Under Your Skin: A Thriller (A Cal Murphy Thriller)

by J. R. Chartrand

  Guy managed to cordon himself off from everyone else, if ever so slightly, with four-foot bluish-gray cubicle walls that were well past their prime. Mostly, it made Guy look silly as he tried to maintain some semblance of past newsroom glory as the editor of the Salt Lake City Tribune. But he pretended not to care that it looked just like you would imagine a small town newspaper in the middle-of-nowhere Idaho would look like.

  Cal’s desk, a relic rivaling Edith, was awash in papers. If Cal had 30 seconds to locate a meaningful piece of information on his desk or he would be typing in obituaries for a week, Earl would have been assured a week of vacation.

  Normally on a Monday morning, only Edith and Earl would be at their posts, but today, there wasn’t an empty seat – not even Sammy’s.

  Cal dumped his laptop bag on his desk and headed for Guy’s space.

  “So, what’s the scoop, boss?”

  “That’s why I hire reporters, Cal,” Guy growled. “They’re supposed to bring me the scoop.”

  Cal sucked in a short breath. He was unsure of how to respond to Guy’s thinly veiled accusation. But he didn’t have a chance to say anything as Guy began barking instructions.

  “Go to the sheriff’s office and see if Jones will give you anything. Then report back to me and we’ll figure out where to go next.”

  “You got it.”

  “And, Cal, be careful, you hear me? I want Kelly with you at all times to get some good art. We need a good dominant photo for Wednesday’s paper. Even if it’s Jones looking forlorn, I want something.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Kelly was already gathering her camera bag and notepad before Cal turned around and headed for his desk. She was waiting for Cal by the glass doorway as he scooped up his belongings.

  Just as Cal was about to pass Edith near the front of the newsroom, she hung up the phone and began shaking.

  “Cal, don’t go anywhere,” she said. “I think you’re going to want to hear this.”

  Then she turned toward the back of the newsroom and utilized her Edithcom.

  “Guy, there’s been another murder!”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE JOINT CONSOLIDATION OF the Statenville Police Department with the Brooks County Sheriff’s Department was the mastermind of Mayor Nathan Gold. Twelve years ago when he first assumed office in the town without term limits, the word “recession” was rarely uttered, much less the basis for decision-making among local, state and federal governments. But Gold looked like a genius over a decade later. Some called him visionary. Others considered him controlling, which certainly was a by-product of a city-county law enforcement department.

  Nevertheless, the consolidation of resources and elimination of needless officers in a town where most people chose to remain in accordance with the law made Gold popular. Under his careful watch, Statenville had thrived – even in the midst of a down economy. Who could argue with his decisions when Statenville’s major export business – Cloverdale Industries – was turning the city into a boon town, while neighboring cities in other counties were struggling to survive?

  While there was still some debate among locals over the reasons for such a move, Sheriff Hunter Jones wasn’t complaining. He enjoyed having more assets and control.

  When Cal and Kelly burst through the Brooks County Sheriff’s Office, located three storefronts down from the Register, Sheriff Jones didn’t flinch. He sat with his dull black boots propped on his desk while giving a wooden toothpick a good workout between his teeth.

  Jones deliberately looked the reporters up and down before speaking.

  “Soooo, what brings you two cub reporters to my office this early on a Monday morning?” he asked as he leaked a wry smile.

  “Sheriff Jones, you know good and well why we’re here,” Cal shot back, more than willing to dispense with any unnecessary pleasantries.

  “You must’ve heard about the drug overdoses,” Jones said, pausing for effect before continuing. “What a shame. I can’t believe those boys threw away all that talent for a meth high.”

  Cal and Kelly looked at one another, both exhaling and relaxing for the first time since they heard the initial report.

  “You mean, this isn’t some vendetta murder or the work of some serial killer?” Cal asked, secretly hoping that his dreams of a Pulitzer weren’t going to disappear due to simple drug usage.

  “Do you think I’d still be here if that were true?” Jones fired back. He stood up and began moving toward the office coffee maker located on the vacant receptionist’s desk in front of Cal and Kelly.

  “Help yourself to the coffee,” Jones offered, refilling his coffee mug and waiting for the duo to reply. While the Sherriff returned to his desk, both reporters eyed the small Styrofoam cups next to the dingy coffee pot, then declined the Sherriff’s generous offer.

  “What about the third murder victim? Who was he?” Cal asked.

  “That would be Jim Reid’s boy, Devin. And why do you keep using the ‘M’ word? They all died of a simple drug overdose.”

  “In a 24-hour period? Doesn’t that seem a bit suspicious to you?” Cal questioned again.

  “Well, sure it does. But that’s why we investigate, little cubbie. Suspicion alone never gets a conviction. We need evidence. And we seem to have it.”

  Kelly grew tired of listening to Jones dance around the facts.

  “You’ve got to give us more than that,” she demanded.

  “Well, what do you want to know? I think we all know that we need to be sensitive first and foremost to the families of the deceased. We don’t need to make these boys look like a bunch of drug addicts.”

  It was obvious that Jones wasn’t sincerely interested in answering any real questions. But neither Cal nor Kelly protested. The paper adhered to unspoken small town rules such as these.

  “What kind of drugs were they using?” Kelly asked, unable to maintain the apparent soft gag order that was being issued by Jones.

  “Well, we won’t know that until the tox reports come back from Boise. But we found meth at all three scenes.”

  Jones ascribed to an age-old law enforcement trick: If you’re forthcoming about an unusable piece of information, it could stem the tide of uncomfortable questioning. Or at the least it could keep you from appearing like a total jerk when you flat refused to answer a question deemed too invasive. He drummed his fingers on his desk as Cal and Kelly both began scribbling down details in their notebooks.

  “But we won’t know anything officially for at least two weeks,” he said, negating what seemed like a juicy fact seconds ago.

  “Got any reports yet?” Cal asked, eyeing two completed forms on the receptionist’s desk.

  “Nope,” Jones lied. “Mercer and Dawkins will be back with full reports later this afternoon. They’re still bagging evidence at the Reid place. You can talk to them here, later.”

  Jones’ last sentence was an oblique order. Cal understood Jones didn’t want them snooping around the Reid’s house and he certainly didn’t want them talking to his deputies before he got a chance to filter their conclusions. He wanted to maintain control of the situation.

  Kelly saw it as a dare.

  “OK, then. Just let us know if you hear anything else,” Cal said as he and Kelly turned to leave.

  “Will do.”

  Cal looked back over his shoulder and noticed Jones had plastered himself up against the window, watching them. Cal figured Jones wanted to make sure they didn’t get in a car and head straight for the Reid place.

  Kelly pulled Cal close, making him forget for a moment that Jones seemed overly interested in making sure this story remained low key.

  “I’m parked out back,” she whispered. They both were thinking the same thing.

  CHAPTER 6

  KELLY’S RED 2010 DODGE Charger engine roared as they pulled out of The Register’s back alley parking lot and onto an adjacent side street, far out of the view of Jones’ watchful eyes. She rolled down both front windows.
Her face was stuck in a frown but she said nothing.

  Cal’s mind raced as he began mentally organizing the few facts he had. He would have preferred to soak in the glorious sun-kissed morning and the bonus that he was cruising around with Kelly. But today was not the day for flirtatious vibes. Three star athletes were dead in Statenville. Three teenagers. And Sheriff Jones, who said they all overdosed, seemed more intent on hiding something than revealing evidence that would confirm his simple drug overdose hypothesis.

  After a minute of silence, Kelly broke the growing sense of apprehension both reporters were feeling.

  “You know, this isn’t going to be easy.”

  “Yeah, small town rules. People don’t like you poking your nose in their business—especially when it’s their dirty business.”

  “That Sheriff Jones is a lyin’ dirt bag. He’s unreported more criminal activity than there are cows at Buttercup Farms.”

  Cal tried to hide a smile. Kelly’s metaphor was awkward and certainly one he would never use, but she never claimed to be a wordsmith. Yet with over 2,000 cows getting milked daily at Buttercup Farms, Cal got her point: Jones was dirty.

  “Don’t you think everybody in this town is sketchy, Kelly?”

  Kelly pursed her lips and slowly shook her head.

  “This town is crawling with corruption. I can just feel it. And as much as I want to get out of this place, I can’t wait to take over The Register and start turning over every rock until all these corrupt big shots are behind bars.”

  Cal knew Kelly had a gift for reporting, which made him wonder why she ever picked up a camera in the first place. He also didn’t doubt Kelly would one day take over The Register, an action he would prevent if he could. It might be a blood bath, but Kelly would welcome the fight. The Register had been in her family for years and was currently published by Joseph Mendoza, her uncle and Sammy’s father. If Uncle Joe cared about The Register being a thriving business enterprise in Statenville for years to come, he would turn it over to Kelly. However, he could conceivably give it to Sammy if his son ever found a way to motivate himself to do more in life than chase skirts and guzzle beer along the banks of the Snake River. Her future seemed uncertain and Cal selfishly rooted for Sammy, knowing he would be long gone from Statenville by then and hoping he might be able to lure Kelly away for a big city adventure.

  For the next two minutes, Cal fidgeted with his digital voice recorder and snuck glances at Kelly while the two sped along a two-lane road leading east out of Statenville. Her shiny thick hair bounced in and out of the car as she looked straight ahead with her wire-rimmed Raybans. Cal knew he needed to focus but struggled to do so.

  Kelly helped him get his mind back on the case.

  “Have you ever been to the Reid place?” she asked.

  “Nope. Anything special?”

  “I’ve been out here a few times for social functions. My dad used to go hunting with Mr. Reid so we came out here a few times for cookouts. I think it’s a nice place. But there it is. Judge for yourself.”

  Kelly took her right hand off the steering wheel and pointed to the one o’clock position. She was about two hundred yards away from the driveway leading to the Reid house, which sat about a quarter of a mile off the road on a ridge overlooking the Snake River. It was a sprawling brick ranch that made up for a lack of elegant craftsmanship with its sheer size. From Cal’s perspective, the house seemed to stretch in all directions and defy the notion that public school teachers were paid a pauper’s wage.

  As Kelly turned into the Reid’s lengthy dirt driveway and headed up the ridge toward the house, Cal noticed a sizable vegetable garden and a hay shed, harboring bales for a yet unseen herd of cattle or horses. However, Cal’s interest in observing the Reid’s property vanished once he saw the Brooks County Sheriff’s deputy squad cars.

  Cal could see Elliott Mercer taking notes as he interviewed Mr. Reid, the head of the two-person math department at Statenville High. Mrs. Reid, the other half of the Statenville High math department, buried her head in her hands and heaved tears as the Reid’s 11-year-old daughter, Katie, consoled her. Jake Dawkins braced for their arrival. This isn’t going to be fun, Cal thought.

  Kelly eased her Charger into a parking pad a few feet from the house and a few yards from the squad cars and the Reids. Kelly and Cal both got out of the car and began walking toward the house. But Dawkins appeared determined to squash this impending inquisition, and was now striding toward them.

  As the chief deputy and the most experienced law enforcement agent in Statenville, aside from Sheriff Jones, Dawkins knew diplomacy. Mercer’s five years of experience in Statenville amounted to nothing in real world experience, though he had an impressive resume in private security before entering authentic law enforcement. Kelly figured if she batted her eyelashes at Mercer, he would likely reveal all the state’s secrets. Mercer was professional but seemed willing to trade information given the right circumstances. Then there was Dawkins, the 12-year no-nonsense veteran of the sheriff’s department who was all Cal and Kelly could handle.

  For the second time that morning, a member of the Brooks County Sheriff’s Department saw exchanging pleasantries with Cal and Kelly as a waste of time.

  “There’s nothing to see here. You two just need to turn around and go back to your office,” Dawkins said, motioning them back with both his arms.

  Kelly protested.

  “Dawkins, you can’t tell us to leave. We have just as much of a right as you do to question them…if they want to talk to us.”

  She knew her assertion was wrong, but she wanted to let Dawkins know that they weren’t going anywhere.

  “Wrong, Miss Mendoza,” Dawkins fired back. “I’m in charge when it’s a crime scene.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “CRIME SCENE?” CAL AND Kelly both asked in unison, suddenly confused again about the real nature of what happened in Statenville over the past 24 hours.

  “You heard me. Now get back in your car and get on out of here,” Dawkins growled.

  Kelly’s gusto was rubbing off on Cal. He stood his ground.

  “Dawkins, this morning Jones told us that all three deaths in the past 24 hours were drug overdoses. Now, that’s not exactly a crime scene.”

  Dawkins backpedaled.

  “Well, we think it’s a drug overdose but we’re still collecting evidence.”

  “So, what have you found that makes you think this could be something else?”

  “Cal, Kelly, I think it’s best that you go now. You don’t want to make a scene in front of this grieving family, do you?”

  Cal and Kelly shot knowing glances at one another. This was not a hill to die on. Not today. Not with Mrs. Reid grieving the loss of her son. Not with Dawkins channeling his inner Steven Segal. Not with two other “crime scenes” that had no officers present.

  The pair didn’t say a word as they turned and headed straight for Kelly’s car.

  “Who does he think he is?” asked Kelly as she twisted the ignition.

  “That Dawkins is such a punk. There’s obviously a lot more going on here than he’s telling us.”

  As Kelly’s car roared back down the road, she bit her lip and shook her head, muttering hollow threats about Dawkins and his job and what her next column would be about if she had one. Cal slunk in his seat, flummoxed over the Brooks County Sheriff’s Department stonewall. He peered in his side mirror as the scene shrunk from sight.

  Cal noticed Dawkins immediately began talking into the radio mic attached to his upper sleeve. Who could he be calling? Cal wondered. Are we being watched? His eyes remained fixed on Dawkins.

  Dawkins then looked up and glared in the direction of Kelly’s car, which was beginning to turn onto the highway. Cal shuddered. Dawkins’ haunting stare seemed more than passing interest about where the pair was headed next. Cal’s firm belief that the Brooks County Sheriff’s Department was just a notch above a living Mayberry – complete with Don Knotts as the sheriff and Go
mer Pyle as his chief deputy – was being shaken. Gone was Dawkins’ happy-go-lucky disposition. Dawkins’ mouth said one thing, but his body language said something else, a something else that made Cal quake with fear.

  Kelly made it to the highway and turned right, heading toward the Murray’s house.

  Cal looked back toward the Reid house again only to see Dawkins still speaking into his radio and keeping his eyes locked on Kelly’s car. More than likely, Cal thought Dawkins was telling someone where they were headed and to watch out for them.

  Finally, Cal broke the silence. “What have we got ourselves into, Kelly?”

  “I don’t know, but this smells like some sort of cover up.” She jammed her foot on the gas pedal and Dawkins vanished from sight.

  CHAPTER 8

  WHEN CAL AND KELLY returned to The Register, they found Guy had retired his “I’m the Boss” coffee cup with a drink more appropriate for the afternoon. Guy was sipping from one of those giant plastic cups from the Flying J filled to the brim with soda when he noticed the pair return to the office.

  “There you two are! Get back to my office right now,” Guy yelled.

  Cal didn’t bother setting down his bag at his desk. He knew Guy was on a rare – but trademark – rampage. Cal had observed that Guy only exhibited this behavior when there was a real news story taking place. The events of the past 24 hours certainly qualified as real news, especially in Statenville.

  With two chairs across from Guy’s desk, Kelly took the seat closest to the cubicle doorway. Cal squeezed past her and into the seat wedged against the wall. They were both barely in their seats before Guy commenced.

  “What have you two been up to?” he demanded. “On your account, I’ve taken two cautionary phone calls from Sheriff Jones and been called into Joseph’s office – and it’s not even noon!”