Jackson was laid to rest exactly one week after the slaying. At the funeral, his wife, Felicia was beyond consolation and even fainted during the service.
Kevin and his family sat in the second row from the front, just behind Thaddeus Sherman and other Members of Parliament and their wives. Thaddeus spoke well of his colleague and friend as he reminisced about the causes they courageously took on, their successes and failures.
As she held on to Mark, Sheri fought to restrain her tears as she reflected on how badly the man laid out in the most beautiful bronze casket she’d ever seen had caused her family to suffer. As the pity she initially felt for him had quickly diminished, she dreaded the thought she’d entertained that the bastard deserved what he got. She’d cried enough tears as well for the murderer who’d stained the quality of his own life due to his apparent abhorrence of a man who wasn’t worthy of him spending his life in jail or receiving the death penalty for. No one won, she deduced — perhaps the country at large, only if Thaddeus was going to prove himself a more compassionate leader. Otherwise, no one would have won and Jackson’s death was in vain.
Leaders from other nations were also in attendance, including the Vice-president of The United States. Nick Myers and Steve sat together in the back row and observed, not as mere mourners, but as policemen. The service lasted for nearly three hours, then a procession followed to the cemetery.
SEVENTEEN
The investigation had seemed to stall despite the hundreds of interviews conducted by officers and scrutiny of the evidence that trickled in. Fifteen days since the murder and no one was apprehended, although the suspect count was unusually high. Commissioner Fox knew none of the evidence warranted any arrests and in spite of constant heat from government officials expecting him and his men to work a miracle, there was no rushing the process.
Nick sat alone viewing photographs of the crime scene, including those of Jackson sprawled on the pavement. Lately, he hadn’t been sleeping well. Solving that case was gradually taking over his life, just like most of the other cases he’d ever worked on.
“Wanna ride with me to grab some lunch?” Steve asked at the door. “You need to get outta here for a while.”
Nick sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
As they walked toward the front door, they noticed a young man speaking with a constable. He seemed fired up and was insisting he be arrested.
“What’s going on here?” Steve stopped and inquired.
“I was just about to get you, Detective,” the officer started. “This man claims to have murdered Prime Minister Cunningham.”
Nick and Steve immediately glanced at each other. They couldn’t believe their ears.
“Run that by me again,” Steve said.
“I killed him!” The young man exclaimed. “He deserved it too! And if I had it to do over, I’d do it again.” He held out his hands. “Arrest me, dammit! I confessed to the crime!”
The constable looked stunned.
Steve turned to him. “You heard him. Arrest him.”
EIGHTEEN
The confessed killer was taken to an interrogation room with a one-way glass. Steve and Nick observed him for several minutes from the adjacent room while Detective Eddie Palmer ran the guy’s name into the system to check for priors. They soon received word from Eddie that the guy was as clean as a whistle — didn’t have as much as a parking ticket to his name. The name was Ben Benjamin. Twenty-four years old, gas station pump attendant; lives with his mother — forty-eight-year-old Rita Benjamin. Father died of a heart attack five years earlier. An only child.
Studying the man through the glass, Nick asked, “What do you think?”
“The guy confessed,” Steve answered. “Ready to get the run-down?”
Nick nodded. “Let’s go in.”
Ben quickly proved himself a real talker. He volunteered a lot of information and barely gave the detectives a chance to question him.
“What type of weapon did you use?” Steve asked him.
“I used a shotgun,” he replied.
“What brand?”
“I can’t remember that. All I know is it was a shotgun.”
The detectives knew he was right. It had been confirmed that, in fact, the weapon of choice in the assassination was a shotgun.
“Where did you get it?” Steve probed.
“Bought it off the black market. We don’t get names down there.”
“Where is it now?”
“I ditched it afterwards; couldn’t say where. I was so nervous, I just wanted to get rid of it.”
“You ditched the gun, but don’t know where?” Nick asked. “That doesn’t ring true.”
The detectives made eye contact.
“It’s true though. I swear! I have no idea where I tossed it. I was running to get clear away from downtown where cops are literally everywhere. If I was thinking straight right then and there I would’ve kept it so you’d have your physical evidence.” He paused for a moment. “Look, I’m here confessing. It makes sense that if I wasn’t shocked by what I’d done I would’ve kept the gun to support what I’m saying to you now.”
“Where were you located when you shot the Prime Minister?” Nick asked.
“What you mean where I was located?” Ben scowled.
“Where were you hiding when you shot him?” Steve said.
“I was on the side of the big building opposite Parliament.”
“Which side?” Nick pressed.
“Which side?”
“Yeah.” Nick quickly nodded.
“I was on the western side where the hedges are. That way, it was easier to get a clean shot. After I did the deed, I put the gun back in my duffel bag and I got the hell outta there as fast as I could.”
There was brief lull, then Steve finally asked the million dollar question.
“Why’d you do it?”
Ben eyes started to well up with tears. “I did it because of what that punk and his government did to my mom. She was fired from her janitorial job after the CPP came into power and because of that, two months ago, we lost our house. My mom was paying on that house for fifteen years. It wasn’t fancy or anything, but it was ours. After she lost her job, the bank was trying to work with her, but there was only so much my small salary could do. We still had to eat. My mom is in her late forties and no one wanted to hire her. She literally begged for her job back, but was told that the public sector’s overcrowded and that’s why they let her go in the first place.” He sighed deeply. “The bottom line is, the bank threatened to foreclose… and they did.” Tears were sliding down his cheeks.
“We lived under the bridge for a whole week before a relative took us in.” He sniffed. “I want this whole country to know I killed that son-of-a-bitch!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “And those other puffed up idiots in the government lucky I didn’t kill them all!”
The detectives were shocked by Ben’s outburst.
“I want you to calm down, Ben,” Nick said. “I get your frustration.”
Ben’s chest was now heaving, similar to the actions of a small child who was furious he couldn’t get his way.
“I’m not calming down!” he snarled. “You calm down!”
“Yes, you will!” Steve stepped in.
“Just take me to jail – and tell everyone I did it and I’m proud!”
Nick felt this guy’s pain. Whatever it was he and his mother endured must have pushed him overboard.
“Detective...” Steve turned to Nick. “Can I speak with you outside?”
“Sure.” Nick agreed, and they both got up.
“Take me to jail now, I say!” Ben demanded. “I’m gonna tell everyone in there too what I did.” A smirk suddenly appeared through the tears.
“We’ll be right back, Ben,” Nick said.
The detectives went into the adjacent room which was much narrower and darker than the one they’d just left. Through the glass they watched Ben slam his fist on the desk, then rest
his head down on the cold steel.
“Looks like we’ve got our guy, huh?” Steve noted.
Shaking his head slowly, Nick said, “I don’t know, Steve. Something doesn’t feel right.”
Steve turned and faced him. “What’s to feel, bro? The guy literally handed us a confession on a silver platter.”
“But not the weapon.”
“You heard what he said!”
“And, to me, it doesn’t make sense.”
“Nick, you know that very rarely does any explanation a criminal gives for being a criminal ever makes sense.”
“I know. I know, but still...”
“I believe you’re overthinking this one, Nick. Look...this is what the public’s been waiting for – the apprehension of Cunningham’s killer. We have that now and you’re doubting? I don’t get it.” His hands were at his waist and deep lines of concern had crept across his face. “I’m gonna get the Commissioner in here.”
Steve picked up the phone and dialed Fox’s extension.
“Chief...” he started “…looks like we’ve got a confession here to Prime Minister Cunningham’s murder.”
“You’re kidding me?” Fox nearly dropped his bologna sandwich.
“No, I’m not. We’re in room 11.”
Fox hung up right away, hurried out of his office and down the corridor toward the IR-11.
He appeared a little short-winded when he entered the room. Are you all right, Commissioner?” Nick asked.
“I’m fine.” Looking ahead at the young man, Fox asked. “That’s our guy?”
“Yes, sir,” Steve answered. “Confessed without a flinch. Said he did it because he blames the government for his mom losing her job, then the bank foreclosed on their house.”
“Where did you pick him up from?”
“He turned himself in, sir. Wants the world to know he murdered the PM and is darn well proud of it.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding!” It was the most outrageous thing Fox had ever heard. “What about the gun? Do we have it?”
“Says he doesn’t know where he ditched it,” Nick answered.
“He doesn’t know?”
“Same thing I thought,” Nick added. “We’re gonna have to go in search of it.”
“The point is, he confessed, Chief,” Steve said. “We can always look for the gun.”
“Well then, if you haven’t already, get him to sign the confession and haul his ass off to jail,” Fox said. “In the meanwhile, gather whatever supporting evidence you can from him and let’s take this to court. Sounds like it’s an open and shut case and he’ll make the guilty plea.”
“Yes, sir!” Steve said happily. Deep down, he’d had enough of the investigation. If it had been anyone else whose case he had to solve, it would have been different. But Cunningham had swallowed enough of his time, as far as he was concerned, and wasn’t worth even a second more. They’d closed the casket on him and now it was time to close the case.
The detectives returned to the Interrogation Room and Ben sat straight up again. He’d taken the opportunity to get a quick doze while they were away.
“What are you guys doing?” He looked bewildered as they slid out their chairs to sit down again. “Aren’t you taking me to jail now?”
“Don’t worry, Ben. You’ll get your wish,” Steve said. “We’re gonna go over this confession you made again. I’ll write it down; you’ll check it, then sign it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Let’s take it from the top and don’t leave out any details, okay?”
Again, Ben agreed.
Nick double-checked the recording device to ensure it was ready for the second round of taping, then he looked at Ben and noticed he was again eager to share the details surrounding the assassination.
They sat with him for another hour before the written document was ready for Ben’s signature.
“Are you sure about all this?” Nick asked him.
“’Course I’m sure! You think I would’ve come all the way here and sat in here for hours if I wasn’t sure about what I was saying? Come on, man! I’m no idiot.”
“Right here,” Steve slid the confession over to him, indicating where to sign.
Ben did so without hesitation.
The detectives stood up.
“Stand up,” Steve said.
He put the handcuffs on him and they escorted him to a holding cell out front.
“I did it!” Ben hollered in the corridor. “Let these guys fill y’all in on all the details. I shot Jackson Cunningham and I’m glad! Sent him straight to Hell.” He laughed heartily.
All heads turned in his direction. News had quickly traveled that this was the guy that killed the Prime Minister.
“He’s gonna rot in the slammer,” Lora Adams whispered to a Corporal standing nearby.
“Doesn’t seem to mind,” the officer replied.
“He will though. He’s just a young man. Not bad looking either. They’re gonna have a field day in there with him, then he won’t be laughing anymore.”
NINETEEN
A woman rushed through the doors of the police headquarters and made her way over to the reception desk where a constable was sitting.
“Sir, I hear my son is here. I came to see him. My name’s Rita Benjamin.”
“What’s his name?” the officer asked.
“Ben Benjamin. I just got word from a neighbor that he’s confessed to killing the Prime Minister, but I can swear on my mother’s grave, Officer, it’s not true!”
“Your son’s in a holding cell waiting to be transported to the prison. He’ll appear in court tomorrow where he’ll be charged.”
“My God!” she cried. “He’s really in trouble! Look, I’ve got to see him. Please, let me see him.”
The officer picked up the phone and spoke with someone quietly, then he looked at her again. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t do that. He’s being prepped for transport as we speak.”
“What do you mean I can’t see my son?” Her eyes opened widely. “Has he been given his one phone call? If so, it hasn’t been to me and believe me, if he was to call anybody in this world, it would be his mom. Has he even been assigned a lawyer?”
“I can’t answer that, ma’am.”
She slammed her purse on the counter. “Well, I demand to speak with the detective on this case. He should be able to give me the answers. I’m not stupid. My son has rights and so do I!”
The officer was slightly taken aback by the woman’s insistence. He picked up the phone again and made another call.
“Please follow me,” he said to Rita, moments later.
She followed him to a wide, open room with dozens of cubicles directly behind the wall which separated the reception area. Police officers were everywhere – some standing, others sitting at desks: it was a busy scene. Rita followed the constable to another section far to the back of the space. They made a left turn and stopped at the first door on the right. Standing at his desk, Nick was expecting them.
“Miss Benjamin. I’m Detective Myers. I met with your son this afternoon. Please come in and have a seat.”
“Thank you,” Rita softly replied, placing the pink purse on her lap the moment she sat down.
“I want to see my son, Detective. I hear you all are getting ready to take him down to the prison.”
“Yes.” Nick sat down.
“My Ben can’t go to the big house, Detective. You must put a stop to it because he’s innocent.”
“How do you know that?”
“My son wouldn’t kill nobody.”
“But he confessed, Miss Benjamin. He described what he did and how he went about it.”
“Detective, the Prime Minister has been dead for weeks now. All sorts of news have been circulating about his death. Anyone could’ve walked in here and gave information like they knew what they were saying.” She replied.
“But why would your son do that?” Nick was eager to hear her response.
She
lowered her head momentarily. “All I know is my son’s angry – very angry because of me losing my job and us losing our home. He blames the government for all of it and as bad as this sounds, he was glad when he got news of the Prime Minister’s murder.”
“But that doesn’t explain why he said he’s responsible for the homicide.”
Rita sighed deeply. “I feel he just wants attention. I don’t think he realizes how serious it is what he’s confessed to. Just please let me see him. If I can speak to him, maybe he’ll come to his senses.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Excuse me.” He got up and left the room.
Nick’s doubts about the young man’s confession never went away and were also now supported by his mother’s insistence of his innocence. He always trusted his hunches.
Ben was lying on his back with his eyes closed. He seemed ready and at peace to begin his life as an inmate. Nick surmised that if he was guilty of the crime, he deserved to be where he was, but if he wasn’t and confessed anyway, especially since he hadn’t been forced to, he was either crazy or just plain stupid.
“Your mother’s here to see you,” Nick told him.
Ben opened his eyes and without budging, replied: “I can’t talk to her right now. Tell her I’m all right and I’ll talk to her later.”
Nick had a feeling Ben didn’t want anything or anyone getting in the way of this course he’d set himself on.
“She’s upset, Ben, and really needs to talk to you.”
Ben thought for a moment, then sucked his teeth. “Shoots! Anyway, okay.” He sat up.
Nick returned shortly thereafter with Rita. “You have five minutes; that’s all. And you’d have to speak with him from here,” he said.
“Thank you, Detective. I really appreciate this,” she said.
Nick walked off.
Rita’s attention was squarely on her son. “Boy, what you think you’re doing? How in the world did you end up behind bars confessing to killing the Prime Minister, for goodness’ sake?”
“I’m here because I’m guilty, Mom. I did it. I killed the bastard!” Ben got up and clenched the bars, staring into his mother’s weary eyes. “I did it for you – for us.”
Dangerous & Deadly- The Nick Myers Series Page 24
