Games of Guilt: A Crime Thriller (Hidden Guilt Book 3 of 3)

by Terry Keys

  “And what the hell does that mean?”

  I laughed again. “Come on. Let’s get this party started.”

  We walked over to the podium. The crowd noticed and everyone began to get settled. I waited a few seconds to give everyone time to get to their places. I took a look at the reporters on the front row. Tess’ seat was still empty.

  “Here we go,” I whispered to DeLuca.

  “Good morning. My name is Detective David Porter. It’s ten a.m. sharp by my watch, so we would like to get started.”

  No sooner than I finished introducing myself did I see heads rather eyes turning through the crowd. I lost their attention before completing my introductions, as a tall blonde made her way through the crowd. Tess, all six foot one of her—six four, if you counted the heels—had always loved making an entrance. I paused, waiting for the focus to shift back my way.

  As she made it to her seat, Tess looked up at me and mouthed sorry and winked at me. She wasn’t sorry. I knew that and so did she. She’d probably been standing in the foyer, waiting. Once she was settled, notebook out and end of her pen poised seductively between her lips, I continued.

  “There are a few bits of information the Houston Police Department would like to share with you this morning. We felt a press conference with a short Q & A session after was the best way to get this information to the masses. First, as I’m sure most of you have heard by now, the Houston Police Department joins New York and Chicago as the only cities in the United States with a Major Crimes Division or MCD for short.”

  Much to my surprise, the room erupted with applause and even a few cheers.

  “Chief Hill scoured both inside and out of the department after he couldn’t find anyone willing to take the job. Finally he just gave up and offered it to me,” I joked. I waited until the laughter died down. Even the chief had a smile on his face.

  “I am honored and excited to be leading this team. Dealing with a city the size of Houston and its suburbs will be a monumental task, but I couldn’t be prouder to be asked to head this team. The formation and structure of the MCD are still under construction. I am certain everyone is well-aware of the heartache my family has endured over the last year and a half. We’re still picking up the pieces. I’d like to personally thank each of you for your continued prayers and support. I am certain that everyone is aware of the grisly murder of my friend Tom Patton a few days ago. Officer Patton and I served together for many years, and he will be dearly missed. We have information that suggests the person or persons responsible may have also committed other crimes of this nature abroad. I will be flying out this afternoon to personally investigate those murders as well. But I will not be traveling alone, nor will I be the lead investigator on this case. Seated here to my right is Detective DeLuca. Officer DeLuca is a New York native, but I haven’t held that against her and neither should you. She has been working for HPD for almost two years. She has accepted a role on my team in the MCD and will serve as the lead investigator on this case.”

  There were more than a few murmurs throughout the room. DeLuca clearly noticed, and I could see the nervousness overtake her again.

  “Officer DeLuca is going to say a few words, and then she’ll take a few questions from the three reporters seated here in front.” I pointed at Tess and her group as DeLuca made her way to the podium.

  “Good morning. I’m Detective DeLuca. First off, I’d like to say that I am a proud New Yorker,” she said, eyeing me, much to the delight of the crowd.

  “I am thrilled to be a part of the MCD and honored to be able to work beside the brilliant criminal detective mind of David Porter. I’m not big on public speaking, but I would like to say to the cowards who murdered Officer Patton that you will be found and brought to swift justice!”

  The crowd cheered and applauded. DeLuca looked over at me, and I gave her a thumbs-up. I looked at the chief who offered a quick nod of approval. I could see DeLuca breathe a sigh of relief. There was even a hint of a smile on her face. I had to admit that made me happy.

  Tess and the other two reporters asked their questions, and, as promised, she’d kept it clean and, stick to the script. The Q & A lasted about fifteen minutes, as we’d expected.

  “Good job, kiddo,” I said to DeLuca as the crowd made their exit.

  DeLuca leaned in close to me. “So who’s the blonde that eye-balled you after she came in late? What’s the story there?”

  Before I could get a word in, Tess was sauntering my way. I took several small steps back from DeLuca. Tess walked up to me and, before I knew it, whispered in my ear.

  “You look great today. We really should catch up some time,” she said.

  She didn’t wait for me to respond. She just sauntered toward the door. I watched her go, waiting for her to do a look-back, but it never came.

  DeLuca tapped me on the shoulder. “So you were about to tell me the story about you and the blonde. Tess, right?”

  Chapter 16

  DeLuca and I were about ten minutes from touching down in Jamaica. Even though I had served four years in the military and nearly twenty on the force, I had never been to the island. I tried to think back to the letter Dixon read me a few days earlier. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get Patton out of my mind. He wasn’t the most squeaky-clean guy on the force, but he was still one of us. My years on the force had taught me one valuable lesson and that was the importance of relationships.

  From the airplane I could see how beautiful these tiny little islands were. Giant palm trees stretched as far as my eyes could see. I’d already heard about the beaches and the clear water but now that I was here in person it was truly breathtaking. I was also willing to bet the cost of living here wasn’t too bad either. Although there was the occasional earthquake and hurricane that sent the island into a frenzy.

  We touched down at Montego Bay a little after ten thirty a.m. I’d asked Officer Dixon to have someone meet us at the airport and take us directly to crime scene of the young murdered couple.

  “Detective Porter! Detective Porter!”

  I turned around to find a short, stocky, uniformed officer with dreads calling my name as he approached.

  “Yes, I’m Detective Porter,” I said, extending my hand.

  “I am Officer Dixon. I am de one who called you.”

  “Nice to finally meet you, sir,” I said.

  I introduced him to DeLuca, and we exchanged a few pleasantries as we walked through the Jamaican airport terminal. The airport was decent for a country the size of Jamaica but still sorely lacking in avionic advancement. The disparity of worldwide wealth was near and dear to me. That had been the topic of my thesis when I went back to school for my doctorate. I hated seeing Dr. Porter written anywhere and despised being called doctor more than almost anything else I could think of. I’d gone back to school for my doctorate. I’d completed the degree, but still couldn’t stomach being called Dr. Porter or seeing it in print. In my mind, surgeons were the only ones who’d truly earned the title. It seemed much too pompous for me, regardless of how much knowledge I’d obtained.

  We climbed into an unmarked car and headed for the crime scene.

  “So what can you tell us about the murders?” I said.

  “Young couple, both of their driver’s licenses were registered in Paris, Texas. The male we found was age twenty-four. Wife was de same age.”

  “I presume you’ve watched the surveillance footage in the area?”

  “We ’ave no suspects. And there are no recording devices in this part of Jamaica, Detective Porter. This is an extremely poor part of the country.”

  “So what the hell were they doing out here? Any video from their resort?” DeLuca said.

  “Often tourists stray away from dere resort to find better pricing on items dey wish to take back to the states. It’s actually pretty common, despite the signs and warnings not to do so. On the phone you told me you know who our killers are, so please tell me who are dey?”

  �
��It’s complicated, Dixon. I know who they are, yes. They killed a friend of mine, a fellow officer, a few days ago. What I haven’t figured out yet is why they killed this couple. Have you reached out to their family?”

  “The woman was a foster child with no real parents. The man’s father arrived last night to ID the body. I can take you to speak with him, if you wish, after we leave the scene.”

  “Yes, I would like to speak with him.”

  The area we were driving in didn’t look anything like the pictures I’ve seen of Jamaica. Shortly after leaving the airport the paved roads became bumpy dirt paths. Shacks lined both sides of the street. Working-age men posted up outside of them in groups of two or three, most with a bottle of brew in tow. Their unkempt, dreaded hair and dirty, ragged clothes told me this was how they spent most days. The level of poverty here was astonishing. It both saddened and angered me.

  “This is pretty goddamn sad Porter,” DeLuca whispered as she looked out the window. “This isn’t the shit I see in the movies.”

  I nodded. “Worst thing you can do is take hope away from a man. This is why I get so angry and passionate about young people in America who don’t take the opportunities they have and run with them. What would any of these men have traded for just one shot at such an opportunity?”

  The car stopped and Dixon pointed at a tiny shack off the road. I could have fit the whole place into my living room. And yet the pack of kids who ran alongside the car looked as happy as could be. We all have comforts, no matter how rich or how poor. You learn to live with what you have. These children embodied that. The smiles on their faces almost helped me forget why I was here to begin with.

  “Does anyone live here Dixon?” I said.

  “Not that I know of.”

  We walked inside. No sign of a struggle. No blood spatter. Other than the tape on the floor, you couldn’t even tell where the bodies had been lying.

  “So. . . I’m thinking they were brought here after the fact. And probably at night. Too many eyes around this place right now. And I bet most days look just like this one,” I said.

  “We still need to see if we can find any clues they may have accidentally left behind,” DeLuca said.

  “Agreed, but I doubt we’ll find anything. These two have spent all of their lives studying police procedures and reading case files. I doubt they’re going to make any mistakes—at least not simple ones.”

  We searched for over an hour. Nothing. DeLuca, Dixon and I had gone to several homes in each direction looking for witnesses.

  “Nobody is going to get involved, Porter. It’s not the way down ’ere.”

  “Somebody had to have seen something. The two we’re looking for would have stuck out like a sore thumb out here. Someone had to call this in. How else did you find out about the bodies being here?”

  Now, along with being tired and hungry, I was angry as well. I poked my head back into the shack and called for DeLuca so we could leave.

  Dixon was obviously ignoring my last question. “So where to, Detective?” Dixon said, sounding a bit amused.

  I glared at him. “Take us to the morgue. We want to see the bodies.”

  Chapter 17

  When we reached the morgue not to my surprise it was small and there wasn’t much to it. If I’d been driving, I probably would have passed the place. From the outside, it didn’t even look like a morgue. Not any morgues that I was used to. The building was old. The black-and-white linoleum tile also dated the place. Dixon took us right back to the bodies.

  We walked down a long hallway. Despite its looks, it definitely smelled like a morgue. We walked into a cramped room where the bodies lay. A younger boy walked up to them and uncovered them both. Their skin was already shriveled around their bones, like someone had taken a vacuum and sucked out all of the blood and guts. Their eyes bulged from their skulls. Their hair was thinned, as if they’d aged well beyond their years. It was a terrible sight to witness. As I gawked, a tall, slender man entered the room.

  “Detective Porter, my name is Alwan Campbell. I ’ave reviewed deese bodies.”

  I extended my hand to shake his.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Campbell. So far our trip to Jamaica hasn’t yielded much. Hoping maybe you can tell us something about these murders we don’t already know. As far as what we do. . . we know who committed these murders. To some small degree, we even understand why. I am simply trying to find clues that lead me to wherever they may be hiding. I have to find them or this will continue.”

  Alwan adjusted his glasses.

  “I may be able to help with that. You see, these people were killed with a gas. It’s called sarin. It took me more than three hours, but I was able to narrow down the specific strain of sarin used.”

  I was impressed.

  “That’s good work, Mr. Campbell. Anything else you can tell me? Like where this gas is typically used? How quickly it would kill a person? Anything?”

  Alwan suddenly grew even more excited.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I do. I believe dis will help you. The manufacturer is Azteca Gases. Dis company uses a double-bond molecular structure—”

  I put my hand up. “Thanks, Mr. Campbell, but I believe you’re about to speak a foreign language. I’ll spare you.”

  “Well, Detective Porter, this sarin gas shouldn’t be sold to de public. It’s used in chemical warfare.”

  Most of the equipment this guy had to work with was many decades old. How the hell had he come up with anything? I wondered as I absorbed what he was telling me.

  I looked at DeLuca. A sliver of hope coursed through me.

  “What are they doing selling this type of gas to civilians? We contact this gas manufacturer and cross-reference the list of buyers with your list from Patton’s car bombing and voilà,” I said.

  “You really think they would be careless enough to have the packages sent to the same place? A house?” DeLuca asked.

  “In order to open a PO box, you must have a driver’s license. Your driver’s license has your home address. Even if the information isn’t all accurate, we’ll have a starting point. Besides, getting to that post office could get us a good look at their faces.”

  “Surveillance videos!”

  I handed him one of my cards. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell. Please send me any more information you turn up. My email address is on the card.”

  I turned to Dixon. “Dixon, one last stop and then we’ll be out of your hair. I’d like to visit the dad.”

  We were making headway. The biggest question mark I still had was why Caleb and Marci had chosen these two kids.

  We piled into Dixon’s car again and headed for the resort where the father of the slain son was staying.

  “Do you have a name on this guy, Dixon?” I asked.

  “I do not, as I have not spoken with him. I was only told he was ’ere in Jamaica.”

  “So who do you plan on asking for?”

  “This type of thing don’t ’appen ’ere every day, Mr. Porter. They will know exactly who we are looking for.”

  We followed Dixon into the resort, and we stood and waited while he spoke to someone at the front desk.

  “What are you hoping to accomplish here, Porter?” DeLuca said.

  “I don’t really know. Grasping for straws, really. Maybe this guy tells us something we hadn’t thought of. We still don’t know why they picked these two.”

  “Maybe they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “C’mon, we’ve both been dealing with this team of bandits too long not to know better. They don’t do random.”

  We waited for a few more minutes. Then a group of Jamaican men rounded the corner, leading a man who was closely following them to us. The man had his head down, but he walked with a sense of purpose and certain determination. The men stopped and I recognized the man in front of me. My jaw hit the floor and my stomach tightened into a large knot.

  Chapter 18

  Caleb turned up the
radio. His favorite old-school southern rock anthem, Sweet Home Alabama was playing. The car was a rental so he didn’t give a shit about blowing out one of the stock speakers. He barreled down 288 toward Rosharon, a blip on the map just south of Houston. They’d had one last package shipped to the post office there, and Caleb was anxious to pick it up. Caleb turned into the parking lot, delighted to find it empty. He knew it would be difficult to locate another out-of-the-way post office that was as easy to get in and out of as the one in Rosharon.

  He always wore his hat low, making certain to hide his facial features as he went in and out of the post office. The drive also provided him with some much needed solace.

  Caleb strode into the post office and, as always, he was nice, even a tad flirty. He was there so sparingly he wanted to make sure he wasn’t giving off a weirdo vibe. Most people check their mail much more frequently.

  “That going to be all for you, sugar?” the woman said, handing Caleb his package from Azteca Gases.

  Caleb smiled at the woman. “Yes, ma’am. You are stunning. I mean, that’ll be all.”

  The woman blushed. “Well, aren’t you just a charmer?”

  Caleb nodded, blushing a little. He took the package and headed back towards the parking lot. He held the door open for an older woman who was slowly making her way in.

  The woman stopped, staring at Caleb. “Thank you, son. Most people would walk right on by and not helped an old woman out.”

  The door had almost closed when the woman called out to him again. What the hell did this old bag want now? Caleb thought.

  “Boy, who your people are? Who are you kin to?”

  “Excuse me?” Caleb said, not sure what the old woman was asking.

  The woman, clearly agitated, repeated herself. “Who are your people? Your kinfolk, boy? Your family?”

  Caleb was still confused he didn’t really know what to say.

  “You look like Susan and Roger’s boy, David. You related to them? The Porters?”

  Caleb stood frozen and swallowed hard. “No, ma’am, I don’t believe I know him. You have a nice day.”