Under Your Skin: A Thriller (A Cal Murphy Thriller)

by J. R. Chartrand

  “What does it say?”

  “This is creepy.”

  “What does it say?”

  “OK, here it goes,” Cal said as he began reading the letter aloud.

  Mr. Murphy,

  We apologize for last night’s rude introduction, albeit one without names and faces. I’m sure you have many questions, but now is not the time to give you all the answers. We view you as an important ally, but strongly urge you to keep the events of last night to yourself and create a good cover story. We have plenty of information to give you, but the timing is not right yet. There are some things happening in your community that would put you at risk if you knew them. The best thing for you to do is to keep quiet and do your job without asking any questions.

  When the time is right, we will present you with information that will surely land you in the national spotlight for your reporting skills. If you should choose to ignore our strong suggestion, we do have other ways of persuasion. And I can assure you that you’re best off not experiencing them.

  We trust you will show this to no one or tell anyone about this letter or the truth about last night’s events, including Kelly or Guy. Until we meet again …

  “This is disturbing, to say the least.”

  “You’re telling me. How do they know my name?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve already done two things I wasn’t supposed to do—tell you what really happened and read you this letter.”

  “Don’t worry, Cal. Your secret is safe with me—unless something horrible happens.”

  “Oh, Kelly. There’s no need to be so dramatic. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

  “Are you crazy? You could’ve been killed last night by some secret government group or something – or died when your car smashed into a tree.”

  Cal stopped.

  “Who told you I smashed into a tree?”

  “Dawkins did last night. I went looking for you and I pulled off the road next to his squad car and a tow truck. Then he showed me where your car landed.”

  “My car? It was smashed up?”

  “Well, I couldn’t see it because it was so dark, but he told me it was.”

  “I don’t remember much, but I do remember coming to a stop between a pair of trees. My car wasn’t smashed as I recall. It just came to a sudden stop in between two trees and that forced out my airbag. But it wasn’t that bad. I wonder why Dawkins would lie to you like that.”

  Silence hung in the air as both tried to form a hypothesis. Cal concluded there was only one logical explanation: Dawkins was in on some sheriff’s office plot to stop him from digging into the deaths of Statenville’s three football heroes.

  After a few minutes of breaking down their theories, Cal accessed all his steely resolve and boldly staked his pursuit of the truth.

  “If someone is trying to kill me and make it look like an accident or cover it up—or if somebody just wants to keep me quiet for a while—then I must be close to some pretty big secrets that powerful people don’t want uncovered. But it seems like there’s more than one secret. This town doesn’t want me to know something—and neither do some mysterious kidnappers. But this is great – I went into journalism to expose coverups like this!”

  Cal glanced at Kelly and caught her smiling, as if she were proud of something.

  “I don’t care what Guy says, I’m going to keep digging on this case. But let’s keep it on the down low, OK? Writing my reaction piece will be my cover for seeing what else I can find out. I have a good feeling about today.”

  Kelly rounded the corner at the traffic light just one block from The Register’s office. Two deputy cars were parked outside the entrance with their lights flashing. Dawkins and Sheriff Jones were leaning against their cars and staring down the street in Kelly’s direction. Once they saw Kelly’s car, they opened their doors and began talking on their radios.

  “I wonder what this is all about,” Kelly said, as she pulled off the main street to park in the back lot.

  “I don’t know, but that good feeling is gone.”

  Cal had set one foot on the gravel parking lot before Dawkins and Sheriff Jones greeted him with handcuffs.

  “Cal Murphy, you’re under arrest.”

  CHAPTER 26

  THE STATENVILLE JAIL WAS little more than a holding cell. Sheriff Jones wasn’t interested in wasting the taxpayers’ hard-earned money by making his jail a comfortable place for the community’s riff raff. One concrete block wall framed by three sets of iron walls in a 10-foot by 10-foot space formed the prison. Water dripped from the ceiling and formed a stain in the corner of the dark cell. There wasn’t even a bed. A stainless steel toilet provided the cell’s lone décor.

  Drifters and drunks usually found themselves in these cramped quarters for little more than 24 hours. Real criminals were transferred to Boise. It had been three years since Statenville had a serious crime, when Bill Peterson went on a drunken rampage and stuck his wife with a pitchfork after he found out she had been cheating on him. Since then, no real threat to Statenville’s peaceful way of life had sat behind these lonely bars.

  Until now.

  The trumped up charges were possession of an open container and driving under the influence. Cal knew the charges would never stick in a real court of law. He didn’t drink very often and certainly wasn’t driving around the previous night with any alcohol in his car, opened or otherwise. But this was Statenville. He was in trouble and recognized his arrest as an over-the-top bullying tactic by someone. If there was a proper time to take a drink, now seemed appropriate.

  Dawkins booked Cal and took a mug shot, hurling mocking insults at the reporter throughout the process. Cal had no idea who he could hire as a lawyer or where he would begin to look for one. Statenville’s limited attorneys were out of the question.

  Cal thought he was doing Statenville a favor by finding out if some malicious-minded person was behind the three suspicious deaths of these young men. But as Sheriff Jones shoved him into the cell with one other occupant, Cal figured the secret he was close to unearthing was far more threatening to some powerful people than he realized.

  Cal slumped against the cell wall and stared mouth agape in no particular direction. For Cal, Tuesday had started off worse than Monday.

  Sheriff Jones and Dawkins left the station, presumably to begin patrolling Statenville’s streets for more benign criminal activity. The only person left was the lady running dispatch.

  Cal’s thoughts consumed him so much that he hardly noticed the other man sitting across from him in the cell. The man appeared to be in his late 40s, though life had been unkind to him. His beard challenged his hair for the most suitable location for a bird’s nest on his body, while the combination of body odor and alcohol emanating from him ensured no bird—or person—would come near him. He wore a tattered jacket with a raggedy flannel shirt underneath. Both of his knees protruded through his jeans. Work boots donned his feet and looked like the most durable piece of clothing he owned. And for good reason. He looked the part of a drifter.

  The man waited a few minutes before seizing the ear of his captive audience.

  After a nervous glance around the office, the man crouched low and scrambled across the ground like some kind of wild animal and sat down next to Cal.

  Cal recoiled. The man’s stench alone almost forced Cal to look away and beg him to go away. His toothy grin made him look crazy.

  “Willie,” the man said as a way of introducing himself and put out his hand to Cal. “Willie Nelson.”

  Cal obliged the man with a handshake but remained withdrawn. Willie appeared to be a few rain clouds short of a thunderstorm.

  Cal said nothing and waited for the craziness to commence.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’,” Willie said. “You’re thinkin’ I’m crazy. Well, I might be; I’m a ramblin’ man. But I know why you’re here.”

  Cal agreed. He indeed thought Willie was crazy. But considering the fact that he was behind b
ars and had nothing else to do, he cautiously played along.

  “Oh, you do? Well, Willie, why am I here?”

  “You don’t play by the rules.”

  Cal snickered, dismissing Willie’s statement.

  “Of course, I don’t play by the rules, Willie. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here, right?”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  “Well then, what do you mean?”

  “I mean, you don’t play by their rules?”

  “And whose rules would you be referring to?”

  “The Golden Rules.”

  Cal was beginning to get annoyed with Willie’s vague ramblings. “Ah, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’? I try to live that out each day.”

  “Mr. Murphy, there are more powerful forces at work in this town than you can imagine. Everyone is really nice until you get close to their secret.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  Willie ignored Cal’s question.

  “That’s what happened to me. I found out their big secret and now look at me.”

  Cal didn’t need to look Willie over just to reaffirm his first impression of how unattractive and crazy he looked. But he did it any way.

  “They did this to you?”

  “Yep, and they’ll do it to you, too. I used to be a successful businessman in this community, but I lost it all once I found out.”

  “Really? And what was this secret?”

  “Are you listening to me, Mr. Murphy? Once you learn a secret, you can never unlearn it. And you don’t want to learn this one. If you found out, you’d try to print it in that newspaper you write for—and before it ever made it to the press, they’d know that you know their secret. That’s when they would turn you into someone like me. Or, if you’re lucky, they’d kill you.”

  Cal forced a nervous laugh. Willie seemed crazier by the moment, but Cal grew uneasy with the direction of the conversation. What if this crazy old man was telling the truth?

  * * *

  Once Guy calmed down, he walked down the street to bail Cal out of jail. He met Sheriff Jones in the lobby and together they made their way to the holding cell where they entered unannounced.

  “Willie, what are you telling Cal?” bellowed Sheriff Jones.

  “I’m not tellin’ him anything you don’t already know, Sheriff,” Willie said defiantly.

  Sheriff Jones laughed.

  “Crazy Willie, you are one of a kind.”

  The Sheriff dismissed Willie as the crazy man that he was. It was clear Willie’s conversation with Cal was over.

  “Let’s go, Cal. Your boss is here to bail you out.”

  Cal exited the cell and looked back at Willie.

  “They’re watching you, man. Be careful!” Willie yelled.

  The uneasy feeling in Cal’s stomach grew. He wanted a do-over on today and it was only 10:30 in the morning.

  CHAPTER 27

  GUY WAITED UNTIL HE and Cal were outside the sheriff’s office before he exploded.

  “What were you thinking, driving around drunk and nearly killing yourself last night?!” Guy demanded.

  “I wasn’t, Guy. Someone is trying to keep me quiet because I’m learning too many details about the death of those boys.”

  “Oh, Cal, please. Spare me the conspiracy theories.”

  “It’s not a theory. It’s – ”

  “It’s what, Cal? Ridiculous? True? I’m not interested in any excuses you’ve concocted while sitting in jail talking to crazy Willie. The bottom line is you’re going to be suspended after today. I’d suspend you right now but I need your help on today’s paper. Starting Wednesday, you’ll have a one-day suspension without pay, got it?”

  “On my day off?”

  Guy said nothing. Cal quickly picked up the idea that Guy was feigning anger. Why he was doing so remained a mystery for the moment.

  They walked through The Register’s front doors before Guy picked up his tirade.

  “After today, I don’t want to see your suspended self down here, do you understand?”

  Every newsroom employee pretended to look busy while sneaking glances at Guy and Cal walking through the office. Even Kelly wasn’t sure how to react.

  Cal tried to stop at his desk, but Guy nudged him forward, obviously intending for him to continue on to Guy’s office.

  After Cal took a seat in front of Guy’s desk, Guy slammed the door. Guy sat down and then leaned across the desk. Cal leaned in too. Guy spoke only slightly more audible than a whisper.

  “Cal, if you think that anger was for show, it won’t be if you don’t drop your little Sherlock Holmes fantasy. I know it might be difficult as a reporter to stop looking for the truth on a story, but I’m begging you to stop for your own good.”

  Confusion spread over Cal’s face.

  “What is going on here? Don’t you want me to find out what’s going on?” he asked back, matching Guy’s hushed tone.

  “If I did, Cal, I wouldn’t have assigned you a simple reaction piece. God knows Sammy couldn’t ferret out the truth for a news story if his life depended on it. I’m just asking you to do this as a friend. Can you do that for me?”

  “OK, Guy. I guess I can just drop it.”

  “I don’t mean just say you’re going to drop it. I mean drop it, period. No off-the-clock digging. No asking any more questions. Nothing. Got it?”

  “But, Guy, you don’t know what I saw when I looked at those bodies at the coroner’s office. It looked like – ”

  “No, no, no. I don’t want to hear it, Cal. I don’t care if it looked like a mountain lion attack. It’s not important as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Not important? You’re the managing editor! I thought the truth was important to you no matter what the cost.”

  “The truth is overpriced sometimes. Just lay off it, OK?”

  Cal let out a big breath and then nodded.

  “OK, Guy. I’ll let this go for you.”

  “No, don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself because if you don’t, you’ll find out what I mean. Now, go finish that reaction piece. I need it by 1:30.”

  Cal left Guy’s office in a huff, more out of show than frustration—but both were clearly in play. He stopped at Kelly’s desk and continued talking in a hushed tone.

  “We need to talk. Got any lunch plans?”

  The rest of the morning, Cal worked the phones, calling a few people who knew more than one of the teens who had died. He figured if he wasn’t going to get an award-winning story, he might as well polish what he did write for inclusion in his clip file.

  He talked to teachers and little league coaches and employers and family members. He looked at the teens’ Facebook pages. Friends posted their favorite memories of them, some without discretion. They were tagged in photos from the end-of-camp cookout at Coach Walker’s house on Saturday afternoon. They all looked so happy, so full of life. No more two-a-days. But now it was gone. And apparently no one really cared why.

  Cal eventually exhausted every known connection to the young men before beginning to write. And write he did. By one o’clock, Cal had finished his story and was in desperate need of lunch and a serious debriefing with Kelly.

  CHAPTER 28

  CAL’S HEAD SPUN TRYING to process what he knew and what he wanted to know. It felt like a two-sided puzzle of the same picture with no straight edges. If only I could start to put a few of the pieces together …

  Kelly volunteered to drive to lunch. She was just as engrossed in the growing mysteries surrounding the events of the past 48 hours. Three dead teens overdosing on drugs. Their bodies looking as if they had been ravaged by a wild animal. Guy acting unusual at the office. The sheriff’s department giving them the runaround. The near fatal crash. A clandestine kidnapping. Cal being nearly ambushed at his home. Trumped up charges. Brief incarceration. The ramblings of crazy Willie.

  None of it made sense. Nothing. And Cal needed to sort it out with the brightest mind he worked wit
h – and the only person he trusted at this point: Kelly.

  “Where are we headed?” Kelly asked, adjusting her sunglasses for the bright early afternoon glare.

  “I make a mean chicken salad sandwich.”

  “OK, Cal’s Kitchen it is.”

  “You know Ray-Ray’s is always my top choice, but we need to be able to talk about this stuff in private.”

  “I understand.”

  The two sat in silence for the rest of the short drive to Cal’s house. Cal knew what he really needed to do was find a good lawyer during his lunch break, but this story felt more pressing.

  Once they reached Cal’s apartment, they both entered and began performing utilitarian functions—Cal whipped up chicken salad, while Kelly grabbed a notebook and started to look for common threads in the recent events.

  “What secret could this town hold that is so important that some people would collude to do anything to keep me from knowing it?” Cal asked as he chopped up a cooked chicken breast.

  “If we could answer that one on our own, Cal, we wouldn’t need this conversation.”

  “I know, but you’ve lived here your whole life. Do you remember ever hearing anything that could be considered a secret to an outsider?”

  “Well, I know that Paul Bridges’ farm uses a pesticide on their tomatoes that was outlawed by the feds 15 years ago.”

  “I fail to see how that could connect to what’s been going on.”

  Kelly tapped her pen on the blank notebook.

  “You’ve got a point. Let me think.”

  “Before we try to figure out the secret, let’s think about this. Do all three of the grieving families have something else in common other than boys who died by being stupid and using drugs?”

  “Nothing that readily comes to mind.”

  “And they weren’t hanging out together on Sunday, were they?”

  “Nope. They all went to church at their respective ward houses on Sunday morning.”

  “Hmm. They’re all Mormon, right?”

  “So is eighty percent of this town, Cal. Just take comfort in knowing that if you do get killed here, someone will be praying for you after you’re gone.”