Death Theory

by John Mimms

  “I can’t believe...I’ll kill him...What the hell?” were the only words Jeff could manage as he paced the room. He collapsed in a chair, stewed for a few minutes, and then jumped to his feet.

  “I’m going to kill him!” Jeff proclaimed, again heading for the door.

  Grammy Lee moved in front of Jeff before he could exit. She put her arms around him and hugged him tight.

  “I don’t know who this Pac is, Suga’, but you need to let the police handle it.”

  Jeff started to protest, but she hugged him tighter.

  “You won’t do yourself, me, or Debbie any good if you wind up in jail for killing this punk.”

  Jeff’s breathing calmed as Grammy Lee administered a motherly rub on his back. He knew she was right. As much as he wanted to prove the theory to Pac, that energy transference occurs even faster when your brains are beat in, he stayed his hand. He sat back down and, with forced calm, called Captain Dean.

  Captain Dean happened to have been working on a case this morning he said may be related to Debbie’s ordeal. He arrived within twenty minutes. An older detective by the name of Sergeant Wayne McCartney accompanied him.

  Sergeant McCartney had the appearance of a man who should have retired five years ago. A gray semi-bald horseshoe of hair topped his head. He had sunken eyes, and a lined face with a hooknose. Despite his pleasant demeanor, he possessed the countenance of a person who had endured the cruelest side of the world for many years. When he entered the room, he and Grammy Lee exchanged a quick, but noticeable, glance of astonishment.

  Jeff and Grammy Lee left the room while the two officers took Debbie’s statement.

  “Not too much excitement,” Jeff warned.

  “You have my word, son.” Sergeant McCartney said with a smile. He didn’t seem as intimidating as Captain Dean, at least not on first impression.

  When they reached the hallway, Grammy Lee was distracted. Before Jeff could ask her what was wrong, she said she was going to go home and freshen up. She said she would be back in an hour.

  The officers spent thirty minutes with Debbie. Once they finished, Captain Dean phoned the station. He ordered an all-points bulletin on Michael Pacheco.

  “Check DMV files to get his photo and address. Call me back with the location and have half a dozen squad cars meet me there.”

  Captain Dean was about to hang up when his head jerked in surprise and his jaw fell open.

  “What’s that?” he blurted.

  After several long moments, he shook his head and disconnected the call. He motioned for Jeff to step back into the room. Once inside, he asked him to sit down.

  “You had an individual in your group by the name of Aaron Presley, didn’t you?”

  “Still do,” Jeff said. “Why?”

  Captain Dean gazed at Jeff with his trademark x-ray vision.

  “Have you had many personal dealings?”

  “Some. What’s this about?”

  Captain Dean glanced at his partner, and then back to Jeff.

  “It seems we got an anonymous tip this morning, probably from Michael Pacheco.”

  Jeff stared at the Captain, speechless.

  “The informant said that Aaron Presley had been involved in some disturbing experiments. They said we should search his home and ...” he paused with a frown, “and the informant said to check a couple of inches down in a freshly dug grave at Brown & Sons Funeral Home Cemetery.”

  “A couple of inches? What....?” Jeff said.

  Captain Dean’s stoic expression hardened into stone.

  “The informant said an open grave, dug for a funeral tomorrow, has a body buried in the bottom.”

  Jeff sat in stunned silence, unable to articulate anything he was feeling.

  Debbie had been listening to Captain Dean and finally spoke up.

  “My God, he used the pronouns ‘us’ and ‘we’ a few times with me when he was discussing his experiments. I thought he was talking crazy, but ... I never saw any evidence of anyone else.” She grimaced when she recalled something. “My God ... he was talking to someone on the phone when I was trying to get away. You think it was Elvis?”

  “Well, we have a couple of detectives checking the cemetery now. I am not going to disturb Judge Hurst on a Sunday morning for a search warrant until I have a good reason to.”

  His phone rang and the dispatcher informed him the APB was active. They gave him the address for Michael Pacheco.

  “I’d like to stay here a while and talk to these kids a little more, Bronson. If it’s okay with you,” Sergeant McCartney said.

  Captain Dean nodded and excused himself from the room.

  Debbie and Jeff stared at each other in mortified disbelief.

  “Well, I need a soda,” Sergeant McCartney said. “Would either of you care for anything? My treat.”

  Debbie declined. Jeff shook his head, feeling as though he had been sucker punched.

  The sergeant left the room, jangling change in his blue jean pockets. When he was out the door, Debbie grabbed Jeff’s hand.

  “I can’t believe it ... call him,” she pleaded.

  Jeff gave her a blank stare, before taking out his phone to call Elvis.

  The big guy was having another early morning pillow talk session with his beloved Vicky, so it took several rings for him to pick up. He listened as Jeff recounted all the events of the previous night, ending with his anonymous accusation. There was a long silence after he finished. For a moment, Jeff thought the call got dropped.

  “Thanks for telling me Jeff,” he said. “I was about to get ready for church, so I’ll put on something a little more appropriate for the police. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “So, does that mean you did it?” Jeff prodded.

  Another long pause.

  Elvis responded, “Vicky told me to let her go and give it up, but I just couldn’t. It was my idea and my fault. I’m so very sorry, Jeff.”

  Jeff’s phone slid from his hand and skidded across the floor, coming to rest by a pair of shiny shoes standing in the doorway. The shoes belonged to a tall slender police officer in full uniform. He wasn’t much older than Debbie or Jeff. He was an African-American with hair cut short beneath his hat. He had stony, but kind features punctuated by a chiseled chin.

  “Is this Debbie Gillerson’s room?” he asked politely.

  “Yes,” Jeff said.

  “My name is Officer Milton. I was ordered by Sergeant McCartney to stand guard outside the door. It’s only a precaution since the perp that attacked Ms. Gillerson is still on the loose.”

  “Thank you,” Debbie said.

  Under normal circumstances, Jeff would have shaken his hand. All he could manage in his surreal state of mind was a vague nod.

  Jeff’s nerves were fried. He couldn’t think straight because it seemed as if reality had come crashing down on his head. He kissed Debbie on the eyebrow again.

  “I’m going to step outside a moment. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Jeff, don’t go and do anything stupid,” Debbie warned.

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  He managed to execute a reassuring wink despite his emotional numbness. Debbie returned a rueful smile as he walked out the door.

  A few moments later, Sergeant McCartney came back in sucking on a half full glass Coca Cola bottle. He paused with a smack of refreshment before he sat down. “Ahhhh, you can’t beat a good old-fashioned glass Coke bottle for taste. Not the same as these plastic things they have today.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Debbie smiled. “I don’t remember glass Coke bottles.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would; they went out of vogue about the time you were born.”

  He downed the remaining contents with one big gulp, and then sat the bottle on the floor next to his chair. He leaned forward with a warm smile, his elbows on his knees.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Debbie squinted at him. “Should I?”

  “Pr
obably not, you were young. It’s been ... let’s see,” he paused as he counted off digits on both hands. “It’s been about sixteen years.”

  Debbie frowned.

  “I investigated your mother’s murder.”

  Debbie’s insides twisted like a taffy machine. She had never in her life thought of her mother’s death as a murder, at least not until last night. When she beheld the demented face of Michael Pacheco, she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that her mother was murdered. But, she also knew something impossible – Michael Pacheco was the one who did it.

  “Michael Pacheco?” Debbie gasped.

  Sergeant McCartney shook his head.

  “No, we convicted Joe Don Kelvin of the murder. He was married to Rosie Pacheco. When I saw the APB photo it was eerie; Michael Pacheco looks almost exactly like Joe Don ... his father.”

  Chapter 35

  A DISCUSSION OF THIS nature was the last thing Dr. Mallett intended when he asked Debbie to remain calm. Tears rolled down Debbie’s cheeks as she shook uncontrollably.

  “Why?” she sobbed.

  The Sergeant told her it was a case of a home invasion gone bad. Joe Don Kelvin was a crack junkie. He was looking for cash or something he could quickly sell to support his habit. He had broken in the house, believing no one was home. Debbie’s mother awoke in the middle of the night and went to investigate. She surprised Joe Don and he shot her with the little twenty-two caliber pistol he was carrying. Debbie had awakened from the sound of the gunshot and crawled out of bed to investigate. She found her mother lying in a pool of blood. When she squatted down to help her, she saw the shocked and frightened face of Joe Don before he went out the back door.

  “It’s the way it was recorded on the police report,” he said.

  He had left out the part about little Debbie Gillerson urinating on the floor. It was probably a footnote somewhere on the report.

  Pac’s mother had hated him more the older he grew. With each passing year, his uncanny resemblance to his father made her resentment grow. The Alzheimer’s had magnified her resentment tenfold. Of course, Pac had no control over his appearance, but Rosie clung to a strange belief. She believed that thuggery, like appearance, to be in the genes.

  Whether it was a bad set of genes Pac inherited from his father that forced him down this road, or from years of hateful rejection by his mother, no one could say. Maybe the prison shrink will sort it all out, ... if Pac is caught alive.

  “Your grandma never told you, did she?”

  Debbie shook her head and gingerly dabbed at her eyes with her unbandaged hand. The sergeant grabbed a couple of Kleenex by Debbie’s bed and handed them to her.

  “I’m sorry; I thought you knew when you told us you believed that Pacheco killed your mother.”

  “I did, but I didn’t,” Debbie said. “Thank you for clearing it up for me.”

  When Grammy Lee returned twenty minutes later, Debbie had already made up her mind about what to do. Her first instinct was to be angry and confront her grandmother. Yet, after she had a few minutes to think about it, a whole new perspective became apparent.

  Her grandmother lived with this truth every day for sixteen years. Debbie had suppressed the memory until recently. Grammy Lee did not tell her the truth because she wanted to protect her. She saw the intense pain on Grammy Lee’s face when she told her about her dream, a pain she didn’t understand until now.

  “How have you been, Sweetie?” Grammy Lee said, cutting her eyes at Sergeant McCartney.

  He excused himself in search of another Coke.

  “Fine Grammy. I wanna go home.”

  Jeff returned a few minutes later. He was white as a sheet. He informed them that Captain Dean called and the police had checked out the cemetery. Mrs. Gage was found buried at the bottom of an open grave, exactly as the anonymous informant reported. Captain Dean was on his way to pick up a search warrant from Judge Hurst to search Elvis’s house. He also said Michael Pacheco’s place was neat as a pin, no sign of any struggle ... or experiments. There was also no sign of Michael Pacheco.

  Jeff didn’t feel like eating. He hadn’t smoked a nervous cigarette in a month, but in the short time he was away from the room, he smoked five. His clothes and hair reeked of an ashtray. Grammy Lee and Debbie both noticed, but said nothing. Regardless of how he felt, he accompanied Grammy Lee to the cafeteria and brought breakfast back to the room.

  Around eleven o’clock, Sergeant McCartney returned to the room and asked to speak to Jeff. He led him down the hall to an administrative office. The sergeant sat behind a large mahogany desk and ushered Jeff to a leather armchair in the near corner.

  “I have some news and some questions for you, Jeff, if you are up to it right now. Neither of them may be very pleasant to you.”

  Jeff nodded. “Okay.”

  The sergeant leaned back, laced his fingers across his chest, and began.

  “Well, as you already know, they found Mrs. Joyce Gage’s body at the cemetery. We have a positive identification.”

  Jeff was expressionless.

  “We also served a search warrant at the home of Aaron Presley. They found a box full of empty vials that once contained pentobarbital and chloral hydrate in the garage.”

  “What does that mean?” Jeff asked.

  “Well, my understanding is ... a combination of those two drugs is used to euthanize larger animals.”

  “Are you saying you think he used those drugs in his experiments?” Jeff croaked.

  “Not sure of anything yet. We only have one body. The coroner’s preliminary observation confirmed Debbie’s story. Mrs. Gage died of a broken neck. Of course, we won’t know for sure until the autopsy is complete.”

  “If she doesn’t have the drug in her system, what then?” Jeff asked.

  “Then everything against Mr. Presley seems kind of circumstantial. Anyone could have dumped the body in the cemetery; it’s not guarded around the clock. He will probably be released unless he confesses and, from what I hear, he has been pretty close to it.”

  “How?”

  “Well, he hasn’t come right out and said, ‘I did it.’ Ever since we took him into custody, all he has done is apologize, saying ‘It’s all his fault’.

  Jeff swallowed hard. Elvis had told him the same thing on the phone, but there was no way in hell he was going to tell the cops.

  “My God,” Jeff muttered.

  “My God, indeed, but I’m not sure it is the worst of it.”

  Jeff gave him a pained scowl as if to say, ‘Please tell me there’s not more’.

  Sergeant McCartney continued.

  The story was disturbing and unexpected. The first place the police had checked, after Pac’s house, was his mother’s. No one answered the door, so they got a search warrant to check inside. The smell on the inside of the trailer was overwhelming. The investigating officers were forced to retreat. They put on crowd control gas masks before returning. They soon made the grisly discovery of a decomposing body floating in eight inches of water in the bathtub. There was no positive ID on the body yet, but they presumed it was the remains of Rosie Pacheco.

  The only thing out of the ordinary was a computer in the bedroom adjacent to the bath. It was turned on. When the police checked the e-mail messages on screen, the last one was sent about six weeks ago, to Jack Pacheco, Pac’s brother. The message read as follows:

  ‘Jack,

  I have not been in the right state of mind lately and said some very bad and unfair things about your brother. Please ignore those. Michael has been the best and kindest son anyone could ask for. Everything is fine and dandy. I hope to have both of my boys home together again soon. - Love, Mom’

  Based on the evidence, the police assumed that the death of Rosie Pacheco was nothing more than a case of an accidental slip in the tub. Unless Michael Pacheco surfaced, it was doubtful the forensic experts could piece together what really happened. The body was too badly decomposed.

  When considering the deadly expe
riments, Sergeant McCartney was convinced it had only been a one or two-man operation. They had one in custody and were in hot pursuit of the other. Of course, Captain Dean may think otherwise but, for the moment, he was too involved with all the events of the day to focus on anyone else.

  Jeff returned home to shower and change clothes. He then spent the remainder of the afternoon at Debbie’s bedside. Debbie was sore and a little groggy from the medication, but for the most part she was in good spirits. Grammy Lee returned home mid-afternoon with the promise she would come back in the morning.

  Jeff was much more fidgety when he returned. Debbie would soon find out why.

  A few minutes after Grammy Lee left, he got up and stood beside Debbie’s bed. “Deb, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today,” he said with a nervous smile.

  “I’m sure we all have,” Debbie agreed. “It’s been an eventful day to say the least.”

  “Yes, it has. But today has made me realize something.”

  Debbie grinned. Jeff melted even though he couldn’t see the dimple under the bandage on her chin.

  “What ... to not let psychopaths join your paranormal group?” she asked.

  Jeff smiled.

  Since Debbie first opened her eyes, it was the only positive thing that had happened all day to him. It was also a moment of epiphany, making him realize the fragility of life and his sincere blessing of having Debbie alive and well.

  “Good point, but it’s definitely not the most important,” Jeff said.

  Debbie eyed him with suspicion.

  “The one thing I have realized is life is short and fragile. We should take advantage of every opportunity and cherish every second. We should recognize what is precious in life, and do everything possible to hang on to it.”

  Before Debbie could say a word, Jeff dropped down on one knee by the bed. He took her unbandaged hand. Beads of perspiration trickled down his forehead, and his breathing became rapid.

  “Debbie Gillerson,” he said with a trembling voice. “Will you marry me?”

  “I thought you’d never ask!” she blurted.

  He stood up and kissed her on the eyebrow, but she insisted on one on the lips. It hurt, but it was worth it.