Behind the Closed Door: A Detective Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers (The Jacob Hayden Series Book 2)

by Charles Prandy

  A little bit of surprise crossed her eyes, but not much more than that.

  “How?”

  “Someone shot her and left her to die in a burning house.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “No. That’s why we’re here.”

  “I’m not sure I can help with anything. I haven’t spoken to her since Jack went missing.” The smile that greeted us was gone and replaced with a hint of annoyance.

  Pat spoke next. “Mrs. Smith, we think that whoever killed Erin also killed Jack. And we think it was someone they both knew.”

  “Someone close to both of them,” I added.

  She studied our faces before she spoke again. “So you think I may know who actually killed my son.”

  “Erin told us that you and Jack were very close. It’s possible you would know some of his close friends. Someone he would have trusted.”

  “Jack didn’t trust too many people,” she said. “Not since the incident in middle school.”

  “Incident?” I said.

  Elizabeth Smith stood up and walked to the dining room table across the room. She came back with a cigarette in her hand.

  “It’s not real. It’s one of those electric things that’s supposed to trick the mind into thinking you’re smoking a real cigarette.”

  She took a drag from the fake cigarette and blew out vapors that looked like real smoke.

  “Jack changed in the eighth grade.”

  She took another drag.

  “He’d always been a bright kid. He kinda knew stuff that other kids his age didn’t. I used to say that he was beyond his years. I had him tested. His scores always went through the roof.”

  She took another drag.

  “Before the eighth grade, Jack always smiled. Back then, Joe Montana was the neighborhood hero. He always told me that one day he’d play in the NFL like Joe.”

  She took another drag.

  “That was before the eighth grade,” she said again.

  She had my attention. I was sitting on the edge of the couch entranced in her story.

  “Jack was thirteen years old the first time he had sex,” she said bluntly.

  I was caught off guard. I wasn’t expecting her to say that.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “He lost his virginity in the eighth grade.”

  I looked at Pat. She looked back. We didn’t know how to respond. So we sat quietly and waited for an explanation.

  “His grades started slipping. He didn’t want to play football anymore. He wasn’t hanging out with his friends like he used to. Everything just seemed to shut down for Jack.”

  She took another drag.

  “I worked two jobs because his dead beat father left after he found out I was pregnant. So I wasn’t home much. A couple of times a week, I wouldn’t get home until well past nine at night and Jack would be getting ready for bed. One evening I got off early. Jack must not have heard me come in. He was talking on the phone and he was crying. He kept saying behind the closed door. I want to meet you one more time behind the closed door.”

  She paused and took a breath. Her eyes started watering. She wiped them with the back of her hand.

  “Mrs. Smith,” I said, “what happened to Jack behind the closed door?”

  “She molested him.”

  Sixty-one

  Her breaths came quicker. She started coughing God-awful sounds. I thought for a minute that she might have a heart attack. The nurse, Susan Winestead, rushed to her side. “Mrs. Smith, you need to calm down.”

  Elizabeth Smith shushed her away. “I’ll be fine. I just need some water.”

  Susan Winestead gave her a stern look before heading off to the kitchen.

  “The cancer is spreading. Doctors think I may have a year left.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  Susan Winestead came back with a glass of water. “I’ll be in the other room if you need me.”

  Elizabeth Smith took a sip of water.

  “I’m almost seventy years old. I’ve seen everything I’m gonna see. If you ask me, I’ve outlived my own expectancy. I’m older than both of my parents before they died.”

  She coughed again.

  “I’m sorry. My coughing gets worse when I get emotional.”

  “That’s ok. Please take your time,” I said.

  She took another sip of water. She looked around the room as if she were gathering her thoughts. I could see she was recalling the old memories that have probably haunted her for so many years.

  “Jack was never the same after that. He said he was in love. I tried to explain that what happened to him was wrong, but he didn’t want to hear any of it.”

  “Did you go to the authorities?”

  “Jack wouldn’t let me. He said that if I told anyone, he’d just deny it.”

  She coughed again. Her eyes started watering. She was trying hard not to cry in front of us.

  “Do you know how hard it was knowing that your child’s been violated and there’s nothing you can do about it?”

  We didn’t answer. It wasn’t the kind of question that required a response.

  “So I never said anything. It tore me up inside, but I kept my son’s secret a secret. As the years went on, Jack kinda became a recluse. He didn’t hang out with his friends that much. He didn’t go out with girls either. And then when he turned eighteen, he joined the Marines.”

  “Jack was soldier?”

  She nodded. “And a damn good one at that. He won all kinds of medals. It was almost as if the Marines gave him new life. Whenever I talked to him I heard the old Jack, the one who wanted to be like Joe Montana.”

  My mind started wondering while Elizabeth Smith was talking. Jack was in the Marines. He had weapons training. He knew how to kill. I thought about the Colorado bank job and how possible it was that Jack was involved with killing the bank manager and his family.

  Could the person who killed Jack have been a Marine too? Fits with the theory. Jack was killed by someone he trusted, someone who also knew how to use weapons. He and Erin Smith were having an affair and they needed Jack out of the picture. Jack was a big guy. Erin wouldn’t have been able to drag his body to the woods by herself. But then why would he kill Erin? Why keep her alive for so long if he planned on killing her?

  Elizabeth Smith’s coughing brought me out of thought. The nurse came back into the room and kneeled next to Mrs. Smith. “You should lie down. I’m sure the detectives can come back another time.”

  Elizabeth Smith shushed her away again. “I don’t want to lie down. They came a long way to see me and the most I can do is help them find my son’s killer.”

  The nurse gave an exasperated sigh and walked into the other room again.

  “Mrs. Smith, did Jack stay friends with any of his Marine buddies?”

  She nodded. “He did. They were like his brothers.”

  Then she became silent again and her eyes fell to the floor. Her demeanor suddenly changed and I thought she was about to pass out. Pat noticed it as well.

  “Mrs. Smith,” Pat asked, “are you okay?”

  Tears started streaming down her face.

  “I never told, Jack,” she said. “I didn’t know how to tell him.”

  She continued looking at the floor and became deathly still.

  “Mrs. Smith?”

  She didn’t answer. I was getting ready to call for the nurse when she raised her head and looked at me.

  “Do you have children, detective?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”

  She turned to Pat and Pat shook her head as well.

  “I hope you never have to endure the pain of losing a child.”

  I could only imagine what she must be going through, but I didn’t say it.

  “The thing is, Jack treated his Marine friends like they were his brothers. I never had the courage to tell him that he already had a brother.”

  Pat and I looked at each other.

  “Jack
had a twin brother. When the deadbeat left me and I found out that I was carrying twins, I knew I couldn’t take care of both of them. So I gave one up for adoption. It was the first hard thing I’ve done in my life. The second was keeping Jack’s secret a secret.”

  She looked at us almost as if she were asking us for forgiveness.

  “I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. I’ve kept this a secret for nearly forty years. Jack went to his grave never knowing he had a twin brother. And his twin went to his grave never knowing Jack.”

  “Jack’s brother is dead?”

  She nodded. “The family that raised him kept in touch with me from time to time. They named him Gary. Gary Anderson Fowles. About four months ago, Gary’s mother called me and said that Gary had been killed in what appeared to be a robbery that went wrong. He was shot two times in the chest about twenty feet from an ATM machine.”

  “Gary was shot twice in the chest?” I asked out loud, but I was thinking more than anything else.

  “They say that twins have a special connection that the rest of us don’t understand,” she said. “I guess my boys proved that true. They both died months apart without ever knowing each other.”

  “Mrs. Smith, where did Gary live?”

  “In New Jersey.”

  She started coughing again and the nurse came back in. “I really think you should lie down,” she said this time with more emphasis in her voice. Finally Elizabeth Smith agreed.

  “Find Jack’s killer,” she said to me.

  She coughed all the way to her bedroom.

  Pat and I let ourselves out and got back into the car.

  “Poor woman,” she said.

  I didn’t respond.

  “I feel sorry for her.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “What?”

  “Jersey’s only an hour from here,” I said. “I think we should pay Gary’s family a visit.”

  Sixty-two

  Trenton, New Jersey

  The ride up to New Jersey got me thinking. Thinking about things I shouldn’t have to think about. Thinking about things that are totally implausible, but if the right person was devious enough, definitely doable.

  Pat pulled up Gary Anderson Fowles’ obituary on her iPhone. It wasn’t hard to find. She did a Google search of his name and saw in the Trentonian that Gary died on April 18, 2013. The obituary listed Gary’s surviving relatives. From there, we did a white pages search for Gary’s parents, Eric and Susan Fowles. We found their phone number and address and Pat gave them a call. Susan Fowles said that we’d be welcome to stop by and talk about her son’s death.

  The Fowles’ lived in a modest neighborhood with mature trees and manicured lawns. If I had to estimate what the Fowles’ home would sell for today, I’d say close to nine hundred thousand dollars. It was a traditional looking two-story brick home with a massive front yard.

  Susan Fowles greeted us seconds after we rang the doorbell.

  “I’m Susan Fowles,” she said with a grin. She was an attractive older woman with silky grey hair that came down to her shoulders.

  Pat and I showed our badges. “I’m Detective Jacob Hayden and this is Detective Patricia Jennings from D.C. Metro. Thanks for seeing us on such short notice.”

  She waved off the thanks. “My pleasure. Any excuse to talk about my son is good enough for me.”

  She stepped back and motioned for us to come in.

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee, water, tea?”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “I’ll take coffee please,” Pat said.

  Susan Fowles led us through the foyer to an expansive family room with ceilings that could have been twenty feet high.

  “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

  We sat. I looked around the room. Leather couches, built in bookcases, a flat screen TV, a baby grand piano. Everything looked expensive. Family pictures were scattered around the room. The one that caught my eye was of Gary Fowles. He held a glass of what could have been beer in his hand which was raised high like he was giving a toast. Jack Smith’s image has been engrained into my brain. Gary Fowles looked just like him. The smile. The eyes. The build. The hair. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was looking at Jack.

  Susan Fowles came back in the room with a cup of coffee. She sat on the couch opposite from us. She must have seen me looking at Gary’s picture before she came in because her eyes immediately went to it.

  “That’s my Gary. He was the best son a mother could ever hope for.”

  “Sorry for your loss,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “So why are two detectives from D.C. interested in my son’s murder?”

  I heard a little tremble in her voice when she said the word murder.

  “It could be nothing.”

  I then told her about Jack Smith and how his wife Erin Smith was arrested for his murder. I told her about the subsequent bank robberies and then about Erin Smith’s own murder. I told her that we just came from speaking with Elizabeth Smith and that she told us that Jack had a twin brother that she gave up for adoption. Susan Fowles didn’t say a word throughout my explanation. When I was done, she took in a deep breath.

  “Wow…I don’t even know how to respond.”

  “It’s a lot to take in,” I admitted.

  “Gary was killed just four months before his twin brother.” She stood up and walked to Gary’s picture. “Do you think…I mean…could it be related in some way?”

  “I don’t know. In any other situation I’d say it’s highly unlikely, but the coincidence just can’t be ignored.”

  We stayed quiet for a moment.

  “Mrs. Fowles, are you sure that Gary and Jack never knew about each other?”

  “As far as I know they didn’t. Elizabeth was adamant that she didn’t want Jack to know.”

  “And you, how did you feel about it?”

  She shrugged, “I don’t know. I thought that Gary should have known he had a twin. But I promised Elizabeth that I wouldn’t say anything. So I didn’t.”

  “I’m just curious. How did you and Mrs. Smith come to know each other? I thought adoption records were kept sealed?”

  “Under normal circumstances they are. But Elizabeth and I knew each other. We weren’t the closest of friends, but we talked from time to time. We grew up just a few streets from one another. I had just gotten married and shortly afterwards found out that I couldn’t have children. I bumped into Elizabeth in the grocery store just after her boyfriend ran out on her. She looked depressed. You must remember, in those times, it was uncommon for a girl to get pregnant before she got married. And Elizabeth was about to have twins. We talked for a long time. She told me what she was planning on doing. I invited her over to meet my husband. Over the next couple of weeks, we talked some more and she asked if I’d be willing to adopt one of the twins.

  I had mixed feelings. A part of me was elated because I was given a second chance at having a child. But the other part was hurt just knowing that a mother was about to give up one of her children. After crying and praying and more crying, we decided to adopt. It was the best forty years of my life.”

  “When did you move to New Jersey?”

  “A few years after we took Gary in. My husband was a young lawyer at the time and a great opportunity came up for him to work for a firm here in Trenton. He’s now one of the marque partners. He was talking about retiring before Gary’s death, but now he says that working is the only thing keeping him alive. Gary’s death hit him the hardest. He and Gary were extremely close.”

  “Has there been any movement on Gary’s death? Any suspects? Leads?”

  “The detective handling the case has been great, but we haven’t heard anything new. There were no witnesses. Gary didn’t have any enemies. The detective talked to his friends and associates and no one knew of anyone who’d want to harm him. So the working theory is that someone wanted his money and shot him for it. Just a random incident. It cou
ld have been anyone at that time, but it just happened to be my Gary.”

  Just a random killing, I thought. Could have been anyone. But it just so happened that the man who was killed had a twin brother who was possibly a bank robber and murderer. That’s the one part of the story I neglected to tell Susan Fowles.

  I followed up with a few more questions. I thanked her for her time and Pat and I headed for the front door.

  In the car Pat said again, “Poor woman. I really feel sorry for her.”

  “Yeah. Tragic.”

  I put the gear in drive and pulled away from the house. Before we left New Jersey, I wanted to make one more stop. Hopefully the detective in charge of Gary Smith’s murder was on shift.

  Sixty-three

  Detective Chuck White is a middle aged African-American with shoulders seemingly as broad as the State of New Jersey itself. I stand six-feet-three-inches tall and he made me feel small. We shook and it felt like a catcher’s mitt was wrapped round my hand. He looked fit. The broadness of his chest imprinted through the blazer he was wearing. I wanted to ask if he played basketball in his younger days, but I know the stereotype that hangs over the heads of most tall black men. So I just said, “thanks for taking the time to speak with us.”

  “No problem at all. You mentioned some murders in D.C. so of course you perked my interest.”

  Detective White led us through a series of halls until we were in a conference room.

  “So, detectives, what can I do you for?”

  “Gary Fowles. His mother says that you’re handling his murder.”

  Detective White nodded. “Yeah. Appears to be a robbery gone wrong. If you’ve spoken with Mrs. Fowles then I’m sure you know the particulars. He had just withdrawn two hundred and twenty dollars from a Bank of America ATM. The withdrawal receipt showed that the withdrawal took place at 12:41 a.m. Not much traffic around here that time of night. When we found him, he had no money on his person.”

  “And no witnesses?”

  “None that have come forward at least.”

  “And the bank cameras didn’t pick up the altercation?”