This is a dead end. I don’t think this poor girl know a fucking thing. I would bet my house that the mother knew very little too. How the fuck did Duke do it. How did he live two totally different lives? Could he have had multiple personality disorder? Maybe. Probably not. But as I’ve said time and time again, the worst thing you can do as a detective is to assume.
Okay I think this will conclude us. I should tell you, Lydia. Your Father was married before he met your mother. You have a half-sister. Her name is Aurelia.
This one really fucked her up. The look of confusion on her face says it all.
What?
You have a half-sister. Her name is Aurelia.
Are you fucking kidding me? My Dad has another daughter? Is it just us? Does he have any more that I don’t know about-
What is it with this case? Everything circles around family. Family. For a homicide case. Where three hundred people died. And family is at the root of it all. I think that’s what drew me to it in the first place. And I think that’s why this feels so intense now. Lydia didn’t get to hear her Father’s last words. I know the pain. I know how that feels. I never got to say goodbye to my Father. I can’t even remember the last thing I said to him. It kills me.
Lydia. I know this is a lot to handle. But allow me to explain everything to you from my understanding. Will you allow me to do that?
She stops hyperventilating and sinks back into her chair. Like a balloon that just lost all of its air.
Just tell her about July, 4 2014. She deserves to know. I just really hope it doesn’t change her forever. Like the day I lost my father. That changed everything for me. And not even knowing what my last words to him-
It kills me.
Chapter 7. Happy Wife, Happy Life
July 19, 1990
Mr. Pete
So this is it. Fuck. I can’t fucking believe I let it get this bad. I really fucked up this time. God fucking damnit. What have I done? What is going to happen to my family?
I swear to god if Randall shoots my family the last thing I’ll do is put a fucking curse on him. Then, as a ghost I will then personally haunt him for the rest of his fucking life. But I really fucked up. This is my fault. I did this to myself. I fucking fucked myself.
No- Don’t cry. Not in front of your wife and son. He can’t let this be his last memory of you. He needs to think of you as a strong man who was a great father. Sure, I can be a little rough around the edges with him, but I hope he knows just how much I love him. How he is the greatest thing that ever happened to me in my entire life. All twenty-four years of him.
Hey Dad? My son says to me.
Yes, son?
Everything okay? You seem stressed.
I’m wearing everything on my sleeve, aren’t I? That doesn’t surprise me. It’s taken me years to build this façade. In order to protect my family, I must wear a strong face constantly. In my line of work, if someone sees weakness in you, they don’t trust you. They think you’ll rat. Go to the Feds. It’s essential to wear this tough exterior. But today, I just can’t. I don’t have it in me.
Everything’s fine. Why don’t you take fifty bucks and get yourself some new shoes for orientation this week?
The last fifty bucks I’ll ever spend.
Dad, I have my own money can you stop draining yourself for me. It’s only BPD orientation it’s not a big deal.
If only he knew just how much money I had. That always saddened me. For him to see me as a struggling married man, working a shitty job, and is disgruntled about it. It will always sadden me.
The BPD is a huge deal, Larry. You’re going to be a cop. Your grandfather would be proud.
Who am I kidding, he doesn’t care. I wasn’t always a great father to him. I know it, my wife knows it, and I’m sure by now he knows it. All I want to do is tell him how much I love him and how much he means to me. But Larry can never see or know about that side of his father. The criminal side. The BPD wouldn’t trust him. Therefore they wouldn’t take him on board. He has no formal third level education, so he’d be forced to work in construction or something along those lines.
It kills me that he will never now his true father.
It kills me.
Chapter 8. The Search for Randall Adams
November 10, 2018.
Detective Larry Pete
Peterson pulled everything there is to know on every single Randall Adams in the Boston Metro area. There are fifteen of these fuckers in a forty mile radius. So, not too bad. Ten of them are under the age of thirty, so I am going to exclude those men from the investigation, for now.
Let’s take a look;
Randall James Adams
Age: 42
Profession: Plumber
Residence: Jamaica Plain, Ma
Criminal Record: NA
Randall Adam Adams
Age: 51
Profession: Public Insurance Adjuster
Residence: Needham, Ma
Criminal Record: Breaking & Entering (Misdemeanor)
Randall Steven Adams
Age: 32
Profession: Freelance Writer
Residence: Boston, Ma
Criminal Record: Failure to pay taxes; 1 year in prison
Randall Skylar Adams
Age: 40
Profession: NA; (Ex BPD officer)
Residence: NA
Criminal Record: Homicide (Aquitted)
Randall Joseph Adams
Age: 64
Profession: Retired
Residence: Newton, Ma
Criminal Record: Embezzlement (5 years)
Five men named Randall Adams. Age range is thirty-two to sixty-four. Residing locations all differ. None of these men look like hardened criminals by any means. Their criminal records show some innocent stuff, apart from Randall S. Adams. But, he was a cop for 25 years. Perhaps he just had to use his weapon in the line of duty and the victim’s family pressed charges. I can look into that one in our systems.
I’ll have to run further background checks on everyone, and not to mention reach out to Aurelia to see if she can successfully identify the Randall Adams she once knew to be a friend of her father’s.
But Aurelia mentioned seeing Randall Adams in Downtown Boston. She described him in a similar fashion you would describing a homeless man. Perp number five looks most like that description. Randall Joseph Adams. And ironically, we have the least info on him. He owned a chain of barber shops in some neighborhoods surrounding Boston. That hairstyle? Owning barbershops? Yeah right.
Wait- Here is the rest of his file.
“Randall Joseph Adams ran a small string of drug mules in the early 1980’s and laundered his money through his many barber shops. Due to the lack of evidence surrounding his case, all of the major charges were dropped and he was sentenced to five years in Plymouth State for an Embezzlement charge. He was released on December 19, 2013 and currently resides at 51 Herring St, Newton, Ma.-”
51 Herring st.
Herring.
If I leave now I can get there before rush hour traffic starts. One thing about leaving Boston at 4pm is that you never know what to expect. Is today going to be a day where everyone leaves work early to rush home to their mundane suburban lives? Or is today going to be a day where they pin themselves to their desk so they don’t have to spend an hour in the car to drive ten miles only to arrive at their own home and be treated like shit from their ungrateful wives and children? Who knows. I’m just glad that that’s not me anymore.
Chapter 9. Consciously Aware
November 15, 2018
Aurelia Pelisson
My father is dead and he still has an influence in my life. The man that left my mother and me all those years ago and never explained why still holds mental real estate. It seems as if my life is one giant cyclone of shit. Just when things were seemingly looking up he up and dies and brings me into all of this. It’s selfish of him. But from what I could remember he was always selfish. He destroyed my mother. He t
urned her into something that she wasn’t. A drug using whore.
She wasn’t like that before she met him, apparently. Obviously I wouldn’t truly know. But I’ve heard stories. When she was my age she was a punk rocker. I always found that to be pretty cool. My grandmother would say that one day she’d come home with pink hair and then a week later would come back with purple hair. She loved to have a good time and didn’t care what anyone thought, yet, was still sweet. I think that’s where I get it from. You know, my attitude. Some would say I have a “bad attitude” but I guess I just know what I do and don’t like. Is that a fucking crime? I wonder what I adopted from my father.
Hopefully not too much.
One thing that I just haven’t been able to shake these last two weeks is him. My fucking estranged father. Not because he’s dead. No. I don’t have an opinion on that. It’s Lydia. My half-sister, technically. My own father knew that both of us existed an hour apart from each other and didn’t have the courtesy to at least tell me or my mother about it. Sure, it would have broken my mother’s heart, and mine too, probably. But I should have known. Now I don’t know what the fuck to do. She’s fifteen. We have a large age gap and the way Detective Pete describes her to me makes it hard to believe that we come from the same asshole.
It really fucks with my mind. She is loving and pure, I’m not. She is innocent and beautiful, I’m not. She grew up in a wholesome family environment, I grew up in a glorified crack-den. Yeah, we totally sound similar. Detective Pete thinks I should talk to her. He thinks it’ll help both of us cope with the death of our father. Hell, even my Father’s fucking death note said that we’d both learn things about him that neither of us knew. I doubt that piece of shit told Lydia that he used to emotionally manipulate my mother, which ultimately drove her to the point of suicide. I wonder what I don’t know about her life. I wonder if she even has a hint of imperfection in her fucking fairytale existence.
No. That’s wrong of me to assume. She did lose her father just as I did. She was closer to him than I ever was and I am sure she is grieving. It must be a tough time for her. I should really see her.
But, Detective Walters thinks it could make matters worse. Him and Detective Pete argued about it while I was in the room. He made some valid points. He had a whole “Ignorance is bliss” outtake on the situation. He is right. I could just keep going on with my life and forget this ever happened. Just as I have been for the last fifteen years. That seems to be my thing. My X-factor. The ability to forget. All I need now is to be able to forgive.
Lydia grew up in Springfield, Ma. You know what they say about Springfield? “Come to Springfield for the night-life, stay because you’re dead”. I always loved that. Western Mass really freaks me the fuck out. I’m not sure why really. I must just be a city girl.
Enough contemplating. I should see her. I am curious about a lot, and I am sure she feels similarly.
I need to reach out to Detective Pete to set this up.
Chapter 10. Tracking the Herring
November 27, 2018
Detective Larry Pete
51 Herring can be crossed off the list. No one home. No one been home for years. Fuck. I thought that was going to be easy. It really couldn’t be more obvious. Herring street? Where the Herring swims west? Herring street is west of Boston. Well, sort of. It’s in the general direction.
I still think this is our guy. It just seems a little too obvious. All of the reports that Peterson and Walters ran on the others showed up relatively inconclusive. One of the Randalls actually lost his wife in the suicide. Crazy, what are the odds of that? Well I suppose it would be whatever the population of Central Massachusetts dived by three hundred is.
What is it with the Herring, is Duke a fisherman? Nothing from his file would show that he is, but I once learned that there is meaning behind every single word you say. For instance, the way Duke addressed both of his daughters. Upon addressing Lydia, the words he chose were positive, aurally appealing, and obviously filled with love. However, upon addressing Aurelia, his words were negative, apologetic, and almost saddening. Although Duke was essentially saying the same thing to both of them, his choice of words is what distinguishes his interests.
Now, the worst thing I can do here is assume so let’s say that he may or may not be a fisherman. Christ. I sound exactly like my father. He would always involve himself in a situation that he would win no matter what. Like putting money on every horse so that you can at least say that you won.
Say he is an avid fisher, why Herring? It could pertain to a specific region. It would make sense considering the suicide was in Northern Maine. Maybe their base operation is there. Maybe that is where the Herring swims west. But I shouldn’t assume. I need to go further.
God fucking damnit I need a cigarette. Where is my lighter-
There it is.
Where was I? Northern Maine. God. Sounds terrible. But Duke clearly does have a thing for it. Let me google this.
W h e r e a r e H e r r i n g f o u n d ?
So they are found in Northern Maine. It’s a little fishy that Northern Maine is now starting to become a trend. There is no such thing as coincidences as Walters says. That fucking piece of shit.
Is it a coincidence that Aurelia called me again? Maybe not. She could have called any of the other detectives and she called me. Maybe she likes me. Maybe.
No Pete. Don’t assume.
I should set that meeting up soon. She did say it with a hint of urgency. I just hope they get along. Nothing would make this case worse than having the two daughters enemize themselves with one another.
Chapter 11. The Incarcerated Little Man
December 19, 2018
Detective Larry Pete
Every Christmas I do this. I don’t know why I still do to be honest. I’m not with Katherine anymore. This isn’t my responsibility. Yet, he doesn’t have anyone. Katherine and the kids never visit. In fact, I think they haven’t visited since the divorce. And that was over five years ago.
Being incarcerated in Plymouth County Jail is something that I wouldn’t wish on many. This is a place for killers and rapists. Like Duke. Or Walters. Steve is neither of those. Poor guy just tried to hijack a FedEx truck to make a quick buck to pay for his daughter’s education. I don’t know how easy it would’ve been for him to sell that truck but hey, who am I to judge? A man who provides for his family can truly call himself a man. Whether he begs, borrows, or steals it doesn’t matter. It’s all about where the end goal is.
Steve has two children of his own. The exact same age as mine. Long before the divorce, and before Steve became incarcerated, we would have these cook outs at our house. Steve would come over with our little niece and nephew. His wife, Jean, was mostly in and out of jail during that time. Mostly for theft, drugs, possession of a deadly weapon etc. In the end it all sort of blended together. One month she’d be at home cooking the kids’ meals. The next, switching sides and adopting a new female lover in some jail cell in bumfuck western Massachussets. But that’s a whole different story.
I look back on those cook outs and it reminds me of the happiest time in my life. My wife and I were happily married. We had two small children who were the loveliest little things on this planet. And the Duke case seemed like no big deal. Oh, how times were different then. Steve really wasn’t around for everything. Now that I think of it, I only saw the man a few times a year. Holidays and cook outs. But I always felt sorry for him. Just as much as I feel sorry for myself. Him and I are similar. We both lost everything we had due to outside forces. Well, I suppose he did choose to rob that truck. And I did choose to take more responsibility on this case. But, that’s only a small fraction of the blame to be put on us. The world has always seemed to act against us and we are truly just trying our best.
Mr. Pete? You can come in now. Says the Jailhouse guard.
Here we go.
You know, for a jail, this place isn’t awful. The guards don’t seem too pissed off. If I had t
o babysit all these convicts I’d probably lose a screw or two but these men seem relatively stable. I once put a man in here that was convicted of homicide in the early 2000’s. He begged the Judge not to be incarcerated here. He would always say “Anywhere but Plymouth County”. Maybe the guards are worse than I think. I suppose it is all about perspective.
Right through here. The midget is in booth 3. Says the Guard.
Thanks. You know they prefer “Little person”.
When they’re in here I can call them whatever the fuck I want.
Huh. What a dickhead. Maybe that guy I put in here was right. But he was a murderer so what can you do.
There’s Steve. Damn, I always forget just how little that guy really is. At one of our cook outs him and I had way too much to drink and started getting personal. I knew it was taboo but I decided to ask him how tall he was anyway. Now I was pretty drunk so I could be misremembering this but he told me he was four foot ten. I look at him now and I swear to God this guy has shrunk. I’m not trying to be funny. He genuinely does look like a lost a few inches being in here. Maybe it’s all that yard work weighing him down. I don’t know. I’m not an expert, clearly.
Hey Larry. Good to see you. Says Steve as he perches forward on his stool.
I take a seat opposite him and put my bag on the table that separates us. If this was ten years ago I could have a cigarette with the man. Fucking millennials.
Did you bring it? He says to me with a sheer look of excitement on his face.
Of course. How could I forget?
He’s referring to the Christmas stuffing I bring him every year. That’s right. Just stuffing. The man is simple, not much else to it. The week before Christmas each year I make him a couple pounds of this stuffing Katherine used to make for all of us. The guy fucking loved it. He wouldn’t even eat the Turkey. Only stuffing. Man, some people are just wired differently. But who am I to judge?
Stayaway Hideaway Page 3
