by Mark Stone
"Police!" I yelled, still slamming my hand against the door. "Police! Open the door!" I kept slamming my hand against the door. "Rita! It's Dillon Storm. Open the doo—”
A loud smash came from inside and I jerked. I wasn't going to wait anymore. I had probable cause to go in this place and I wasn't going to hesitate anymore. I was determined that no one else was going to get hurt because of whatever the hell was going on here.
The door was unlocked, which didn't surprise me. Though Father Jameson had always been reserved about the specifics of his life before coming to Naples, he always had an open-door policy when it came to the church and his house.
Walking through the door, I heard the shouting continue. Following the sound, I walked through the living room, which would have looked downright tranquil if not for the confrontation going on in the next room. Father Jameson was a neat person, tidy to a fault. This place barely looked lived in as I walked through it.
"Rita!" I yelled, taking the two steps up to the split-level bedroom from where the noise was sounding.
Rounding the corner, I saw that the door to Father Jameson's bedroom was open. I saw shards of a plate broken on the floor and the far closet swung open.
"I don't know who the hell you think you are!" Rita screamed, her voice raspy. "But you will leave this place immediately!"
"The hell I will!" the male voice answered.
I picked up speed, jogging toward the bedroom doorway and going through it. For as put together as the living room was, Father Jameson's bedroom looked like a disaster area. The mattress was tossed upright, the drawers were pulled out and their contents spilled on the floor, and the closet had been ransacked.
Rita stood there in the center of the destroyed room, tears in her eyes. Beside her, going through a dresser drawer with gusto, was Father Jameson's brother.
"Mr. Jameson?" I asked, looking over the area with wide eyes.
The dark-haired man, shorter and rounder than his brother had ever been, pulled upright, looking at me with shock.
"You called the police?" he asked, looking over to Rita.
"You're damned right I did," the slender blonde said, folding her arms over her chest and nodding at me. "Father Jameson might have been your blood, but he was my friend, and I'll be damned if I let you go through his things with them hands before his body is even in the ground."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back, seemingly too proud to let them fall.
"He's my brother!" the man shouted. "What's his is mine! If it belongs to Edward, then it goes to me!"
"That's not necessarily true," I said, feeling instinctively protective both of the woman in the room and the memory of the man who used to live in it. "I'm not a lawyer, but I do enough to know that due process has to be enacted before goods can be split up." I looked from Rita to the man and back again. "Did Father Jameson leave a will?"
"Not that I could find," Rita admitted. "But it still doesn't give him the right to—”
"You're right," I said calmly, holding my hand out to stop her. "Will or not, you're going to have to wait for an assessor to come and go through his things." I shook my head, looking around at the mess on the floor. "Though it looks like that bit of advice might be too little too late." I narrowed my eyes. "You looking for something specific, sir?"
I knew the answer to that. This man was obviously after something and, judging by the way he'd turned this place upside down, he was desperate to get it. Though, what that might be was a mystery to me. Like most priests, Father Jameson was a simple man. He'd taken a vow of poverty, meaning he didn't have many belongings, and certainly nothing that warranted a reaction like this.
"I didn't know my brother very well," the man said.
"And whose fault is that?" Rita asked, scoffing.
"Rita, please!" I said, holding my hand out again. "I don't think I got your name when we met at the hospital, sir."
"Elliot," he answered quickly but snappishly. "Elliot Jameson." He looked down at the area as though he was seeing the damage he had inflicted for the first time. His hands went to his head. "I'm sorry. My mind has been a bit all over the place lately."
"I understand that," I answered softly. "I can only imagine what you're going through, but Rita here is right. Mourning doesn't give you the right to march in here as though you own the place, especially when we're all mourning here." I looked back at Rita and thought of the tears in her eyes, wondering if there were tears starting to brew in mine as well. "And I'm sorry to ask this, but I'm struggling to understand why you might think not knowing your brother very well gives you more standing here."
"Because," Elliot answered, his voice cracking. "It was a mistake. Our father wasn't a good person. He was hard on us, hard to the point of being abusive. I had to get out of there the instant I turned eighteen. I just had to." I shook my head. "I didn't mean to leave Edward there with that monster, but I was young too. I wanted his forgiveness. I wanted us to be close, but I do understand why he didn't want that. If he'd have done to me what I did to him, if he'd have left me, I likely wouldn't have been able to forgive him either."
"He told me," Rita said, swallowing hard. "He was a private man, but he did tell me about his father one night. He didn't mention you though."
"That doesn't surprise me," Elliot said. "He trusted me. So, in a way, what I did hurt him more." He sighed loudly. "I heard my brother kept journals. That's all I want. If they're here, I just want to read what he wrote, to know him in a way I never got to when he was alive." He shook his head. "Is that too much to ask?"
"That's not for me to say," I answered, my heart bleeding for the guy. "I know about bad fathers, but Father Jameson isn't here to say what he would or wouldn't want, and I'm afraid I don't have the authority to guess at that. Like I said, it has to go through legal channels." I looked over at Rita. "Though I can't imagine anyone would balk at giving you a journal or two."
"If I can find it," Rita said, looking at the man with softer eyes now. "I'll give it to you, I'll send it over."
"I would appreciate that," he answered. "Now, I'll clean this up if you'd like."
"Just leave it," I said. "I'll do it myself." I looked around the place again. "I used to come see your brother from time to time, especially when I felt like I needed help or guidance. I think I need it now more than maybe ever before. He's not here though." I bent down and started cleaning up. "So this is the best I can do."
Chapter 21
"Anything?" I asked, walking into Emma's office and basically collapsing onto the chair across from her desk. This had been a long and trying day for all of us, and our forensic examiner was no exception to that. She had been dealing with bodies and crime scenes ever since we found Archer hanging from the ceiling of that abandoned house, and the incident at the hospital sent her into overdrive.
She had been looking over not only the body of the gunman responsible for shooting up the hospital, but also of the poor resident who lost his life in the basement and, sadly, of Father Jameson himself.
"Lots," she answered, talking through a mouthful of sandwich and looking up at me.
I felt bad as I stared at her. As hard as I worked, Emma seemed to work just as hard if not harder. Her job required late nights and more than a few suppers out of a sack. Certainly, her husband wished she was around more, that they could share this meal and probably many others. I was also sure he was used to it by now though, the way my grandfather was used to me not coming in until late at night a lot of the time or bailing on plans whenever something pressing came up.
Emma sat the sandwich down, wiped her mouth, and rubbed her tired eyes. "I got prints off the gunman. Took a few hours, but he's in the system." She slid a paper over to me. The gunman, a few years younger, was posed from a mug shot, his lips twisted into the sort of smug smile I had seen from a lot of petty criminals over the years. It was predictable. Half the people you arrested wanted to show you how unaffected they were, how above the drama of all of it they
believed themselves to be. Didn't stop the cuffs from fitting though.
"Quinten Jacobson. Forty-seven-year-old Army vet. He did a tour of overseas during Desert Storm. Fell off the radar for a bit after he returned and only resurfaced when he was picked up five years ago for running drugs across the border." She shook her head. "It's a shame what happens to vets."
"I'm not going to deny that they should be treated better, but wrong is wrong, Emma. My grandfather was in the service too. I don't see him selling drugs," I answered.
"Not that it matters, but he wasn't selling them," she answered. "At least, not according to his plea deal. He claims to have just been running them for a friend who was in the business." She nodded. "Though I see your point."
"It's not my only point," I continued. "Seeing where he ended up, I doubt he stopped running. I've got it on good authority that all of this is about an expanding drug ring, and this just points to that further. He was never picked up again?"
"No," Emma admitted. "Though that doesn't mean he stopped. Just that he—”
"Got better at it,' I answered.
"Or got connected with smarter people," Emma said. "In any event, I found traces of radiation in his system that would match someone being treated for the sort of advanced cancer he's supposed to have." She shook her head again. "That's not all I found in his system. I guess runners are also samplers, but it's definitely enough to verify the claim that he was dying." She sighed. "I honestly don't see how he was standing given the state his body was in."
"I'm guessing the drugs helped with that," I replied. "Not that I have to guess about this, but where was this shining example of humanity's greatness from?"
She smiled. "Fort Myers, of course. Your hunch was right. Also, you were right about his hand too. That weird tattoo was right where you said it would be. Guess all your hunches are paying off today."
"Not so much a hunch as a pattern as wide as the gulf," I answered. "And the resident? I'm guessing his body matched the others?"
She nodded. "There were signs of a struggle as well as marking indicating the noose was used before it strangled him to death. He didn't kill himself."
I knew as much. It was as clear as the fact that an unconscious Father Jameson couldn't have killed himself either. I was dealing with something else, with someone else. And that led me to my next issue.
"What about the other thing I asked you to look into?" I asked.
"The Hangman?" she asked. "I looked into it, called a couple of friends I knew from school who live up in those parts. They had never heard of him, but then again, they're pretty upstanding people."
"So was Father Jameson," I answered. "Didn't stop him from coming into contact with him."
"Which is why I pressed further," she answered. "I have a friend at the morgue up there. I called asking if he had seen any strange suicides, ones that might match the oddities on the bodies we've come across lately."
"And what did he say?" I asked, sitting up a little in my chair.
"He said he had," she answered. "He didn't think a lot of it. Fort Myers is a bit different than Naples. Crime is higher. The suicide rate is too." She cleared her throat. "There was something that made this particular body stand out to him though, something that made this suicide strange aside from the extra markings."
"And what would that be?" I asked, my jaw tightening.
"The victim," she started. "The person who killed himself and left those markings on his body, was a priest."
"You're not serious," I said, swallowing hard, my hands balling into fists.
"I wish I wasn't," she answered. "I had my friend send me over the autopsy reports and photos. I looked at them myself. You can too if you think your stomach can handle it."
"It probably could, but I don't think it’s necessary," I responded. "I trust you, and I think I know what you're going to say anyway."
"The pattern was the same. The priest in Fort Myers, Father Fred Aldridge, looks to have been killed the same way the others were. Same markings on the neck, indicating the same practice and maybe even the same assailant."
"All of it is connected," I answered, standing up and huffing loudly.
"Obviously," she said, standing to meet me. "But to what end?"
"Drugs," I said. "At least, that's what my connection says."
"Are you insinuating that a priest up in Fort Myers and, worse still, Father Jameson were involved in selling drugs somehow?"
"No," I said. "At least, I hope not, but my connection hasn't been wrong or lying about anything else." I shook my head. "I have to figure out what's going on here if I'm ever going to get justice for Father Jameson and the others."
"Should I make a call to Fort Myers, get their chief of police on the line." She shrugged. "It's not technically my job, but I definitely don't mind."
"No," I said quickly, raising a hand to stop her. "There's a chance the police up there are involved. At least some of them."
Emma narrowed her eyes, scoffing. "Of course, they are." She folded her arms over her chest. "Do I even wanna know what you're planning to do?"
"Me?" I asked, setting my jaw. "I'm not planning on doing anything. I'm going to get in my car and take a relaxing drive up the coast. If I happen to pull over somewhere for gas or food, I might take it upon myself to take a look around."
"Fort Myers isn't like Naples, Dillon," Emma said sternly. "It can get dangerous up there. It can get sketchy."
"And things haven't been sketchy here lately?" I asked, glaring at her.
"Not like that," she said. "Gangs, drugs, crime; it can be the order of the day up there sometimes." She shrugged. "At least, that's what I've heard."
"I appreciate the concern, Emma, but I'm a big boy," I said, nodding. "A big boy who spent the last decade up in Chicago. I know a thing or two about gangs, drugs, and crime."
"Doesn't mean it's not dangerous," Emma answered. "Look, you said your contact told you whoever was behind this might be pulling out. They might be leaving Naples altogether. Why put yourself in this kind of danger if it's leaving our city anyway."
"Because it didn't leave it unscathed, Emma," I answered, not believing what I was hearing. "Because Father Jameson is dead. Because that resident is dead and because, even if they do leave our town, they're still going to screw with the lives of other innocent people." I stepped forward. "I understand that Fort Myers might not be the safest place in the world, but the people living in it still deserve protection. Especially if their own police force is compromised."
"Fine," she answered gruffly. "But you should call Boomer."
"Boomer has been through enough for the moment, Emma," I said, shaking my head. "And bringing him in changes things. He's the chief of police here. Him showing up in another city, stepping on the feet of county authorities would raise eyebrows and throw a wrench in what I hope is future prosecution."
"And you being there wouldn’t?" Emma asked with a raised eyebrow. "You're a detective here, every bit the representative that Boomer is."
"I told you," I said smiling. "I'm just going for a ride. You wouldn't expect me not to lend a helping hand if I happen to see something would you?"
She smiled herself, though it was a hesitant grin.
"Fair enough," she said. "Then I'm coming."
"You said yourself how dangerous this is," I answered. "You're not a police officer, and besides, you have work here that needs to be done." I nodded again. "You've done your part in this, Emma. You've done more than your part, and I appreciate it."
"Just my job," she answered flatly. "And, if I say so myself, it's not nearly as dangerous as yours. I get that you want to do this all alone, but I made a promise."
"A promise?' I asked, looking at her curiously.
"Do you remember the first time I babysat you, Dillon?" she asked, referring to the fact that she used to stay with me when I was a kid whenever my mom picked up an extra shift at the restaurant.
"Yeah," I answered. "You let me eat chocolate ice
cream for dinner and watch Nightmare on Elm Street."
In truth, the inappropriate meal and movie were only pieces of the reason I remembered Emma babysitting me with such detail. In truth, the first time I laid my nine-year-old eyes on her back then, I basically fell in love. She was older, sophisticated, and exotic; which was the say she was the first girl to have filled out who would actually talk to me. I stayed in love with her until I actually fell in love, until I met Charlotte. In truth though, I could still feel the familiar energy around this woman. I wasn't interested in her like that. Sure, she might have been beautiful, but she was also married. And besides, neither of us were the people we had been back then.
"That wasn't all I did," Emma said, smiling. "When she left to go to work, your mother told me that you were her whole world. She said you were the reason she lived and breathed and that, if anything ever happened to you, she wouldn't want to do either one for much longer." She blinked hard, possibly seeing the nostalgia and yearning that appeared on my face anytime my mother was brought up in conversation. "You know what I told her, Dillon?"
"Why don’t you tell me," I said, swallowing hard.
"I told her that nothing would happen to you," she said. "I told her that she didn't have anything to worry about and that, as long as I was around, you would be safe." She shook her head. "I promised her, Dillon, and her being dead doesn't absolve me of that promise."
I smiled a little reluctantly. "That's ridiculous," I said. "Though something tells me you already know that and don't care."
"You always were a smart boy," she answered, walking toward the door. "So, Dillon, when do we leave?"
Chapter 22
The hour it took to get up to Fort Myers flew by with Emma in my passenger seat. While I was still uneasy about her putting herself at risk by coming with me, I couldn't deny that having a familiar face with me made the journey a little easier to make.