One Murder Too Many
Terrell L. Bowers
Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
By the Same Author
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
HIS HEART POUNDED against the walls of his chest like a demented beast trying to escape its cage, and his mouth was too dry to have mustered up a whistle even if it meant saving his life. Knees weak with apprehension and his hands sweating inside the snug-fitting leather gloves, he none the less forced himself to go forward. This was it!
Conserving energy within government buildings meant shutting off most of the lights after the usual business hours. While it saved a few cents on electricity it also meant the security cameras would not capture the movement along a darkened hallway as the wraithlike intruder entered an empty maintenance closet. He used a stowed folding chair as a ladder, so that he could reach up and remove the access hatch in the roof. Sweat formed on his brow as he grunted and strained his muscles to pull himself up into the partition. Once situated, he flipped on a miniature flashlight, stuck it between his teeth, and began to crawl.
Moving with the stealth of a cat burglar, the phantom maneuvered carefully along the space between the office ceilings below and the floor of the next story above, making his way to a particular air vent. One slip of his foot on the railing and he would punch a hole in the square ceiling-tiles. If that happened, he would be discovered and his plan would be ruined.
After crawling along for twenty-five feet, he was able to hear them. The couple were swept away with their passion, each moaning and whispering words of love in the other’s ear. He hurried as much as he could, knowing time was short. To earn the reward he sought, he had to act quickly.
Espying the intended vent, he shut off his flashlight and tucked it into his shirt pocket. Using the dim glow from the light within the target room, he eased forward silently, carefully, until he could see through the mesh screen. He adjusted his weight on the roof girders, leaned forward and used his cell phone to capture the action. The camera made a little noise, but two bodies below, entwined in mutual ecstasy, were oblivious to the muffled clicks. They felt secure behind a locked door, after quitting time, and with nearly every office deserted.
Satisfied that he had enough photos for his purpose, the intruder eased back the way he had come.
Once back to the utility room he replaced the access panel, folded and stuck the chair away, then exited into the hallway. There was an alarm at the rear door to the parking garage. However, its safety measures were intended to keep people out. One didn’t have to enter a security code to leave the building.
Satisfied with his success, the surreptitious photographer kept his ball cap pulled low and his head down as he walked away from the garage area. Once on the main street he headed for his car, parked several blocks away. As he made the short trek, he mapped out his next move. He would text the pictures to the adulteress, who had thought her romantic rendezvous was a secret, and demand a substantial payment. He snickered under his breath.
‘Ah, yes! You’re going to pay me well to keep your dirty little secret!’
Kari Underwood was outraged and sought to defend her article to the managing editor of the Salt Lake City Sentinel, Scott Quinn.
‘It’s all true!’ she cried. ‘People can’t even go into our national parks without having to fear being shot at or chased off by drug dealers. There are fields of marijuana growing any place the plants can survive.’
‘I’m sure most of those fields are well away from the usual visiting areas,’ Scott countered. ‘It’s not like you are going to run into a dealer if you go on a picnic with your kids.’
‘But it’s completely unchecked! The government has even put up warning signs not to go back into the hills to camp. How bad does it have to get before someone takes a stand?
‘It isn’t up to us to take that stand! These drug people don’t like publicity and they play for keeps.’
‘Well, my article is only for information, so people can complain to the proper authorities.’
‘I understand your motives, but we can’t point a finger at the local gangs.’
‘Why not?’ she cried. ‘Many of them are involved in the drug traffic!’
‘Yes, but you have no hard proof linking any of those gangs to the drug cartel,’ Scott argued. ‘You can’t expect me to print a story that is founded on suspicions or an unnamed informant’s hunches.’
‘I thought that’s what a newspaper did, put the truth out there for the people!’
Scott shook his head. ‘We have to present the facts to back it up. The only thing we can print is the part about what happened to the one family you interviewed, because they reported the encounter to the police. Stick with the single episode, how they were warned out of the area by two men with guns.’
Kari fumed. ‘So we ignore the fact that gangs control many of our city streets and the Columbian cartels are importing drugs and we have dealers growing their own crops on BLM land.’
‘The Bureau of Land Management has been contacted and the proper authorities will deal with the situation.’
‘I interviewed a policeman with the Gang Control Unit to get some of my information. The cops are completely overwhelmed by the numbers of gangs on our streets. Do you know we have gangs from most every denomination in the city?’ She paused to glance at her notes. ‘We’ve got the Belizean Bloods, the Surenos, the Lobos, the Crips, the Hard Corps, the Nortenos, along with Asian and Polynesian gangs, plus the usual skinheads and biker gangs. The police can’t begin to keep up with them all.’
‘The members on the Gang Control Unit have a strict policy about giving interviews or making statements to the press. How did you manage to acquire this information?’
‘One of them is concerned for public safety.’
‘It means his job if you print something that can be traced back to him.’
‘I won’t let that happen,’ Kari replied.
‘And what would you have us do, Kari?’ Scott demanded to know. ‘If we were to launch a campaign against the drug dealers and all of the hoods who are running loose, we would likely get a fire bomb through one of our windows.’ He grunted at the idea. ‘And how would we protect our employees? None of us would be safe.’
‘But I only suggested that the people push to organize….’
‘Organize what?’ Scott yelped. ‘A vigilante or military operation?’ He glowered at her with a stern disapproval. ‘I’m sorry, Kari, but we are not in business to lead the battle against organized crime, crooked politicians or drug cartels. Our job is to report the news, not take up a dangerous campaign that could get some of us killed. Your job is to write stories I can print.’
Kari sighed, knowing the debate was over. ‘All right, Mr. Quinn, I’ll cut down on blaming of local gangs and stick to the single encounter back in the hills.’
Scott’s hard stance softened. ‘It isn’t that I don’t care.’ His voice was apologetic. ‘I have a wife and kids to worry about too. I don’t like the idea of the city being infested by drug pushers and armed thugs, but I must do what is
best for the newspaper. I can’t risk printing an inflammatory article that could make us a target. There are too many gangs with guns, most of whom know how to make a bomb, and more than a few of those will do whatever it takes to silence their opposition.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Kari acquiesced. ‘I guess I can tone it down.’
‘You can mention the possibility of an outside cartel providing drugs to local distributors, as well as the incident with the hikers. But we can’t point a finger at one or more gangs in the valley. That’s going too far.’
‘I suppose half the truth is better than none of the truth.’
‘An operational newspaper is better than a burned out building,’ Scott countered.
Kari gave a nod of understanding. ‘I’ll edit the story and send it to your screen.’
Scott gave her a pat on the shoulder and left her cubicle. Dee, her friend from want-ads, approached her desk seconds later. Mother of two grown kids, Dee embodied more the part of a sister – often a teenage sister, one full of mischief and pluck. From the pink hue of her cheeks, it was obvious that the matronly woman had overheard at least part of the editor’s lecture.
‘Um, would it be inappropriate of me to say I told you so?’
‘Yes, it most certainly would,’ Kari snipped. ‘I’ve been properly reprimanded and put in my place.’
‘Scott has a point, kiddo,’ Dee said carefully. ‘You start making noise against the local gangs and you might very well end up wearing a rubber suit … one made out of burning tires.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I used to snuggle up with my hubby and watch The Shield. Remember that television series a few years ago about a special unit of cops in LA?’
‘I watched part of one episode, but it was much too violent and crude for my taste,’ Kari replied.
‘Maybe so, but it did portray some of the more sadistic truths concerning drugs and gangs.’
Kari clicked an icon on her computer and her article appeared on the screen. ‘I can’t go to break right now. I’ve got to cut out all of the juicy stuff and make this story about as dull as if I was commenting on a reality show.’
‘That’s scraping sludge from the bottom of the barrel,’ Dee acknowledged. ‘I’ll catch up with you for lunch.’
Kari said OK and got to work on the piece. It was difficult, feeling so strongly about something, yet being helpless to do anything about it. She understood Scott’s position. It was the same as the mayor, the governor and every other branch of the media. They didn’t seem to care.
Perhaps drugs were too much a part of today’s society. There were drugs for everything – weight gain or loss, depression, sleep disorders, kids with too much energy, sex drive, memory, anxiety, and a thousand other ailments. Maybe the public was too stoned on regular pills to concern themselves with illegal drugs.
Jason Keane stood quietly in the Sutton cemetery, his arms folded against the damp, frigid morning air. The weather around London today was cool and mostly cloudy. Suddenly, a singular ray of sunshine broke through, as if especially to highlight the headstone at his feet. Doris Mayfield Keane, Beloved Wife, 1984–2009, were the words carved into the marker. Etched in one corner was the likeness of an angel, one of Doris’s favorite icons.
‘I still miss you terribly, darling,’ Jason said softly. ‘Our life together was so brief that each moment remains a precious memory.’
An elderly couple strolled past. Jason waited until they were out of earshot before continuing:
‘I met a rather charming young lady when I visited America, Doris. I think you would like her. She is sincere, with a desire to discover truths, to make a contribution and serve society.’ He paused. ‘I remember, when you grew weak and we knew your time was short, you told me to find someone special. I couldn’t imagine anyone who would ever compare to you. And this girl does not compare with you, because she and you are so very different.
‘You were confident, and constantly rushed ahead, in a hurry to do as much living as possible in the time you had. This lady is hesitant and lacks your zest for everyday living. She was hurt deeply by a man and is wary of a new relationship. As for me, I haven’t yet recovered from the deep sorrow of not having you in my life. The American and I have that much in common; we are both lonely and nursing broken hearts.’
Jason took a long breath and let it out. ‘What I’m saying, Doris, luv, is that I might be ready to try and love again. If that should happen with this girl, I don’t know when I will be back here.’ He swallowed an emotional lump. ‘It’s not that I think your spirit is here in this spot, because I’ve often felt you were watching over my shoulder or standing next to me. Your presence is something I take with me wherever I go.
‘But the time may be coming when I can fall in love again. You begged me to not live the rest of my life alone, and it’s been very difficult without you. I’ll never love you less than I did when you were alive, but I might have room in my heart to love another.’
Jason placed the dozen pink carnations (Doris’ favorite flowers) on the grave, bowed his head and said a short prayer. Then he stepped back and whispered, ‘I’ll always love you, Doris. Goodbye.’
Back at the car, his brother-in-law, Jack Mayfield, started his vehicle moving. The two men were not exactly close friends, because they had seldom shared each other’s company, but Jack had always struck Jason as a decent and caring fellow. Jack didn’t speak for a short time, allowing Jason to open the conversation. When he remained silent, Jack cleared his throat.
‘It’s good you visited Doris,’ he began. ‘I stop by with flowers and tend to her grave about once a month.’
‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’ Jason said. ‘She was so young and vibrant, so consumed with living every day to the fullest.’
Jack smiled. ‘Even as a little girl she was an energetic sort, always smiling and laughing. I was five years older than Doris, yet I loved having her around. Most kids I grew up with hated looking after their little brothers or sisters, but I was never put off by Doris’ company. She brightened the world with her vitality and cheery disposition.’
‘What amazed me was how she never complained,’ Jason recalled. ‘So many people, when they have a bit of bad fortune, want to blame someone … even God. But Doris wasn’t that kind of person. The closest I ever saw her come to self-pity was after one of her chemo treatments. Then her main gripe was not feeling well enough to be outside to tend the flowers in her garden or go for a stroll along the river.’
‘She taught us a lesson in how to live and how to face death,’ Jack said quietly. ‘She was much stronger that way than me.’
As they had each had a say concerning Doris, they grew silent, until Jack came round to the present situation.
‘So how’s the long-distance romance going with the cracking reporter lady in the States?’
‘It’s a complex situation.’
‘I reckon you would like to share some “quality time” with her,’ Jack mused.
‘We talk on the phone each week and exchange letters, but it isn’t the same as being together.’
‘Then you need to take another Atlantic jaunt to give you both a chance to see if you still get on.’
‘Yes,’ Jason replied. ‘But it’ll have to wait until I have enough holiday leave built up to make the trip worth while.’
CHAPTER TWO
GLORIA LOOKED UP from her desk as the familiar man entered. He beamed his usual charming smile at her, until he saw the hard set of her jaw and the icy crystals glowing in her eyes.
‘What is it?’ he asked, pausing hesitantly, rather than approaching her desk.
‘Close the door, Mr. Martin,’ she said professionally, acutely aware that her secretary’s desk was within hearing distance, a few feet inside the next room.
Tony shut the door and then frowned at her. ‘Glory, honey,’ he said sweetly, moving over to her side. ‘What’s the matter?’
Gloria turned her computer monitor around so
he could see the picture on her screen. Tony sucked in his breath when he realized the photo was of him and Gloria!
‘What the hell?!’ he howled, both outraged and terrified. ‘When …? How could this have happened?’
‘Keep your voice down!’ Gloria snapped. Then she rose to her feet and began to pace irritably around the room. She wrung her hands for several moments, then stopped to face her clandestine lover.
‘These arrived while you were having a good time down at Universal Studios with your family. The blackmailer demanded fifty thousand dollars!’ She swore and began to pace once more. ‘I paid the money and the blackmailer promised to delete the pictures, but we have to make sure he’s telling the truth.’
‘Glory, honey!’ This time Tony whined. ‘We can’t let those pictures get out. I’ve got three kids.’
‘I know you’ve got three kids!’ Gloria snapped. ‘And my worthless husband would salivate like a dog in heat if he thought he had grounds to win a sizeable chunk of my money in a divorce settlement. I should have cut him loose as soon as I was elected to this office.’
‘That wouldn’t help me,’ Tony complained. ‘My wife worked to put me through law school … and I love my kids.’
‘Quit sniveling like a child!’ Gloria commanded. ‘We’ve got to do something about this. I’ve got a re-election coming up. My challenger, that holier-than-thou, pasty-faced, prosecuting attorney, Paul Hanson, could use this to ruin me. He is already hammering the press about my being too lenient on crime and plea bargaining too many cases. If he gets hold of these….’ She didn’t have to finish.
‘Who could have taken them?’ Tony wondered, taking a closer look. He clicked forward to see each of the five different pictures. ‘These are all shots from above, and there’s some kind of bars or something … like someone was watching from—’
‘They were taken while we were in your office,’ Gloria informed him angrily. ‘That’s your couch! This is the last time we were together!’
Tony groaned. ‘And that room has a ceiling vent where the old air conditioning duct used to be, before the building was upgraded.’
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