“Sometimes?”
“Sometimes a murder is a statement. They want the body to be found and for everybody to know it was a murder in order to send a message. In a case like that, they’ll just shoot the guy. It’s a warning. They want everyone to know that they can kill somebody and then just walk away and carry on with their lives, that they are outside of the law. Other times, they want to fly under the radar. They just want the guy dead. In an instance like that, they might dangle someone from a rafter and make it look like suicide. Depends on their motives, but the victim’s just as dead either way.”
Brenda’s brother was a skinny, relatively short guy. Way smaller than Trollop or Carlito or my brother, and way, way weaker than those juice monkeys from the Popeyes. It would be easy for any of them to have killed him and then made it look like suicide. Who would care, besides his family?
“Was the door locked from either the inside or the outside?” Bill asks.
“Not locked.”
Trent was feeling pretty good about life just before he died, according to Brenda. His girlfriend was pregnant and he really wanted to start a family with her. Pretty good reasons to stick around.
My mind flashes to what it must have been like for Brenda when she walked into the garage. Did she check for a pulse? Was it completely obvious that Trent was dead, or did she hold out a tiny bit of hope that he could be saved? Did she think of her dad? Did she remember being a little girl and her brother taking her to Brownies?
I’m getting more and more worried about Jamie. I wonder if Bill can see that on my face.
“I need you to look into something,” I say impulsively.
“What?” He looks a little startled. Maybe even annoyed. He’s too good a reporter to just do me a favor, and I didn’t mean it to sound as abrupt as it did.
“All that stuff I was saying about the guy who was found hanging, that’s the Annihilators’ meth cook.”
Bill doesn’t look at all shocked, just interested.
“I’d like to be a source for you. I can tell you that I know for a fact that his body was bruised.”
I know I’m crossing a line here. Being a source is a lot like being a rat. But how can telling the truth to a good guy be a bad thing?
“I was already working on it. I like you and believe you but I’d have to ask around. You’re not exactly a neutral source. Nothing personal, but I need others.”
“That’s good. I want that. I’m glad you’re asking around. Remember all of those cops at the funeral? Would they be there if they thought it was a suicide?”
Bill shakes his head.
But I haven’t told him the worst part—my fear that the killer might be Jamie. I keep pushing that thought out of my mind but it keeps sneaking back in. Maybe Bill already gets it.
I know Brenda deserves to know what happened, and I want to think I can handle the truth. But . . . but . . . what if it’s Jamie? If he’s convicted of murder, he’ll go to prison for a long, long time. Mom will fall apart. And Brenda will be disgusted by me and my family. I’ll be alone.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ve been told that imagining something bad is almost always worse than actually experiencing something bad, but it doesn’t feel that way right now. If Jamie stays in the club, and he’s already a hit man, what’s next? One day it’ll be him hanging from a rafter or found dead in a ditch or convicted of another murder. Even if he’s guilty of this crime and gets away with it, I don’t want to imagine that he could be happy living that way. I don’t think I’m betraying him by seeking the truth. He’s told me to be true to myself, and I feel I’m trying to save him, to save all of us. I just hope he sees it that way. Looking for the truth seems like the only place to start.
The story appears the next day on the Sun-Sentinel’s website under the headline “Biker death may be murder, police believe.” It’s posted around noon. Bill worked quickly.
In the article, Bill notes how police surveillance was out in force at the funeral but had virtually no one to observe or photograph. The conclusion: if the police thought it was a suicide, they wouldn’t have shown so much interest in the funeral. The story goes on to reveal that the garage door was unlocked and that Trent’s neck was broken. There’s also mention of the black eye and the bruising to his body. Bill quotes sources who saw Trent’s body or the official reports—the on-scene paramedics and coroner’s office, I’m guessing, since most of the sources aren’t identified. He keeps my name out of it. I feel safer trusting him now.
“Investigators are working with the theory that it was a murder staged to look like a suicide,” the article concludes. Creepy as that is, it must help make Brenda feel a little bit better.
Murder is awful, but it’s still better than suicide. You can at least get mad at a killer. But what if the killer is Jamie? The question still feels unreal. And I feel like a traitor.
I text Brenda immediately after reading the story.
That means a lot, she texts back. Now we don’t look like such losers.
I’m sure Jamie has read the article too.
I wonder what he’s thinking right now.
Chapter
13
Just when it seems like Jamie has dropped off the face of the earth, he pops up in cyberspace as if nothing has happened.
What’s up?
The text comes a couple of days after he vanished and Trent’s body was found. Somehow, Jamie makes it sound like everything is normal.
Lots, I reply. Where are you?
My place, Jamie texts. I’m surprised—and relieved. I’ve driven by his house several times over the last few days, but he’s never been home. I guess he finally is.
Can I come by?
What I have to ask him is too big for texting. I need to be able to see his face when we talk.
Sure.
Jamie lives near the road into town, on a side street close to the Jumbo statue in a cottage-style home with absolutely no charm. I stop by to visit once a month, maybe more, depending on if he’s in town and how things are at home with Mom. It’s not that unusual for me to spend nights at Jamie’s. Sometimes his biker friends drop by when I’m there. They’re generally easygoing—not the hotheaded stereotypes you see in movies or on TV.
Jamie’s Harley is out front when I get there. He’s clearly not hiding from anyone. There’s even a red-and-black Annihilators sticker on the gas tank. It’s a warning/threat to potential thieves, and in our town, it works way better than a chain or a bike lock.
When I walk in the door, I can tell that Jamie is preoccupied and distracted. He keeps glancing out the window, isn’t looking me in the eye. It’s not the time to talk. I’ll have to wait him out.
He has two cell phones on the table and seems to be watching them intently but pretending not to. This isn’t unusual for guys in my brother’s crowd: one is meant for business, one for personal stuff. By business, I mean criminal business. At least I think I do. I don’t know exactly what Jamie’s involved in these days and I don’t particularly want to know. I’m not into drugs and he doesn’t push anything on me. Still, I imagine Jamie is mixed up in the biker drug trade on some level. I can’t see him being into extortion, but who knows?
Sports highlights are playing on the TV as I scramble eggs and fry up sausages for dinner. I put a plate down in front of Jamie, but his mind is clearly somewhere else. I’m used to his moods by now, but tonight feels different: we’re both tense. The TV’s blaring but he’s still watching his phones; whatever he’s expecting has his full attention. And he’s not sharing.
We eat together in silence. I’m sure he thinks he’s doing me a favor by not telling me whatever’s on his mind. Eventually I crash on the couch with the TV tuned to Forensic Files while he retreats into his bedroom. I’m asleep within minutes.
Baaaam!
I’m sound asleep on the couch, with
the TV still on, when I hear it. I’m groggy, but no one could sleep through this.
Baaaam!
This time the sound is even louder and feels like it could knock the house down.
Tiny sparkles fill the air with what looks like pixie dust, adding to my confusion.
“Get on the floor!” A man’s voice, deep and threatening. “Now! Lie down on the floor! Now!”
Sparkles are everywhere.
The man doing the shouting is standing in the semi-darkness amid the glittering dust, a crazy silhouette. A half dozen other men in helmets surround him, looking more like big ants than humans.
Jamie’s emerged from the bedroom and is standing a few feet behind me. I can hear him inhale deeply, trying to get his breathing under control. He too suffered from anxiety attacks when he was around my age, long before he got control of his stammer and started acting cool and tough.
I’ve never had a gun pointed at me and now, all at once, there are several.
I’m in shock as I drop to the floor and lie face down. Moments later, I’m stuck in the back of a police cruiser with handcuffs around my wrists.
Jamie is led out a few minutes after me, and I watch as he’s ushered into the back of another cruiser. I look at him in disbelief through the car window. I would have expected to feel more emotion in this situation, but right now I just feel like I’m watching a bad movie in the middle of the night. And Jamie? He doesn’t seem worried at all; in fact, he looks relieved—really relieved. I think about this and realize it makes sense: if it had been angry bikers bursting into his home, he’d be bleeding on the floor right now, not sitting in the back of a police car.
Jamie and I are separated from the time we leave his place and no one feels the need to update me about what’s going on. At the police station, I am placed in a cell alone. The walls are concrete, painted a dull gray. There’s a toilet with no seat in the corner of the room. Privacy and comfort mean nothing here.
“Where’s Jamie?” I ask.
The guard doesn’t reply.
A while later, a plainclothes detective comes down to see me. He walks right into my cell and sits down on the bed to talk, clearly not considering me any kind of a threat. I recognize him as the father of one of the backup tackles on the football team.
“Son, this is serious,” he tells me. “We’re looking at your brother in a murder investigation.”
“A murder?” I try to act shocked. “Who?”
“Trent Wallace.”
“Am I being charged with something?”
“No.”
I am starting to get a little angry. I’m already a lot afraid.
He changes the subject. “How’s the leg?” Obviously, he recognizes me too, but I don’t feel like jock talk right now.
“I need to call my mom.”
He hands me his cell phone.
I punch in Mom’s number; she is short with me when she answers.
“Josh. I’m at work . . .”
“I’ve been picked up by the police. So has Jamie . . .”
There’s a long pause and I can almost see the panic on her face.
“Why?” she finally asks, the frightened tone coming through loud and clear. I hate hearing her voice like this but I have no choice—I have to tell her.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been charged with anything. I think I was just brought in for questioning because I was at his place. But Jamie . . .”
There’s a long pause on the line.
“What’s it about?”
“They think he’s mixed up in a murder.”
“Murder?”
The word comes out like a gasp. There must be people around her. The phone goes silent on her end. Then I hear a big sigh. She starts to cry, gently at first and then it picks up steam.
“Who?” she finally asks.
“They say it was Trent . . . a guy sort of with the club.”
More silence, then: “I know who he is. I can get off work.”
I wonder what she’ll tell them. Family emergency? I spend the next half hour making small talk with the cop who asked about my leg. He sounds concerned about my football future, but I’m not sure if he’s playing me or if he’s sincere.
Mom is shaking as she comes into the police station. It’s late, and I’m ready to go home. I never was charged with anything. I wonder if she’s going to give me some big sloppy hug. Instead, she walks super-rigidly and stares off into space.
“I’ll drive,” I say.
She ignores me and addresses the cop who’s leading me out of the cell.
“I need to see my son,” she tells him. She doesn’t say Jamie’s name, but she’s obviously not talking about me.
She’s trying so hard to sound together.
“I’m afraid you can’t at the moment.” I appreciate that the cop’s polite to her.
“Why?”
“He’s speaking with some other officers.”
That sounds so much nicer than “he’s a murder suspect.” Still, Mom looks shocked. She just goes quiet. This is for real. Her boy is being interrogated about a murder and there’s not a thing she can do about it.
“I’ll drive,” I say again.
Mom hands me the keys and we walk quietly out of the station. I check the paper’s website on my phone before I get into the car. The raid has already been reported: a short, uninspired effort that takes up a half-dozen paragraphs, below a dramatic “BREAKING NEWS” banner.
The report reads as if it’s based on a police press release and is headlined, “Biker murder suspect arrested at gunpoint.” The sub-headline reads, “Teen released from suspect’s house.”
The story begins, “A local biker has been charged with murder after another local man was found dead in his garage.” There’s a photo of Jamie, looking blankly into the camera. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was guilty. It’s the biggest crime story to hit this town in years; I have to take some deep breaths and walk around a little before I can read on. Trent is called “a known associate of the Annihilators Motorcycle Club” while Jamie is identified as “a long-standing full patch member of the club.”
Even though I’m not named in the story since I’m a minor, I can’t imagine how it could be worse. Jamie could be heading off to prison for life. Our family name is mud. We don’t have much money for a lawyer. In truth, we don’t really have any money for a lawyer. And Brenda? I wonder if she’s ever going to talk to me again. I have to sit still for a moment and fight the urge to throw up.
As I’m starting the car, Jake texts me. He’s obviously read the article too and he’s worried.
Can I help?
That’s so Jake, so naive. What could he possibly do? Get his mother to bake the cops and the bikers a plate of cookies each and make everyone promise never to be bad again? But it’s not his fault that he can’t understand this world that I live in.
I’ll let you know but thanks, I text back.
Don’t be a stranger, he says.
I sense that Jake is scared, like he’s on the verge of losing something too.
Chapter
14
As I drive home, I can’t shake the picture in my head: Jamie in jail, feeling lost and confused and frightened but trying to look tough and in control. I saw that face a lot before he finally moved out of the house back when I was in grade three. I wonder if his stammer is starting up again.
Mom’s clearly imagining things too.
“I have to go see him,” she says.
“Huh?”
“Doesn’t he have to have a bail hearing?”
She’s right. What does she think she’ll do? Order the guards to treat him nicely?
“Mom, trust me, you don’t want to go.”
“I have to. You don’t . . .”
Jamie’s almost thi
rty. He’s not a little boy anymore, except in her eyes.
“I’ll go instead, okay? Please. There’s nothing you can do, Mom. At least not right now.”
I really don’t need her breaking down or freaking out in public.
“But . . . ,” she says.
“I’ll go. Trust me, it’s best for you and him if you stay away for now. You know he’ll be embarrassed. It’s so public. You can have a private visit with him soon.”
Part of me can’t even believe we are having this conversation, talking about my brother’s bail hearing and visiting him in jail. I should be in my own little cocoon, lifting weights and working on my future. It’s not like I have a lot of time to get ready for football season. But this is right now, and there won’t be much left of my family if this goes south. I go on: “There could be reporters there. You don’t want your picture in the paper.”
“I don’t care.”
“Jamie would care.”
She knows I’m right. As I plead with her, it dawns on me that I’m in a bit of a dicey position. What if the editors at work tell me to do some horrendous “I know him” story? Or want to interview me for a piece about the club? I don’t need the job that badly. What I do know is that this is my time to step up and do something. I just wish I had a clue what that was.
Chapter
15
I catch a bit of sleep in preparation for what’s going to be a tough day. How do I prepare for Jamie’s bail hearing and the sight of him in the prisoners’ box? I keep waking up in the night, asking painful what-ifs. What if Jamie and the rest of the bikers follow their no-ratting rule? Then no one will cooperate with the police, even to exonerate my brother, and Jamie faces the very real threat of being sent off to a life sentence in prison for murder, even if he’s innocent. That means twenty-five years without parole.
Jamie’s not perfect, but murder? I can vaguely imagine him killing someone in self-defense, but I can’t see him making a plan to execute anyone in cold blood. I also can’t see him staging a crime scene the way Trent’s was, but how well do I really know him? He only gives me carefully edited glimpses into his life.
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