Officer Jones

by Derek Ciccone

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but when I was still on the Gilbert PD, I got a call to a domestic dispute at the house on Ash, a few years after Kyle left. I noticed that the new owners had put a pool in the backyard. If there was a dead body buried back there it would have been found.”

  I tried to act like I wasn’t even fazed that my theory just got completely blown out of the water.

  I asked her about the Labor Day incident in which Benson attacked her and Jones after they’d allegedly driven drunk. She provided a similar account as Chief Dahl, but with the detail of an eyewitness.

  “He apologized to me a few days later,” she added.

  “What was your reaction?”

  “I was furious. It was just another play to keep his free rent.” She became more and more worked-up as she talked about it. “So Grady took me aside one day and gave me a lame excuse for his behavior.”

  “What was his explanation?”

  “He told me he was watching a news program earlier in the night about some judge who let off drunk drivers. He claimed it brought back the bad memories of his parents’ death, and when combined with our actions that night, made him temporarily lose his mind.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “It didn’t make a difference. His behavior was unacceptable, regardless. We were wrong to drink and drive, no doubt, but who appointed him judge and jury? Kyle, of course, felt empathy for him and kept procrastinating about kicking him out, as he’d promised me. Their relationship caused a big split with us, and we broke up a few months later. It wasn’t the only reason, but it did play a role.”

  “So you weren’t around when Benson took Leonard Harris under his wing?”

  Lucy snickered. “I just know it was some nonsense about being his spiritual adviser. It was typical Grady Benson-using people’s emotions to get himself a free ride.”

  At that point, Dani rose from the pool and sprinted toward our table. Lucy wrapped a towel around her and headed for the house. I gathered the half-empty lemonade glasses and pitcher, and followed.

  When the little girl entered her room to change, Lucy said, “What you tell me is disconcerting, to say the least. I am no fan of Grady Benson and wouldn’t put anything past him. So I’ll help you find Kyle. But everything you tell me is at best circumstantial. You have to get a lot more proof.”

  “But you would agree it was within the realm of possibility that Grady Benson could have killed Kyle Jones?”

  Her voice cracked, “I’m sure of it.”

  I was surprised by the resolute response. She had no reason to stick her toe back in the troubled waters of the past.

  “Based on Benson’s pattern, I’m glad he never got to you,” I said.

  Lucy looked down the hallway, staring at Dani’s room, probably thinking of when someone calling themselves Kyle Jones contacted her two years ago. She then surprised me by opening up a kitchen drawer and pulling out a handgun. “I will do anything to protect my family, Mr. Warner.”

  Point taken. And loaded.

  A loud male voice suddenly filled the room, causing me to turn quickly. “Is everything okay in here?” said a very large man.

  But there were no shots fired. It was her husband, Larry, who just returned from a long day at his pool cleaning business. She went to him and wrapped around him in an emotional hug. It made me think of Gwen.

  I found Larry to be surprisingly calm, considering a strange man was in the kitchen with his wife, and she was holding a firearm.

  “Everything is fine, honey. I’d like you to meet JP Warner.”

  Larry and I shook hands, and he affably offered me a beer. But it was time for me to leave and take the troubling past with me. When Dani ran to the kitchen, shouting “Daddy, you’re home!” my presence officially became an afterthought. So I slipped out of the house without anyone noticing.

  Once I got to the car, I called Christina. She wasn’t home and didn’t answer her cell, but I left a message to check on television news programs the Sunday before Labor Day in 1995. Especially one about a judge with a habit of giving light sentences to drunk drivers.

  Chapter 68

  I headed for Lake Havasu City. The ride would be over two hundred miles and I wanted to make it there before dark. I originally planned to do some digging at Luke Air Force Base-Benson and Jones’ old stomping grounds-but scrapped the idea. JP Warner was the last person anyone in the US military would be divulging information to.

  I was driving through the town of Parker, situated on the northern corner of the Colorado River, nestled between the Sonora desert and rugged mountains, when Christina called.

  “Do you have the information I asked for?” I greeted her.

  “Sure do, boss.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “You know that glass table in the living room?”

  “Yes,” I said, not liking where this was headed.

  “Do you really like it?”

  “What happened to my table?”

  “It’s not important JP. What’s important is that nobody got hurt.”

  I sighed. “Just make sure it’s fixed when I get back. So did you find the news program I asked for, or not?”

  “I did, but I was surprised you needed to ask me for it. You would think you would’ve remembered it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because it was your report. On the Sunday before Labor Day in 1995, GNZ and their dashing young reporter did a segment about a Judge Raymond Buford from North Carolina. Buford was from the school of ‘drinking and driving is only a problem when you spill your drink.’ Nobody really noticed until a guy named Craig Steele, a repeat offender whom Buford kept sending away with a light tap on the wrist, killed an entire family that was traveling on vacation.”

  The report was starting to come back to me, but the details were a little hazy. But what was very clear, was that it had set Benson off.

  “It gets better,” Christina continued. “Buford owned a home on Ocracoke Island just down the street from … guess who?”

  “How did Buford die?”

  Christina began to chuckle. “Let’s just say the judge had an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “I would say an embarrassing one. Ever hear of auto-erotic asphyxia?”

  I thought for a moment, wondering if it was a name of one of those crazy bands she listens to. “Doesn’t ring a bell, no.”

  “Well, it’s a solo sex act where the participant constricts air flow to heighten the pleasure during orgasm. But I’m guessing the fact that Judge Buford accidentally hung himself made it less pleasurable.”

  I continued to be puzzled. “How could that heighten the pleasure?”

  Christina laughed again. “I have no idea. All I know is those things you guys carry around make you do some strange things.”

  I got back on track. “What was the date Buford died?”

  “This is where the plot thickens a little. All the others were on Benson’s favorite holiday-the one with the fireworks-but the judge died on October 10, 1998.”

  I tried to think of any significance of the date. “Was Steele the only one who caused a fatality after Buford let them off?”

  “I didn’t find any besides Steele.”

  “Was his accident on October 10?”

  “Nope-April. He only received a six month suspended sentence and probation for killing the family, thanks to a clean record that was helped by Buford continually letting him plead to lesser traffic violations, which I’m sure Benson didn’t take kindly to. He moved to Panama City, but must not have been able to kick the habit because he crashed into a telephone pole on July 4, 1998. The police report indicated they thought it was a suicide because there were no skid marks, but after they saw the blood work, they decided he had passed out behind the wheel due to alcohol consumption.”

  A suicide. Just like Noah. My blood began to boil. “Good work. Anything else?”

  “I was able to obtain a copy of the
sealed documents from the settlement Kyle Jones received for his parents’ death.”

  “Since Jones is no longer a suspect, and likely a victim himself, I’m not sure how that would help.”

  “I thought it might add some insight into the Benson/Jones relationship. Just got it like two minutes ago, so I haven’t had time to even look at them yet. If I find anything interesting I’ll email you the PDFs.”

  I found a receipt from my fast-food lunch and jotted down Benson’s 1998 timeline. He likely killed Real Jones in May, moved to Ocracoke, took care of Steele on his favorite holiday, and finally his new neighbor, Judge Buford, on October 10. It was a busy year.

  “Anything else before you hang up on me?” Christina asked.

  “Yeah, keep trying to find a connection to October 10.”

  Chapter 69

  When I arrived in Lake Havasu, I went directly to the office of Kelly Dumas, the deputy sheriff who worked the Leonard Harris case. Luckily for me, it seemed that nobody in Arizona ever changed jobs.

  Kelly stood to greet me. She was a plain but pretty woman with a boyish bowl cut. But what caught my attention was her height-she towered over me.

  We exchanged pleasantries, but I could tell she was less than enthused by my visit, especially at this late hour. I took a seat facing her cluttered desk and noticed a bumper sticker push-pinned to a cork bulletin-board behind her: I know I’m tall-please don’t ask me if I play basketball. I saw my icebreaker.

  “So do you play basketball?” I asked with a smile

  “As a matter of fact I played for Northern Arizona University. Three time all Big Sky Conference.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  My niceties didn’t fool her. “Did you come here to discuss my basketball career? My guess is you’re here to discuss the only two issues the national media is interested in talking to me about. So is it MTV Spring Break or Leonard Harris?”

  “MTV Spring Break? I can’t watch that crap-it makes me feel two hundred years old,” I replied with another smile.

  “So what do you want to know about Mr. Harris’ death?”

  “I would like to know why your department called it an accident when it was a homicide?”

  She looked annoyed. “Unless you have some evidence I wasn’t privileged to see, that’s a baseless claim. And you’re wasting my time.”

  She opened a file drawer and pulled out the folders from the Harris case. The fact that they were so accessible after all these years told me that it must come up often.

  I scanned through the reports. The folder was littered with pictures of Harris’ corpse that made my stomach queasy. It also contained sworn statements from the many witnesses. I searched until I found the statement given by Grady Benson and skimmed it.

  “I notice you weren’t present at the crime scene?” I said, trying to buy time while I looked through the records.

  “Mr. Warner, it’s late, so I’ll make this fast. It was the Fourth of July and there was only one of me. I usually traveled to an incident with the dive team, but it was impossible that night. The only thing out of the ordinary in this case was that one of the persons who died was a famous athlete. Besides that, it was a textbook carbon monoxide poisoning case. And if you read further into the reports, you’ll see that the coroner backed up the finding at the scene.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “A UNLV student died on a houseboat in the same manner last year and nobody shows up here to discuss it.”

  “How can you be so sure no foul play was involved?”

  “First of all, the way Mr. Harris and Ms. McCarron died-she was also a victim, but people seem to forget that-the bodies were in the semi-fetal position with legs loosely drawn up. Their arms were pulled close to the chest with hands limp and palms down. Do you know what that means?”

  I felt like I was in eighth grade math class and forgot to do my homework. “Um … no.”

  “It means it was a textbook accidental drowning. And when the toxicology tests came back, we found that Harris had a gas content in his body of fifty-nine percent, while Candi McCarron’s was fifty-two.”

  “Is that high?”

  “It’s a hundred percent fatal.”

  “So he and Candi would have died regardless, even if they were on dry land?”

  “The gas likely made them woozy, or pass out, which led to their drowning. The water was the final nail in their coffins.”

  “But how did they know this at the scene? My guess is this thing is rare.”

  Kelly shook her head. “I wish you were right, but over the last two decades there has been an epidemic of carbon monoxide poisonings on houseboats. Nine people have died here and six up at Lake Powell in the last seven years. That doesn’t include the many who had to be hospitalized.”

  I never heard of anything like this. But I had a feeling that Grady Benson was well aware of it.

  Kelly held up the photographs of Leonard Harris and Candi McCarron’s naked bodies. “Notice the blood around their mouths and dripping from their noses. And how their skin is splotched a cherry red color-it’s textbook carbon monoxide poisoning. Our divers knew the minute they found them.”

  I picked up the photos and was drawn to the before-and-after pictures of Candi McCarron, whom I’d never seen before. The “before” showed stunning beauty, looking like a stereotypical California blonde. The one taken after her trip to the bottom of the lake was equally stunning, but not very beautiful. I made a mental note to research any connection she might have to a drunk driving fatality.

  I found a copy of the rental agreement in the file folder, and as expected, Grady Benson’s signature was on it. His spiritual adviser had rented the boat for the party.

  “Would it be possible for me to talk to the lead diver in this case? The one who was first on the scene,” I asked.

  The vibrating sound of Kelly Dumas’ phone stole her attention. She looked at it and cringed.

  “Looks like you’ll get your chance, Mr. Warner.”

  Chapter 70

  The situation centered on a houseboat in Copper Canyon, a secluded cove that was a favorite spot of houseboaters. A father and two young children took a ski boat out over two hours ago and hadn’t been seen since.

  Either they had some sort of mechanical trouble and were floating around the lake, or this exercise would be about body recovery. There was no time to waste, and in what seemed like microseconds, I was standing in front of a dive locker in the marina, putting on a black wet suit.

  Jerry Sidwell headed the dive team. A tall, fit man who looked like he lived in a gym, despite being in his late fifties. The pace was hurried, but I didn’t notice any panic. I helped with what I could, loading their dive tanks, buoyancy compensators, and vests. Once the entire crew was on board, the boat sprinted from the dock, hopping over the dark, choppy water.

  I was surprised that Sidwell took time out of his duties to approach me. “Kelly told me that you had questions about the Leonard Harris drowning.”

  “I do, but are you sure you don’t want to discuss it later?”

  “I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years. I know every inch of this lake and what we’re up against. So I need something to take my mind off what we might find tonight. So what do you want to know?”

  “Anything you remember might be helpful.”

  “I recall that it was a worst-case scenario that night from our standpoint. We couldn’t use the helicopter because of the lightning. Plus, it was Fourth of July, so we were short on manpower.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “Nope. The minute I heard the call I knew it was the generators. They were already gone.”

  “So you arrived at the scene with a pre-conceived notion of the outcome? Is it possible that you didn’t investigate all angles of the death because in your mind you already knew what happened?”

  “No,” the self-assured Sidwell replied. He peered out into the black water, maybe seeing the ghosts of rescues past.

  “Kelly
was telling me about this carbon monoxide problem on these houseboats. Is that what you mean by generators?”

  The body language of the divers turned tense-I realized they were nearing their target. Sidwell and I were the only ones still talking.

  “There’s a place beneath the swimming deck on many of the old houseboats where swimmers often like to play. It’s also the place where many of these boats vent their exhaust. We call it the death zone.”

  “So that’s where you think Leonard Harris and the girl were?”

  Sidwell nodded grimly. “Witnesses said Harris came up for air and attempted to yell for help, but then he was sucked down like an anchor. The witnesses on the boat thought he was joking around. But it was no joke. It was very typical of these tragedies.

  “The girl never made it out. Makes sense, since he was much bigger and stronger. He could absorb more fumes. That area with the fumes is usually a private area where couples like to go to be alone. My guess is that they were likely in the heat of passion and didn’t even know they were dying.”

  “So if someone knew about this ‘death zone,’ they could theoretically lead a victim there if they wanted to kill them, and make it seem like an accident.”

  “It’s possible, I guess.”

  “So how come nobody has done anything about this problem?”

  “I thought a high-profile death such as Leonard Harris would bring some attention to it. But nothing has changed. The owners complained about the cost to upgrade. And even when I offered to test the CM levels in houseboats at no charge, most declined because it was an inconvenience. Everything happens to somebody else.”

  “I know it was a long time ago, but do you remember a man named Grady Benson? He was one of the people on the boat the night Harris drowned.”

  The name grabbed his attention, which surprised me. I had thought it was a major long-shot. He looked directly at me for the first time in moments. “Yeah, I know him-he was friends with Harris. After the accident he wanted to become an advocate to make houseboats safer. We worked together in many cases.”