Seven Years After

by Marvin Perkins

  Mary Parson, wheeled her smoke gray 2009 Cadillac SRX out of her driveway and headed east to the base at 32nd street. She was late as usual for her night shift at the Navy Exchange where she labored as a store worker, a job she had held for the past fifteen years. Her mind was a million miles away thinking about the murder of her no good son-in-law and the torment that it was putting poor Valerie and Muffin through. “I should have killed him myself years ago,” she said out loud as she made a left turn onto five south. “At least she can get his insurance money and make a new start. She and Muffin deserve it after what he's put them through.”

  Driving almost on auto pilot she continued her self conversation not noticing a car to her left that was careening out of control heading in her direction. Not until the impact and the loud bang did she come to her senses. She cut her wheel hard right but by then it was too late. The other vehicle, another SUV, slammed into the driver's side door of Mary's SRX, causing her air bag to deploy and the vehicle to skid sideways out of control hitting another car that was unfortunate enough to be passing at the same time in the right hand lane.

  When the cars finally stopped spinning and skidding they sat in a mangled heap on the interstate. There was silence for a brief moment, followed by chaos as all the passengers and drivers tried desperately to pry themselves out of their annihilated vehicles. Mary, unhurt except for the pounding she had taken at the hands of her air bag as it deployed, tried to open her driver's side door but it was stuck. She tried again, nothing. The passenger side door was stuck as well, that is when panic began to set in. She could see herself stuck inexplicably in her now smashed to smithereens, once beautiful car, as it exploded like one of those stunt cars in the movies. She continued to struggle with the doors, but they were all stuck including the ones in the back seat. “Oh my God, I don't want to die. Please open, please. God help me!” Maybe God heard her cries because suddenly the driver side door opened with a pop and she jumped out and ran away from the scene as fast as she could, fearing the whole tangled mess in the middle of the road was going to blow at any minute.

  She stood bent over on the side of the interstate, huffing and puffing, trying to catch her breath. Tears ran down her face. Tears of joy for being miraculously saved by the hand of God from possible death by explosion and tears of sadness when she saw her beautiful car sitting in a crumpled heap in the middle of the road. She loved that car, but it was just a car, it could be replaced. The important thing was she was alive and unhurt. Needless to say Mary didn't make it to work that night.

  “Beep, beep,” the monitors went as Mary woke up with a start in a hospital bed surrounded by her family. She thought she was okay, back at the scene of the horrendous accident that seemed now to be a terrible nightmare instead of reality. “Where am I?” She said, of course she really knew where she was.

  “You're in the emergency room at the Scripps in La Jolla. Just lie still Ma. The doctor said you're going to be fine, just a little shaken up,” Valerie said hiding a tear that tried in vain to trickle down her cheek.

  “Grandma, are you okay?” little Muffin exclaimed. She bent over and gave her grandmother a hug.

  “I'm fine honey, just a little shook up from the accident. I guess I should keep my mind on my driving. I was thinking about your poor daddy, I'm sorry sweet heart.”

  Muffin broke into tears and buried her face in her Grandmother's chest.

  “The funeral is tomorrow, if you're out of the hospital and feel up to it, Ma. I'm not sure if I'm up to it to tell you the truth,” Valerie said joining in the hug with her daughter.

  The sky was gray and threatening rain the next morning as the family drove to the funeral home. They were going to lay to rest one Charles Smithson, a man unfortunately not well loved, but at least deserved the decency of a proper funeral. A small group of family members gathered at the grave site, dressed in black, at least giving the pretense that they gave a damn about the deceased. Truth be known, most were happy to see him go, even if he was family.

  The minister said a few words, a few tears were shed, and Charles was laid to rest. They walked away without speaking, got in their respective vehicles and left. It was done, one life had ended and it was time to get on with theirs.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Joe Smithson rose early the next morning after putting his brother Charles in the ground with a heavy heart. He felt a little pang of guilt about the way he had acted at his recently departed brother's funeral. “He was my brother, even if he was a pain in everybody's butt,” Joe said as he wiped the rest of the shaving cream off , staring at his conscience-smitten mug in the bathroom mirror.

  He was just about to jump in the shower when the phone unexpectedly rang. “Now who the heck could that be?”

  “Joe? I guess it's over. It took two long grueling years with that idiot brother of yours but we finally got the money, the coins and the jewelry, oh yeah. I don't think I could have taken another day. It's a shame he had to die, though,” Lola said with a little sadness in her voice.

  “Well you know what they say? If you're gonna make an omelet, you've got to break a few eggs.”

  “I know, I know, but I thought we'd just end up committing him. I didn't plan on him getting killed.”

  “Yeah, well, stuff happens. That's what he gets for telling me about all that money he had.”

  “All the time he kept telling me his father had left the money to him.”

  “My dad is alive and well and lives in Seattle. He was at the funeral yesterday, as a matter of fact. You got the airplane tickets?”

  “One way to Cabo San Lucas, baby, just you and me.”

  “Look out Margaritaville, here we come.”

  “Don't you feel just a little bit guilty?”

  Yeah... Naw, hell no. Charles was a pain in the butt. At least this way somebody's getting to enjoy his money.”

  “I love you Joe.”

  “I love you more, Lola.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  “You're not going to believe this Carson,” Chuck yelled at Carson who was just coming back to his desk after a trip to the can.

  “Try me, I can believe a lot.”

  “I got a line on this guy's bank account. You won't believe how much money he has in his savings.”

  “Are you going to tell me, or we going to play games all morning?”

  “One Hundred Thousand buckaroos. One hundred thousand. The big question still remains though. Where did all this cash come from?”

  “I think we'd best find out Chuck. Whose name is the account in?

  “Charles Smithson."

  “No one else on the account?

  “Nope.”

  “Well at least no one else can get their mitts on this cash. That Lola seemed pretty happy about getting her hands on the loot we found in the closet. I smell a rat for some reason.”

  “Why so?”

  “I just have a feeling she wasn't so heartbroken about the death of her boyfriend as she pretended to be.”

  “Those tears seemed real to me. She could have been acting. But I was too busy looking at her “Hooters,” to be a good judge of the situation.”

  “That's the thing. She seemed out of our stiff's league to me. And what about that guy who was at her place? Who was that? Just a friend, indeed. I think not, with what she was wearing.”

  The detectives decided to take a trip to the deceased's bank and see if they could find out the answer to the question. Where did all the cash come from?

  “We'd like to speak to the branch manager,” Carson said to the first teller he came to, in his usual brusk manner.

  “Sir, could you wait just a moment until I'm finished here, and I'd be glad to get her for you,” the teller said, almost as discourteously as Carson. “Have a seat over in the waiting area.” She pointed at two couches over in the far corner of the bank.

  Carson and Chuck had a seat and waited patiently for the bank manager to show. Five minutes had passed and still no man
ager. Carson was just about to raise hell when an attractive blond in a business suit arrived and introduced herself. “I'm Constance Pennington, the branch manager, how could I help you gentleman?”

  “ I'm Detective Brown and this is Detective Carson, SDPD, we're here investigating the murder of one of your account holders, a Charles Smithson, and we'd like some information concerning his account,” Chuck said flashing a smile at the blond.

  “Do you have a search warrant?” the manager asked unexpectedly.

  “Do we need one?” Carson said getting a little annoyed.

  “Normally you would, but if the account holder is deceased and they are the only name on the account, I guess I could wave the necessity of a court order in this case. Come on back to my office, detectives.”

  Constance brought up the appropriate record on the computer, noticing with great surprise the amount of money that had accumulated in the account. “This guy was loaded, huh?” $100,000 and some change. Looks like he was drawing regularly off of the interest. The account was opened a little over two years ago.” With a few more key strokes she discovered the source of the original deposit. “The original deposit was made with a cashier's check from the California State Lottery, holy crap! This guy hit the lottery. But get this, the original check was for $250,000.”

  Carson all but swallowed his cigar as he and Chuck took in the bank manager's last statement.

  “250,000? That's a lot of bucks. How many withdrawals did he make?”

  “Only one, in the amount of $150,000.”

  “So this knucklehead walked out of the bank with a hundred and fifty large in his hot little hands. No wonder he thought somebody was following him. Talk about motive.”

  “150,000 motives, huh, Carson.”

  They thanked the nice lady and left the bank, heading to their unmarked unit almost in a daze. Money is always a good motive for murder, however the only one who stood to gain was the girlfriend Lola, who seemed more and more guilty as the investigation continued. What about her mystery man, could he be involved? Was he the murderer? The detectives needed to find out who Lola had been in contact with of late.

  As they drove back to their downtown office, the detectives mulled over the possibilities. “What you think, Carson? This Lola, look good on this? She certainly had the motive, but I don't know. I see her as a gold digger, but a murderer, I have my doubts.”

  “Never underestimate the power of greed, my friend, it makes people do strange things sometimes. If she is involved, she certainly had some help. She obviously didn't carry our victim up five flights and put two in his head.”

  “After she beat him with a baseball bat.”

  “But a foxy chick like Lola, has lots of men friends that could have, and for her might would have, taken care of our victim . For the money or just for the love of a beautiful woman. Men are such fools , when it comes to these sort of things.”

  The detectives did the usual when they got back to the office. Carson shuffled through a stack of papers, seemingly looking for nothing, and Chuck was on the computer pulling up the phone records for one, Lola Perez. At first it was routine calls to her mom probably, in Mexico. A couple of routine calls to other people and to her place of business. But then Chuck hit the jackpot.

  “Carson, Carson,” Chuck yelled. “Check this out. You got that list of the deceased's brothers and sister, that the wife gave us?”

  All Chuck could hear was the rustling of paper, then finally Carson found it.

  “Is one of the brothers named Joe Smithson?” Chuck asked already knowing the answer.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact one of the brothers is named Joe, why do you ask?”

  “Bingo! We got him, we got him. Seems the lovely Lola has been burning up her cell of late conversing with one Joe Smithson. I'm just taking a wild guess but I figure, how many Smithsons are there? Got to be the brother.”

  “I bet he is our mystery guest. He planned the whole thing, to get his brother's cash. He couldn't get the money in the bank, unless... He talked his dumb ass brother into leaving it to him in his will.”

  “Got an address on this guy?” Chuck asked, getting excited they might have their first break.

  “Yelp, I sure do. Let's roll, you can drive.”

  “I can. Thanks Carson, thanks.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Danny Randall woke up to another day of doldrums with his wife, Jennifer, and his four kids to another cloudless morning in Tucson, Arizona. His family was just like an albatross dragging him into the depths of despair. He had to face yet another day of struggling to make ends meet, putting food on the table, paying the house note, buying the kids school clothes, and constant nagging from his wife of ten years that occupied the space next to him in his marital bed.

  Why he married her is another whole story, why he was still with her was a different story all together. Danny was a free spirit, not a man to be tied down to one woman. Yet there he was after ten long agonizing years. The truth was he loved his children and didn't want them to suffer from a nasty divorce and separation. He was old school like that. Parents should stay together for the kids, no matter how difficult it got. That didn't mean he wasn't guilty of straying every now and then but he always came home to his wife.

  The whole making ends meet was sometimes the problem. He had to do some things on occasion that was just a little bit outside of the law. He had been known to sell drugs, steal cars and traffic in stolen weapons on occasion. He had gotten into trouble when he was a teenager doing all three of the aforementioned crimes and had served three six month sentences in San Diego City Jail.

  His mom, the now Mary Parson, was not married to his dad, and Danny didn't have much of a relationship, if any, with his biological father. He was raised by his mom and step-dad Michael who was a career Navy man and gone most of the time. The kids affectionately called him Grouch, because it always seemed like he was in a bad mood when he was at home.

  Danny got into stealing cars when he was in high school, where he became a gang member, selling drugs and dealing in stolen merchandise, in particular guns. His mom tried to discipline him the best she could but her son was just out of control. His street name was “D-Money” and at one point he even had his tag cut into his hair style. Several of his friends died when they very young, a victim of the life they chose to lead, but Danny was not dissuaded. It took a little growing up and a few trips to the jailhouse to convince him, at least for a while, to live a normal life and give up his criminal enterprises. But through the years he did lapse back into his old life on occasion.

  He got up finally, leaving his wife still asleep and crept downstairs to make a phone call. “Grouch, it's Danny. Everything cool, man. You took care of everything like you said you would, right?”

  “I told you not to call me here, too expensive. My phone is roaming. Yes, to answer your question, I took care of it, don't worry. How are the kids, by the way, and your lovely wife?”

  “Yeah, very funny. Okay, I'll holler at you later.”

  Danny hung up feeling a little better, but still he couldn't shake the paranoia, like something bad was waiting around the corner to happen to him. He went into the kitchen and put some eggs and bacon on the stove. His youngest girl, Desiree, came in the kitchen rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “What you doing, Daddy?”

  “Making breakfast, sweetheart, you want some cereal?”

  “Yeah.”

  One by one the other family members came down and ate their breakfast, and Jennifer was out the door with kids, taking them to school, leaving Danny alone at last. He took the time to give his sister Valerie a call to see how she's doing. “Valerie, sorry to hear about Charles. I wanted to make it to the funeral, but you know how it is.”

  “Well, all I can say is I'm glad it's over. Got his death certificate, and I'm taking it all the way to the bank, 500,000 big ones, oh yeah. Don't be sorry. Who ever killed that clown did the world a favor. “

  “Glad to hear tha
t you're not upset. I understand. How's Muffin doing, that's the thing? You know she loved her daddy, such as he was.”

  “She's not taking it too well, Danny. We've got her in therapy, she'll be all right, kids are tough and Muffin is a tough as they come. It'll just take some time.”

  “That's good to hear. Talked to Grouch earlier, he's doing well. He sends his love to everyone.”

  “Oh, that's nice. I got to go Danny, I'll talk to you later. Got an appointment at the bank.”

  “Okay, later.”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Arriving at the address the detectives had for Joe Smithson, they were somewhat taken aback by the neighborhood and the proximity of his apartment. The place was in a rough part of San Diego, not far from downtown. The address was actually an old house that had a fence around it and a sign that said “The Show Place.” It appeared to be a business of some sort. In the yard a dog could be heard barking. Needless to say Chuck and Carson were not going to venture in uninvited. There was a bell on the gate, so they rang it, not knowing what to expect.

  At first it seemed like no one was at home, but not easily discouraged Carson rang the bell again. This time a little man with red curly hair came outside of the front door of his house somewhere inside the gate and yelled. “Who the hell is it?”

  Carson, not liking his tone of voice at all, yelled back, “San Diego Police Department.”

  The red head man softened his voice somewhat. “ Sorry. What can I do for San Diego's finest?”

  “We're looking for a Joe Smithson, does he live here, sir?” Chuck said a little bit more politely than Carson.

  “Yeah, he lives in the trailer out back. He's not at home, though. Gone to work.”

  “You wouldn't mind if we looked for ourselves would you there sport?” Carson growled, and as he did the dog that was barking earlier came to the fence and growled back at him. “Could you put the mutt up somewhere? I don't want to have to shoot him, but I will.”