State of Life: A Mystery Thriller Novel (Virgil Jones Book 12)

by Thomas Scott

  “I do,” Henderson said. “It seems pretty exciting, you ask me.”

  “It is,” Sam said. “I wish I had more control over the screenplay itself, but the producers want to do it their own way.”

  “Ah, who cares?” Henderson said, “Take the money and run.”

  “That I can do,” Sam said.

  “So what brings you two in today? On the run from the boys down in Orange County?”

  Sam looked at his friend for a long time, then said “Not exactly…”

  Murton and Rosencrantz spent the better part of two hours with the Prices, going over their questions again and again, and in the end, they ended up with a decent picture of who their daughter was, but no actual information that was of any evidentiary value. As they were getting ready to leave, Murton asked if Kelly had a laptop or computer of her own.

  Laura Price nodded. “The sheriff’s department still has it.”

  “Do you know her passwords?” Rosencrantz said. “For the computer and any social media sites she was active on?”

  “I don’t know them by heart, but I know she keeps a written list in her bedroom.”

  “If we could take that with us, it’d be a big help,” Murton said.

  Laura stood and disappeared down the hallway to her daughter’s bedroom. Once she was out of earshot, Frank looked at Murton and Rosencrantz and said, “If you find this bastard, I hope you string him up by his balls.” He said it so calmly and matter of fact, that both men knew he was serious.

  A few minutes later, Laura returned with a list of usernames and passwords. “I’m not sure if these were all the sites she was active on…there are so many these days, but here’s what I’ve got. The first one on the list is for her computer. Do you think it will help?”

  “Everything helps, Mrs. Price,” Murton said. He gave them both his card, and said, “If you think of anything, no matter how big or small, call me day or night. We’re doing everything we can.”

  The Prices walked them to the door, their expressions filled with resignation and sorrow. “We’ll be in touch,” Rosencrantz said.

  “I sort of hope you won’t,” Frank Price said.

  Murton tipped his head to the side. “Why do you say that, sir?”

  “Because it means when you do, you’ll have found her body. Until then, we’re hanging on to the thinnest of threads, holding out hope that she’s still alive. I guess that makes us a couple of damned fools doesn’t it?”

  Murton shook his head. “No, sir. It makes you human. We’ll do our best. I promise.”

  Henderson listened to his friend’s story, then he sat back and stared out the window for a few minutes, lost in thought. When he finally turned back to Sam and Danika, he said, “First of all, I want you to know how sorry I am that things have turned out this way for you and your family. That said, you’re not going to want to hear what I say next, but you’re my friend, so I’m going to give it to you straight.”

  “I’d expect nothing less,” Sam said. “That’s why we came to you first.”

  “All you really have are suspicions. And some of them are based on nothing more than a guess. No, no, wait, hear me out, please. For an executor, the proper handling of an estate is harder than it seems to someone who has never done it. And legally, there are just enough loopholes in the law to give that person ample room to maneuver and often manipulate the assets in such a way that probate isn’t necessary unless one of the known heirs goes to court to force the issue.

  “With regard to your sister, Karen…she’s an adult. If she decided to take off to parts unknown without telling you or anyone else, that’s her business. And what you said about Don being involved in her disappearance, and both of them being involved in the death of your father? That’s pure speculation on your part.”

  Sam shook his head. “My own brother put a gun in my ear and threatened to kill me.”

  “Then go to the Orange County authorities, swear out a statement, and let them investigate the matter.”

  “I can’t do that,” Sam said. “Is he an asshole? Yes. But I was on his property and I instigated an assault. Any lawyer worth his salt would have my complaint tossed out in about two seconds. Besides, that’s not the main issue. The death of my father is. I’m convinced, and so is Danni, by the way, that Don and Karen killed him. Don couldn’t wait to get him in the ground, and when I asked about an autopsy, they looked at me like I was an idiot for even bringing it up.”

  “The problem, Sam, is you don’t have any proof. Let me ask you this: Do you need the money or the stuff?”

  “Of course not, Ed. You know that.”

  “Do you want it?”

  Sam looked away for a second, then said, “No, not really. Danni and I talked about it and said if we ever did get anything, we’d donate it to charity.”

  “Well, unless you want to tangle yourself up in a legal battle that could last for years, and spend a truckload of money along the way, I’d think long and hard about letting it all go.”

  “Ed, I’m telling you…they killed my father.”

  “Prove it.”

  Sam knew he couldn’t. Then he had a thought. “What if they exhumed his body? What does it take to make that happen?”

  “Something that rises to what we refer to as reasonable cause,” Henderson said. “It doesn’t sound like you have that. In fact, you’re not even close. My advice, sue your siblings if you want to go down that road. Otherwise, let sleeping dogs lie, and all that. I’m sorry buddy, I wish there was something I could do for you, but there isn’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When Murton and Rosencrantz returned to the Shelby County Sheriff’s office, they once again had to get past the keeper of the gate, and this time, she had no intention of interrupting the sheriff. “I know you state investigators think you’re more important than the rest of us, but you’re not. Sheriff Henderson is tied up with a couple of people at the moment, and I’m not sure when he’ll be—”

  That’s when Ed Henderson opened his office door to show Sam and Danika out. Betty forgot all about Murton and Rosencrantz and grabbed her book and a pen. She walked right up to Sam, and said, “Would you mind very much? I’m a great admirer of your writing. You can say whatever you want as long as it starts with, ‘To my dear friend, Betty.’”

  Sam reddened slightly, took the book and pen, wrote a few words, then signed his name. He handed the book back, thanked Betty for her support, nodded to Murton and Rosencrantz, then took Danika’s hand and walked out.

  “Who was that?” Rosencrantz said.

  Betty snickered, then said, “From what I’ve seen of your intellect, no one you would know, I’m sure.”

  Murton leaned close to Rosencrantz, and said, “Sam Whittle. Famous author.”

  Rosencrantz shrugged and said, “Huh. Never heard of him.”

  Betty gave everyone a dull look. “Like I said…”

  Once they were back inside Henderson’s office, Murton said, “What’s up with Sam Whittle?”

  “Ah, we were college roommates back in the day. His dad died about six months ago, and the family is fighting over the money. My buddy even thinks his siblings killed their own father to get the loot.”

  “Did they?” Rosencrantz asked.

  Henderson shrugged. “Who knows? All they have are suspicions and intuition.” Then, a little heavier: “And to tell you the truth, it’s out of my jurisdiction, so that means it’s Orange County’s problem…not mine. I think once they get a few more months under their belt, the whole thing should die down.”

  “They usually do,” Murton said. “Listen, we’re getting ready to head back to Indy, but before we do, if you have a proper chain of custody form, I’d like to take Kelly Price’s laptop with us. We might be able to get something from it.”

  Henderson snorted. “Good luck. We had one of our best guys try to crack the password, and he couldn’t do it.”

  Murton genuinely liked Henderson and didn’t want to embarrass him
. Instead of saying they’d gotten the list of passwords from Kelly’s mom, he told him about Becky and her computer skills. “If anyone can crack that thing, she can.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Henderson said. He filled out the form, signed it, had Murton do the same, then walked them down to the property room. Once Murton and Rosencrantz had the laptop, they told Henderson they’d keep him updated, and left the building.

  As they were walking to Murton’s car, his phone buzzed at him. He checked the screen, then hit the Answer button and said, “Hello wife of mine. Did you get a glimpse of Verizon’s horizon?”

  Becky chuckled and said, “I did. I’m sending everything to your email right…now. Price’s phone is still active and pinging off a tower close to Shelbyville. The email I sent has the coordinates. I don’t have the tracking history yet. That takes a little longer.”

  “Nice work, Becks. Get it to me when you can, huh?”

  “I will. Are you going to make it back for dinner?”

  “Unless we find a body attached to the phone, then yeah, we’ll make it back.”

  “Well, here’s hoping you don’t find a body,” Becky said.

  And Murton thought, Isn’t that the truth. He opened the email, sent a copy to Rosencrantz, then they headed over to where Kelly Price’s phone was, not hopeful…just doing the legwork.

  The phone was pinging to a tower that was between the dentist’s office and the high school, at almost the exact midpoint. When Murton and Rosencrantz arrived at the location, they found a small combination bookstore and coffee shop. The only available parking was at the rear of the store. They got out of Murton’s car and began looking around.

  “Seems like a pretty unlikely place for a kid to get snatched,” Rosencrantz said.

  Murton looked up at the corners of the buildings. “You might be right, especially if you look up right over there.”

  Rosencrantz turned and looked where Murton was pointing. A security camera was mounted on the back wall of a building across the alley. “Is that a liquor store?”

  “Looks like it,” Murton said. “Let’s go have a talk with their employees.”

  They left their car parked in the back and walked around to the front of the building. Inside, behind the counter was a middle-aged man, slightly overweight, balding, with reading glasses perched at the tip of his nose. He looked up at Murton and Rosencrantz and said, “You guys don’t look like customers. You look like cops.”

  “Cops don’t drink anymore?” Rosencrantz said. “I guess I missed that memo.”

  “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

  Murton pulled out his phone and brought up a picture of Kelly Price. “Have you ever seen this young lady, especially within the last few days?”

  The man studied the photo for a few seconds, then said, “No, I haven’t. Not that I would, either. She doesn’t look old enough to come in here. I don’t serve minors, and I always check ID. As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen yours yet.”

  Murton and Rosencrantz pulled out their badges.

  “Well, at least you ain’t Excise,” the man said. “Those boys get a bug up their asses every now and again. About to drive me crazy, and I follow all the rules.”

  “Uh-huh,” Murton said. “Is that security camera out back working and active?”

  “It is,” the man said. “Insurance requires I keep a record for at least thirty days.”

  “We’re going to need to see the footage from three days ago,” Rosencrantz said.

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  “The picture of the girl I just showed you? She’s missing, and her phone is still actively pinging to this general location.”

  The man visibly swallowed. “Jeez, that’s awful. I had no idea…”

  “If you could just show us the security footage, sir,” Murton said.

  “Yes, of course. Follow me.” The man locked the front door, then led them to a stockroom where a computer sat atop a small corner table. He sat down, brought up the security system’s camera, then backed the footage up to the date in question. He showed Murton and Rosencrantz how to operate the controls, then went back out front. “Can’t keep that front door locked too long.”

  “We’re good,” Murton said. They started playing the footage, faster and faster, covering the day that Kelly Price went missing. A few minutes later they saw a man in his mid to late thirties walking down the alley carrying a shopping bag. When he got to the recycling dumpster behind the liquor store, he reached into the sack, pulled out a purse, and threw it into the dumpster, before disappearing from the camera’s view. Murton reversed the footage, getting the best shot of the man he could, then looked at Rosencrantz and said, “Go get the owner back in here.”

  A few minutes later the liquor store owner was back. “What’s up? Find anything good?”

  Murton pointed at the screen and said, “Ever see that guy before?”

  The man laughed and said, “Yeah, he’s in here about three times a week. Name’s Randy Something. He’s a drunk and a bum.”

  “Any idea where we could find Randy Something?” Rosencrantz said.

  The man scratched the top of his head. “Well, if he ain’t in the county lockup on charges of drunk and disorderly, he’s either at home or at work. Problem is, I don’t know where either of those two places are.”

  “But he’s been in the county drunk tank?” Murton said.

  “It’s his home away from home.”

  “Okay, can you email or text me a screenshot of that guy?”

  “Sure. What’s your number?”

  Murton gave the man his cell phone number, then said, “We’re going to go dig around in your dumpster for what I’m hoping is a few short minutes. Is there anything in there we need to be wary of?”

  “Shouldn’t be,” the man said. “It’s all recycle…broken down liquor boxes and the like.”

  “Got a broom we could borrow?” Rosencrantz said.

  “I guess so. What do you need a broom for?”

  Rosencrantz looked at Murton and said, “Clearly the man has never dumpster dove before.”

  Murton backed his squad car up to the dumpster, put on a pair of gloves, then climbed on top of the trunk and began rooting around the cardboard, looking for the purse. It took him about ten minutes, moving the boxes from side to side, but he eventually found what he was looking for. After a few unsuccessful attempts to hook the purse with the broom handle, Rosencrantz got tired of watching the struggle.

  “You know, for a guy who lives with a pond in his backyard you’re not very good at fishing. Let me see that broom.”

  Murton shrugged, handed the broom to Rosencrantz, who then tossed it aside and jumped into the dumpster. He grabbed the purse and climbed back out. “That’s how you fish.”

  “It’s also how you get Hepatitis,” Murton said. When he looked inside the purse, it was completely empty, except for a cell phone.

  When Rosencrantz dialed Kelly Price’s number, the phone lit up. He looked at Murton and said, “Did that guy text you the picture?”

  Murton checked his phone and saw that he had. “Yeah. Let’s go back and talk with Ed…again.”

  When they walked back into the Shelby County Sheriff’s department, Betty looked up from her paperwork and said, “What is it with you gentlemen? I’m beginning to think we should assign you office space.”

  Rosencrantz smiled, looked at Murton, and said, “Hey, did you hear that? We’ve risen to the level of gentlemen.”

  “It was a figure of speech,” Betty said. “Let me guess. You’re here to bother the sheriff again.”

  Murton and Rosencrantz just stared at her. Finally, Betty got up, went to Henderson’s door, knocked once, and pushed open the door. “Mr. Wardrobe and his illiterate sidekick are back.”

  Henderson sighed, then said, “Betty…”

  “What? It’s an accurate statement.” Then to Murton and Rosencrantz: “The sheriff will see you now.”

  They walked in and Mur
ton got right to it. He pulled out his phone, held it up for Henderson to see, and said, “Know this guy?”

  Henderson nodded in a weary way. “Do I ever. He’s what we call a regular around here. Name’s Randy Dodge. What’s he done now?”

  “Any idea where we can find him?” Rosencrantz said.

  “Probably passed out at home,” Henderson said. “I heard he got fired from his last job. Damned near killed a guy with a forklift.”

  “Get us his address?” Murton said.

  “Sure, except you haven’t told me why yet.”

  Murton squinted an eye at Henderson. “That picture I showed you? It came from a security camera at the back of a liquor store. We’ve got footage of Dodge tossing Kelly Price’s purse into a dumpster.”

  Henderson’s eyes widened a bit. “Oh boy, okay. C’mon, you can follow me to his place. I could get there in my sleep.”

  When they got to Dodge’s—a single-story rambler in desperate need of just about every imaginable repair—Henderson waited until Rosencrantz made his way around back, then he and Murton walked up to the front door and knocked. The wood on the door was rotted, and their knocks sounded like they were beating on a sponge.

  Murton saw the blinds wiggle on the front window, then heard muffled footsteps running through the house. Henderson moved to kick the door, but Murton grabbed his arm to stop him. “Wait here. Rosie will get him.”

  Thirty seconds later, the front door opened, and Rosencrantz let Murton and Henderson in. Dodge was cuffed and sitting on a ratty sofa. His nose was bleeding, the blood crossing his lips and filling out the gaps in his beard. “What the fuck are you guys doing in my house? And what’s with the cuffs? I ain’t done nothing.”

  Rosencrantz walked out of the room, and Murton began to explain the situation to Dodge. “Randy, you’re in some pretty big trouble right now. Heard you like to tie one on now and again.”