The Debt Collector

by Chris Taylor

  “They don’t call it an addiction for nothing,” Hannah commented quietly.

  She felt sorry for the kind of people Jacob described and was grateful her parents had steered her through those dangerous times when she was a teenager and far more easily influenced by her peers.

  “You’re right and I understand too well their need to fight, to steal, to do whatever it takes to get their next fix. The Bobster told me about it. Before his last jail sentence, he was exactly like that.”

  “So, he got clean in prison?”

  “Kind of. It was more or less forced upon him. Though drugs are easy to come by in prison, they come with a hefty price. The Bobster didn’t have any money and no one to bring it in. By that time, his mother was living in a hostel, barely able to look after herself. The only thing he could bargain with was his brawn.”

  Hannah tensed, not at all sure she liked the direction the story was heading. She wanted to tell Jacob to stop, but she couldn’t. She had no choice. She needed to listen to the end.

  “Inmates would pay him to take their beatings in lieu of them taking the beatings themselves. It was a barbaric system, but it worked. Weaker inmates weren’t beaten senseless and The Bobster got access to cash. It was never enough to buy drugs in the quantities he was used to, but it was something—enough for him to get by.”

  “What about the punishment he took? Was he ever seriously hurt?”

  “Absolutely. More times than not. Notwithstanding his enormous size, The Bobster had a soft heart. He wasn’t violent or aggressive, despite what people thought. He’d take the beating without flinching or fighting back because that’s the way he was. He figured if his opponent finished the fight feeling justified and pleased with the outcome, it would bring an end to it. At least, between those particular combatants. What he hadn’t figured on was more and more inmates coming to his door, wanting him to stand in their place.”

  Hannah shuddered. “It sounds brutal.”

  Jacob nodded. “It was, especially for The Bobster. There were many times when I patched up his wounds and bought pain medication and other first aid equipment on the prison black market.”

  Hannah shook her head in confusion. “What about the prison infirmary? Surely he was taken there when necessary?”

  Jacob shook his head. “Not always. Sometimes they were already full and other times, The Bobster just didn’t want to go. He was so sore and hurt, he just wanted to stay on his bed and let his wounds heal with time. He was usually bruised from head to toe. The screws got good at looking the other way.”

  “Is that how you became interested in medicine?”

  “Yes. My criminal record meant entering the police service was no longer an option. The Bobster encouraged me to look at other things. It was the least of the things he did for me.”

  Hannah’s gaze flew to his. There was something in his quiet, somber tone that caught her attention and filled her stomach with dread. She barely dared to voice the question.

  “Did he… Did he ever take a beating for you?”

  He closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped. A moment later, he looked at her and slowly nodded. “Yes.”

  “W-what happened?”

  Jacob laughed without humor. “It usually didn’t take much for someone to take offense in the big house and demand retribution. I got distracted in the dining hall one evening and collided with an inmate by the name of Mean Joe. His mashed potato went flying halfway across the room. He wore most of his plate of stew.

  “The room erupted into laughter. Mean Joe screamed and came at me like a wounded bull. He got two or three punches in before the screws pulled him off me, but I knew it wasn’t over. Nobody humiliated Mean Joe like that and got away with it, even if it was accidental.”

  “So, you went to your cellmate,” Hannah guessed.

  Jacob shook his head. “No. I’d lain awake far too many nights, listening to The Bobster’s labored breathing after he’d been beaten by someone or other, and I’d patched up enough of his wounds. I didn’t want him hurting more over me. It was my fight. I should have been more careful, watched where I was going.” He paused and then added quietly, “The Bobster didn’t see it that way.

  “He told me about Mean Joe and how the man had a reputation for fighting dirty. The last time he’d been in a fight, he’d beaten someone nearly to death. It was only that the screws intervened just in time to save the poor bastard’s life, but the guy he beat up will spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, drinking his meals through a straw.”

  Jacob sighed. “The Bobster told me this and insisted I couldn’t fight Mean Joe. He was convinced I wouldn’t get out of it alive. Mean Joe was bigger and heavier and his heart was as black as the night.

  “I didn’t want The Bobster to take the beating in my place. I was worried he’d be killed, like he was worried for me. But it didn’t matter what I said to him, he refused to change his mind. The fight was arranged without my knowledge. The first thing I knew about it was when I was told The Bobster was in the infirmary.”

  Jacob’s voice cracked and his eyes filled with pain. Hannah’s stomach clenched with dread and emotion burned behind her eyes. Her fingers tightened around her bottle of beer. As much as she didn’t want to feel sorry for the men who were forced to live that way, she couldn’t help but feel their pain way down deep inside.

  “What happened?” she asked softly, barely daring to breathe.

  Jacob leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. His head drooped. “Mean Joe came armed with a weapon. It wasn’t just fists that time. He took to The Bobster with a knife that had been made from a toothbrush. My cellmate was carved up.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Hannah gasped, once again covering her face. She forced herself to ask the question. “Did he… Did he survive?”

  “Yes, but barely. He was never quite the same after that. The inmates left him alone. He’d fought enough of their fights.”

  “What about you? I can’t even imagine how you must have felt.”

  “No. You can’t.”

  He sat back against the couch, but kept his face averted. Hannah could only guess what memories were tracking their way through his head. A long while later, she broke the silence.

  “I’m so grateful that you’ve shared this with me, but I’m still not sure what it has to do with work.”

  Jacob turned his head to face her, his expression solemn. “The Bobster is Bobby Grace.”

  Hannah gasped in shock. Her hand flew to cover her mouth. “You shared a cell with Bobby Grace?”

  “Yes. Although I didn’t know that was his name until Lane told me this afternoon.”

  Hannah squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to take it all in. The man she’d disliked almost on sight was Jacob’s hero, the man who’d saved his life. She could hardly reconcile that with her knowledge of Max’s nephew. She could only assume Bobby’s life outside of prison had once again spiraled down into drugs.

  From what Max had told her, Bobby was a full-on addict when he came across him in a shelter. It was only because Max had kept tabs on his younger sister—Bobby’s mother—that he even knew where Bobby was. It was then that he’d offered his nephew a job and a place to stay. In return, Bobby had promised to get clean and remain that way. Hannah wasn’t certain Bobby had kept his part of the bargain.

  “So,” Jacob said quietly, “now you know why I don’t think Bobby Grace is behind the wrongful deaths—if they are wrongful deaths. As far as we know, both deaths were ruled accidental.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Hannah replied. “From what you’ve told me, I can’t imagine Bobby being the one to murder Christopher and Edward for insurance money. It seems so cold and calculating and totally without heart. It doesn’t sound anything like the Bobby you described. He’s far from perfect, but somewhere beneath his imperfections, I realize now he has a lovely soul.”

  Jacob stared at her, his eyes shadowed with emotion. “That’s a nice way of saying it and it
sums up The Bobster well. He didn’t go out of his way to harm people, even though he had the wherewithal to do it.”

  Hannah sighed. “So, where does that leave us? If he wasn’t involved, why would Bobby own an insurance policy on Edward’s life?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess I could ask Lane to dig a little more and see what he can find. He has access to a whole lot more databases than we do and given what we know, I think we need to find out who’s at the bottom of this.”

  Hannah nodded grimly. “I agree. I can’t help feeling like something’s not quite right and until I’m completely satisfied my colleagues’ deaths were accidental, I’m afraid I’m not going to sleep very well at night.”

  “Are you worried about your safety?” Jacob asked quietly.

  She shrugged. “Not so much mine. It’s your brother I’m more concerned about. He fits the profile of the others. Max found Christopher and Edward living on the streets. He befriended them and offered them a job. Both of them loved working at the funeral home. They were nice guys, down on their luck. They were my friends. Just like Toby. And Toby mentioned an insurance policy… I want to make sure nothing happens to him.”

  Jacob moved closer on the couch. She could see the dark flecks in his blue eyes.

  “You’re the one with the lovely soul, Hannah Langdon,” he whispered.

  She stared at him and her heart kicked up a gear. He was close enough that if she reached out the tiniest distance, she could touch the sleeve of his shirt. He leaned forward until his lips were inches from hers…and then he was kissing her.

  Warm and pliant, his lips moved over hers, slowly, hesitantly, as if feeling their way. The dark stubble that shadowed his cheek scratched her face, but she barely noticed. He tasted of warm male and yeasty beer. And then his hand came up to cradle the back of her head and even through the pleasure, panic settled in. With a gasp, she wrenched away.

  “Stop! Please, don’t kiss me. I don’t want you to kiss me.”

  Jacob stared at her, his eyes tumultuous with confusion and need. “That’s not what it felt like.”

  Hannah sprang up from the couch and put some distance between them. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I’m sorry, I… I know I probably gave you the wrong idea. I shouldn’t have ever let it go that far. The thing is, I’ve spent so long hating you, blaming you… I… I can’t just let it go.”

  “Why not?”

  The question was asked softly and it was like he’d stabbed her through the heart. How could she explain to him what had happened to her the night he’d stolen her boyfriend’s life? Luke had been her one and only true love. From the moment they’d met, she knew she’d love him until the end of time.

  Okay, Jacob had suffered too, and she hadn’t thought about that over the years. It killed her to listen to his stories, but he was the drunk who’d climbed behind the wheel. Surely he understood how she felt?

  “Something inside me died the night Luke was killed,” she said quietly. “He was my first love, my true love. He was my present, my future, my everything. And he loved me just the same. He was the captain of the rowing team, he could have had any girl he chose. And he chose me. He chose me.

  “And it wasn’t for sex, like some of my girlfriends insisted. They were sure he was only after one thing. They’d heard stories about how guys would pretend to be in love and as soon as the girl slept with them, he wouldn’t give them the time of day.”

  She paused and took a couple of breaths, slowing down her heart rate. Jacob stared at her, his expression unreadable.

  “But it wasn’t like that with Luke and me,” she continued. “We were still kids, but our love was real. It wasn’t all about sex. Of course, we both wanted to, but we’d promised to remain pure until we were old enough to marry. It would be our gift to each other. It was one of the reasons we couldn’t wait to get married. And then that night in November happened and the nightmare began…”

  Jacob stared down at his feet, his face set in hard lines. A pang of sympathy went through her, but she stood her ground.

  “I’m not trying to dredge up the past and all that followed, but nothing can change the facts. The truth is, you were drunk when you ran off the road and slammed into a tree, killing Luke instantly. There’s no forgetting that. You ask too much of me to expect that I can.”

  He lifted his head, desolation stark on his face. She stood stiff and silent, helpless to alleviate his suffering. She was suffering, too. She couldn’t help him. She just couldn’t take that on.

  “I’m sorry, Jacob…” Turning on her heel, she strode to the breakfast bar and collected her handbag where she’d left it and then headed toward the door. He half-stood, but she held up a hand.

  “No, please. Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. I need to go. I just…need to go.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The squad room buzzed with the usual morning activity. Lane ended the call to his brother and dropped his phone back in his shirt pocket. Dragging his keyboard closer, he was filled with a surge of anticipation. Jacob had called him to ask if he could dig a little deeper into the people who worked at the Max Grace Funeral Home and Lane was glad his brother had reconsidered.

  Despite Jacob’s insistence that it wasn’t Robert Grace who was behind the strange happenings at the funeral home, Lane wasn’t so quick to dismiss the man. He’d taken a closer look at Robert Grace’s criminal record. The entries dated back to when he was only a kid. At nine and ten years of age, he was being arrested regularly for petty theft and occasionally an assault. The victims were mostly other kids. Other than the list of charges and punishments handed out, there were no specific details of any of the crimes.

  The offenses grew in frequency and severity until Robert Grace was often spending a month or two in juvenile detention. Many of the later charges were drug related. Eventually, he turned eighteen and found himself in adult prisons where he would have come into contact with much more hardened criminals. Lane knew all too well that instead of steering inmates in the right direction, incarceration often had the opposite effect.

  In Lane’s experience, a criminal with the kind of lengthy record like Robert Grace didn’t just stop committing crimes when they were released. There was ample evidence over the course of Robert’s life that even in between his stints in jail, he’d continued to break the law.

  There was no indication that anything had broken the depressing pattern that had repeated itself over and over during the course of Robert’s life. Recidivism had always been a problem for people who’d spent substantial time in jail. It was almost as if incarceration spurred them on to greater heights—resulting in much worse deeds. Looking at Robert Grace’s record, it was clear he supported that sad statistic.

  Of course, it wasn’t always like that. Jacob was a prime example. He’d studied hard in prison and had turned his life around. He’d risen above the pack. But Jacob was an exception and he hadn’t come to prison from a life of crime. A stupid decision on a night out with his friends had set the wheels in motion and could have been enough to ruin his life. Lane had nothing but admiration for his younger brother and the way he’d conducted himself since. As a police officer, he knew better than most that it hadn’t been easy.

  The first name he entered into the search field of the police database was Edward Sutton’s. Lane scanned the police report that had been made on the man’s death. Preliminary autopsy findings were also attached. The coroner had come to the conclusion that Sutton died from a subarachnoid hemorrhage that had occurred as a result of a direct impact to his skull. The police report concluded that Sutton had been drunk and fallen down the stairs and hit his head on the concrete landing.

  It sounded reasonable enough. Lane flicked back to the autopsy report and checked the blood results. Sutton’s blood alcohol concentration at the time of death was 0.25. Lane frowned. The reading was extraordinarily high. In fact, he couldn’t help but wonder how on earth Sutton had been able to stand, let al
one climb up a set of stairs… Could he have had assistance? Had someone else been there that night?

  Opening another screen, Lane typed in Christopher Lowrey’s name and clicked on the file. Once again, the autopsy report indicated high alcohol levels in Lowrey’s blood, despite the fact the death was also ruled accidental.

  According to Jacob, the men had been “rescued” by the owner of the funeral home and had apparently turned their lives around. This wasn’t reflected in the fact they were both found dead in the early hours of the morning, so drunk they should have died from alcohol poisoning before they fell. Lane wondered why the coroner hadn’t flagged the anomaly.

  Dragging the phone on his desk toward him, Lane dialed the number of the Glebe Morgue. With a bit of luck, Samantha Coleridge might be in.

  “Glebe Morgue.”

  “It’s Detective Senior Sergeant Lane Black of the State Crime Command. I was wondering if I could speak with Doctor Coleridge?”

  “Hold the line, please.”

  A moment later, the phone was answered by Samantha. “Lane, what a surprise. I hope you had a good night at the ball.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “It was nice catching up with you and Rohan again. How are you doing? Feeling better?”

  “Great. Still suffering from morning sickness for most of the day and night, but I keep telling myself the end result will be worth it.”

  She chuckled and Lane laughed with her, thinking of Zara and their twins. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s definitely all worthwhile.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Samantha replied good-naturedly.

  “Absolutely,” Lane readily agreed. “Hang in there. That’s all I can say.”

  “What can I do for you?” Samantha asked, changing the subject.

  Lane sobered. “I’m wondering if I can speak to you about a couple of post mortem reports. One was carried out on a guy by the name of Christopher Lowrey. The other guy’s name was Edward Sutton.”

  “Sure. I assume they were done here?”