’t really know why he would have killed himself there. Unless one of the girls holds some special meaning for him. Maybe he was in love with one of them.”

  “So he kills himself to spare a hooker the embarrassment of a scandal? Come on.”

  “Well, somebody obviously knew about them if they knew where to deliver the photos..."

  "If they were delivered there," Luke cut in.

  "There's no way he brought those with him. Maybe they were delivered while he was there. Maybe not. Maybe it was someone close to him. I don’t know. Look, I don’t have an answer for you. But it doesn’t mean you can throw out the hard evidence because you have questions.”

  “I’m trying to get my questions answered.”

  “You’re freakin’ me out, partner. That’s what you’re doing.”

  “Who was the apartment registered to?”

  “Some guy that doesn’t exist.” Thad flipped his laptop open, clicked a few times and squinted at the screen. “Apartment was rented by someone named James Smith. Paid for a year in advance with cash. I got about four billion returns on that name in both Georgia DMV and CCH, but none with a matching birth date.”

  “So Twomey's people send in a ladder climbing intern with a fake id to rent this place.” Luke stopped and rested his forehead on the back rest of a chair and hunched his shoulders.

  "Nobody at the rental office recognized any of the campaign's people," said Thad.

  Luke straightened. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Wouldn't tell us anything we don’t already know.” He leaned forward and rifled through a thick binder containing a detailed list. Something nagged at him all week.

  He found it, then rummaged through the pile to find the corresponding item numbers. He pulled out the two cell phones, each secured in its own clear plastic bag and sealed to prevent tampering.

  Luke held the phones side by side. One was a high-end black smartphone. The other was a cheap silver prepaid flip phone.

  “I want to subpoena the records for this phone,” he held up the smartphone. Thad nodded and made a note. Flipping open his pocketknife, Luke sliced through the packaging of the cheap phone. He opened it and started punching buttons. Only two numbers were in the call history. “Find out where these numbers go.”

  “It’s a burner phone. It probably goes to his pimp,” said Thad without turning from his screen.

  “Make sure.”

  Thaddeus looked up to see a cell phone hurdling toward his face. He snagged it before it smacked him in the forehead. “Dude, you need to relax. You’re gettin my pressure up.” Thaddeus went back to his computer.

  Luke started pacing again. There were signs of a struggle, but that was easily explained. The toilet overflowed leading to the discovery of the body. Likely the prostitute’s mistake. She woke up, found him dead and panicked. Thad was right. This was easy.

  In the old days gut instinct was his greatest asset. Hunting hadjis in the sandbox was less complicated than building a case. Instinct and experience made him good at finding terrorists. These days it was less valuable. The American justice system had no use for his gut’s point of view. Another in a long line of places he didn’t belong.

  “Okay, that’s weird,” Thad’s voice broke through.

  “What?” Luke whirled.

  “Well, the first number I can’t trace. My guess is it goes to another prepaid, probably his pimp. You know, like I said before. The other goes to a local business. Why would that be on his burner phone? Hang on.” Thad tapped on the keyboard.

  “Ok. One World, Inc.” Thad scrolled down. “They are the largest environmental lobby in the U.S. Main office is in DC, of course, with a few offices overseas. The CEO is from Atlanta and it was founded here back in the ’70s. They are mostly wetland preservation, anti-fracking and it looks like they might have had something to do with all those hippies stalking the whaling fleets. I’m reading between the lines. They don’t actually use the word ‘hippie’ on the website.”

  Luke stopped to listen as Thad continued.

  “They are a celebrity darling, though. Apparently, B-listers fall all over themselves to be this company’s spokesperson. I’ve seen their billboards. It’s like PETA for mother earth, without the red paint and boobies. Too bad about the boobies.”

  “So, a conservative politician is calling a liberal think tank. On a phone no one is supposed to see.” Luke resumed pacing.

  “Shady,” agreed Thad.

  “Wait a minute.” Luke went to the table and shoved some packages aside. He found a yellow interoffice envelope with sharpie scrawls all over the outside.

  Thad watched him. “What’s that?”

  “Got this yesterday,” said Luke. He upended the envelope and a plastic DVD case fell into his hand. Luke opened it and slid the disc into the player under a large flat screen TV mounted to the wall. He threw himself into a chair and clicked the TV on as Thad swiveled to watch.

  “Two months ago, our dearly departed senator was involved in what turned out to be the town hall meeting to end them all. It was easy enough to find online, but it could have embarrassed Twomey’s camp. I was afraid they would take it down, so I had OIT burn it for me.”

  Thad looked at the YouTube video title on the screen and did a quick search. “You’re right. It’s gone. Good job on not knowing how to do that yourself.”

  Luke kept talking. “I didn’t think anything of it until you mentioned an environmental lobby just now. It was a debate in the low country against the man who would become his opponent in the Senate race. The topic was a little touchy. Guess what it was.”

  Thad shrugged.

  “Environmental. Specifically wetland development.”

  Luke hit play and the video blinked to life. The camera zoomed in on a man with a glistening bush of silver hair. His tailored pinstripe suit made him appear less well fed than he was. He stood behind a clear podium with a black microphone, his deep drawl booming through the speakers.

  “My opponent is implying that I don’t care about the environment. That I don’t care about our protected wildlife areas. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was the loudest advocate for the bill that classified wetlands, farmland and historical areas as protected. All while Mr. Onessa was still playing beer pong in college.” Senator Twomey mimed swinging a paddle.

  Laughter rippled across the gymnasium as the camera panned out. Behind the packed bleachers, a large gold and purple mural announced ‘Home of the Hornets’. White fluttered everywhere indicating the temperature of the ro
om. One proper madam yielded a hand painted fan. Less prepared women made do with scraps of campaign literature. The men pretended they weren’t hot as sweat rolled down their faces.

  Twomey continued, his second chin quivering. “The environmental health of the great state of Georgia, and the nation as a whole has always been of utmost importance to me, and my record reflects that.” He clasped the edges of the podium. “But like everything, there must be a wise balance.”

  A timer buzzed.

  “Thank you, Senator Twomey,” a poised Asian woman sat behind a white cloth covered table on the gym floor. It was fitted with two microphones. Her precise makeup and brilliant teeth gave the unmistakable air of a television personality.

  “Senator Onessa, your reply,” she cooed sweetly.

  “Well, Lisa, I would like to go on record as agreeing with Cecil. He was indeed the loudest voice in the state legislature. And still is, I might add.”

  This time hearty laughter filled the gymnasium. Flashes bounced off the velvet stage curtain behind them as photographers jockeyed for a shot of the handsome young politician.

  “But I say,” Senator Onessa paused for emphasis, “that voicing an opinion is not the same as standing up for up it.” He brought up his fist with the index finger looped in the quintessential political gesture; emphatic but not aggressive. “We must protect our natural resources even when it is no longer politically or financially expedient to do so.” He looked at the cameras.

  “Even if that means erring on the side of caution. There are plenty of places to do business that do not fill up wetlands. I certainly cannot support it when it looks out for special interests.” He took a sip of water and stood silent. Whistles and loud applause rippled across the audience. Someone yelled something loud and unintelligible.

  “Senator Twomey, your rebuttal,” said Lisa Cho.

  Twomey cleared his throat. “Prohibiting development around protected areas is not encroachment. This bill only further protects our priceless environment. I’m not even really sure why Henry is against the bill. He has a long history of environmental activism.” Senator Twomey's sarcastic tone oozed out of the speakers.