by David Bishop
Jack knocked. A second rap got no response. Ann stepped beside the door and hung a lanyard around her neck and hooked her badge onto it.
A modest breeze slapped Jack’s pant cuffs as he walked across the small dew covered lawn and around the garage to the side of the duplex. At the back he stepped onto a modest-sized patio and moved past a small table with two chairs. Despite his car being in the garage, there were no signs of anyone inside the unit. He called Ann’s cell.
“No sign of life from the back either. If he’s home, it doesn’t show.”
“Could still be asleep.”
Jack nodded before saying, “I’m going back to the side I came around. Maybe I can see through one of the windows. Stay on the line so I won’t have to shout if something happens.”
The drape pulled over the first window was an open-weave. Jack brought his cell to his mouth. “The rear corner window looks into the living room and beyond into an open kitchen. No one’s in view. The TV’s off and there’s no light on the coffeepot.” He moved to the next window which was open about six inches. The drape tossed some in the gentle breeze. He waited until the drape moved a bit more. “He, well some guy, is inside on the bed. Looks unnatural. I’m going to tap on the window.”
The person on the bed didn’t respond. Jack rapped a second time. Still nothing. He leaned down and lined his mouth up with the screen exposed below the raised window. “Hey! You, inside. On the bed. Hey!” He banged the end of his metal money clip against the glass and said it again. Not wanting to roust the neighbors, Jack used his hands to cup his mouth and direct his voice in through the screen. The guy on the bed remained still. There were no bottles or glasses on the nightstand.
“Ann, we’re going in. I’ll force the backdoor and come through to let you in.”
“Confirm.”
Jack returned to the rear door. He saw no deadbolt piercing the narrow opening between the door and the frame. He stepped back to kick it in, then stopped. He grabbed a padded seat cushion off one of the two chairs on the patio, put it against the sectioned pane of glass nearest the doorknob and rammed it with his elbow. The glass hit the floor inside. The cushion against the broken pane kept most of the sound inside. He reached through, pushed the curtain aside and extended down until his hand found the knob, then the lock. He twisted, pushed the door open and entered, taking care to avoid stepping on broken glass.
“I’m inside. No visible threat. I’ll open the front door.”
With Ann inside and the front door shut, they proceeded to check the rest of the house. Ann kept her left hand on her holstered weapon.
Jack motioned with his hand. Ann nodded and moved to her right toward two doorways on the opposite side which appeared to be a bathroom and a laundry room. Jack held his position in the center of the living room-kitchen combination. His eyes trained on the entrance to the bedroom. As he stepped in that direction, his senses absorbed an odor that was all too familiar.
Ann returned. She held up her hand and circled her fingers into the symbol for okay. Guns drawn, they moved into the occupied bedroom where they found a man face down on the bed. From what they could see, he had a full head of dark hair and looked the approximate age of Carter Phelps. He was alone. A sheet covered him up to his shoulders. His wallet and keys were on the dresser to the side of the bed.
Jack holstered his weapon and moved closer. Ann pushed the drape open. The west-facing room got lighter. When she used her elbow to nudge the wall switch up, the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed came on. The light brightened the room some, but not the prospects for the man on the bed.
After nudging the foot near the end of the bed and getting no response, Jack pulled the sheet off his pale nakedness. Dark blood, pooled in the depressed portion of the mattress, hugged his hips like a thick béarnaise sauce hugs a slab of steak. The blood had absorbed into the mattress and mostly dried.
“Look,” Jack said, pointing. “The maggots have entered the second stage of their larval life. They’ve burrowed into the wound and are moving as a social mass. While I’m far from a forensic entomologist, as I understand it, assuming moderate temperatures, this takes about two days.”
The wriggling maggots, undisturbed by Jack and Ann’s intrusion, remained in place dining on wound tartare.
There were two holes in Carter Phelps’ back. The bullets were, apparently, delivered while he slept. Modest splotches spoiled the white of the sheets, but there were no bullet holes in the thin fabric.
The sheet was pulled up by the shooter.
Carter Phelps’ heart no longer drove a flow. Hypostasis had pushed the blood along the path of least resistance until it settled in the lowest portion of his body. One of the shots, maybe both, had passed through to allow his blood to become the base ingredient in the unappealing sauce.
Jack and Ann stepped to the far side of the bed. She shined her flashlight directly onto the man’s face. “That’s Carter Phelps all right. Governor Lennox’s nephew is dead, an obvious homicide.”
Jack nodded. “Governor Lennox has just graduated to the top of his sister’s inheritance list.”
Ann’s eyebrows went up. She drew in her lips and added small nods.
“The muscles have softened enough that the body’s enzymes are beginning to digest his muscular system. My guess is he’s been dead two days. That’d put his death on March twentieth. The day before we met with Governor Lennox who conveniently swore he had no knowledge he had a nephew.”
Ann took her hand off her holstered weapon. “I agree it’s been a few days, but what makes you peg it specifically for the twentieth?”
Jack pointed toward the dresser. Beside Carter Phelps’ keys and wallet was a pack of Pall Mall Black Menthol 100 cigarettes. Besides the pack was a My Favorite Martian comic book from the mid-1960s. “He’s too young to have been a fan of My Favorite Martian.”
“Don’t tell me, his being dead in a room with a My Favorite Martian comic book somehow relates to March twentieth’s day of recognition.”
“Let’s find out.” Jack opened his phone and did a quick search. “Bingo. Our killer has expanded his territory.” Jack smiled. “March twentieth was Extraterrestrial Abduction Day.”
Ann twisted her mouth into an expression Jack hadn’t seen before. “Let’s look around. Maybe we’ll find something about his mother, father, or some shit that isn’t another shagging puzzle.”
Ten minutes later, Jack opened a kitchen drawer to find a single item—a picture of Mary Alice Phelps. Being the only thing inside, the drawer looked like a private, secret frame. From Mary Alice’s appearance in the photograph, Jack guessed it was taken about twenty years ago. The backdrop suggested it was taken at a company picnic. In the distance, beside a table of food, stood Alec Franklin, the boy’s secret father.
“Did Carter Phelps take this picture, as a boy, because it included both his mother and father?”
Jack shrugged. “Or is it simply a coincidence that Alec Franklin was standing in the background?”
In the bedroom, under a stack of black boxer shorts, Ann found a copy of Mary Alice Phelps’ will. It was inside a plain manila file folder. Ann opened her cellphone and took a picture of the front page of the will. “From what I recall, the first page appears to be an exact copy of the will we found in Phelps’ file cabinet and the one CC found in Phelps’ bank safe-deposit box. I’ll call my department and get some crime scene techs out here.”
While waiting for the crime scene team’s arrival, they continued to look around. On the kitchen counter they found a carton of the Pall Mall cigarettes; one pack was missing. In the trash under the sink was a plastic bag. In it was a receipt from a liquor store listing the Pall Malls, a six pack of Mickey’s, and a quart of milk.
Ann opened the fridge and called Jack’s attention to a full six pack of Mickey’s malt in barrel bottles. The milk was unopened.
Thirty minutes later the forensics team from the FDLE arrived on the scene. Two hours after that, the medical exa
miner’s crew left with Carter Phelps dressed in black. It wasn’t a tuxedo—those didn’t come with full length front zippers.
After assisting with processing the scene, Jack and Ann stopped for a late lunch. At four-thirty, Ann decided she’d spend the night at home. Despite an invitation to stay over, Jack chose to rent a car with a one-way option and drive back to Orlando right away. Ann dropped him off at the car rental. She’d drive her state vehicle back to Orlando in the morning.
Jack called Nora and told her about finding Carter Phelps dead in his bed. “Where are you two?”
“Driving back to Orlando from Jacksonville. I’ve got you on speaker so Max can participate.”
“In a drawer in Carter Phelps’ kitchen we found a picture of Mary Alice. It appears to have been taken at a picnic, maybe one of the brokerage firm’s events. Alec Franklin is in the picture, standing at some distance in the background. It’s impossible to tell if this means Carter knew who his father was even back then. Franklin being in the backdrop could have been a coincidence. It also could have been Carter’s only picture that included his mother and father. A guess only, but maybe Carter took that picture for that very reason.”
“Franklin was concerned,” Max commented, “that the media coverage of Mary Alice’s death would somehow include his being identified as the father of her child. Now, with the boy’s murder, that possibility increases. The press will likely link the boy to Mary Alice and they’ve already linked her to Governor Lennox.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That his identity would be in the records of the Phelps case. That the media doesn’t routinely have access to that record; however, a freedom of information motion might gain access. Seeing we’re talking about the sister of the Florida Governor and a possible presidential candidate, trust me, it’s a when it gets out, not if it gets out.”
“How’d you leave it, Max?”
“Pretty much like that. Franklin ended up saying, ‘Ironic isn’t it? All these years of keeping the secret, and now it might get out. At least that didn’t happen before my wife died. She’d have divorced me in a heartbeat. Shit. I’m glad my kids are grown.’”
Fifteen minutes after Jack ended his call to Nora, she called him back.
“How close are you to getting back to our hotel?”
“Something near an hour. Why?”
“We’re about the same. Max is driving.”
“I can hear the wheels turning in your head. What’s up?”
“Max and I have been chewing on something we think has merit, but we’ll probably be discussing it for a couple more hours. How about we meet for breakfast early? I suppose we could wait for Ann to arrive after driving in from Tallahassee, but that’d make us blow off a couple of hours.”
“I agree. The three of us can talk while Lieutenant Reynolds is driving in. I’ll fill her in after she arrives.”
“How about six? That too early?”
“No. I’m curious as hell. Let’s do it then.”
“Good. Right now all we’ve got is a collection of thoughts we think chain together. By morning we’ll be ready to lay it out coherently.”
24
Jack got back to his hotel room at eight and immediately dialed the number for Eric Dunn, his friend and a national syndicated columnist. Eric spent his days and nights toiling in the tangled world of lies and rumors. He wrote of the large living of the rich, famous, and powerful of Hollywood and DC. Eric officially lived in Southern California, but prior to that lived in DC. Overall, he spent as much time in the nation’s capital as in tinsel-town. His stock-in-trade was his gift of gab and a seemingly endless slush fund, or expense account, if you prefer. He bought his tips but was known for substantiating them before use. That made Eric Dunn a trustworthy voice in an untrustworthy layer of society.
Eric wasn’t in. Jack left a message to call back as soon as possible.
By the time he fixed a WhistlePig Rye and water, Dunn was on the phone.
“Jack, Eric. Hello, my friend. What’s doing?”
“Thanks for the quick response.”
“Hey, you’re a pal. That makes your call important. Besides, your calls often lead to juicy tidbits I can use to titillate my readers.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have called back so quickly. This time it’s about you helping me.”
“That’s cool. It’s a two-way street. What’d’ya need, friend?”
“We’re about two years away from the next big election, still my need is connected to one of the rumored candidates: Florida Governor Trey Lennox. He’s a widower these last few years, but only in his fifties. What are you hearing from your snitches about him quietly keeping a main squeeze? I found nothing on the internet.”
“Snitches? Au, contraire. You must be referring to my army of loyalists who risk themselves to help keep our fellow Americans informed about the shenanigans of the rich and powerful.”
“Yeah. I meant your well-paid loyalists. My apology to their sensitivities.”
“On their behalf, I accept your apology. Now, what’s this got to do with the death of Lennox’s sister? That’s been a somewhat prominent news item of late.”
“Along with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and the local county sheriff’s office, I’m working the case of her death. We got involved at the request of the governor, before their being siblings was widely known.”
“Ah, I get it. You called me to do a little backdoor snooping about your client. Be careful, Jack. Don’t trip over your fiduciary.”
“I’m okay on that score. My engagement is structured in such a way that my assignment reads as an outside consultant to the state police assisting on some local homicides.”
“The governor’s sister.”
“Among others. Thanks for your concern.”
“Other murders? Oh, yeah. There was something about that in a few of the articles about the governor’s sister. Some retired birds. Members of a lunch club that included the governor’s sister. That right?”
“Right.” Jack sipped his drink.
“Gimme. Gimme.”
“Cool your jets, Mr. Dunn. It’s all too murky to give anything reliable. You’ll get the scoop when I’ve got it nailed down. For now, I need you to help me gather behind the scenes details on our good governor.”
“There’s always been talk, now and then, about Governor Lennox and his appetites. Nothing steady and nothing solid, but I haven’t really worked it. This is off the top of my head: Since his wife died, a brain tumor I think it was, I don’t believe he’s ever been seen in public with any woman who wasn’t related to something political or maybe fundraising, which, I guess, in our modern world is the same thing. I’ve got a note to get some meat on these bones if and when he becomes a leader in the polls, but the polls won’t really heat up for a few more months.”
Jack’s tone made it more of a question than a statement. “Are you saying nothing’s there?”
“He’s fifty-three, I think, something near that. A widower for what, three to five years. He’s a smart pro. Never heard any rumors about him frequenting brothels or cruising the curbs. I see him as too careful to leave anything on the surface that might scuttle a presidential campaign.”
“I’ve been in his office, Eric. I can tell you from the composition of his staff, he has an eye for a shapely leg or whoever does his hiring thinks he does.”
“Okay. So the dude’s normal. Hey, if it weren’t for us fellows and our attitudes, women wouldn’t wear high heels and nylons, let alone those wonderful bras that have to be as uncomfortable as the heels. The proof of that is whenever gals get to the point in life where they quit packaging themselves, those beautifying items get tossed in a lower drawer along with a bunch of old memories. And once they do that, their date cards don’t have many entries.”
“Now, now, Mr. Dunn. In fairness, it may also be true the ladies stop packaging themselves, as you put it, because we men stop showing appreciation for them enduring
the discomforts that come with the packaging.”
Eric made some indecipherable noise before commenting. “Could be. So, the question becomes do the birds stop merchandising because the men stop sniffing around, or do the men stop sniffing around because the gals stop merchandising? The proverbial chicken and egg.”
While listening, Jack cradled his phone against his cheek and made himself a fresh drink. He poured two fingers, this time of Makers Mark, over crushed ice and added a squeeze of fresh lemon.
“When you find that answer I’m sure it’ll be the lead story in your next column. For now, the subject at hand is Governor Trey Lennox.”
“We can assume he’s got a lady, or a lad, or whatever, squirreled away in the private, shadowy corners of his life—the old-fashioned kind of software with plug and play capability.”
“You got anybody in your army of loyalists that can shine light into those corners?”
“I’ve got a waiter in a spot where the governor often lunches who passes things to me I sometimes use—mostly low hanging fruit. The governor’s chauffeur used to give me high fruit. Then, six months or so ago, he either quit or got sacked—don’t know which.”
“Can you reach out to the former driver? Find out some of the regular haunts he drove Lennox to? Did he pick up women and bring ‘em to the governor? Like the old story about a few handpicked Arkansas state troopers bringing a cornucopia of women for the picking and choosing of their governor, Bill Clinton. The kind of stuff that’ll help me now, and you later.”
“I’ll need a day, maybe two. I’ll get back to you after I reach him. Now, what’s going on in your world?”
Jack hit the high points on the homicide cases of Mary Alice Phelps and the other women. He explained the connection between the murders themselves and the left-behind quirky items associated with the days of recognition. That cat was out of the local bag, but it was still a bit of a secret on the national scene. It was the kind of item Eric Dunn could have fun with in his column. They agreed what Jack was telling him was background and would not appear in his column until Jack finished the case. The two men had interacted on other cases in the past. Jack was certain he could trust the columnist to keep the agreement, since it was in Dunn’s best interest to do so. This could become a blockbuster story of national significance. Until the case wrapped, Dunn would let the regular newshounds serve up the conjecture and save the behind the scene revelations for when Jack gave him the green light.