by Thomas Scott
State of Life
A Virgil Jones Mystery - Thriller | Book 12
Thomas Scott
Thomas Scott Books
Copyright © 2021 by Thomas Scott. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without written permission from the copyright owner of this book. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, governmental institutions, venues, and all incidents or events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, locales, venues, or government organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Virgil Jones Series in order
State of Life
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Next Book Quick Look
Also by Thomas Scott
About the Author
Virgil Jones Series In Order
State of Anger - Book 1
State of Betrayal - Book 2
State of Control - Book 3
State of Deception - Book 4
State of Exile - Book 5
State of Freedom - Book 6
State of Genesis - Book 7
State of Humanity - Book 8
State of Impact - Book 9
State of Justice - Book 10
State of Killers - Book 11
State of Life - Book 12
Updates on future Virgil Jones novels available at:
ThomasScottBooks.com
For Sam
Life
/līf/
noun:
The condition that distinguishes animals and plants from inorganic matter, including the continual change preceding death.
“As heads is tails, just call me Lucifer, ‘cause I’m in need of some restraint…”
—Mick Jagger
“There’s more to this case than you can imagine.”
—Mason Jones
Chapter One
DECADES AGO:
It was odd the way the life of one man could affect the lives of so many others with little to no forethought. Odd because no one would ever be able to say how far back it went…the bent, twisted gene that made him who he was, the same one that would turn his own children into who they would ultimately become. The whole thing was like a neglected apple tree that had never been trimmed, the branches slumping and sinking toward the earth, the apples themselves kissing the ground while still on the limb, their skins wilted with the heat of the summer, then browned by the sting of an early autumn frost. A few people might have noticed what was happening, yet no one seemed to care all that much...not back then anyway.
But later they would. The apples were tasty if you weren’t all that picky about the soft spots. The killer wasn’t and never had been. In fact, it was the soft spots that drew him in. They were, in their own way, Golden Delicious. It was like sneaking a piece of mom’s apple pie.
As long as the old man wasn’t around.
The old man’s name was Dick Whittle, and he was rotten to the core. He learned early in life that with a name like his, he was going to be ridiculed and laughed at forever. It began in grade school when the teachers would call out the student’s names while marking the attendance sheet. The names were listed in alphabetical order, last name first, first name last.
Day after day, year after year, it was always the same. “Whittle, Dick.” The younger students would giggle because it was sort of funny, and during recess, they’d all run around and say things like, Hey, there’s a Whittle Dick, which eventually turned into, Hey, there’s a little dick, which ultimately led to fistfights, bloody noses, and that one terrible day right after the high school graduation ceremony when Dick Whittle lost control and beat the living daylights out of two fellow students, one of them a pretty blond girl who snickered as he walked by, turned to her boyfriend and said, “Hey, there goes a little dick.”
Whittle turned around and slapped the girl hard in the face and she fell to the ground, the back of her head bouncing off the pavement. The boyfriend, one of the school’s football players had about a fifty-pound advantage over Whittle. What he didn’t have was the immediate ability to process what he’d just witnessed. He was still staring at his girlfriend who was out cold when Whittle unloaded on him with two quick punches to his solar plexus that bent him over, and one wicked punch to his jaw as he was going down.
Then he started kicking. By the time two staff members managed to pull him away, both of Whittle’s victims had multiple broken ribs, and bruises that would last all through summer.
The first police officer on the scene was a rookie sheriff’s deputy named Mason Jones. He got the cuffs on Whittle, then radioed for an ambulance. Later, during his arraignment—mostly because the kids had survived and times were different back then—Whittle was offered his choice: three years for aggravated assault, or five years in the Army. The Vietnam war was winding down, so Whittle went with the Army.
On the first day of boot camp, the drill sergeant got right in his face and began screaming at him. “Whittle, Dick? Whittle Dick? What kind of fucked up, hillbilly, jack-off name is that…?”
If Whittle wasn’t messed up going in, by the time he got out five years later, he was all but gone.
But not completely. The first thing he did when he got out was use his GI Bill money and enrolled at Indiana State University on the government’s dime, where he took business classes and studied animal husbandry. Whittle had a thing for chickens. Every gook he ever saw when he was in the war was always walking around with a chicken. And why not? They cost pennies to feed, they gave you eggs every day, and when they could no longer do that, you could eat the damned things for dinner.
During his last year of college, he met a young woman named Evelyn Morgan. Evelyn’s mother had recently died, and her father, who wasn’t getting any younger, had a small farm in south-central Indiana, which he was getting ready to sell so he could spend his retirement years in Florida. Morgan, a pretty brunette with soft doe eyes and curves in all the right places began dating Whittle, and after six months they were married. Exactly nine months later to the day, their first child was born, a girl named Karen.
Whittle and his wife had worked out a deal with Evelyn’s father…they’d buy the farm on land contract, and Whittle would turn it into a chicken ranch.
“Not much money in chickens,” Bob Morgan said. Bob was Evelyn’s dad, an ancient relic of a man who could n
o longer run the farm himself. “Hogs or beef, I’d be on board with you. Don’t see it with chickens, though.”
Whittle nodded at him like the old man was handing out sage advice for free. What a dope, Whittle thought. “Maybe not right now, but industrial farming is the future of livestock, and chickens would be the easiest and quickest way to get started.”
Morgan looked at his daughter, and said, “Are you on board with this idea, Evelyn?”
“I am. Dick has a degree in both business and animal husbandry. I believe he knows what he’s doing.”
Morgan looked at them both. “Well, I hope you’re right. As long as I get my check every month, I’ll be fine. If it ain’t paid off by the time I croak, the rest of the debt is canceled, and the place is yours.”
And Whittle thought, Perfect.
Except it wasn’t. Bob Morgan left for Florida, and the Whittles soon discovered that in addition to the cost of the chickens, the feed, the refurbishing of the barn, the land taxes, and all the other expenses—not the least of which was their daughter, Karen—money was more than tight…it was practically non-existent.
Whittle ended up working two full-time jobs, plus the farm just to keep them even. He averaged four hours of sleep a night, and exhaustion became a way of life.
Then, when Karen was barely six months old, Whittle returned home late one afternoon and found Evelyn standing in the kitchen, staring at nothing, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“What’s wrong? And what’s for dinner? I’ve got to eat and get back to work. Grab me a beer.” When Evelyn didn’t say anything, Whittle said, “Are you gonna answer me, or not? And where’s the god damned beer I just told you to get me?”
Evelyn took a deep breath, then said, “I’m pregnant. Again.”
Whittle hit her so hard he knocked two of her teeth out.
He never laid a hand on Evelyn again, mostly because he knew if he did, she’d leave him, or he’d go to jail, or both. Besides, there were other targets of opportunity over the years, and all Whittle had to do was bide his time. They had two more children—a boy they named Sam, and another boy named Don—and despite his mean streak and constant emotional and physical abuse, as time went on they somehow managed to see themselves as a family. But underneath it all, even as the children grew, and the farm became a success, Evelyn Whittle and her children were the only ones who really ever knew the type of monster that lived inside Dick Whittle.
They knew because he reminded them on a daily basis. The kids got the worst of it—though when they were older, Sam, in particular, thought maybe there were things his father had done to his mother that none of them would ever know about. Karen, the oldest, was expected to keep the house not just clean, but absolutely spotless. Whittle would actually put on a white glove and run his fingers across the fireplace mantle—or some other obscure area—to check for dust. If the glove came away with as much as a speck, Whittle would beat her and scream in her face until she curled up on the floor, shaking and crying like a little dog.
When he was fourteen years old, Sam was put in charge of the chicken business. He had to get up every morning before school and collect the eggs, make sure that the water lines were running properly, carry the buckets of feed, and clean the shit from the pens. When he returned home from school, he’d do it all over again, before going inside to eat dinner, do his homework, then fall into bed, exhausted. The weekends weren’t any better. In addition to the chicken business, there was a lawn to mow, weeds to pull, fencing to fix, siding to replace, and anything else the old man could think of. And like his sister, Karen, nothing was ever good enough. Too much feed. Not enough feed. Too much water. Not enough water. Broken eggs. An actual fox in the hen house. There was always something wrong, and never anything right. Dick Whittle just couldn’t quite figure out what it was. So he took it out on his kids, over and over, making little monsters in his own image.
Except for Don. Don somehow became the golden boy who could do no wrong. He didn’t have to work in the barn, or help with the house, or do anything that Karen and Sam were expected to do. No one could ever figure out why. Some said it was because he was the youngest, while others said it was because old man Whittle took out all his hate and anger and abuse on Karen and Sam. And while some of those things may have been true, Don figured out how to become a survivor amid the constant abuse and dysfunction.
He became a pleaser.
The madder Whittle got, the happier Don became. He’d tug at his father’s sleeve during one of his outbursts, then hand him a beer, or he’d say, “Hey, Dad, let’s go play catch.” And for some reason, Whittle found it impossible to say no to his youngest son. As Don grew up, he began to see himself as the leader, a savior of sorts, the one who could make everything okay for everyone else…no matter how bad it all was.
Looking back, everyone always thought that Sam and Karen—especially Sam—had gotten the worst Dick Whittle had to offer. As it turned out, Don would have his own demons to face. He just didn’t know it at the time.
Chapter Two
YEARS AGO:
The killer, alone, out in the black of night. He knew the route because he’d been here before, right on the edge of the woods line, but he had to pick his spot with care. Not too dense, or he wouldn’t be able to maneuver, yet not too open because he didn’t want to be seen. Plus, the spot had to be close enough to where his van would be parked.
So many things a killer has to think about.
He carried a small penlight, the lens taped over just enough to keep the light from exposing him should anyone be watching, though out here at this time of night, no one would be. Still, better safe than sorry. He walked the route a few times, got his bearings, then went back to his van and retrieved an eighty-pound bag of sand. He carried the sand back to where he thought the perfect spot might be, leaned it against a tree near the edge of the path, then waited until his heart slowed and his breathing returned to normal. He pulled a stopwatch from his pocket—a single-handed chrome dial with a bug-winder of a knob at the top—took a deep breath, punched the button on the watch, then…
He ran toward the bag of sand, punched it twice, then hefted it up over his shoulder and ran as fast as he could back to his van. He opened the side door—he’d left it cracked to save a few precious seconds—tossed the sandbag inside, then slammed the door, and checked his time.
Start to finish, twenty-nine seconds, give or take.
That’d work.
Coach was the guidance counselor at the high school in French Lick, Indiana. He told everyone to call him Coach because while he enjoyed his paying job as a guidance counselor, what he really loved was something he did for free. He was the coach of the girl’s cross-country team. There was something special about being called Coach. He liked it, and the kids did too. They’d walk into his office and say things like, “Hey, Coach, got a minute? I’d like to talk about my college choices.” Or they’d see him in the hallway and shout, “What’s up, Coach?” To him, it was a badge of honor. Like being called Doctor, or Captain.
The match today was against one of the teams from Indianapolis, and since Coach’s girls were the visiting team and running on unfamiliar terrain, he wanted to get there early and make sure everyone knew the course. It was situated in one of the parks just outside the city limits, and nearly half the course was wooded, so there’d be some obstacles to contend with. All that aside, the weather was perfect, the girls were in top physical form, no one was out sick, and that all added up to victory.
He walked out onto the field, near the starting line, and watched his girls loosen up. He wore gold shorts, a black pullover team shirt, and a whistle on a lanyard around his neck. When the girls were ready, he blew the whistle and gathered them together.
He used his coaching voice on the field, not his counseling voice. There was a distinct difference. “All right ladies, now that everyone is warmed up, let’s walk the course.”
A series of muffled groans filled the air.
One of the girls put her hands on her hips and cocked a knee the way high school girls often do, then said, “Coach, in case you’ve forgotten, we’ve been running through wooded courses all summer getting ready for today, and the flags and streamers are set up to guide us the whole way.”
“Nice try, young lady. I haven’t forgotten, but in case you have, a storm came through up here over the weekend, and it might have done some damage. I don’t want anybody getting hurt because they tripped over a fallen limb. We’re one of the best teams in the state, and the last thing we need is someone out for the season with a busted ankle.” Then, before anyone else could say anything, Coach blew the whistle and shouted, “Head out!”
The team turned and began walking the course. They didn’t actually walk…rather they jogged. Fast enough to get it over with, but not so fast that they’d wear themselves out. It was all part of the process.
