by Rebel Adams
“Who’s your visitor, Whitney?” The gruff voice belonged to an equally intimidating body. The man had to be at least six-feet-six and weigh two-hundred-and-seventy-five pounds. His expression was cold, and though the question had been directed at Whitney, the man’s eyes were trained on Jackson.
Defensive. Angry. Guilty.
If Jackson hadn’t seen Geddings with his own eyes the night before, he would’ve wondered if the man standing in the open doorway was, in fact, Geddings. He appeared to be every ounce the wife beating, alcohol abusing, system playing, lying son-of-a-bitch her husband was.
“This is Detective Ogden,” Whitney said quietly. “Jackson, this is my dad.”
“She doesn’t have anything to tell you, Detective.” The Paul Bunyun-wannabe spat out the last word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “We are invoking her right to counsel.”
Jackson held back a laugh. He clearly had no knowledge of the judicial system or how it worked. Jackson found this unsettling. The man was either stupid or incredibly lucky. Since he looked like he should’ve gone a few rounds with the law himself, Jackson decided he must be incredibly lucky.
“She’s not under investigation, sir. There’s no need for her to have counsel. Unless, she wants to sue Mr. Geddings in civil court, which is a fine idea, by the way.”
“Whitney won’t be suing anybody. And she won’t be testifying against her husband, either. If that’s why you’re here, you can forget it. Whitney is a Gillespie, and Gillespie’s aren’t snitches.”
Jackson ignored the man and focused for the first time on the woman beside him. Well, holy shit. This had to be the sister. Same chestnut hair. Same small features. Same tiny stature. And she was identical to Whitney. “Uhhhh,” Jackson stammered. He hadn’t been prepared for there to be two of them. “You must be Whitney’s sister.”
The woman smiled knowingly. She was probably used to receiving the reaction she was getting from Jackson. “It’s that obvious, huh?” she asked.
“You’re identical … well almost,” he said and then laughed at how idiotic he sounded. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever been around a set of true identical twins. The resemblance was unnerving; however, he immediately recognized a subtle difference in the two women. There was a hardness to the sister that set her apart from Whitney. She lacked the sweetness that had immediately drawn him to Whitney.
“I told you she is the pretty one,” Whitney quipped from the bed. Her voice had an edge to it that Jackson didn’t recognize.
“And persuasive,” he said, laughing again. Whitney’s sister gave him a sharp look and cocked her head in the direction of their father. Jackson heeded her warning. “All right. Well, I’ll head out. Whitney, I’ll be in touch with you after you get out of here.”
“Jackson?” she asked as he neared the door.
“Yes?”
“The apes outside?”
“A necessary precaution,” Jackson said dismally. He’d dreaded telling her that her husband was still on the lamb. “But a short term one. Rest assured I’m doing everything I can to get the apes off your back as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding in agreement and looking hopeful once more. “See you soon.”
As he brushed past Whitney’s unmoving father in the doorway, the replica Whitney grabbed his arm. “Can I have a second of your time, Detective?” Her father gave her a look of disapproval.
“Sure. Walk me out?”
The two of them walked down the hall to the elevators in silence. The ride down was quiet until they reached the bottom and were released to the first floor.
“What’s your name?” Jackson asked the Whitney-clone.
“Winnie—Winifred Gillisepie,” she answered. “We’re identical twins.”
“Got that,” he answered. “The detective is not just a title.”
She laughed lightly and stopped instantly. Her sudden halt made him think she was trying too hard to keep herself calm. “Detective, my sister has always been the weaker twin. She has trouble standing up for herself. It took years for me to convince her to leave home. I had no idea that when she finally did it she was going to go straight into the arms of my ex-boyfriend. He’s a real dick. Always has been. I think she’s finally had enough though. She’s ready to get away from him and move on.”
“I won’t disagree with,” he said. “He is a dick. So Sean is your ex?”
“Oh, he’s very ex,” she answered. “There was less than nothing there. We might be identical, but we think very differently. Sean just wanted a wife. He would have taken either of us. I just saw him for what he was. Whit saw him as a way out from under our father.”
“You’re so very different though,” Jackson mumbled and pulled up short. Where the hell had that come from? How did he know that these two identical twin sisters were so different?
“Sean couldn’t care less,” she answered, pulling Jackson back to reality. “He just wanted a wife.” Winnie sighed. “He’s not even remotely a good prospect, but dad’s been… less than accommodating to us. I tried to get her to go away to college, but she just kept seeing the cost.”
“Probably less than this hospital stay,” Jackson mumbled.
Winnie agreed wordlessly. “Detective, I think she’s really ready to do this. She’s downplaying that he did anything wrong-”
“Ms. Gillespie, I can assure you that I am sadly too familiar with the way this cycle works,” Jackson interrupted. He sighed. “I am going to do my best to make sure that she carries this through, but I can’t force the issue if she’s just not ready. You have my word I won’t let this drop easily though.”
“Thank you, detective,” she said. “I believe you mean every word of that.”
She turned to walk back up to her sister’s room, and Jackson watched her. Identical twins, yet he was attracted to the one in trouble.
Jackson ran a hand down his face. Despite Whitney opening up to him a little at the hospital, she wouldn’t admit the plain truth: she was in a systematic spousal abuse situation.
Fuck that sounded so clinical. She was so much more than a clinical description. She was a beaten down, roughed up woman caught in a cycle. Once that father of hers had walked in, things really started to make sense. Jackson was sure that he’d treated Whitney’s mother the same way. And his hostility towards authority…
Jackson shuffled a few paper on his desk. Time to focus on the task at hand.
Whitney’s sister had convinced her to put in the charges, even if she wasn’t admitting to the continuing abuse. Jackson didn’t really care about the reasons she gave, as long as he had a prosecutable offense and could drag the bastard in for holding.
Geddings didn’t seem like the brightest bulb in the set. He was clearly a mean son-of-a-bitch, and probably hung out with like kinds. Jackson had to find him and arrest him, so that when Whitney got out of the hospital, she didn’t feel endangered. As long as she didn’t feel like she was in danger, she wouldn’t drop the charges.
And he didn’t want her to drop the charges.
Geddings worked at a lumber mill just outside of town. Webbers Lumber was old, well respected, and always on the up and up. Frank Webbers wouldn’t like that one of his employees was in trouble like this.
The thing about having the charges against Geddings was that now his records were available for searching without repercussions from top—or more top—brass.
His rap sheet wasn’t impressive. In fact, it was notably short. Which set off a whole other set of alarms in his head. The charges on the sheet were not low on the totem pole: felony assault, assault, battery. All the ones that had the victims in the hospital. There wasn’t a single charge that didn’t involve the hospital.
Which meant, the only reason they were reported was because of the hospital being involved. Which meant this guy was an asshole with a friend on the force, or someone who had some kind of influence. Which meant this had the potential to go really, really wrong.
Great.
>
Jackson looked at the empty desk across from him. This was his area of expertise in being a detective. He could do the hunt and chase. Still. Gretchen was great back up and better counter point. Ten more days. He grabbed the jacket off the chair and headed for the mill.
The receptionist smiled at him as he walked in. “Good afternoon, Detective.”
Jackson shook his head. “I didn’t know you worked her Jaclyn,” he answered.
“There’s a lot of stuff you don’t know anymore because you seem to think that your family has disowned you, Jack,” she explained, without any malice. “Family dinner at Aunt Mindy’s house. Every Saturday. You know you’re always welcome. Now, what can I do for you?”
“What do you know about Sean Geddings?”
“Works on the supersaw,” Jaclyn said. “Downstairs. Supervisor is Carlos Hernandez. He didn’t show up for work today. Frank is pissed about it, but since it’s his first no-call no-show, he gets a pass.” She paused. “He’s a dick.”
Winnie had said the exact same thing. At least Sean was consistent. “Don’t hold back now,” Jackson said.
“He is really a dick,” Jaclyn replied. “Would you like to talk to Carlos or Frank?”
“Carlos,” he requested.
“Down the hall to your left, straight to the end and straight through the door. Carlos’s desk is in the third cube on the right. I’ll page him and let him know you’re coming.”
“Thanks, Jacki.” He nodded and headed down the hall.
“I’m serious about that dinner, Jack,” she called. “We all miss you.”
He glanced back. “I’ll think about it.” But just not right at that moment. He filed the information in the back of his head: family was willing to reconcile. Great. Now. Carlos was up next.
The man stood just outside the cubicle waiting for Jackson. He was dressed in coveralls and looked all business because of it. Carlos nodded as he walked up. “Detective. I’m afraid Geddings isn’t here today.”
“I’m aware,” Jackson said. “Got a few so we can talk?”
“Always,” he said and motioned Jackson to a chair in the cube. “Something to drink?”
“Thanks, no,” Jackson said, pulling out his notebook. “So, how long have you been working with Sean Geddings?”
“Came in about two years ago,” Carlos answered, sitting down. “And not quietly. He was trying to run the place in just a few days. Took a couple… extracurricular meetings with some of his coworkers to get the situation under control. We have a lot of strong personalities around here.”
Jackson nodded. “Anyone in particular he hangs out with? Gets beers with?”
“He and Poppo are pretty tight,” Carlos offered. “Poppo was a loner too, until Geddings showed. And even to this day, those two get into scrapes with the other employees. I just tell them to take their asses outside, away from my extremely dangerous, OSHA-regged equipment. They have an accident around that, and the mill shuts. Webber visits us all in our nightmares.”
Jackson jotted a few notes down. “Is he reliable?”
“He’s here every day,” Carlos offered.
Jackson read between the lines. Geddings showed up, punched in, spent most of his time bullshitting, drinking coffee, and hiding from the managers. “Does he call in sick?”
“Rarely.” Carlos took a sip from the mug on the desk. “Usually after a weekend bender. And it’s only a half day. Get dropped off in that fancy car of hers.”
“Whose fancy car?”
“Lexus.”
“Is that the car or the woman?”
Carlos choked on the coffee. “That’s the car. Woman’s name is Whitley?”
“Whitney,” he corrected.
“That’s it.”
Jackson nodded, but his alarms were going off. There had been no sign of a Lexus at the Geddings house. “Can you describe her?”
“Oh, you can’t miss that fine bi—woman,” Carlos corrected himself. “Blonde, huge—uh. Well endowed. Legs that go all the way up. Fine, fine. Don’t know what she’s doing with Geddings though. He seems a little low-brow for her.”
So, not only was he beating up on his wife, he was cheating on her too. This guy was a twenty-five pound bag-of-shit disguising himself as fancy fertilizer. They didn’t come much lower. “And no one has heard from him today?”
“I haven’t,” Carlos corrected. “Poppo probably has.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“You can try,” Carlos said, hitting a button on the desk. “But he’s not a fan of the cops.” The button buzzed back. “Send Poppo up to my desk.” There was a garbled answer and Carlos sat back. “He’s been burned by the cops, and he’ll probably clam up.”
“Is he stupid enough to warn Geddings off?”
“No,” Carlos shook his head. “He’s easily scared off. I—”
There was a loud bang of the door Jackson had walked in through, and a whoop as the person there saw someone. “Hey, Poppo! Did ya miss me?”
Jackson was up and out the chair before, hand on his gun, cuffs in his other hand in less time than it took for Geddings to finish his sentence. He spun out into the hallway and found just the man he was looking for: one extremely shocked and confused Sean Geddings.
“Oh, fuck,” Geddings said, before turning and running back toward the door.
“Stop!” Jackson yelled.
Geddings managed to get the door open and run back through it down the hall. Jackson groaned and sprinted after him, squeezing through the door as he shoved the cuffs in his pocket. “Come on, Geddings! Just stop!”
“You gonna fire at me again, detective?” Geddings yelled over his shoulder as he ran for the front door. Jackson saw him bounce off the suddenly locked door. He hesitated for just a second, and then slammed himself against the window. Jackson heard the groan and with another slam, the door swung open with the distinct sound of grinding metal. Geddings plowed through, but Jackson was right behind him at this point.
Goddamn, Jackson hated foot pursuit. He shoved the gun back in its holster as he pumped his legs as hard as he could. Geddings was paunchy, and while he was running hard, Jackson had the advantage of running on the treadmill for an hour three-to-four times a week. Even though he hated running and hated foot pursuit.
They roared down the street, dodging people, cars, and small animals. Geddings was pulling down the trashcans behind him.
Jackson had been a school record holder hurdle runner. Thank you track team.
A marked car appeared at the next corner, as another screamed up the street and then up from behind him. God bless Jaclyn and 911. A fourth patrol car pulled across the sidewalk and all the uniforms jumped out and aimed at Geddings. He slowed just enough; Jackson launched at him and tackled him.
They slid along the ground for a few feet, and he could feel the pants tear and the flair of pain from road rash. He put his other knee on Geddings back and held him down, slapping the cuffs on his wrists. “If you had just not run, you shithead.”
Geddings tried to buck him off. Jackson shoved his face into the cement. “That was strike two. Strike three lands you with a hell of a lot more problems than you already have.”
“Fuck off, fucker.”
“Your eloquence is astounding.” He stood and yanked the cuffed Geddings to his feet. One of the uniforms was there to take him over to the patrol while reading him his rights. Jackson looked down, and swore. Favorite pants wrecked. He brushed the gravel out of his knee and headed back for the unmarked in front of the mill.
He popped open the door to the interview room and found Geddings re-cuffed to the chair. He had a cup of water and was staring at his shoes. Jackson closed the door behind himself and stood in the corner.
“Good cop, bad cop, right? Where’s your other half?” Geddings asked.
“Just me,” Jackson said, reclining against the wall.
“You got nothing on me.”
“Well, that’s where your stupid starts showing,” Jackson
answered. “You, at the very least, have two counts of resisting arrest. One of breaking and entering. One of destruction of property. And one very serious count of domestic battery.”
“You can’t break into your own house. I own the place.”
“You can if there’s a protective order requiring you to stay away,” Jackson said.
“Bitch deserved it,” he grumbled.
Jackson was shocked at his own reaction to the words. The sudden burst of adrenaline stunned him, forced him to take control of himself, and not surge forward and lay Geddings out all over the floor like the asshole more than deserved. Where the fuck is this coming from? He took a deep breath and forced the urge back. “Your opinion on whether or not she deserved that vicious beating doesn’t make a hill of beans. You committed a crime and you’re going to be charged.”
“Charge me all you want, dick-tective,” he smiled. “I’ll be out in a few hours.”
“I’m going to see your ass rot in jail.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
The ceiling was a really fucking boring companion. Jackson didn’t know how many goddamn times he had counted the cracks up there; there were more every time and he didn’t give a shit. Probably better all the way around if the damn thing fell.
At three a.m., he finally gave up the pretense of sleep. Flicking on the light, he sat up in the bed and leaned back against the padded headboard. Everything was haunting him and invading his brain—nothing could stop it. He saw the picture of Lana on the nightstand and she started to crawl into his already messy thoughts.
Maybe a book. He grabbed the book he’d been trying to get into for months, “Into Thin Air.” Two paragraphs in, his brain was trying to revolt against the idea of being distracted in such a manner. He tossed it back on the nightstand and grabbed the TV remote.
There was no way this was going to keep his interest, because there was never anything on but Ancient Aliens and infomercials this time of night. Still he gave it the old college try, and wound up on the Ancient Aliens that he’d seen and mocked a hundred times before.