by Thomas Scott
“In the trunk.”
Murton walked over to the car—a big, older model Chevy Caprice—reached inside, and popped the trunk. Then he pulled out Kenny’s bag of clubs, and when he did, he saw the gun with the suppressor still attached. He pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket, put them on, then picked up the gun and pointed it at Kenny. “Is this the gun you used on my friends? Don’t lie to me.”
Kenny nodded without speaking.
“Well, not to worry,” Murton said. “It may come in handy.” He set the gun on the workbench—out of Kenny’s reach—then went back to the golf bag. He checked the clubs and discovered a 2-iron. He pulled it from the bag and said, “A 2-iron, huh? Maybe you weren’t lying about your handicap.”
“I wasn’t. What are you doing with my golf clubs?”
Murton took the 2-iron and swung it at Kenny, hitting him in the leg. He pulled his swing at the last second, so the blow wasn’t that bad, but still, Kenny cried out in shock. “I told you before, Kenny, questions are not your friend right now. You better close your eyes for this next part. It could be dangerous.”
Kenny didn’t know what the cop was going to do, but he closed his eyes. Then Murton got to work. He took the 2-iron and completely smashed out the back window of Kenny’s car. Once the glass was out, he ran the shaft of the club back and forth around the perimeter of the window area, removing any smaller pieces that were wedged into the rubber seal. Then he tossed the club aside, grabbed Kenny’s gun, and said, “I guess we better get a move on. Don’s waiting.”
After Virgil called the hospital to check on Ross and Rosencrantz, he called Sandy to keep her up to date. With that done, he tried Murton but didn’t get an answer. He was about to call Becky to ask where Murton was when the crime scene tech came out of the house and called out to the sheriff. Virgil walked that way.
Harper looked at the tech, and said, “What have you got?”
“Something you’re not going to want to hear. The prints on the pizza box came back. They belong to Kenny Wolfe.”
Harper looked at the tech for a moment before speaking. “You’re saying that Kenny was the shooter? I can’t believe that. He’s a reserve deputy.”
Virgil stepped forward. “What about the shell casings?”
The tech nodded. “That’s what cinched it. The prints on the box are identical to the shell casings we recovered. Nice clear thumbprints from pressing the rounds into the magazine.”
Harper ran his fingers through his hair. “Christ Almighty. One of my own people did this? I’ll kill that son of a bitch myself.” Then to Virgil: “Let’s go. Kenny’s place is about five minutes from here.”
They ran toward the sheriff’s squad car, jumped in, and took off.
Kenny drove with his hands cuffed together in front of himself, while Murton sat in the back seat with Kenny’s gun pointed at the back of the man’s head. “One false move and you’ll die by your own gun, Ken. How much further?”
“We’re almost there. The drive is just ahead. The cabin sits pretty far back.”
“When you turn into the drive, I want you to stop and put the car in park. Understand?”
“Yes, but…” Kenny caught himself and didn’t finish his thought.
“See, you’re learning,” Murton said. “You were going to ask why, weren’t you? It’s okay, you can answer.”
“Yeah, I was. But it doesn’t matter now. We’re here.” Kenny turned into the drive and did what Murton asked.
“Now put your hands behind your head and grab the headrest,” Murton said.
Kenny reached back and did what Murton said.
“Now stay right there,” Murton said. “If you move, you die.” When Murton was sure Kenny was going to cooperate, he got on his hands and knees in the seat, then slid out the back window and rested his body on the trunk of the car. He kept one hand wrapped around the seatbelt, and in the other, he held Kenny’s gun. “Turn your high beams on and leave them on.”
Kenny flipped the lights on bright, then said, “Now what?”
“I’ll let that one slide because it’s a valid question,” Murton said. “I want you to drive straight up to the cabin, nice and slow. When we get there, turn the ignition off, and toss the keys in the back seat. Leave the lights on, and do not get out of the car. If you don’t do exactly as I say, you won’t be the last one to die tonight, Kenny. You’ll be the first. Now drive.”
When Virgil and Harper turned through the intersection that would take them to Kenny’s house, Virgil noticed Murton’s rental car parked around the corner. He looked at Harper but didn’t say anything because Harper seemed to take no notice of the car. When they turned in the drive, Harper said, “You want the front or the back?”
“I’ll take the back. Give me thirty seconds before you hit the door.” Virgil jumped out and ran to the rear of the house. When he got there, he noticed the door was hanging wide open. He pulled his gun, went inside, clearing each room as he went. He was just entering the front of the house when Harper kicked the door in.
“Let’s check the bedrooms,” Virgil said. “But I think we’re clear. The back door was hanging open.”
They made a quick run through the house and discovered no one was there. “Garage?” Harper said.
Virgil nodded and they carefully made their way into the garage. When they were inside, they found nothing except an overturned bag of golf clubs, and a bunch of broken glass. Harper looked around, and said, “What the hell?”
Virgil looked around, and thought, “Oh, Murt, what are you doing?”
Kenny drove up to the cabin, nice and slow, exactly as Murton had told him. He put the car in park, turned the ignition off, and tossed the keys in the back seat. He left the lights on.
Murton slid from the back of the trunk and was standing directly behind the car. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Do not get out of the car. Do not speak. Not one single word, no matter what. Nod if you understand.”
Kenny nodded.
“Good,” Murton said. “Now tap the horn. Just a polite little toot-toot to let Whittle know we’re here.”
Kenny honked the horn, and Murton slid low, almost all the way to the ground.
Virgil was at a loss. He didn’t know where Whittle was, he didn’t know where Kenny was, and he didn’t know where Murton was, or what he was doing, though he had a pretty good guess. Murton had somehow found out that Kenny was the shooter, and he was going to lead him to Whittle. But where would that be? Then he had a thought. He turned to the sheriff, and said, “Looks like a bust for now. Mind giving me a lift back to Whittle’s house? My car is still there.”
Harper nodded, and said, “Sure.”
Ten minutes later Virgil got out of Harper’s car, and said, “I’m going to run back over to the hospital and check on my guys. I’ll be in touch.”
Once the sheriff was gone, Virgil got into his car, took out his phone, and made a call, praying that it would be answered.
And it was.
Whittle was packing up his gold, the bearer bonds, and all the cash he had when he heard the horn honk. He looked out the window and wondered why Kenny wasn’t getting out of his vehicle. He grabbed his pistol, tucked it into the back of his jeans, and walked outside. “Hey, Kenny…did you get the plates?”
Murton stayed down low behind the trunk. When Whittle approached the driver’s side of the car, he looked in and saw Kenny sitting there, his hands cuffed and resting in his lap.
Murton stood from behind the car, Kenny’s gun pointed right at his head. “Hi, Coach. How’s it going? No, no, no. Don’t do that. That’d be a huge mistake on your part. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“What the hell are you doing on my private property?” Whittle said. “You’ve got no right to be here.”
“Wrong, asshole. I’ve got every right.” Murton had moved from behind the car and stood right in front of Whittle, no more than five feet away. “On your knees, right now, or I’ll put you there myself.
”
Somewhere in the back of Whittle’s mind, he always knew this day would come. In fact, he was surprised it had taken so long. He wouldn’t let anyone put him in jail, or even worse, on display as the monster he knew he was. It wouldn’t have taken much for his life to turn out differently, but those were the thoughts of fools…dullards who tricked themselves into believing their place in the world wasn’t already preordained and set in stone. He dropped his hands and reached behind his back.
Murton shot him twice in the chest, then once in the forehead when he was down. Then he opened the car door and pulled Kenny out. “What does he do with the bodies?”
“There’s a cistern behind the cabin at the edge of the woods.”
“Show me.” He pushed Kenny toward the cabin.
“Sam, it’s Virgil Jones.”
“Hello, Detective. Have you made any progress on—”
“Sam, I’m sorry to drop all this on you at once, but please just listen. I need your help, and I need it right now. You were right. Your father was murdered. Your brother is on the run, but he was spotted earlier this evening. We think he’s close, but we can’t find him. He’s not at his house, and the Orange County cops said he’s not at your sister’s either. Tell me one place where he’d go to hide and get out of sight.”
“Have you checked his cabin?”
“What cabin?” Virgil said. “I don’t know about a cabin.”
“He’s got a cabin in the woods not more than five minutes from his house,” Sam said.
Virgil dropped the car in gear and started driving. “Tell me where, right now.”
“It’s right outside of Prospect, northeast of Highway 56…”
When they got to the cistern, Murton cuffed Kenny’s hands behind his back, then told him to sit on the ground. When he slid the heavy lid aside, the stench of the rotting corpses filled the air. He turned away, gagged, then replaced the lid. He looked at Kenny and said, “Get up.”
Kenny rolled onto his side and pushed himself upright. When they were back at the front of the cabin, Murton took Whittle’s gun from his waistband, then told Kenny to get on his knees.
“Hey, c’mon now, man. I thought we had a deal.”
“We do. And I’m keeping up my end of it. You weren’t the first to die, were you? On your knees.”
“Fuck you,” Kenny said.
“Yeah, fuck me,” Murton said. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.” Then he shot Kenny twice in the stomach with Whittle’s gun. Once he was down, Murton removed the cuffs, leaned in close, and said, “It’ll take a few minutes for you to bleed out. Enjoy the ride, asshole. Those were my friends you gunned down.”
Then he fired Kenny’s gun into the woods until the slide locked open, before dropping it next to him in the dirt. Next, he took Whittle’s gun, placed it in the dead man’s hands, and fired two shots into the side of the car.
With that done, he took his gloves off, put them in his pocket, and sat down in the dirt.
Virgil turned in thirty seconds later.
Epilogue
Beth Ryder’s husband, the caretaker of the cemetery, knew that a police officer’s funeral was often packed with cops from around the state, and in many instances, from jurisdictions all across the country. It wasn’t just to say goodbye to a fellow officer, but a way to honor their life and the service given to those who trust and depend upon them to protect, serve and keep them safe. It was a sight he’d witnessed twice while working for the cemetery, one he hoped never to experience again.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to because when the casket was lowered into the ground for Reserve Deputy Kenny Wolfe, there were only three people present…all of them cemetery workers, simply doing their job.
It took the state police crime scene technicians five days to get all the bodies out of the cistern. It took another three weeks to make all the identifications. Twenty-eight girls were brought up, along with Karen Whittle. Two of the girls were never identified.
The Orange County crime scene techs found three bottles of arsenic at Karen Whittle’s house.
Dick Whittle was unceremoniously re-buried.
Don and Karen Whittle were both cremated. When no one claimed their remains, the county coroner put them in the trash.
As the only living relative of Don Whittle, Sam was eventually awarded everything that remained of his father’s estate, and his siblings’ estates as well. All told, it amounted to almost four million dollars. Sam and Danni split the money twenty-six ways and had their lawyer make anonymous donations to the parents of the victims.
Ross spent two weeks in intensive care, and another week and a half in a private room at the hospital before he was released. Sarah rarely left his side. With hard work and plenty of physical therapy, the doctors told him he could be back to work in twelve to sixteen weeks.
Rosencrantz’s injuries, while severe, weren’t nearly as bad as Ross’s, and he was released after a week. He went straight to Shelby County and hobbled around on crutches with Carla Martin by his side, thus ensuring her victorious election to the office of sheriff. Once she was sworn in, she immediately hired Ed Henderson as undersheriff, who, by all accounts, was both thrilled, and relieved.
Sheriff Harper gave Virgil and Murton plenty of time to get their paperwork turned in, which everyone knew was cop-speak for ‘get your stories straight.’ They did just that, and the county prosecutor who knew a smokescreen when he smelled one, wanted no part in the matter. He handed the paperwork off to the judge, who looked at it, decided that the prosecutor was a wimp, everything was in order, and signed off on the whole thing. He happened to be eating a ham sandwich at the time, and a little spot of mustard dripped onto the form.
Once they were in the clear, Murton and Virgil drove up to Kokomo and went to the Tate residence. When they knocked on the door, John Tate, Lisa’s father, answered. “Detectives, thank you so much for what you and your men did…for my family and the others. I understand your fellow officers are going to make full recoveries.”
“They’ve got a tough road ahead,” Virgil said. “But, yes, they’re going to be all right.”
“Would you like to come in?”
Murton looked directly at John, and said, “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. This won’t take long. I wanted you to know that the sensationalized stories you read in the paper and see on the evening news regarding the deaths of Don Whittle and Kenny Wolfe aren’t entirely accurate. In truth, they’re not even factual.”
“So you did what I asked?” John said.
“I’m afraid that’s all we can say about the matter, sir,” Virgil said.
Murton turned and looked at his brother. “No, it isn’t.” Then he looked John Tate in the eye and said, “I’m sorry about your daughter. I can’t change any of that. I wish I could, except life doesn’t work that way. But know this, sir: When I make a promise like the one I made to you, I keep it. I hope you find some measure of comfort in that.”
“I do,” Tate said. “And I completely understand what you’re telling me, Detective. Thanks to you, there is a little less evil in the world today.”
Is that right? Murton said to himself.
“What was that?”
Murton looked away when he spoke. “I said, that’s right.” Then he turned and walked back to the car without another word.
Tate turned to Virgil, and said, “The day both of you came here to my house…I never should have said the things I did. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t believe a grieving father has to account for every single thing he says or does.”
“Maybe not,” Tate said. “But I put a weight on your brother that wasn’t his to bear.”
“Murton carries the weight of those around him like no one I’ve ever known. Sometimes it’s a burden I honestly feel would break any other man. Other times I think in some odd way, it’s his own badge of honor.”
Tate looked Virgil in the eye, and said, “Is he okay?”
Virgil watch
ed Murton for a moment, then turned back to Tate, and said, “No, not yet. But he will be.”
Thank you for reading State of Life. If you’re enjoying the series, then there’s good news:
Virgil and the gang will be back soon in
State of Mind
Stay tuned for further information regarding the Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller and Suspense Series.
Visit ThomasScottBooks.com for updates.
Also by Thomas Scott
The Virgil Jones Mystery 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
And the series continues.
As Mason would say, “Stay tuned…”
Updates on future Virgil Jones Novels available at:
ThomasScottBooks.com
About the Author
Thomas Scott is the author of the Virgil Jones series of novels. He lives in northern Indiana with his lovely wife, Debra, his children, and his trusty sidekicks and writing buddies, Lucy, the cat, and Buster, the dog.
You may contact Thomas anytime via his website ThomasScottBooks.com where he personally answers every single email he receives. Be sure to sign up to be notified of the latest release information.
