She shook her head. “He’s my uncle, no need.”
Reynolds nodded and stood to open the door. “You know the drill. Leave your stuff here.”
Kate emptied her pockets and left her backpack with him. Reynolds and Kate then walked over to Kenny’s holding cell, their footsteps echoing against the bare, white concrete walls. An antiseptic smell reminded her of her last hospital visit. Most cells were unoccupied, and Kate soon spotted her uncle’s balding head a few feet away. He was sitting on a jail bed, staring at the floor in front of him. What was left of his hair was restless and out of place. His white mustache had seen better days.
“Kenny!”
He looked up, eyebrows raised, faint dimples appearing on his cheeks from his growing smile.
“Katie, sweetie. I’m so glad to see you.”
“Mr. Murphy, please put your back against the wall,” Reynolds said. After her uncle complied, Reynolds unlocked the door to let Kate in, relocked it, and then addressed her on his way out. “Holler when you’re done. Fifteen minutes max. Matthews will be back shortly.”
Kate hugged her uncle. He was seventy-six years old and frail, but his arms held onto her like she was a life buoy in a violent storm.
She sat next to him on the cell bed and looked into his tired, brown eyes. They seemed sadder than usual and confused, almost like her aunt’s eyes had been during her Alzheimer’s days.
She tapped his leg and gently squeezed his knee, “How are you holding up?”
He answered by raising his shoulders and shaking his head, his mouth forming an upside down U.
“Tell me everything,” Kate asked.
“I don’t know what happened. Why do they think I killed that man? That’s the craziest shit I’ve ever heard.”
“Tell me about the arrest.”
“They showed up at my house this morning. Two plainclothes officers with a warrant and four or five uniformed men.”
“What did they say?” Kate asked.
“They wanted to know if I was Kenneth Sam Murphy, so I told them I was. Then, they said I was under arrest for the murder of Paul McAlester.”
“Who?”
Kenny’s eyes widened. “That’s what I said! But one of them got ahold of my wrists and handcuffed me while they read me my rights. They said they had a warrant to search the house. I was too dumbfounded to remember anything else they said after that. Next thing I know, I’m being questioned about what I did three nights ago.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I didn’t remember, but I probably heated my dinner and watched a movie while drinking a scotch or two.”
“You don’t remember?”
Kenny shook his head, and Kate felt a black curtain of despair fall over them.
He has no alibi.
“I’m getting old. Most nights blend into one,” he said. Then, he gazed at Kate’s face, softening some as he smiled at her. “You don’t come and visit often enough. All I have left are memories. Some good, some bad. Lately, the awful ones have been on the reel, and I drink to shut them down. Normally works for a few hours until I fall asleep.”
Kate hugged her uncle again, feeling guilty for not being there for him more often. Her failed marriage had been at the forefront of her mind lately, and she had needed more alone time than usual. And then the anniversary of her family’s murder... That was no excuse, though. Her uncle didn’t deserve to be neglected just because she couldn’t get her shit together.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll make things right. I’ll talk to the district commander tomorrow and see if I can find out something new that could help us.”
Kenny nodded, and he scratched the back of his neck. A forced smile appeared under his mustache. Kate knew that look too well. It meant he was terrified, just like when he’d found out about his wife’s cancer and how large her medical bills were going to be. Kate knew better than to tell him to voice his feelings. No way would an old, Irish man like him spill the contents of his heart.
Changing subjects was always the best option when he scratched his neck or faked a smile.
“I got a call from your lawyer,” Kate said. “How did you find him?”
“You know I can’t afford one, so they assigned him to me. Seems nice enough.”
Kate knew how tight her uncle’s finances had been, and still were. He’d been poor for the past twenty years. He ate lots of canned beans and could barely keep the heat on some months. Once again, guilt got ahold of her. She should have given him more than ten percent of her paychecks. He deserved more; especially after all he’d done for her. But she didn’t make that much, and the job forced her to live in Boston, which wasn’t cheap at all. Ten percent was all she could afford most months. However, she was hopeful things would change soon when she finally made homicide detective and had the chance to get murderers off the street. Real murderers, like the one who’d killed her family.
A cacophony of emotions stirred inside her—rage fighting against fear and sadness—but none reached the podium. She hated feeling out of control when facing a terrible situation she couldn’t do anything about. Kate forced herself to take a deep breath and see the silver lining to this dark cloud. At least her uncle would be getting three square meals a day for free.
“Most of the court-appointed lawyers are good,” she said. “Be honest with him. Tell him everything you can. It has to be a mistake. Did they say anything else?”
Kenny shrugged again and shook his head. “Seems they think I killed this Paul McAlester three nights ago. They found my blood and my DNA at the crime scene.”
“What?” Kate couldn’t comprehend how his genes could have made it there without him. “Did they say where the murder occurred?”
“No, but they asked if I had a car or access to one. He must live somewhere far from me.”
“When was the last time you drove?”
“I told them. About ten years ago. I sold the car after Lucy died to pay for the funeral. I haven’t driven since, not even a rental car. Remember your graduation from the police academy? I took the bus then a cab to get there. Made it in the nick of time.”
Kate smiled and kissed him on the forehead. She remembered how much perspiration had been on his shirt that day. He must have run a lot as well after getting out of that cab. He had worn his best outfit: a short-sleeved beige shirt with vertical brown lines, a matching pair of brown pants, and a wide orange tie. But she also clearly remembered the smile on his face when he finally snuck his way to the family section of the reserved seats just as the guest of honor was delivering his speech. Kenny had been so proud of her.
He leaned toward her, his bony hands grabbing hers, and he said, “I’m not perfect, but I’m no murderer. I don’t want to die with this label added to the Murphy name. Our lineage has had enough of a bad rap. I still want to take you to Ireland before I die, you know? You need to see the Irish coast for yourself, see how green it is, how beautifully rugged the scenery is. You have to meet your cousins. Our family is bigger than you think. You’d love it there in Cork.”
They sat still, hanging onto each other’s hands as Kate let their physical bond temper the harsh reality.
The sound of a key in the lock brought her back to the here and now.
“Time’s up,” Reynolds said.
Kate gave Kenny one last hug and looked at him, “I love you. I’ll do everything I can to make this right and get you out, okay? Just be brave and patient, and we’ll fix this.”
He squeezed her hands, nodded, and, for the first time in the fifteen minutes she’d spent with him, she saw hope appear in her uncle’s teary eyes. She had to turn away before her own started to water.
After making her way back from the cells, she grabbed her things from the front desk and then headed home.
Kate sat alone in her apartment, realizing there wasn’t anything she could do until tomorrow. Nothing but hope that Capt. Cranston would tell her what was really going on and that their evidence wasn’t airtight.
I
n the meantime, she occupied her mind by Googling the victim’s name and found two articles that mentioned his death. There was no reference to her uncle... at least not yet. But chances were, his name would be in tomorrow’s headlines.
She had to find a way to prove his innocence, and fast.
Purchase The Last Hope (second book in this series) here::
https://amazon.com/dp/B07C5CQ9ZG/
About the Author
C.C. Jameson is an ex-military officer now wanderlust-driven author. Other than politically unstable countries, those with visa restrictions, or where only the wealthy can live, no place is out of bounds for the single, adventurous author.
At the time of publication, C.C. lived somewhere along the coast of Mexico, where blue skies meet turquoise waters, and cold beers and lime margaritas reign as the best thirst quenchers.
C.C. loves spending time alone in nature, writing at home, or drinking in pubs or bars. Hobbies include listening to live music, learning new languages, reading tons of books, and making up stories for readers to enjoy.
The name C.C. Jameson was born out of two authors’ imaginations while chatting at a bar somewhere in Florida. Drinking was involved, of course, because it’s one of C.C.’s favorite activities and a must for the introverted author while in social situations. As for the C.C. part, it corresponds to the author’s real first initial, but doubled because it sounded better. Plus, that’s how many people refer to Canadian Club.
So, C.C. Jameson is not just an anonymous author’s pen name, it’s a drinking name, too.
Learn more at http://ccjameson.com.
Author’s Notes
Kate’s story was inspired by what I’ve witnessed in the lives of friends and family around me.
I have female friends who’ve struggled with some of their male colleagues at work. I’ve heard my friends’ first-hand tales, and I’ve seen the tears they cried years later when they relayed their stories. I’ve also seen the effects of domestic violence. (And I’m not just talking about physical beatings. Emotional abuse can arguably be worse.)
Perhaps this book is my way of coping with the information these brave women shared with me.
Bullying exists in almost every environment, and big, strong men aren’t the only culprits; women are guilty of it, too. Abuse can come from anyone.
To better explain myself, I’ll use the frog in the pot analogy, which you’ve probably heard before. If a frog jumps into a pot of boiling water, it will jump right out and return to safety. However, if the same frog is placed in a pot of lukewarm water that gradually gets heated up until it reaches boiling point, the frog won’t jump out. It’ll stay in and die.
I doubt anyone would choose a relationship with a violent, manipulative person. Like the frog, most would jump out: call it a bad date, delete the person’s number, and then move on.
Violence and abuse often start slowly and gradually. The victim often doesn’t realize it until much later. Excuses can often be made to explain the abuser’s first small outbursts, which then become so regular that they redefine the norm. Things keep escalating from there, and the victim’s tolerance and the number of false excuses made on behalf of the abuser also go up.
Until the final straw.
Perhaps it turns to physical violence (or not), but there’s one point where the victim has a moment of clarity and realizes that she’s no longer the person she used to be, she’s had enough, and it’s no longer acceptable for her to be treated the way her partner has been treating her. Her previous self would have never accepted it, but since the change was so gradual, it’s as though it went unnoticed.
But along with this very important realization comes the biggest hurdle of all: the social pressure (perceived to be) imposed by those around the victim: What will they think of me? I’m going to look so stupid. The whole neighborhood/company/family/etc. will see how weak I’ve been. They’ll never forgive me for ruining my husband’s reputation, tarnishing the family name, and/or destroying my kids’ lives.
Unfortunately, this is the stage where many victims get stuck, unable to leave because of … [fill in the blank with more excuses].
But I’m no psychologist. What I wrote above is based on my own experience, witnessing abuse from the outside. I’m grateful I’ve never been a victim, but I can certainly understand how it could happen to anyone, including me.
I’ll get off my soap box in a second, but I hope you’re not the frog who’s about to be boiled to death.
If you or someone you love is a victim of domestic violence or bullying, please get help. Lots of organizations exist at the municipal, state/provincial, and federal level in most countries.
Wikipedia provides several domestic violence hotlines, listed by countries:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_domestic_violence_hotlines
https://www.stopbullying.gov/
https://ncadv.org/
If you suspect someone you love may be in an abusive relationship but don’t know how to broach the topic, this fictitious story could be an option. Why not recommend this book to your friend?
Everyone deserves love and respect.
Don’t be afraid to speak up.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Claire, for helping me make the most out of this story. She’s truly gifted at making words sing. I’d also like to thank Sébastien and Scott for answering my police questions. My friend Rachael has been wonderful with finding typos in various documents associated with my books. Thanks also to Graham who helped me fix a few things just before publication.
Thanks to all my friends and family for their encouragement and support. Thanks to my writer friends for their support and help with marketing this book.
Special dogs were immortalized in this story:
Rory: a wonderful, happy, and sometimes stubborn corgi who wheels around his neighborhood thanks to the cart that his parents, Steph and Tony, built for him. I was lucky to spend a few weeks with him while his parents were traveling.
Carina: a lovely Mexican street dog who’s provided me with morning and evening cuddles for the past six months, since my roommate Jeannie moved in. Carina’s fur is white and caramel, but otherwise she looks nothing like the dog I described in the book.
Yoda: Although his name doesn’t appear in the book, he’s the dog I described as Carina (save for his gender, of course). My little papillon currently lives with one of my sisters and her son. He’s adorable, even if he has little accidents in the house from time to time. I miss him greatly.
The Bobs: My childhood best friend, Annie, lost both her Li’l Bob and Big Bob in recent years. Li’l Bob was a toy poodle not unlike the one who died during the race in my book (except Annie would never dare give any of her dogs a ridiculous name like the one I used). Li’l Bob was a smart and fun-loving little fellow who looked really cute in his John Deere cap. His brother, Big Bob, was a handsome Bernese mountain dog with a big heart and very soft fur. May they both rest in peace.
And very special thanks to you, dear reader. Without your support, I wouldn’t be able to express the stories I want to share with the world. I’d probably drive myself crazy if I just kept my words spinning in my head.
Thank you for reading, for leaving a review, and for recommending my books to your friends.
You mean the world to me.
The Last Lies (Kate Murphy Mystery Book 1) Page 16
