A Bustle in the Hedgerow (CASMIRC Book 1)

by Ben Miller

  93

  PLAYGROUND PREDATOR CAPTURE DRAWS RECORD TV AUDIENCE

  by Corinne O’Loughlin, Staff Writer

  In an odd but not unpredictable twist, an alleged serial killer fulfilled his wish of attaining widespread notoriety prior to being apprehended by federal authorities. Over 62 million people tuned in two nights ago during CNN’s “The Goodnight Hour” to observe the tension-filled showdown between FBI Special Agent Jackson Byrne and alleged child serial killer Dr. J. Randall Franklin, known better as The Playground Predator. It is the largest audience in cable TV history, and the largest audience ever of a live non-sporting event.

  Franklin has been accused of killing three young girls in three different states over the last few weeks, as well as the murders of his wife and young daughter earlier this week. He then allegedly kidnapped the wife and young son of FBI Agent Byrne, holding them captive in a swimming pool while he made demands from Byrne to insure their safe return.

  Byrne heroically complied in order to save his family. Due to some intermittent difficulty with the audio of the broadcast, which Franklin himself orchestrated via closed circuit web video and cell phone threats to the show’s host Caleb Goodnight, complete details of the negotiation were not evident to the viewing public. At this point, Special Agent Byrne has refused to comment on this aspect of the interaction.

  At this point both Byrne’s wife and young son are recovering well without any major injuries. They have been discharged to their home after a brief observation period in Suburban Hospital. “Physically they are fine,” Special Agent Byrne said in a private, exclusive interview. “Emotionally, I think we’ll all need time to heal.”

  “We are all obviously very relieved at the safe return of the Byrne family,” said Special Agent Heath Reilly, who helmed the majority of the Playground Predator investigation for the FBI’s child abuse branch CASMIRC. “We also take solace in the successful apprehension of Dr. Franklin. Within hours of his capture, Dr. Franklin signed a written confession to all three killings. While this does not approach compensation for the McBurney, Cottrell, and Coulter families, we hope that his capture may allow them to find some quantum of peace.”

  Despite Franklin’s apparent confession during the broadcast to the murders of his own wife and child, Reilly further said that Franklin has yet to offer any comment on their deaths. Franklin’s family and the family of his deceased wife have declined any comment at this time.

  Reilly himself declined to comment on whether Franklin’s case would be tried in court in order to seek the death penalty. “That’s up to the attorneys,” he said. All three states in which Franklin allegedly committed murders—Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Virginia—currently offer the death penalty.

  Arthur B. Lange, the Attorney General for the State of Maryland, announced at a press conference yesterday that, “Though our discussions with the State’s Attorneys’ offices in PA and Virginia are preliminary, it is our understanding that we will have the first opportunity to try Dr. Franklin, as the first murder happened in Maryland. And we fully intend to seek and obtain the death penalty.”

  Another interesting development will be the decision of Franklin’s fitness to stand trial. Anonymous sources suggest that Franklin suffered from Bipolar Disorder, also known as Manic Depression. He allegedly was currently under medication therapy for this condition.

  Dr. Stanley Christner, Professor of Psychiatry at George Washington School of Medicine, viewed the tape of the broadcast, though he has never met or interviewed Franklin. “Dr. Franklin clearly seemed to be suffering from acute or sub-acute mania,” Dr. Christner said. “His pressured speech and constant flight of ideas support that diagnosis.”

  Dr. Christner further explained that “launching into a psychotic state, characterized by things like delusions of grandeur and a loss of touch with reality, is a relatively rare but very real complication of Bipolar Disorder. The risk of psychosis increases the longer that manic periods go untreated.”

  From the comfort of his home, Byrne reflected on his interaction with Franklin. “I could tell his thought process seemed faulty,” he said. “It really helped to make any decision on my part pretty easy. As long as I could get my family back, I was willing to do or agree to just about anything. In my training and experience, I’ve learned that it’s virtually impossible to negotiate with someone who’s not thinking rationally.”

  Byrne stated that he will continue a brief leave of absence from the FBI, but he plans to return soon. He declined to comment on the recent rumors about his pursuing a career in politics. When asked if he would write a book about his experiences in this case, like he did with the Lamaya Hollows case, Byrne did not initially respond. After a long, pensive pause, and without making direct eye contact, he finally affirmed what many already assumed.

  “I suppose.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Even though this novel is “self-published,” a number of people provided significant contributions to this work. Without their help and support, much of this would not have been possible.

  First and foremost I want to thank my family. The support and inspiration from my wife Julie and our two amazing daughters are immeasurable. They are the center of my world. Also, photo credits from my website (www.benmillerbooks.com) go to my wife Julie Byrne.

  I am lucky to have such great family and friends who volunteered as my test-readers early on, so I want to extend special thanks to Marsha Miller, Nate Miller, Bob Miller, Casey Hancox, Andy Findlan, and Nicole Verdecchia. Despite their busy lives, they all took time not only to read my novel, but also to provide critiques and editorial comments. Their feedback and encouragement have been invaluable. I also leaned on sage advice from Thomas Kavanaugh. I appreciate his counsel and, as always, his unfettered exuberance.

  I also want to thank best-selling novelist Elin Hilderbrand. A family friend (more thanks to Dolores Fennell) connected us, and Elin offered advice and assistance with extreme grace and impressive punctuality. I have been very touched by her kindness and insight.

  Another inspirational force who deserves gratitude in perpetuity is Peter Gabriel. Not only have his songs and lyrics

  had a huge influence on this work, but he has also been extraordinarily generous in allowing me reprint permission for “Family Snapshot.” This novel in this iteration simply would not have worked without it. Also special thanks to Rob Bozas from Real World Publishing for helping to coordinate our interactions.

  Thanks also to Dr. Rachel Berger, who initially raised my awareness about the short-comings of child protection laws. She is a nationally recognized specialist in child abuse medicine, and I am fortunate to have her as a colleague and professional reference in my day job. A conversation with her a few years ago sparked the construct of the Melvin Young case and prompted me to delve deeper into some criminal justice literature.

  Finally, I want to thank those in law enforcement, child care, education, and pediatric medical care who have dedicated their professional lives to protecting and improving the welfare of children. Though people like Randall Franklin and Melvin Young exist in the world, the evil that they present is and should always be outweighed by the good deeds that you all do.

  --BGM

  March 2010 – September 2013

  Opening two chapters from

  THE PIPER

  Available in paperback and e-book on June 26, 2017!

  DAY ONE:

  WEDNESDAY

  1

  Sara Gardner yawned. She knew why her eyelids felt coated in lead, but that knowledge didn’t make them any less heavy. Theodore spent nearly the entire night crying—his third night in a row. The sweet little angel she brought home from the hospital four weeks ago had turned into a screaming banshee in the span of a few days. She couldn’t figure out what the little bastard was so upset about or why he had turned on her: his belly was full, his diaper dry, and he had a clean binky at the ready all the time. She imagined she shouldn’t take it personally, but si
nce it was just the two of them in this one-bedroom apartment, she couldn’t help it. There was no one else for him to be pissed at.

  She felt like going to the WIC office about as much as she felt like jamming a hot poker down her throat. But she was low on formula, and, if she didn’t show, those assholes at WIC would be calling her with threats of Child Protective Services. She’d heard that story too many times from her friends. Granted, she wouldn't trust those deadbeat friends to watch Theodore alone for five minutes, but she still didn’t want to take any chances.

  Of course, Theodore lay fast asleep in his bassinette. She had splashed water on her face, gotten dressed in relatively clean clothes—no visible spit-up, a near miracle—and packed everything she would need in the diaper bag. She couldn’t kill any more time. She knew they had to leave now to make it to the appointment on time, but she relished this precious silence so much that she didn’t think she could bear to wake him. Could she make the magical transfer? Gently slip her arms underneath him, lift him lightly, and place him securely but softly into his car seat? It seemed like a long shot, the stuff of legend, but she knew she had to try.

  She tiptoed to the crib along the carpeted floor. She put the backs of her hands on the small mattress, depressing it to slip under his back more easily. She bent at the waist and slowly inched her hands under her sleeping baby. He didn’t stir. She nimbly raised him out of the bassinette and put him in the car seat on the floor. He barely moved a muscle. He must have completely wiped himself out with the wailing all night. She encircled his arms in the straps and clicked home the buckle, which he miraculously tolerated without opening his eyes. She breathed for the first time in what seemed like minutes. She scooped up the car seat and the diaper bag and left the apartment.

  Her piece-of-shit 1997 Accord was parked only two spaces from the door to her apartment building. The temperature had already reached 80 even though the clock hadn’t hit 10:00 yet—pretty unusual for late September in Boston. Indian summer must have arrived. Still tiptoeing, she moved from the building’s entryway door to the car and put the car seat on the pavement while she put the key in the lock on the door. She never knew if her car was made before automatic door locks, or if hers had been just too cheap to have them.

  “Hey,” she heard from behind her. She didn’t recognize the man’s voice. Even though she hadn’t seen anyone else out here in the parking lot, she assumed he must have been talking to someone other than her. Besides, she didn’t have the time or the interest to talk to anyone right now. She opened the passenger door and began to pull the front seat forward, preparing to lock Theodore’s car seat into its base in the back seat.

  “Hey.” The voice was much closer this time. She put Theodore’s car seat back down on the ground and began to turn around. She didn’t want to be a bitch, but she was going to tell this guy to get lost.

  As she pivoted, she could see the guy walking toward her. Fast.

  “What the hell?” she wanted to say, but she never got a chance. As she opened her mouth, the guy pulled his right hand out of his jacket pocket and thrust it into her left side. An intense tingling exploded from her torso throughout her entire body. She stiffened and fell to the ground, every muscle fiber in her body firing at once. She landed on her back, looking straight up at the sky. The guy leaned over her. Sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a fake mustache obscured his features. He blackened her world with a black silk hood over her head. Though she still couldn’t move, he hit her again with the Taser, this time in the neck. Her body jerked again and the pain surged. She tried to scream, to speak, to gasp, anything; all that came out was a pathetic gurgle.

  She heard the bottom of the car seat scrape against the concrete as the man lifted it up. She heard his rapid footsteps as he hustled away. But she never heard Theodore.

  He slept through the whole thing.

  2

  Jackson Byrne’s ass hurt. He shifted in the chair, gave it a few seconds, and concluded that his predicament had not improved. He spread his legs a little as he looked down at the chair. The dull gray hue, the glossy surface, and its composition—not quite ceramic, not quite plastic, but some bastardized amalgam of the two—reminded him of the chairs in his high school classrooms. He understood why those chairs had to be so uncomfortable: to keep students awake during the day. (God forbid the teachers should bear that responsibility.) But why here? Sure, it was prison, but did things have to be so dreadful even for the visitors?

  Before he let his mind wander too far, Jack focused on why he was here. He came because he had made a deal, one witnessed by over 60 million people on national TV. Even though the deal was made under duress, and with a madman, he had held up his end of the bargain. But integrity wasn’t the reason for his presence here today. He sat in this ass-agonizing chair because of his indiscretions, and he showed up every month to keep his infidelity from reaching the masses.

  Not that he cared about the masses necessarily. He once had, and his father’s dear friend Philip Prince certainly would, even now. Jack cared about his family.

  Every time he sat in one of these chairs, Jack thought about his wonderful wife Vicki and his adorable son Jonah. Coming here was his penance for protecting them from the truth. He conjured further justification by preserving the incarceration of the pedophilic murderer Melvin Young, as a news release of Jack’s previous affair would bring Young’s conviction into question. Jack had just enough insight to know that his efforts served to protect himself just as much—if not more—than anyone else, but thinking about his family and the innocent children he protected made it easier to tolerate these visits to Coffeewood Correctional.

  Jack yawned, his mouth agape like a capuchin monkey fending off an enemy. He really needed a good night’s sleep, but deep slumber had evaded him for weeks now.

  On the other side of the thick glass in front of Jack, a large metal door opened at the opposite end of a narrow room. With a guard at his flank, Randall Franklin shuffled through the door. Surely he knew that Jack was today’s visitor—Jack was one of only three people to visit since his incarceration, and his lawyer was not due to come back until tomorrow— yet he looked pleasantly surprised when he saw Jack. The corner of the left side of his mouth lifted in a half-smirk. It turned Jack’s stomach.

  Jack had seen Randall three times since his capture more than four months ago. Each time he experienced a fleeting moment of rage. He hated the man on the other side of the glass. He hated him for what Randall did to those three little girls, for what he did to his own devastated family, for making Jack come here every month. (For that Jack also loathed himself, knowing how much responsibility he took for it.) Most of all, though, he hated Randall for what he had done to Vicki and Jonah. The kidnapping had left Vicki with a near-crippling case of agoraphobia; at present she would only leave the house for her scheduled psychiatry appointments. Thankfully Jonah seemed to be better recently; he hadn’t woken up from horrible nightmares in almost two months. But even this harbinger of sustainable improvement could not quell Jack’s acrimony for Randall.

  Jack’s pride would not allow him to show his rage to Randall, however. He would not give this stack of shit the satisfaction of even a glimpse at how he had altered Jack’s life. It was bad enough that he dragged his ass—his inordinately and excruciatingly flattened ass—here every month. So he swallowed down his anger and shook his head at Randall’s smirk.

  He would never admit it aloud, but Jack had fantasized on more than one occasion about killing Randall—or hiring someone else to murder him. He replayed that night in May in his head countless times, wondering if he could have found a way to kill Randall on those swimming pool bleachers and still save his family. He had yet to come up with a viable scenario. He realized that this exercise was nothing more than mental masturbation, and that his fantasy would never become reality. This didn’t stop him from letting his imagination wander episodically.

  Randall sat down in a chair opposite Jack. The guard yelled “Ten m
inutes,” as he turned to walk out of the room.

  “Thanks, Boss Edgecomb,” Randall said over his shoulder. He called every guard Boss Edgecomb, after the lead character in Stephen King’s The Green Mile. The guard did not pause but shook his head as he left the room and shut the door.

  Randall brought his shackled wrists up to his chest, opened up his right palm to face Jack, and rapidly oscillated his hand left and right, giving an overly enthusiastic wave, that sick smile still stuck on his face. The gesture reminded Jack of another character (also portrayed by Tom Hanks): the simple-minded Forest Gump. Jack couldn’t be fooled, though; Randall Franklin was anything but simple-minded.

  Jack picked up the telephone from its hook to his left. Randall grabbed his too, though it required slightly more effort because of his handcuffs. Jack was pretty sure that the handcuffs were not part of protocol; he surmised that the guards cuffed Randall during these visits as a small act of retribution for what an annoying prick he was.

  “Hello, Randall,” Jack said flatly.

  Randall did not reply at first, his face frozen in that smile. He stared at Jack as a teenager ogled his classroom crush. Finally, he pursed his lips, presenting a façade of seriousness. “How’s the book coming?”

  “Slowly,” Jack answered. “But we’re making progress.”

  “Good! That’s good… good news, that. What news have you on the Whalen kidnapping?” Every so often Randall used this faux-British sentence structure. It irritated the shit out of Jack.

  Jack’s end of his deal with Randall entailed coming to these monthly meetings and bringing the details of an active case from his FBI division. Randall wanted a part in Jack’s work, a role to play in Jack’s investigations. As he had suggested during their negotiation (if one could call it that), Randall would play Hannibal Lector to Jack’s Clarice Starling.