The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  Callaway’s last case had paid him well. David Becker was a lawyer who had jumped to his death. Callaway had somehow managed to put away most of the money from that case.

  To see Dean walk away with all his hard-earned cash was painful, but Callaway did not regret his decision one bit. Joely and Josh’s safety far outweighed anything he had tucked away under his mattress. Callaway did not trust banks because of their exorbitant fees. He believed the banks were bigger crooks than the actual crooks he had the misfortune of dealing with. The banks charged fees for holding a customer’s money, while at the same time they loaned out the rest at a higher interest rate.

  Shouldn’t they pay me to use my money? Callaway thought.

  The interest they did pay on the account was a pittance compared to what they were making loaning it out. According to him, they were loan sharks on a bigger scale. Once they hooked a person on their credit cards, their lines of credit, and their mortgage debts, that person was forever at their mercy. The banks could change their rates, fees, and policies at any time, and the person could not do anything about it.

  For that reason, Callaway preferred cash. The drawback was that he could not tap into a credit card, line of credit, or an overdraft balance when he was short on cash. He would have to seek out people like Mason and Baxter.

  Now that my savings are gone, am I going to have to knock on their door again?

  He shivered at the thought.

  He had to find a case that paid well enough to replenish his funds. He had been working pro bono on both Joely and Hope’s cases. Joely was a friend, and there was no way he was going to charge her for his services. As for Hope’s case, he knew there was little chance of getting adequate compensation for the amount of work he had done. He just did not feel right taking money from a person who was suffering from mental illness.

  He rubbed his temples.

  I’m too much of a softie, he thought. I need to get tough if I want to run a successful business.

  But he knew that was not him. He did not become a private investigator to become rich. He became a private investigator because he enjoyed the perks of the job. He did not have a boss to answer to, he made his own schedule, and he never knew where his next case would take him. The uncertainty excited him. He could not imagine working a nine-to-five office job. The monotony would make him go insane.

  Why can’t I just take on more cases of cheaters? he thought. I catch a spouse having an affair, and I get paid. Simple.

  Hope Parsons’s case was always going to be complicated, he knew. Everything he had read about the case told him she had killed her son.

  He had hoped that, somehow, he would find a way to change that. But even after knocking on each door, looking under each rock, following each lead, there was nothing left for him to do. He had done everything he could possible think of.

  He should resign to the fact that Hope—during a psychotic episode—had indeed killed her only child. In the end, the judge who convicted her was right, the people who always believed she was guilty were right, the media who wrote about her as a murderer were right.

  He sighed. How am I going to break this to her? he thought. How do I tell her without pushing her to inflict harm on herself?

  It would not be an easy task. In Hope’s mind, she was not guilty of her son’s demise, and Callaway was not sure how he could convince her otherwise.

  Maybe it was not his job to convince her. It was his job to lay out the facts. And those facts were that her son was gone and she was responsible for his death.

  Callaway suddenly had an overwhelming urge to drink.

  NINETY-TWO

  Holt and Fisher returned to the Milton PD more determined than ever. Their visit to a local automobile dealership had confirmed Holt’s suspicions. James Riley had indeed traded in his two-year-old black Volvo SUV for a brand-new Ford Mustang.

  This raised a serious question. Why would Riley choose to trade in a vehicle that was low mileage for another vehicle only days after his wife was murdered?

  Some could argue that Riley was so distraught at the loss of his wife that he sold the car because it reminded him of her. But the Volvo did not belong to Emily Riley, it belonged to her husband.

  The only logical explanation was that Riley feared someone had seen the car in the neighborhood at the time of the shooting at Emily’s Place, and if he drove back to Emily’s Place in it, the police could easily identify it.

  Holt and Fisher believed that was why Riley was driving his wife’s minivan. It was also why he was keeping the Mustang hidden in the garage. He did not want neighbors, friends, or family asking him why he had gotten rid of a perfectly good, new vehicle.

  Even with that information, they knew it was not enough to bring Riley in for the murders of four women.

  For one thing, the footage never clearly showed the make and model of the vehicle the shooter had driven off in. Second, the license plate number was never visible.

  Holt knew the vehicle because he had an interest in purchasing a similar one, but that explanation would not hold up in court. An astute defense lawyer would tear his theory to shreds.

  This was something they could not gamble on. Holt and Fisher would have to build a case against James Riley. And in order to do that, they needed a motive.

  As they dug into Riley’s background, they found what they were looking for.

  Riley was under financial stress.

  Several investors had filed lawsuits against him and his firm citing improper accounting, fraud, and breach of fiduciary duty.

  They also discovered a life insurance policy under Emily’s name, with James Riley as the beneficiary. In the event of death, the beneficiary would receive one million dollars, which was, coincidentally, the amount Riley was accused of mishandling. But things got more sinister as they looked further into the insurance policy.

  Only a month before, the premium had been doubled to two million dollars. The reason given was that threats had been made against Emily’s Place, and as such, Emily Riley was afraid for her well-being. She wanted protection for her family in case something happened to her.

  Holt and Fisher had a feeling it was James Riley who had convinced her to increase her policy. The payout from the insurance would be more than enough for him to get out of the mess he had gotten into.

  “That’s why he is eager to get the death certificate,” Fisher said. “Without it, he can’t put a claim on the insurance.”

  “We have to find the murder weapon,” Holt said.

  “How do we do that?”

  “We have to go talk to Earl Munchin again.”

  NINETY-THREE

  Callaway decided to go to Joely’s restaurant instead of getting a drink. A bar would quench his thirst, but it would not solve his problems. The alcohol would numb his feelings, but only for a short time. Once the hangover was gone, he would be faced with the fact that he could not help Hope.

  Maybe her case was never meant to have a satisfying conclusion, he thought. Maybe that poor woman is suffering delusions or is in denial.

  Regardless, Callaway would have to put an end to the case. He could no longer afford to keep paying out of his pocket. He needed a paying case, one that would replenish the funds he had given to Dean Paterson in order to make him disappear and leave Joely and Josh alone.

  Speaking of whom, he thought as he entered the restaurant.

  Joely was behind the counter.

  The moment she saw him, she rushed over to his table. “I just got a call from Dean,” she said.

  “What did he say?” he asked innocently.

  “He said he was leaving town and didn’t know when he would return.”

  “Okay.”

  “What a scumbag!” she fumed. “That’s exactly how he ended our marriage. He was on the road touring with a band when he telephoned me and told me he wasn’t coming back.”

  “I guess some people never change.”

  “I guess not,” she said. “I don’t know
how I’m going to break it to Josh. He was so looking forward to spending time with his dad.”

  “Tell him the truth,” Callaway said. “Tell him his dad can’t be relied upon. It might save him years of heartache. You don’t want Dean showing up unannounced, making promises he knows he won’t keep, and then disappearing for who knows how long. Do you?”

  “No, of course not,” Joely said with a shrug.

  “I know what I’m talking about. I’ve done that with Nina—promised her I’d be at her school play, or promised her I’d take her to the fair, and I never lived up to those promises. Patti would later tell me that Nina would lock herself in her room for hours. Sometimes she would cry into her pillow.” He choked back tears. “It breaks my heart knowing I let my kid down. But I was selfish.” He cleared his throat to control his emotions. “It’s better that Dean is gone. You’re a great mother to Josh. You’re all he needs.”

  Joely smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “I know you weren’t able to find anything on him, but I appreciate that you took the time to look into it for me.”

  “No problem. That’s what friends are for.”

  She then paused, “Although, I did get the sense that something was not right, like Dean was hiding something from me.”

  “Really?” he said with a raised eyebrow.

  “On a few occasions, I saw him looking out the window suspiciously. Or how he would keep the blinds down, as if he was trying to hide from someone.”

  “Well, that’s not your problem anymore. Whatever mess he was in, you don’t have to deal with.”

  Joely stared at him. He suddenly realized he had said too much.

  She might ask me how I know.

  He was never great under a barrage of questioning. He would break and spill his guts faster than a five-year-old boy who had stolen candy and had to fess up.

  To his relief, Joely asked with a smile, “So, what can I get you today?”

  “Just coffee,” he replied.

  “You got it,” she said and then left.

  He found a newspaper on the table. He picked it up and began to go through it. The paper had the usual stuff: stabbing, hit and run, armed robbery, homicide, and assault.

  If an alien arrived on Earth and looked at the paper, it would think humans were out to kill each other, Callaway thought. Maybe we are.

  Joely returned and placed a piping hot cup in front of him.

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said.

  He took a sip and began to go through the classified section. He always kept an eye on job opportunities. He never knew when he would have to look for work if no clients came to him for a while.

  He was on the last page when the restaurant’s phone—an old, wall-mounted one—began to ring.

  He looked at the far end of the restaurant. Joely was with a customer who was seated in a booth.

  The phone kept ringing.

  He looked at her again. She had not heard the phone. She was still busy talking to the customer.

  The ringing was metallic, sounding like bells hitting each other.

  Ting, ting, ting.

  The sound was in a rhythmic pattern.

  Ting, ting, ting.

  He was about get up to answer the phone when he was hit with a revelation.

  NINETY-FOUR

  Holt banged on the door.

  He and Fisher were at Earl Munchin’s apartment. They wanted to ask him a few questions.

  When there was no response, Holt banged on the door again.

  Still no answer.

  Fisher pulled out her cell phone and dialed his number.

  “It’s ringing,” she said.

  Holt put his ear to the door and listened. They wanted to see if Munchin was inside. Maybe Munchin hoped that if he did not answer the door, the detectives might just go away. But there was no ringing sound coming from inside. That still did not mean Munchin was not home. He could have merely put the phone on silent, but calling was worth a try.

  Fisher shut her phone. “What do we do now?”

  Holt turned and knocked on the door across from Munchin’s.

  A woman in her late sixties opened the door a few inches. “Can I help you?” she asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

  Holt gave her his best smile. “Hi there, I’m looking for Earl.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m from the Men’s Support Alliance.”

  “What’s that?” the woman asked.

  “It’s a group Earl and I are involved in. I was supposed to pick up Earl to take him to a meeting, but he’s not answering his door.”

  The woman was silent.

  “Please,” Holt said. “If I leave, Earl won’t have a ride to the meeting, and we can’t start the meeting without him because he’s leading it today.”

  The woman sighed. “I saw Earl dragging his cart earlier.”

  “Cart?”

  “Yeah, he was taking his laundry down to wash.”

  “Where’s the laundry room?”

  “It’s on the main floor of the building,” she replied. “You get off the elevator and turn right. It’s at the end of the hall. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Holt and Fisher followed the woman’s instructions and found Earl Munchin in a room that smelled of laundry detergent. Munchin was leaning next to a washing machine with a magazine in his hand.

  When he saw Holt and Fisher, he dropped the magazine and put his hands up in the air. “I told you guys I don’t know anything about what happened at Emily’s Place. I swear.”

  “We are not here about that,” Fisher said.

  “You’re not?” he said, confused.

  “No.”

  Munchin relaxed and put his hands down. “Then why are you guys here?”

  Holt pulled out a copy of a driver’s license and held it up for Munchin to see. “Do you know this man?”

  Munchin squinted and then his face twisted in confusion. “His name isn’t James Riley, though.”

  “What name did he tell you?”

  “He said it was Ray Boise.”

  “But you do recognize him, don’t know?” Holt said.

  “Yeah, I met him at one of our meetings.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “He came up to me and started asking questions about the organization. I told him he should go talk to Tom.”

  “Tom Manning?” Fisher asked.

  “Yeah, as the head of the organization, Tom could answer his questions better than me. But Ray said he didn’t want to have an agenda shoved down his throat. He wanted to get an opinion on the organization from an active member. He sounded genuinely interested in what we did at the Men’s Support Alliance. To be honest, I was flattered he was asking me so many questions.”

  “Why were you flattered?” Holt asked.

  “I’m kind of shy. I don’t really have too many friends. I also don’t interact too much during the meetings. I’ve only spoken up a handful of times.”

  “And when you did speak up, what did you say?”

  “I pretty much told the group what my interests were.”

  “Did you ever mention you owned a gun?” Holt asked.

  Munchin thought for a moment. “I think I must have said it once.”

  “Why?”

  “In one of the meetings, we discussed violence at home. We talked about the rise in domestic fatalities. We also discussed how gun owners could properly lock their weapons up so they were not easily accessible during a heated argument.”

  “Was James Riley—or Ray Boise—there at that meeting?” Holt asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Was he also at the rally on the day you lost your gun?”

  “Yeah, he was,” Munchin replied with a smile. “He came up to me and we spoke for a couple of minutes. He asked me if I wanted to go for drinks afterwards. I said sure. But I didn’t see him once the rally was over.”

  “Did you see him at the fast food restaurant
you went to after the rally?” Holt asked.

  Munchin’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so.”

  “But you are certain you lost your weapon when you went to use the restaurant’s bathroom?”

  “I had it on me when I went to the restaurant, but it was gone when I got home.”

  Fisher turned to Holt and whispered, “Riley must have followed him to the restaurant and taken the weapon in the bathroom.”

  Holt nodded.

  They now had a good idea of how James Riley had come into possession of a Smith & Wesson 9mm.

  NINETY-FIVE

  Callaway was in a small room located in the basement of a giant industrial building. A man sat across from him behind a worn-out desk. The man looked to be in his early seventies. His hair was white, his skin wrinkled, and his body frail.

  After leaving Joely’s restaurant, Callaway had returned to his office. It took some time digging through Detective Hammel’s notes, but he was able to find the name of the telephone company.

  On the day Noah had died, Hope remembered hearing a ringing noise. She thought they might have been church bells. And right after the ringing, she remembered hearing an angelic voice tell her that Noah needed help.

  Callaway now believed the noise had come not from a church bell but from a ringing telephone, and that the voice had come not from the heavens but from someone on the other line.

  He called the telephone company after finding it in Hammel’s notes, and after being put on hold, transferred twice, and speaking to several representatives, he was directed to the old man behind the desk.

  “I don’t get many visitors like I used to,” the man said. “Ever since they made everything electronic and put it on the internet.”

  Callaway did not have access to Hope’s account, nor did he know if her account was still active, but he doubted it would be. Hope had been confined to medical supervision ever since her son’s death.