Dead Shot (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 1)

by Jack Patterson

  WHAT OTHERS ARE SAYING

  ABOUT JACK PATTERSON

  “Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer Jack Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It's that good.”

  - Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS

  “J.P. does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”

  - Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS

  “Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”

  - Richard D., reader

  “Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn't put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 AM. .”

  - Ray F., reader

  DEAD SHOT

  A Cal Murphy Thriller

  JACK PATTERSON

  For Billy Harper, the man who taught me that real newspapermen drink coffee and always print the truth

  In the real world, the right thing never happens in the right place and the right time. It is the job of journalists and historians to make it appear that it has.

  - Mark Twain

  CHAPTER 1

  CODY MURRAY SHIFTED IN his recliner as he flipped the pages of his favorite sports magazine. Sitting still wasn’t in his repertoire of skills on the field or off it. He lived like he played – always in constant motion.

  But it was Sunday afternoon and Cody was trying to relax. He only had two vices, one of which was wasting time reading national sports magazines. The other he had enjoyed 15 minutes earlier. He knew it was wrong, but for an athlete who never stopped, it was the perfect enhancement to his workout regimen. But lately, Cody had become looser with the latter vice, sometimes partaking in it for sheer pleasure.

  Cody knew steroids were bad and tough to get, especially in a rural town in southern Idaho. So, he didn’t bother trying. He wanted his impressive body of work to be his body of work – he just needed a little help, a little kick while working out. It was harmless … at first.

  Cody dug his jagged fingernails into his left arm in an attempt to remedy a slight itch just above his elbow. It was an irritating distraction from reading the magazine and dreaming of being featured on the cover one day. As unlikely as it might be for the 6-foot-flat scrambling quarterback of a rural Idaho eight-man team to earn a handful of major scholarship offers, Murray had done it. Why not the cover? he mused.

  But the thoughts abandoned him when the itching started.

  At first, it felt like any other itch. Cody expected it to vanish with one quick scratch. But it didn’t; it got worse. What’s wrong with me? he thought, as he surveyed his arms. Red welts were forming on his arms and spreading to his chest and back. All the scratching seemed to make it worse.

  In less than a minute his muscular athletic body was covered. All he could think of was getting relief from the fiery pain. Jumping up from the couch, Cody staggered through the back door, taking a giant leap off the deck and then sprinting full speed toward an Aspen tree twenty yards away.

  Rational thought had deserted him. He jammed his fingernails into his chest while slamming his back against the tree and began rubbing against it, thrusting upward from a crouching position in an attempt to stop the itching. His efforts only intensified his skin’s agitation.

  Frantic for relief, Cody raced back into the house, ripping off his Statenville workout shirt along the way, and headed straight for his parents’ bathroom. In his mad rush to find anything to help, Cody grabbed a tube of anti-itch cream. He emptied its white contents into his right hand and slathered it all over his bare chest and back. Still no relief. The itching increased.

  Cody ran back outside to find another tree. Maybe with my shirt off, I’ll be able to stop the itching. Past the point of despair, he dug both hands into opposing forearms, fell to the grass and rolled and scratched, crying out in agony.

  The intense itching felt like fire searing the surface of his body. Cody screamed and flailed about on the ground in sheer torture. His efforts appeared futile but he refused to give up.

  His body was covered in bleeding welts as he writhed in the grass. One final spasmodic convulsion and the itching stopped. So did his breathing. Streaks of blood created eerie patterns across his chest. His body lay in the Idaho sun looking like the discarded carcass of a sadistic occult ritual.

  No one would believe that Cody Murray, Statenville’s greatest football star in 50 years, had scratched himself to death.

  CHAPTER 2

  CAL MURPHY’S IPHONE VIBRATED on his bed stand and Cal barely moved. He relished the idea of sleeping in every day, one of the few perks afforded underpaid reporters at a newspaper that only published once a week. But it was a luxury that all but vaporized at 8:30 on this Monday morning in the middle of August.

  He fumbled for his phone with the sole purpose of discovering who would absorb his immediate wrath. Josh Moore... why is that freak calling me so early? He knows I don’t do mornings, much less Monday mornings!

  Cal pressed talk and mumbled a hello.

  “Good morning, Cal!” came the cheery voice on the other end. “I thought I would call you on the way to work and see if you’ve got everything planned for my visit next weekend.”

  Cal moaned.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is, Josh?” Cal asked, his morning voice croaked as he tried to shift to a more awake version of himself. “Have you forgotten how much I hate mornings, especially Mondays?”

  Josh only smiled, hoping Cal couldn’t detect it over the phone.

  “Oh, wow, look at the time. I didn’t realize it was so early. I would’ve never called if I thought about it.”

  “Liar!”

  “I’m just messin’ with you, Cal. But you need to get motivated to get out of that dump of a town where no real news ever happens so you can get up here to Seattle. You’re never going to escape East Bumble when your best clip is an article on the little league tournament champions just below a grip-and-grin photo. Cal – or should I say @CalMurphy24 – you’ve got seven followers on Twitter. So, get going, OK?”

  Cal stared at his vintage poster of Ken Griffey Jr. in a Mariners uniform, a relic from his high school days. He had faithfully tacked it to a wall in every living quarters he had since leaving home. It was even in the dorm room he shared with Josh at the University of Washington their freshman year. When it came to vintage Mariners, Josh preferred Randy Johnson. Quiet, calculated, and never quite living up to others astronomical expectations vs. bold, brash, and making the best use of every ounce of talent he had. Griffey vs. Johnson. Or Cal vs. Josh. The two aspiring sports columnists shared traits with their Seattle heroes of yesteryear. Cal had heard this little pep talk from Josh before. He knew it was true, but he couldn’t change his immediate situation, which served as an annoying reminder as to whose career path was already on a better trajectory. It was such a long-standing exchange between the two of them that even though not fully awake, Cal was firing back a salvo to Josh’s slight air of superiority.

  “Look. Just because you’re miserable stuck in big city traffic and heading to your second job as a b
arista doesn’t mean you have to rob me of the little joy I do have working in this virtual ghost town. Besides, maybe I like it here.”

  “Well, I’m going to find out for myself this weekend. You better show me the finest time that can be had in that cow town. I’m holding you to it.”

  “OK, OK. I’ll make sure you have plenty of things to do. I’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t rule Statenville by the end of the weekend.”

  “All right. Looking forward to it. See you then, bro.”

  Cal hung up and rolled over. He had dreamed of covering the Mariners baseball team for the Seattle Times, but a general assignment reporter for The Register in Statenville, Idaho was the only job he could land. What self-respecting person would actually believe that working in Statenville would be a step toward a better job? Cal had no choice.

  Cal valued his friendship with Josh, but a twinge of jealousy remained after Josh won the lone internship job at The Times’ sports department straight out of college. More than three dozen college graduates hoping to become the next Mitch Albom applied—Josh somehow emerged victorious.

  I hope he enjoys his day stuck in traffic and reformatting Formula One racing agate tonight. It wasn’t a sincere hope, but in a moment of personal reflection, Cal admitted that the sting of his best friend from college beating him out for that job still smarted more than he wished. And with this thought, he pulled the covers over his head and attempted to fall back asleep.

  The phone buzzed again.

  “What now?” Cal shouted from his cover cave.

  Emerging again into the light he discovered his editor’s name dancing across his phone’s window. What does Guy want this early on a Monday?

  “Morning, Guy.” Cal did his best to hide his irritation.

  “Cal, get up and get dressed – and get down here right now! We’ve got a double murder in Statenville!”

  “A double WHAT? Who?”

  “Cody Murray and Riley Gold. I’ll fill you in once you get here.”

  Guy hung up abruptly. Cal rubbed his eyes and began trying to imagine the circumstances for a double murder in Statenville.

  Ha! Take that Josh! I’ll bet there won’t be any double murders for you to write about while stuck on the agate desk tonight!

  Cal was wide awake now.

  CHAPTER 3

  IN THE FIVE MINUTES it took Cal to shower and towel dry his moppy dishwater blond hair, he tried to imagine what could have happened to two of Statenville’s best football players. It didn’t take long before he dumped thinking about the cause of the murders and began fantasizing over receiving a Pulitzer for his award-winning coverage of the mysterious Statenville serial killer.

  Known for his trademark tardiness and sloppy appearance, Cal wasn’t interested in propagating any false ideas that he was big time and the people of Statenville weren’t. If anything, Josh was right – Cal needed motivation. He really wanted to be big time, but he was too depressed at the disappointing direction journalism had taken him. Writing for a weekly was never in his plans, but that is what he had been doing for almost a year now, pounding out articles on garden club meetings and school board decisions. He wanted to be writing about pro athletes and NFL lockouts. This was like being a superstar on the worst team in the league – what’s the point?

  Cal gave up on trying to impress anyone in Statenville. The townspeople held such a low image of The Register reporters that it didn’t matter what he wore. If it doesn’t matter, why not be comfortable. But wearing a tie on any day other than Sunday resulted in an endless line of questioning, such as, “What’s the special occasion?” or “You sure do look nice. What’s her name?”

  But today felt different for Cal. A double murder is a serious story and I need to be more serious looking.

  He dug some wrinkled khaki slacks out of his closet and paired it with a blue and green plaid oxford shirt. No tie. No one would confuse him for a Gap model, but he appeared more professional than on most days, which was Cal’s meager goal as he raced out of his rundown duplex apartment door. This could be big.

  On this late summer morning, Cal rushed to his black and maroon Civic . He engaged the engine and pressed the accelerator to the floor. A few seconds passed before Cal coaxed the engine underneath the replacement hood to life. He peeled onto Highway 278 for his five-minute commute. There was no time to waste if he was going to turn out a story sure to land at the top of the heap in his skimpy clips file.

  As Cal slowed to a stop at an intersection, his iPhone buzzed again.

  Kelly Mendoza’s picture and name consumed the phone’s screen.

  Cal’s mood momentarily changed from frenetic to giddy. If there was a good reason for staying in Statenville, it was Kelly Mendoza. Her fiery spirit overtook her common sense at times, but Cal dug spunk in a woman. It didn’t hurt that Kelly possessed good looks either. A 5-foot-9 leggy firecracker with wavy shoulder-length brown hair and piercing blue eyes made for an intriguing package. Kelly embraced her Basque bloodlines in both spirit and beauty. Cal spent more time dreaming about asking her out than he did of covering the Mariners and the Seahawks combined. But there was that bothersome unwritten “no dating fellow employees” policy.

  Cal pressed talk.

  “Hey, Kelly. Happy Monday morning to you.”

  “Cal, I’m sure you heard the news …”

  “What news?” Cal said, playing coy.

  “Guy hasn’t called you yet?” Kelly asked.

  “Yeah, yeah. He told me about the murders. I’m on my way into the office now.” Cal could tell flirting wasn’t a good idea.

  “Well, I heard there’s a serial killer on the loose,” she said in a near-whisper. “Why would anyone want to target those two kids? There’s got to be something else going on.”

  “Don’t get too freaked out, OK? I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all of this.” Cal just couldn’t think of a plausible one at the moment to soothe Kelly’s nerves.

  “Are you packing any heat?”

  “Packing what?” A grin spread across Cal’s face.

  “You got a gun?”

  “Heck, no. What do you think this is? Dodge City? … Are you?”

  “You better believe it. I’ve got my Glock 21 within arm’s reach.”

  Cal shuddered but responded with a nervous laugh at the thought of some poor criminal getting on the wrong end of Kelly’s gun.

  “Well, maybe I should ride with you today. You’re the photographer on call today, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, Cal. I’m the only photographer ever on call.”

  “I know but it sounded like something you would say if you were working at a big city paper. We might be writing for a small town paper, but we’ve got a big city murder to cover now.”

  “I’m a little scared, but a tiny bit excited too,” Kelly admitted.

  “Ditto on both of those for me, too. See you at the office in a few.” He ended the call.

  What was going on? Cal wondered. Is there really a serial killer on the loose in Statenville? And if so, why would he kill those two boys? Whatever could they have done? What could they have been involved with to deserve death?

  The paper’s readers would likely be asking those same questions. It seemed like a good place to start when interviewing the local authorities. He imagined their answers and began to write the story in his mind.

  He looked down Main Street at Statenville’s usual brisk economic activity. Shoppers and business owners, many whom he knew, went about business as usual. He wondered if they knew a killer was on the loose. And in this small town, he wondered how they couldn’t. Then he wondered why no one seemed scared.

  CHAPTER 4

  WHEN CAL WALKED THROUGH The Register’s glass doors and into the newsroom, his eyes focused on Guy. Cal’s curmudgeon editor stood on the other side of his desk, testing the length of his phone chord as he leaned out his door and snapped for a pen and pad from his assistant. Guy scratched down information that the ca
ller relayed to him before hanging up the phone. He ran his hands through the thinning unkempt hair on his 62-year-old dome, as he exhaled a big breath. Then he spotted Cal.

  “Get in here, Cal. You’ve got work to do!” he bellowed.

  Cal then realized he was still standing outside the newsroom. He quickly moved toward his editor as he watched the veteran newsman come to life.

  “Coming, boss!”

  Cal’s desk was on the second row of four in The Register’s cramped newsroom. He sat behind Edith Caraway, the chipper receptionist who didn’t try to hide her vintage era with the bouffant hairstyle she sported. Next to her was Earl Munroe, the middle-aged obituary and typesetter extraordinaire. Earl enjoyed sharing his mock obituaries almost as much as Edith enjoyed hearing them. Both had worked at the paper for more than 20 years and neither seemed to aspire to anything more.

  Directly next to Cal’s desk was copy editor and sole page designer, Terry Alford, armed with every technological advancement known to a modern newsroom. When he wasn’t designing pages he spent most of his time flaunting his software and hardware superiority over the plebe reporters. His high-powered Mac desktop versus the reporters’ aging Dell laptops was like comparing a Bazooka to a pea shooter – at least in his mind. He often exploded into diatribes about his virtual world conquests that would make Charlie Sheen blush. This usually produced exaggerated eye rolls and snickers from anyone unlucky enough to be caught in one of his technological barrages.

  Behind Cal’s desk was Kelly’s workstation, the almighty photo department, and a spot for Sammy Mendoza, Kelly’s 26-year-old cousin assigned to cover society functions who spent most of his time basking in nepotism. Sammy wasn’t interested in small talk unless it included the latest gossip on who was running around on whom or who had purchased the latest top-of-the-line luxury automobile.