Empty Shell

by Ashley Fontainne

  Two hours in, his stomach began to burn. Now, as he pulled in to the parking lot of the gym and saw Lee’s Dodge was there, the fire in his gut erupted. The sensation he used to get when on point, like he was walking into a trap or something, bore down on him.

  Lee was waiting inside. “About time, PB. What did you do, keep it under twenty-five?”

  “Says the guy who lives and works three blocks away. Recall, I had to drive over ten. Unlike you, I obey traffic laws—even when the streets are empty.”

  “What good is it to be a cop when you can’t bend the rules? I mean, come on…who’s going to give you a ticket? The bad Detective Pit Bull is feared by all. Notice I didn’t say big. Just bad.”

  Craig threw his bag on the floor and rummaged around for the tape, a hint of a smile on his lips. Pit Bull is what everyone in his platoon called him. At five foot nine, he had worked hard on building his physique’s bulk, since he could do nothing about his stature. He shot a glance at Lee, who towered over him at six foot two. His nickname was a perfect fit as well—Giraffe. Lee even sported bright red hair and pale skin so covered in freckles that their sergeant had often ribbed him about covering up while in the hot desert sun. Lee’s long, gangly arms and legs didn’t help matters.

  “I know you didn’t call me down here just to listen to your sparkling wit. Here,” he said, handing the tape to Lee, “wrap yourself up. I think I’d rather hit you instead of the bag. You’re getting on my nerves already, Giraffe.”

  “Wait until I tell you what I found out. Then you will really want to hit someone. And it won’t be me. Not that I’m worried. You hit like a girl.”

  “Drop it on me. I’m already angry. And you run like one.”

  “Jack Dickinson didn’t kill that girl.”

  Craig’s heart began to pound. “Come again?”

  “Listen,” Lee said, lowering his voice. He scanned the weight room once before he plopped down on the bench next to Craig. “Thurman has been acting weirder than normal ever since that Rowland girl hit the table. Antsy. Edgy. He’s always been diligent about checking and rechecking findings before signing off on them, but not this time. He went beyond diligent. Obsessed is a better word. He literally stood behind me and watched while I performed the test on Jack’s clothes. I mean, come on. It’s not like I just started working there or something.”

  “Get to the part about why Jack didn’t do it.”

  “I’m trying. Stop interrupting me. Well, I finished the analysis on the clothes you brought in last week—”

  “And I’m just now hearing about the results?”

  “Do you want me to finish this or not?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Anyway, there wasn’t a trace of blood on the shirt or pants. Not even a dribble. There were a few strands of Serena’s hair on his shirt, but that’s it. This, of course, shocked me. If those are truly the clothes he had on that day, then even if he’d washed them, they would still have traces. I mean, the girl was pretty beat up. Her blood would have been splattered all over him.

  “I noted my findings, signed off on the electronic report and, as standard protocol, submitted a hard copy to Thurman. In person and not just on his desk. I told him my findings and he tried to play it off, like it was no big deal. The look on his face told me a different story. He freaked. Less than a minute later, he was out the door.”

  “Could you please make this story shorter than your neck? I’m wasting precious time that I could be pounding your face in right now.”

  “You’ll want to go have a drink when I finish, I promise. So, yesterday afternoon, I overheard part of his phone conversation with a guy he kept calling Philip. Dude was seriously getting his ass ripped off. I was out back sneaking a smoke when Thurman came out, I think to do the same thing. He’s a closet smoker, you know. Anyway, I couldn’t hear everything, but this Philip guy was screaming about new evidence, pictures and a new witness or something. Thurman was pacing like a cat in front of a kennel full of starving dogs. I distinctly heard the voice say ‘make it go away’ and Thurman kept nodding his head yes. A few minutes later, Thurman went back inside.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Around five. Thurman locked himself in his office and I went back to mine. But about two minutes later, something told me to go look in the Rowland electronic case file. I mean, Philip’s the name of the vic’s father, so I kind of put two and two together.”

  “You should have been a cop.”

  “I am in more ways sometimes than you are, smart ass. I find what you can’t. Anyway, sure enough, my document was open. I tried telling myself that Thurman was just late in signing off on my findings. My gut told me otherwise. I watched and waited until the document was closed then went in and tried to open it, but I couldn’t. It was locked with a new password. About three minutes later, Thurman stormed out of his office like his ass was on fire. I’ve never seen him move so fast. He was in such a big hurry, he left his door unlocked. I, of course, didn’t want him to get in trouble for breaking SOP, so I decided to go shut it. After I looked around his office, of course.”

  “Please tell me that you decided to wander over to his computer and check it. For security reasons, you know, in case he forgot to shut it down?” Craig implored.

  “He left it on, alright. I had to sit down when I realized I was looking at my, well, not my original report anymore. It had been altered. He changed it, stating I had found blood on Jack’s clothes and that it was a match to Serena’s. Why would he do that? I mean, he’s risking his job and even arrest for tampering with evidence if it ever got out. I don’t know for sure, but I am willing to bet that he was talking to Philip Rowland, and for some reason, they want to make sure that it looks like Jack Dickinson killed Serena.”

  “It could be construed that way…”

  “I’m not through sharing all the good news, PB.”

  “There’s more? Wonderful.”

  “Yeah, and this is the really interesting part. After I realized Thurman changed my report, I remembered that the news reported that Jack Dickinson died from an allergic reaction to penicillin. When I heard that on the radio last week, I attributed the mistake to the media. You know, they never seem to get all their facts straight before they start yammering about something. Always in a hurry to ‘break’ a news story before the competition does. Anyway, since I was sitting at Thurman’s desk…”

  “Let me guess—the report states otherwise?”

  “No! That’s just it. The autopsy report on Dickinson was the exact same as what was reported on the news.”

  “And this is odd, why? Other than the fact that for once, the media got their facts straight.”

  “I assisted Thurman with that autopsy. Jack Dickinson died from an allergic reaction alright, but not to penicillin. From peanut oil. His stomach contained two undigested Oreo cookies. When I ran the sample, I noted the high amount of peanut oil in his system and on the cookies. Thurman and I specifically talked about it as the obvious cause of death. But, there is no mention of that anywhere in the report I was looking at.”

  “What the hell?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Craig verbalized his internal thoughts, “If that was Philip Rowland on the other line with Thurman, why in the world is he calling Thurman about a closed case? Why is Thurman jumping like a trained monkey under Philip’s command? As the vic’s father, doesn’t it stand to reason he would want the killer brought to justice? If there was any doubt as to the identity of who killed his daughter…”

  “Then it makes no sense that he isn’t standing on the rooftops or in front of every available camera, demanding the police figure out who killed his little precious. Not insisting that it remained closed.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh, two more items I believe you will find interesting. I’ve saved the biggest two for last. One is that after discovering the omission of the tainted cookies, I spent the next few hours
digging. Look what I came up with.” Lee scrambled through his bag and produced a legal size manila folder.

  With a sense of reluctance, he opened it, peeked inside and scanned the pages. His heart pounded. “This certainly rules out coincidence or blind luck. Jesus, if this don’t beat all. How did you…?”

  “I continued to rifle through Thurman’s computer. I know, I know. Low-life hacker moves, but I couldn’t help it. Anyway, I found an email from the head of the detention center dated two days ago. It contained their findings on the internal investigation into the death of inmate Dickinson. The name of the jailer who escorted him to the infirmary rang a bell. Took me an hour to figure out why.

  “When I did, I called Janine. My sweet baby sis still works at Harrison High School and she remembered Bill Witham. He was the basketball star whose budding career ended after a horrific car accident. Get this—he dated Serena Rowland all through their senior year. Not many people knew, I guess they tried to keep it under wraps or something. Janine said she thought it was because the Rowland wealth train didn’t veer off into poor-mans-land.”

  “How in the hell has this other piece of news been kept silent? This, oh shit, it changes everything.”

  “Beats me. The report was generated three days ago by Thurman himself. He should have noted it in the file, but he didn’t. Nor did he contact your office with this new little revelation, at least that’s how I’m reading your shock. He’s doing his best to hide it. Lucky for you I am a pretty good detective. I looked at the autopsy report for Serena, and it still shows that the DNA of her fetus matched Jack’s. As you can see from what I found here, that’s not the case. Not even one allele matched up.”

  “If Jack Dickinson isn’t the father, then who the hell is?” Craig wondered, his stomach in his throat.

  “That’s for you, oh great detective, to figure out. I leave the mystery now in your capable hands. You get to finish putting all the clues together and figure out just what in the hell is going on. It seems that when you figure out who the father of Serena’s baby was, you will find the guy who killed her. Then again, maybe I’m the only one who thinks this whole thing reeks worse than a bloated body.”

  He set the file down on the bench and rubbed his gloved hand across his neck. Anger danced inside him and threatened to take over his body. The sense that his life was about to experience a dramatic change made him feel ill. The evidence Lee had formed certainly wasn’t anything he wanted to look at. It seemed that everyone wanted Jack Dickinson to be known as Serena Rowland’s killer and the father of her unborn child, whether he was or not.

  He didn’t have a smart comeback for his friend. At the moment, all he saw was red. He needed to hurt something. Now. Fortunately, he knew Lee recognized the wild look on his face as he stood up and remained silent, watching Craig attack the bag with ferocious intensity.

  The bag never stood a chance. In less than two minutes, Craig had busted a hole through the side.

  Philip Rowland sat on his back deck and smoked another stogie. His wife slept in blissful ignorance upstairs. Philip hadn’t told her about his meeting at the lawyer’s office yesterday afternoon. The thought of sharing the news made his skin crawl. Miriam’s state of mind already teetered on the edge. Philip feared the latest twist would send her into a complete mental breakdown. He’d lost his daughter and a grandbaby. No way in hell would he lose his wife, too.

  Not as long as he had breath in his lungs and money in his pocket.

  He’d thought he solved the problem by snuffing out a trial, but Philip couldn’t shake the sensation that he’d been wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  The scent of sweet cherry floated around his head in the darkness, hanging in the humid air like a shimmering ghost. Philip knew the smell would adhere to every part of him and that Miriam would scold him for smoking. Then again, maybe not. She hadn’t paid much attention to him during the last two weeks. Miriam hadn’t cooked, cleaned or even shopped since the detective rang their doorbell and destroyed her world. Her fragile mind spent most of its time reliving life with their daughter. Tonight was the first time she hadn’t slept in Serena’s old room since they found out about her murder.

  Murder. The word tumbled over and over in Philip’s mind, in sync with the cigar he spun through his chubby fingers. His only child ripped away from him. Philip was no stranger to the word, for his hands were stained with the blood of others. However, when the act affected your own life, it was another story.

  Another story indeed.

  The pain of losing Serena lifted briefly when the news reported the death of her killer, that monster, Jack Dickinson. He hadn’t spoken with the Witham boy since the funeral. Not for lack of trying on Bill’s part, though. Philip cringed every time he recognized the boy’s number and sent the call to voicemail. It was too much of a risk to talk to him, at least for a while. He had been relieved, the heavy tension that gripped his heart lessened. For a few days, the satisfaction of knowing the bastard was rotting away in his grave let Philip release some of his pent-up rage.

  The pressure release was short-lived though.

  Philip had thought everything was sewn up tight. He’d called in the mountain-high pile of favors that the state medical examiner, Thurman Turner, owed him. One short phone call containing a veiled threat of exposure of Turner’s hidden secrets. Turner’s proclivity for gambling and drug abuse were great tools that Philip had used in the past as insurance to get what he wanted. This time, the phone call ensured that the autopsy on Jack Dickinson would reveal a simple, accidental death. Philip knew an official inquiry would follow Jack’s demise and he didn’t want any hint of a planned killing to be the final outcome. It had to be concluded that the death wasn’t from foul play so Philip’s name wouldn’t somehow get tied to the hit.

  Philip stared out into the expanse of his manicured back yard. The lights surrounding the pool cast eerie shadows across the light blue water. His throat tightened at the memories of all the times he caught Serena swimming in the dark late at night. How many times had he warned her of the dangers of being in the water alone? He’d chide her with empty threats of punishment, and her response would be a big smile. They both knew Philip was wrapped around her finger and that he would never follow through with his threats, for he never had. How could he? Her sweet face and tender heart would render him into a big old teddy bear.

  Philip fought for control over his emotions. He hated getting older—it somehow weakened him. Even before Serena’s death, Philip found himself giving people second chances and the benefit of the doubt, when his usual response had always been swift and angry. It wasn’t like him. Philip heard the voice of his father, long since buried in Wrightsville’s Eternal Slumber cemetery, growl from within him. The voice mocked his emotions, teasing his sensitivity.

  What happened to your balls, lil’ Phil? Did that old battle ax you married make them shrivel up and fall off? Did you lose them the day you fainted when you daughter was born? Maybe while you were passed smooth out on the floor the doc cut them off. All that blood made you woozy, weak. Candy ass. You ain’t the boy I raised. No siree. My boy was a fighter—a winner. Took nothin’ from no one and gave the same back. If you’d done a better job raisin’ that lil’ slut, bustin’ that backside when she misbehaved, she wouldn’t be here with me. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Don’t ya know that’s what the Book says?

  It took three huge puffs of the pungent cigar to chase the words of his father out of Philip’s head. His stomach lurched in protest, his head tingling. He pondered how it was possible to feel so much love and grief, yet so much hatred at the same time. Philip wanted the nightmare to be over. He wanted a scab to start hardening on the wound and stop the pain. That couldn’t happen if people kept ripping it off, like the scumbag LaFont and his sniveling client, Melody Dickinson. Philip puffed away like a freight train, his anger skyrocketing. He’d exchanged some rather harsh words with Roger yesterday. Philip still couldn’t fathom why
the one person who knew him better than his own wife had blindsided him like he did.

  Roger knew both sides of Philip. Most people only saw the powerful entrepreneur who amassed one of the largest fortunes in the state. Philip knew his reputation as a ruthless, cutthroat businessman cloaked him like a second suit. He didn’t care, in fact, that was exactly how he wanted people to feel about him—to be intimidated by him and fearful when he spoke or entered a room. Kindness and civility were not part of Philip’s repertoire. They sounded nice to the ears, but in reality, hostile takeovers and blackmail had made Philip filthy rich.

  Most of the land owned by generations of his family was located further down south. The farms of cotton, wheat, soybean and corn generated hefty profits each year. The Rowland clan never wanted for money, but when Philip came along, he discovered a hidden treasure in the vacant acres owned up north. The natural gas and shale that sat underneath the empty land made him damn near a billionaire when he leased out the mineral rights.

  It also made him some powerful enemies. Land that had been leased to hunters and a very large section courted by housing developers was now producing truckloads of cash for Philip. When leases were terminated and offers ignored, the anger and resentment felt by others boiled over into a war. Philip had procured the services of Roger to help keep the peace when the legal battles began. When throwing cash into the hands of those who screamed the loudest didn’t work, Philip discovered the best leverage of all: blackmail.

  For a few years, Philip devoted his time to hunting out and dredging up any piece of dirt on those who stood in his way. And oh what dirt he found. The sheriff of one county was ousted when it leaked about his preferences in sexual partners—courtesy of some of Philip’s best snooping. The one who replaced him was handpicked, his campaign funded by Philip. The few stragglers who wouldn’t bow down to Philip’s threats or succumb to the lure of cash met untimely and painful deaths. Philip made sure all his bases were covered in that area as well when he saw that Thurman Turner was appointed Chief Medical Examiner with the state.