Lance Brody Omnibus

by Michael Robertson Jr.

  The sheet was roughly six inches long and reminded Lance of a smaller version of the old transparency sheets his teachers used to use with the classroom projectors when he was in elementary school. He could just make out the small squares of images on the sheet—the shrunken-down pages from past newspapers.

  The woman stood at his side and worked the microfiche reader with hands that’d performed this task a hundred times before. Maybe a thousand. She showed Lance how to turn on the screen and then moved toward the door.

  “When you’re finished, come back to the front desk and I’ll come clean up.”

  Confused, Lance said, “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  She’d been halfway out the door but stopped and came back in. “Yes?”

  Lance nodded toward the microfiche reader. “I didn’t tell you what date I was looking for.”

  The removed her glasses and placed them back atop her head. She rubbed her eyes with her hands. “A group of us women play gin once a week. Last night was at Joan’s house.”

  Oh. I see.

  “I know who you are,” the woman said. “And I guess I know why you’re here. If that’s not what you’re after”—she pointed to the blank screen behind Lance—“just set it aside and look in the drawers for anything else you need. Don’t refile the sheets. I’ll take care of that.”

  Lance said nothing. Nodded.

  The woman turned to leave, stopped, then turned back to face Lance. Even in the dim light, he could see her eyes were glistening. Pooling with tears.

  “Listen,” she said, her voice stern and lecturing, “Natalie Benchley was a saint. You hear me? A saint. And Mary was never anything but polite and sweet and pretty as a peach.” The woman stopped, wiped at her eyes. “Whatever it is you’re writing, you better do right by them, you hear? You better respect them.”

  Before Lance could answer, the woman turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.

  Boy, Lance thought, there’s a lot of pressure when writing an imaginary book.

  But, despite his joke, he felt he understood where the woman was coming from. In fact, he thought he was starting to understand why the whole town seemed to be so concerned and so secretive about the entire incident involving the Benchley family’s deaths. In towns this small, underneath the drama and gossip and surface-level lies, there was still an undeniable sense of family.

  Lance was not part of the family. But he was digging around in the closets, all the same.

  He sat and waited for a full minute, staring at the closed door and seeing the faint outline of the stenciled words on the outside of the frosted glass, waiting to see if the woman would return, offer another warning. Satisfied that she was likely back at the front desk, speaking of him in deplorable adjectives to her cohort, Lance spun around in the chair and flipped the switch to turn on the microfiche screen.

  The screen lit up bright, enough to force Lance to sit back and squint his eyes until they adjusted. Then he leaned closer again and saw the big bold letters of the headline that dominated the entire top of the front page of the newspaper issue the woman had loaded for him. She was right; she had known exactly what he wanted. The headline read:

  Family Dead After Apparent Murder-Suicide

  Lance studied the word apparent for a few seconds, wondering at what point it had no longer fit. How long had the Ripton’s Grove Sheriff’s Department really investigated what had happened there? If Mark Benchley had been innocent, how much of a chance had he really been given in the eyes of the public and law enforcement?

  The image below the headline was a picture of the farmhouse, police cruisers parked in front and along the side. Lance skimmed the article, picking out key words and phrases and learning nothing he hadn’t already been told by people in town.

  He wasn’t here for words.

  When he was leaving Mama’s, Jen had given her opinion on Mark Benchley, citing that he had a certain look about him. Hearing this, Lance thought it might be time to try and track down a picture of Mark Benchley, and maybe the rest of the family as well. Put faces to the names, and also to the voices he kept hearing at the farmhouse. He couldn’t really imagine it would help much, but again … he had the time to kill.

  The article about the murders continued on another page, and Lance fumbled with the knobs below the screen until he had the correct page in focus.

  His jaw dropped. His heart leapt into his throat.

  He leaned in closer.

  The picture that accompanied the rest of the article about the Benchley family murder was a shot of the family all together at what looked like some sort of neighborhood picnic. There was a long table set up behind them covered with food, with lots of people milling about. Trees and playground equipment dotted the background, and Lance recognized the area as the park at the base of the mountain.

  Mark Benchley was an average-looking man, but above-average height, towering over his wife and daughter by a good foot, at least. His hair was thinning and his belly was soft, but all in all, he appeared normal. He wore blue jeans and loafers and a button-up shirt.

  Mary Benchley looked to be maybe twelve or thirteen in the picture, a small spotting of acne on her forehead, her body looking as though it were still trying to figure itself out. But her face was pretty and her smile was a knockout, and Lance figured that she would likely have grown up to be a very attractive young lady.

  But it wasn’t Mark Benchley or his daughter, Mary, that had nearly caused Lance to fall out of his chair.

  Natalie Benchley stood beside her husband, looking proud and happy. She had a plate of food in one hand, and the other arm wrapped around her daughter’s shoulder. She wore a tank top and shorts and flip-flops. She looked comfortable in every sense of the word.

  But there was one imperfection.

  A scar on her chin. Just to the left of center.

  Lance had seen the scar and then stared into the picture of the woman’s face, had seen the image reverse itself in age, growing younger and younger until the face was of a little girl of maybe six or seven. Her mother scooping her up in her arms while the blood flowed from the fresh gash from where she’d fallen and struck the patio.

  A little boy, maybe a year or two older, standing by with tears in his eyes, guilt weighing heavy on his heart and mind.

  A little boy who would suffer unspeakable abuse and then grow up to be sheriff.

  Lance sat back and looked at the image for a very long time. Another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

  Natalie Benchley had been Sheriff Ray Kruger’s younger sister.

  30

  When Lance approached the two-headed guard dog at the library’s front desk, both women eyed him with looks that said What could he possibly want now?

  “I’m all finished,” Lance said, adjusting the straps of his backpack. He looked at the woman on the right, the one with the gold cross. “Thank you for your help.” Then he smiled at the woman on the left, not wanting her to feel left out. “I hope you both have a great day.”

  He didn’t look back as he walked through the atrium, sneaking another peek up at the cloud-covered sky through the glass ceiling and then stepped out the front door.

  He stood on the sidewalk and took a deep breath, filling his lungs. The traffic was picking up on the main streets. He could hear the rumble of engines and the squeals of brakes that needed work coming from beyond the courthouse. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked the time. It was just past noon.

  Church would likely be out now.

  He walked up the side street for two blocks until he was back in front of the courthouse, then he made a right turn, away from the direction of Mama’s—he was much more eager to speak with Jacob Morgan than Joan right now—and figured he could cut down another street and circle back toward the direction of the park. Then he’d hike back up the hill and hopefully catch Jacob and Ethan at home. If they weren’t there, maybe having stopped for lunch, Lance told himself he would wait. His belly was full and
he’d had his coffee and he was pumped fresh with adrenaline after his discovery about Natalie Benchley’s familial ties to Sheriff Ray Kruger. There was a Dean Koontz paperback somewhere in his backpack that he’d started twice without finishing. He could fish it out and give it another go while he waited.

  Lance rounded a corner and saw he was correct about the traffic uptick. There were five cars stopped at the stoplight, and as Lance walked by and glanced inside the windows, he saw most of the drivers were dressed in their Sunday best. Shirts and ties and jackets and conservative dresses. No evangelical shorts and a t-shirt around these parts. The songs played and sung during worship services in Ripton’s Grove would be the standby classics like “Amazing Grace” or “How Great Thou Art” instead of anything more contemporary that one might be able to threaten to dance to.

  A few of the drivers looked at Lance before quickly darting their eyes back to the road, the cars in front of them, the stoplight. The light turned green and the cars moved slowly on. Back to homes where families would sit down to share a meal, off to Mama’s or other restaurants where they’d maybe join friends and enjoy a few laughs.

  A routine.

  Normalcy.

  Things Lance wondered if he’d ever taste again in any sense of the word. Right now his only routine was to have no routine.

  He looked down at his sneakers on the sidewalk, tilting his head down and letting the steady breeze ruffle his hair. It was getting too long. He’d need to get a trim soon. Haircuts were the type of trivial thing that Lance often found slipping through the cracks of his life now.

  “Lance! Hey, Lance!”

  Lance stopped and looked up. Searched for the source of the voice. He looked across the street and saw he’d ended up directly across from R.G. Homes. Rich Bellows, wearing black dress slacks and a white dress shirt, the tie loosened around his neck and hanging askew, was standing half out the door, waving frantically to get Lance’s attention. Lance allowed a pickup truck to pass by and then crossed the street.

  “Hi,” Lance said.

  Rich Bellows nodded a greeting and then pushed the door open completely, suggesting Lance should come inside.

  Lance looked over his shoulder, back across the street, and then left and right. He found the courthouse’s bell tower and then looked down at the buildings beneath, mentally tracing his steps from there to here.

  This hadn’t been the direction he’d meant to come. He’d started out on the right path, but somewhere along the way, he’d lost his focus, had let his mind wander, and his feet had brought him right here to Rich Bellows’s doorstep.

  Why?

  Lance entered the office.

  Then Rich Bellows closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and shut the blinds.

  Well … this may not have been my best move.

  Lance didn’t move. Rich Bellows didn’t make him feel any more comfortable when he said, “Lance, I think you need to get out of town. Today. As soon as you can.”

  Lance thought about this, then chose his words very carefully. “But, we have a lease agreement.”

  Rich Bellows stared at Lance, his face showing first misunderstanding, then confusion. Finally he allowed himself a grin. Lance grinned back, and Rich let out a short burst of laughter, followed by a long, sad sigh.

  “What’s going on, Mr. Bellows?” Lance asked. “What’s really going on? Why do you think I need to leave?”

  Rich rubbed at the side of his face, trying to decide what to say. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “The way you say that,” Lance said, “it doesn’t sound like it’s you who’d be doing the hurting. Am I right?”

  Rich took a step forward, and Lance stepped back quickly, his hands coming up defensively.

  Rich stopped and shook his head. “Relax, okay? You’re right. I’m not who you need to worry about.” He motioned behind Lance. “I was just going to go back to my office.”

  Lance lowered his hands but kept his body alert. “If not you, who should I worry about?”

  Rich nodded toward the door behind Lance again. “My office.”

  Lance stepped aside. “After you, sir.”

  Rich did not seem to notice or care that Lance was allowing him to go first as a defensive tactic—to avoid possibly getting attacked from behind by some coward. He walked past Lance and stepped into his office, sidestepping around the desk and collapsing into his chair like a man who was exhausted from a hard day’s labor.

  Lance entered the office and stood just inside the doorway, leaning against the wall. He crossed his arms, decided it looked too aggressive, and then uncrossed them, burying his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts.

  He said nothing. Waited while Rich Bellows stared down at his desk, eyes lost. Finally, he looked up at Lance and said, “It was the flowers.”

  “Sir?”

  “You seemed like a really nice guy the night you came in here looking for a place to rent. I even went home and told Victoria all about you. So, I guess”—he sighed and leaned back in the chair, running his hands through his hair—“I guess I was never quite convinced it’d been you who attacked her in the farmhouse yesterday morning, but I was so blasted angry, Lance. I felt so violated, to think somebody had come after her and hurt her. I … I wasn’t thinking straight, and I was looking for somebody to blame—other than myself—and you were the first person I could think of. I used you as a scapegoat. That’s why I was so adamant with the sheriff that they should bring you in. I mean, they probably would have anyway, since you were the one staying at the house, but … I could have done more to vouch for you.”

  Rich paused and looked to Lance, searching to see if he was following him. Lance nodded once.

  “But then you showed up at Central Medical yesterday with those blasted flowers, and I thought to myself, Rich, what an—pardon my language—asshole you are, to accuse this nice young man of such an awful crime. You didn’t even know my wife until yesterday morning, and you were thoughtful enough to check in on her and bring her a gift. She loved them, by the way. Put them in water as soon as we got home, and I had to stare at them on the counter this morning all through our breakfast. All the while thinking how it was all my fault, yet you were the one who got pulled into the sheriff’s office and treated like a criminal.”

  Lance, ignoring what he figured was Rich Bellows eventually coming around to an apology of sorts, asked, “Sir, that’s twice now you’ve alluded to what happened yesterday as being your fault. Why is that?”

  Rich looked down at his desk again, and his face grew pale, like he was getting sick. He took a deep breath and swallowed once, twice, then looked at Lance and said, “I may have been an accomplice. Indirectly, mind you, but that’s not ever going to help me sleep at night.”

  Lance gave the man a minute before saying, “I’m going to need more, sir. It’s hard for me to put any stock in your request that I leave town based on your vagueness. You understand, right?”

  Rich seemed to consider this for a long time before saying, “Why are you here, Lance?”

  Lance couldn’t help it. He barked a laugh. Rich looked at him, confused. “Sorry,” Lance said. “I’m just beginning to think that’s what the epitaph will be on my gravestone. ‘Here lies Lancelot Brody. Why was he here?’”

  Rich didn’t so much as smile. “You told me you were a consultant. But everyone in town seems to think you’re writing some sort of article or true crime book about the Benchley murders.”

  Lance said nothing.

  Rich sighed again and stood up, pushing the desk chair to the side and leaning over to rest his palms flat on the desk. “Lance, I truly don’t believe you’re a bad person. I don’t know why you’re here, and you don’t seem keen on telling me, so all I’m going to do now is ask that whatever I tell you never leaves this room. Remember, I’m trying to help you here. Okay? I’m looking out for your best interest.” Then he added, “And what I’m about to tell you, while I don’t know that it’s technically a crime, I
just… if Victoria found out. I don’t know the repercussions, Lance, and—well, if it comes to a head, then it does, and I’ll take the responsibility like a man. But I don’t want my life ruined, Lance. Not so much for my sake, but for my family’s.”

  Lance looked Rich in the eyes and said, “Sir, you have my word. This is just between you and me. I’m not here to ruin any lives or add any fuel to the gossip train.”

  Rich searched Lance’s face for a long time, contemplated his honestly. And whether it was that he did bring himself to fully trust this stranger before him, or whether his apparent guilt would no longer allow him to remain silent, Rich said, “After the murders, and about a week after R.G Homes purchased the property, I got an email from an anonymous sender. A random address with letters and numbers, no name. It was a simple offer—a partnership is how they put it. They’d give me five hundred dollars a month, every month, on a date of my choosing, and all I had to do was email them back at that address anytime anything was done involving the Benchleys’ farmhouse. Maintenance work, cleaning crews, landscaping, and”—he gave Lance another guilty look—“new tenants. Anything. The email told me to go check the mailbox out front to see how serious they were, and sure enough, there was an envelope right along with the other junk I get, with five one-hundred-dollar bills inside.”

  “So you went along with it?” Lance asked.

  Rich looked at him, and Lance saw some of the guilt melt away and be replaced by defensiveness. “I’ve got a wife and two kids who I want to give the world to, Lance. There’s nothing on this earth that makes me happier than to see them happy. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Ripton’s Grove isn’t exactly a booming real estate metropolis. Five hundred a month … well, let’s just say it was a nice cushion. It took some of the pressure off me and kept Victoria in that Mercedes she loves so much and helps keep our mortgage paid. Do you understand?” He ran his hands through his hair again. “I mean, I didn’t see how it would possibly hurt anybody. Why would it?”