Candidate for Murder

by Lauren Carr

  “What have you ever really accomplished, Braxton, besides giving feminists a bad name?”

  “Shut up, you sexist pig, before I come over there and—”

  Fletcher, a young officer with only a few years on the force under his belt, jogged into the squad room. “Chief, how long are we going to hold those two?” he asked while jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the cells. “They’re really getting ugly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘getting ugly’? They were horrid before the debates even started.” Wiping his mouth, David packed up the casserole dish and handed it to Dallas while kissing her on the cheek.

  A thin smile crossed George Ward’s lips. “With all due respect, Chief, the solution is really quite simple. Keeping Ms. Braxton locked up is going to do your office more harm than good. Word is getting out to the media, and my office will be forced to release a statement about how an overzealous small-town police chief with a political agenda overstepped his authority—”

  “Overstepped his authority?” Dallas was on her feet. “Those two polecats would’ve torn the roof off of the Spencer Inn if David hadn’t broken it up.”

  “Your candidate started it!” Erin said, jabbing a finger in Dallas’ direction.

  “He’s not my candidate!”

  There was a plea in Fletcher’s tone. “Chief, if Clark calls me a loser one more time, I swear that I’m going to shoot him.”

  David sighed. “Okay.”

  “So we’ll let them go?”

  “No,” David said with a sly grin. “You have my permission to shoot him.”

  Fletcher’s eyes bugged out. George Ward’s and Erin’s mouths dropped open.

  “Shoot Braxton, too,” David said. “We’ll tie blocks to their bodies and dump them in the middle of the lake in the middle of the night.”

  George was the first to find his voice. “That is completely inappropriate, Chief!”

  “He’s joking,” Tonya said with a sharp tone. “You are kidding, right?”

  “Yeah,” David said with a tired sigh. “Bring them up to my office.”’ When George and Erin turned to follow him up the stairs to his office, he added, “Alone! I want to talk to the children alone.”

  Her eyes wide, Erin pushed past George so that she could follow David. “You can’t interview Ms. Braxton without me.”

  “Why not?” David’s tone dripped with the authority of his position as chief of police. This was his town, and he was the one in control of this matter.

  Erin dropped back a step. After regrouping, she gave him a fiery look. “I’m her assistant. It is my job to always be available for her whenever she needs anything. Wherever she goes, I go.”

  “If she needs anything during our talk, I’ll call you.”

  David’s corner office occupied the second floor of a log building that resembled a sports club more than it did a police station. His office windows looked out onto the police dock, which held four speedboats and six Jet Skis. The police fleet also included all-terrain vehicles for patrol or searches in the deep woods up and down the mountain.

  When David went into his office, he found Gnarly and Storm occupying the sofa—seemingly licking each other’s lips to pick up any remnants of the bear claw. Upon seeing David, the two large dogs stopped and looked at him with questions in their eyes. Their pointy ears stood up tall.

  With a shake of his head, David crossed the office to take a seat behind his desk. Within minutes, he heard Councilman Clark and Nancy Braxton loudly protesting their treatment while Officer Fletcher escorted them up the stairs.

  Bill Clark shoved his political opponent aside to enter the office ahead of her. His tie was undone. His tailored suit had been torn in the previous night’s altercation. “O’Callaghan, I knew you were stupid—”

  Upon seeing not only Gnarly but also a second dog only a fraction smaller than the German shepherd glaring at him from the sofa, Bill Clark stopped to regroup.

  Past middle age, Nancy Braxton’s face, which was as bloated as her figure, was the image of displeasure. To accentuate her equality to men, she was never seen wearing anything but a pantsuit. She glared at David with small, beady eyes. Fearlessly storming past the dogs, she charged his desk. “How dare you lock us up like two common criminals!”

  “Seriously?” Showing no fear, David chuckled. “You two assaulted an officer of the law—”

  “How were we supposed to know you were a police officer?” Nancy said. “You weren’t wearing your uniform.”

  “You both know me,” David said. “You know that I’m the chief of police, and you both threw punches at me.”

  “I wasn’t aiming for you,” Nancy said, “I was aiming for him.” She pointed at Bill Clark, who had cautiously maneuvered up to the desk while keeping an eye on Gnarly, who was watching him closely.

  “Like any good mayoral candidate would have done,” David said.

  “He started it,” she said.

  “You started it,” Bill said.

  “How dare you, Clark, bring up my getting expelled from Princeton Law School for cheating!”

  “You were a cheat thirty years ago, and you’re still a cheat,” the councilman said.

  “And you’re a blackmailer! I have witnesses who said that you pressured members of the town council into approving your clothesline ban!”

  “Enough!” David shouted while holding up his hand. “I’ve had it up to here with your childish accusations!”

  “They’re not childish,” Nancy said. “Political leaders need to be strong and decisive and of the best character—”

  “Which both of you lack!”

  “I’ve never!”

  “On the contrary, Braxton! You do all the time!” David laughed. “I’m not some uninformed, unwitting voter capable of falling under your pathetic-though-well-rehearsed act of sincerity. I know you! I know both of you! You’re both the most self-absorbed, corrupt, power-hungry, pitiful excuses for American leaders I’ve ever seen.”

  “Watch it, O’Callaghan,” Bill said through gritted teeth. “One of us is going to be your boss after this election.”

  “And since you know us, you know that both Bill and I have very long memories,” Nancy said.

  “So I’d watch my mouth if I were you.”

  “I’m out there every day talking to the citizens in this town,” David said. “You two are so out of touch that you don’t realize how angry we are. You don’t know the real issues that everyone faces and the divide that has occurred between the locals and the city folks moving in. We see you two and the rest of the town council strutting around—all proud about how we placed our faith in you to make things right—yet none of you have ever lifted a finger to do what we elected you to do.”

  “That’s just your opinion,” Nancy said.

  “No, it’s not,” David said. “Yes, you two are the only names on the ballot. How you got there speaks to the condition of the political establishment itself. The fact is that no one in Spencer likes either one of you. If we had a real choice, we’d vote for Gnarly before we’d vote for you.”

  Following the wave of David’s hand, they turned to where the German shepherd was sitting behind them, scratching his shoulder with his hind leg. His head was down, his ears were falling to either side of his head, and his mouth was hanging open with delight at finally reaching the spot that itched.

  Bill Clark laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  Chapter Two

  The Next Morning—Spencer Police Department

  The deputy police chief, Art Bogart, who was called “Bogie,” had just completed the paper work from the weekend and was enjoying his last cup of coffee for the morning when Dallas Walker stepped through the front door of the police station.

  Storm rushed around the reception counter to give a greeting to Tonya, who greeted the dog warmly. “Chief is
n’t here.”

  “I know,” Dallas said. “He took Gnarly and ran off first thing this morning, saying he had some business to take care of in Mountain Lake Park.” Smiling at Bogie, she added, “There’s the man I want.”

  “I’m taken,” the sixty-five-year-old career police officer said, chuckling over the top of his coffee mug.

  “If I were you, I’d keep my hands off,” Tonya said. “His girlfriend is very good with a scalpel.”

  “Ignore her.” Bogie held out his arm to usher Dallas into his office. “She’s always cranky on Monday mornings.”

  With Storm leading the way, they went into the deputy chief’s office. Even in her high heels, Dallas noticed that Bogie towered over her. In spite of his silver hair and moustache and weathered face, Bogie had the muscles of a much younger body builder. He shot her a wide grin. “What can I do for you, Dallas?”

  “Sandy Burr.” Dallas took a seat in front of his desk. “Tonya told David an’ me ’bout his murder. Nancy Braxton was your prime suspect. David has no memory of the case.”

  With a chuckle, Bogie closed his office door. “And being a journalist, you can’t resist digging into a murder case in which a political candidate was the prime suspect.”

  “’Zactly.”

  “David was just a kid when it happened,” Bogie said while pulling out his desktop computer’s keyboard. He began typing away. “It was, like, twenty years ago, a couple of years after the Braxtons built their summer place up on the mountain. Nathan Braxton had retired from football, but he was still a big star and was making millions off of endorsements.”

  “You would think that the wife of a famous Super Bowl quarterback being the prime suspect in a murder would’ve been big news,” Dallas said.

  “Nathan Braxton was very popular, especially in this area,” Bogie said. “He’s a nice guy. Charming. Nobody has a bad thing to say about him. So the media protected him…and her—even though she is a witch.”

  “If she’s such a witch, why is her political party shovin’ her down Spencer’s throat?”

  “Good question.” Bogie grinned. “Nancy Braxton runs Braxton Charities, which is a huge charitable organization. Animal rights, the environment, medical research, hunger—it helps tons of different nonprofits. People with lots of money give it to Braxton Charities, which distributes it to the charities under its umbrella.” He held up his finger. “One of those charities is Nancy’s political party. As long as she’s happy, millions of bucks per year keep going to her party. If they don’t back her, she has the power to shut off the faucet.”

  Dallas’ light-brown eyes narrowed to slits. “So say I was to start donating several million dollars to Nancy’s political party. They would back me to run for president of the United States—even if I was a pathological liar with no moral compass who was capable of betraying our country and selling out the men and women defending us on the front lines for cold, hard cash?”

  “From what I’ve seen, pretty much.” Bogie shrugged his broad shoulders. “Politics isn’t about patriotism anymore, Dallas. It’s all about power. Whichever party has the White House holds the power. That’s all both parties care about. What’s best for America is irrelevant to the parties running the show.”

  Confusion crossed her face. “I thought it was the people running the show.”

  “Supposedly.”

  “My pappy used to tell me and Phil that every single person has the God-given power to change the world,” she said. “All they have to do is use it. Momma wrote her books to expose criminals and corruption. Pappy donated money to build hospitals and schools in countries that no one ever heard of and would rather forget existed.”

  Bogie chuckled at her youthful idealism. “Not everyone is a Walker, Dallas.”

  “Neither were Rosa Parks and Claudette Colvin.”

  The deputy chief turned away from his keyboard and computer screen.

  “Two women who, separately, back in the sixties refused to go to the back of the bus and started a whole revolution.” Dallas grinned at him. “They weren’t rich or politically connected. Both of them saw that something was terribly wrong and decided to do something about it. They acted—not in a violent or obnoxious way. They just took stood up, or rather sat down, in the front of the bus and changed the world.”

  The silver-haired deputy chief and young investigative journalist stared at each other in silence.

  “Yeah,” Bogie finally said, “but how do we use this power your pappy told you about.”

  “By keeping corrupt killers out of positions of power,” Dallas said. “Tell me why Nancy Braxton would have killed Sandy Burr? Were they having an affair?”

  “Hardly.” Bogie laughed with a shake of his head. “According to his friends and family—he had a sister—Sandy Burr was working on a story about Braxton Charities donating a grant to a research team at the University of Virginia School of Medicine. They were doing research into the effects of repeated head injuries to football players and into how to improve helmets.”

  “Sounds like research that Nancy Braxton, the wife of a former professional football player, would’ve been interested in,” Dallas said.

  “According to Sandy’s sister,” Bogie said, “a medical student from a team doing the same study in Arizona claimed that the team in Virginia stole their research. Seems that someone in Arizona was dating someone from the Virginia team, and he stole his girlfriend’s notes.” He waved his hand. “None of that is really relevant. The important thing is that as Sandy started digging into how the Virginia team had gotten the grant, he discovered some of what he called ‘irregularities’ in how Braxton Charities awarded its research grants.”

  “What type of irregularities?”

  “That, we never got a chance to find out,” Bogie said. “Burr got his hands on copies of Braxton’s public financial records and talked to a lot of donors to Braxton Charities. He also talked to some people inside the sports-equipment company sponsoring the research into the football helmets. That led him in another direction and then another until he started saying that he was onto something big. He was coming to Deep Creek Lake to meet a confidential informant who was supposed to piece together everything he had dug up.”

  “Nancy Braxton, the president of the organization herself?” Dallas asked.

  “Maybe someone inside the organization, and Nancy got wind of it and decided to confront Sandy to personally put a stop to his investigation. Sandy’s sister, Flo, said that he brought all of his notes with him when he came here to Deep Creek Lake. He kept all of his papers in a boot box. This was before the days of laptops and thumb drives.” He shook his head. “We didn’t find any papers in his hotel room or car.”

  “But Nancy Braxton was the last one seen talking to Sandy Burr.”

  Bogie nodded his head. “Sandy Burr checked into the Lakeside Hotel on Friday, April twelfth, at two o’clock. The next day he was seen having breakfast in the hotel restaurant and then spent most of the time in his room alone—or so we think. Around one o’clock, someone saw Sandy having lunch with a man at The Pier.” Seeing her writing down the name of their lunch spot, he added, “The Pier is no longer there. It burned down, like, ten years ago.” He sat forward. “This is where it gets interesting. At around five thirty that afternoon, Sandy was seen having drinks in the hotel lounge. He had struck up a conversation with a fellow guest, a woman. She was traveling by herself, and they got to talking. He told her that he was a writer. They ended up having dinner together.”

  Dallas arched an eyebrow at him. “Dinner and what else?”

  Bogie smiled. “Nothing else. Her name was Fiona Davis.” He watched her write down the name. “She lived in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. I can give you her address—at least the address we had back then. That was a long time ago.”

  “What happened then?”

  “After they finished eating, they g
ot separate checks. Fiona went back to her room at about seven thirty,” he said. “But she told us that she went out later, a little after eight, to go for a walk along the water and saw Sandy in the lounge, at the same table where they had eaten dinner. The description of the woman she saw with Sandy matched that of Nancy Braxton. The bartender knew Nancy Braxton and positively identified her as the woman Burr was having a drink with after dinner. Not only that, but according to the medical examiner who did Burr’s autopsy, he was killed less than three hours after he had eaten with Fiona Davis, based on the state of digestion of the food found in his stomach.”

  “That means that he was dead less than two hours after he was seen with Nancy Braxton,” Dallas said. “Did you find any evidence to prove that Braxton killed him?”

  Bogie shook his head. “Never got that far. As soon as Nancy Braxton became a suspect, the case was yanked out from under us, and the state police closed it as a suicide.”

  “Sounds to me like a woman with somethin’ to hide,” Dallas said. “Besides the guy Burr was seen havin’ lunch with, were there any other suspects that you looked at?”

  “Let me look at our copy of the case file.” Bogie adjusted his reading glasses and studied the information on the screen.

  “Was there any physical evidence that indicated anyone else at the scene?” Dallas asked him.

  “Fingerprints,” Bogie said. “A set of three beautiful prints on the door above the doorknob. We ran them through the system but didn’t get any hits. The state police argued that since it was a hotel and so many people stayed in the room, they’d most likely been left by other guests.”

  “True,” she said. “Wouldn’t hurt to run them again though.”

  “Tell that to the state police. It’s not our case anymore.” Scanning the information on his computer screen, Bogie let out a laugh. “I forgot all about this.”

  “What?”

  “The fat man.”

  “The fat man?” She laughed.