Officer Jones

by Derek Ciccone

  Kyle trembled and began to sweat, despite the high-powered air conditioning. Thoughts of calling the police entered his mind, as did the idea of running to his truck and hightailing it out of town. But he couldn’t pull himself away from the macabre tale.

  I stifled a laugh while the divers frantically searched for him, as if there was a chance Leonard was still alive. My heart raced, but at the same time I felt so at peace. I could almost feel Kelly and Laura thanking me from heaven. It was truly the moment I was put on the planet for. I wish every day that my parents were still walking the earth, but that would be selfish of me. Because it was their tragic death that woke me to my destiny. From now to the end, I will mark July 4, 1989 with a sacrifice in their honor every Fourth of July.

  Kyle’s head spun out of control. Could this be some sort of delusion, or was it fiction? How could this be? Grady was weird, no question … but a killer? He backtracked pages and was drawn to another passage.

  September 4, 1995

  I have not written in this journal in over four years, but the actions of my roommate Kyle Jones and his girlfriend last night has caused my return. Ironically, it was Kyle who suggested I keep a journal, but what he didn’t know is that he’d sparked me to return to a dormant one.

  I thought the sacrifice of Timothy Kent would end the nightmares. But I learned in the last few days that it was just the beginning. The first sign came while watching a television program on a judge in North Carolina named Raymond Buford. Buford chose to defend the indefensible-drunk drivers. The second sign was Kyle arriving home after committing this very same act. I looked into his eyes that night and saw that he’d gone to the dark side. From protector to enabler, betraying the vow we made to fight for justice.

  Even though they didn’t participate in the direct murder of another, the crimes of Buford and Jones were worse-using their position of power to circumvent the enforcement of the drinking and driving laws. Laws that are too light, anyway. My mission, I now know, is to rid the world of this evil. Those like Buford and Jones must be stopped.

  Kyle read it again. Must be stopped. A lump formed inside his throat. Then a thin metal necklace wrapped around his neck. It was pulled back with strength and vengeance.

  Kyle looked back to see Grady Benson in a trance-like state, his hands shaking as he squeezed the last breaths out of him.

  Chapter 60

  Kyle Jones collapsed to the ground, the journal landing beside him.

  Batman had wanted to kill him on the Fourth of July, but Kyle’s unscheduled plan to relocate had forced his hand. He always took out his prey on the anniversary of their misdeeds, so that the day would never be forgotten. He also made an annual sacrifice to his parents on the anniversary of their murder-July 4-a date he saved for the most heinous of the predators. There was much plotting and planning, sometimes for years. So this improvisation didn’t feel right, even if it ended in proper fashion.

  Batman knelt beside Jones’ lifeless body. He caressed the silver necklace that he used to end his wretched life. It featured a locket that held photos of his parents. He had never felt so close to them.

  Batman struggled to control his emotions, as there was not a minute to waste. The first move was to resolve the renter situation. He wrote a letter to the landlord, indicating that both Grady and Kyle had re-enlisted in the Air Force and would be leaving immediately. He included six months’ rent and gave the landlord permission to keep the security deposit for the short notice. He signed Kyle’s signature, which he had become quite adept at, and was sure they would never hear from the happy landlord ever again.

  He rolled up Kyle’s body in a rug and packed it into the back of the pickup truck. Then did a final sweep of the house-luckily the orderly Kyle had done a brilliant job of packing. The place was spotless. After loading the final items, Batman took a seat behind the wheel, put on his aviator sunglasses, and headed toward his next mission.

  He would take on the identity of Kyle Jones from this point forward. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence that he’d been placed so close to a police officer who was so similar in look and build. He was chosen, as was Kyle, but he chose not to heed the call.

  As he drove across America, he couldn’t stop thinking of the day that began this journey. It was July 4, 1989, and he was stationed in Germany. He tagged along with a few other members of his squadron to a viewing of the top rated US movie at the time, Batman.

  He now knew it was a sign. Later that day he was called into his commander’s office and told of his parents’ murder. Just like Bruce Wayne, he would dedicate his life to fighting crime so nobody else had to go through what he did. He accepted his destiny, but understood that it would be a long and lonely road.

  That didn’t mean he didn’t have help along the way. Having access to a police officer like Kyle Jones allowed him to more easily research his targets, like providing him the location of Leonard Harris’ court ordered rehab. He had taken on Kyle’s identity on numerous occasions, including when he bought Flip Tompkins his final beer with the credit card he’d gotten in Kyle’s name. It might have been suspicious if Tompkins’ death hadn’t been ruled an accident.

  Now he would become Kyle Jones full time. He had all the essentials-social security card, credit cards, driver’s license. And access to Kyle’s savings, which had been enhanced by the blood money he accepted from his parents’ death. It should have been his first clue as to Kyle choosing to fight against him.

  The photo identification was passable, but he planned on updating it when he arrived at his destination. He would get photos taken in Kyle’s police uniform that was packed in the cab of the truck.

  He also brought along Kyle’s past-a box filled with numerous photos, including a picture of “Batman and Robin” in Iraq during Desert Storm that he signed for Kyle. Wingmen Forever. Although, he was painfully aware that nothing was forever.

  One photo he wanted to toss to the side of the road, was one in which he and Lucy were standing together in the backyard, straining smiles as Kyle took their photo. But he had no choice but to take it with. He looked forward to the day he would remove her from this world.

  He drove through the night, too excited to sleep until he landed on Ocracoke Island. The landing spot was not a coincidence. He knew Raymond Buford owned a vacation getaway on the island. He’d researched the judge extensively over the past year, gathering vital information, which he knew would make him easy prey.

  One of his first acts in Ocracoke was to purchase a sailboat. He took it out on Silver Lake his first night on the island. He thought that since his old friend Kyle was so into military history, he would be disposed of in the same way that the Lieutenant Naval Commander Maynard dealt with Blackbeard.

  It was unlikely that the body would ever be found, but if it was, it would be decomposed beyond recognition. Not that anyone would be looking for Kyle Jones anyway, since he wasn’t considered missing. But even if the body were discovered well preserved, murder by strangulation would be hard to prove. The only hope for investigators would be small hemorrhages under the skin, or a broken bone. He wasn’t worried by such a long shot.

  The next day he met with a realtor. She explained that it was the perfect time to buy, since the recent hurricanes had brought the prices down. But she assured him that government agencies would provide funding for a secure storm-proof room.

  The third house he saw was the one he had to have. It was one of the typical beach houses seen along the Carolina coastline. The realtor was surprised he would be so interested in a house on the less glamorous north shore. It wasn’t so much where it was, but who’s home it was near.

  The man now known as Kyle Jones first made contact with his new neighbor Judge Raymond Buford while walking alone on the tranquil beach, two days after he purchased his home. Buford was standoffish at first. But when he hinted at his true intent, Buford became friendlier.

  During his intensive research, he’d uncovered a secret that the macho, Civil War loving judge
went to great lengths to keep from the world-that his vacation home on Ocracoke was purchased to pursue the company of young men, away from the watchful eyes of his wife and colleagues.

  The timing was perfect, as Buford had just come off a breakup with a police officer named Ron Culver. He earned the judge’s trust, to the point that he revealed his role in a cover-up of a crime so revolting that Benson vowed to bring all involved to justice. And when he did, the date of the crime would be marked each year by future generations, as a reminder that good will always prevail over evil in the end. And a warning to those who choose to prey on the innocent.

  The date was October 10.

  Chapter 61

  Outer Banks, North Carolina

  October 3-present

  For the fifteen-gazillionth time since I left Charleston, I called Christina. This time she picked up.

  “This better be good,” she answered.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Is this a booty call?”

  “If you don’t tell me where you were I’m gonna kick your booty out on the street.”

  She sighed. “I was at the library studying, and had my cell off. I have a big test tomorrow … can you get to the point?”

  “I need you to find out every bit of information you can on a Grady Benson. All I know about him is he worked for the Arizona Cardinals in the mid-nineties, and he had a relationship with a player named Leonard Harris. I also need anything you can find that connects him with Jones-so far, I know they were in the Air Force together.”

  “Who is this guy?” Christina asked, suddenly interested-the future reporter in her shining through.

  “He killed my brother.”

  “I thought that Jones dude killed your brother?”

  “I was wrong.”

  A long silence came from her end of the line. “Christina?”

  Silence

  “Christina?”

  “Sorry, I had to pick myself off the floor. It must be early because I thought I heard JP Warner say he was wrong.”

  “Just get me the information and call me on the cell ASAP!”

  “And where exactly would I be calling?” she asked

  “I’m heading to North Carolina to pick up Carter.”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot you two Neanderthals are still on your JP is a Jealous Idiot tour. You should print up some T-shirts.”

  “I don’t have time for this. Just get me the information,” I thought I got in the last word.

  But Christina was smart enough to realize being a pushover in this situation might lead to more early morning calls. She was going to make me work for it. “I always thought you were just a typical pissed off old guy, JP. But now I understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “How much stuff you have bottled up inside you. Just tell Gwen you love her and get it over with. The whole overprotective, stalking, passive-aggressive thing you’re trying to pull off is not big with the ladies.”

  This time she got the last word by hanging up on me. She was getting better at this.

  Chapter 62

  I continued to drive through the wee hours of the morning. My mind had been on Benson since I’d left Charleston, but now my thoughts were only with Gwen. Our last contact was on Saturday night when she claimed to be out on the lake with him. I got no answer all day Sunday. I would have called in the FBI, CIA, and military to locate her, but I’d burned too many bridges to expect a helping hand. And Carter-her supposed bodyguard-was employing his usual communication avoidance tactics. He was really starting to piss me off.

  I entered the Outer Banks at just after five in the morning. The sun began to rise over the Atlantic, cutting through the morning fog. My stomach growled; still craving the Mama Jasper’s dinner that I’d missed out on. I drove straight to Sloopy Joe’s, which was where I was supposed to meet Carter in about fourteen hours. But with my Grady Benson discovery, the game plan changed.

  I purchased a copy of the Ocracoker from a metal box outside, before “walking the plank” to enter. Once inside, I took a seat in a corner booth and opened my paper. The front page featured a story on the still-unsolved murder of Senator Craig Kingsbury. It might have been the biggest story in the Outer Banks since the Wright Brothers’ first flight. I was just glad that there were no stories about an unidentified woman being fished out of the lake.

  I ordered a plate of pancakes and did some people-watching, while plotting my next move. I eavesdropped on a group of older men in the booth beside me who were talking proudly about what they deemed a safer time-World War II. But my mind kept returning to the present. I worried for Gwen’s safety, and cursed Carter under my breath.

  The ring of my phone interrupted my thoughts.

  “Oh my god, JP!” Christina screamed from the other end. “I have his military file in front of me, which includes his official photo. Jones is Benson!”

  “How about telling me something I don’t know,” I replied with disinterest. But truth be told, I was impressed that she was able to get his file. I had come up empty with my military sources.

  “Grady Benson is forty-two years old. Born and raised in a suburb of San Diego. He’s an only child. Following high school he joined the Air Force, and flew bombing missions during the first Gulf War. About this time, his father took a job with Boeing in the Seattle area. His parents were killed … can you guess how?”

  Nothing new, except he was a few years older than I thought. “Let me take a wild stab-drunk driving?”

  “Well done, JP. As strange as it is to say, that’s the good news. The bad news is the driver was a juvenile, so his records are sealed.”

  “Whoever he was, I’ll bet he’s dead. Keep working to see if you can get a name. What was the date of the accident?” I asked to strange stares and whispers. Now the breakfast crowd was eavesdropping on me.

  I could hear Christina typing away. “I know it was 1989, let me check on the month.” She quickly found it. “July 4.”

  I tried to locate a pattern. Leeds was killed on the Fourth of July, but Noah was September. It was still not a connected dot.

  “When was Leonard Harris killed?”

  Christina continued providing information, “According to an article I found, he gave Benson credit for turning his life around, calling him his spiritual adviser. His death was ruled an accident due to carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “That so-called turnaround in his life was necessary because Harris hit two Arizona State students while under the influence of alcohol, killing them. Do you still think it was an accident?”

  “Leonard Harris died on July 4, 1996. People sure seem to be accident prone on Independence Day.”

  “Was Benson present when Harris died?”

  “I’m a college student with access to my landlord’s computer, and a couple of data networks, not an intelligence officer.”

  “When life gives you lemons…”

  “Ask for the salt and tequila.”

  “What I really need to know is when did Benson become Jones, and is there a real Kyle Jones out there who’s had his identity stolen?”

  Christina emailed a copy of the Air Force photos to my phone. I saw why Kyle Jones would be the perfect target for Benson. They had similar looks and backgrounds. My best guess was they met in the Air Force, and Christina soon confirmed my theory.

  “Benson and Jones were together at a couple of stops along the way, and flew together in the Gulf War. Their last stop together in the military was at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona, where they were stationed for a couple of years. After being discharged, Jones became a police officer in the neighboring town of Gilbert and rented a house on Ash Street.”

  “I know all about Jones,” I said impatiently. “I need more about Benson. And is there any way to connect them besides their military service?”

  “I’m looking at some phone and electric bills from the late 90s. Guess who also lived in the house on Ash?”

  I smiled. “Benson.”
>
  “And they say you are washed up.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “When did they move out?”

  “Neither of them was the owner of the home, so I assume they were renting. The owner’s name was Joseph Brock, he sold the house back in 2003. The final bills from either Benson or Jones-electric, phone, cable-connected to the Ash residence was June of 1998. Coincidentally, Kyle Jones bought a house on Ocracoke Island in North Carolina later that same month.”

  “Have you found any record of Grady Benson after he moved out?”

  “He’s totally off the grid, so unless he is living Unabomber-style up in parts unknown, my guess is Benson stole Jones’ identity, and then got rid of the real Kyle Jones,” Christina said, but then thought for a moment. “Or do you think they are working in tandem?”

  I’d never thought about that possibility. Jones did seem to be everywhere, and moved with the speed of two men. But I chose to concentrate on what we did know.

  We now had visual proof that Benson was Jones, and could make a reasonable assumption that Real Jones was no longer, but had no proof of such. It was also confirmed that Benson’s parents were killed by a drunk driver, which would provide his motive. A nice start, but there were many more questions, and to answer them I would have to follow the Murray philosophy-return to the beginning of the story to figure out the ending.

  Chapter 63

  I loaded the Humvee onto the Hatteras Dock ferry for the forty-minute trip to Ocracoke. The morning looked brilliant, but out on the choppy water a brisk wind was knifing through me. The warm sunlight on my face was the lone thing keeping it bearable. I caught my reflection in the window of a neighboring vehicle, and I barely recognized myself-I looked like I hadn’t slept in a month. But there was no time to rest until I got to Gwen.