[Jess Kimball 01.0 - 02.0] Fatal Starts

by Diane Capri

  “I don’t believe Vivian has that kind of meanness in her heart. God knows, I’ve been wrong about almost everything in this case. But revealing that Taylor didn’t kill their boy after Taylor died will hurt Marilyn and Matthew Crawford because they will feel, as you and I both do, that they helped to kill the wrong man. That’s hard to live with, Helen. I don’t think Vivian would put that burden on her friends without a damned good reason. Especially if she knew Arnold had killed Mattie. Why wouldn’t she simply go to her grave without revealing the evidence that proved her husband a killer? Arnold was already dead before she told me any of this, remember.” The logic seemed flawless to Jess, even if she couldn’t prove any of it. Yet.

  Helen nodded, but didn’t affirm Jess’s thinking. Helen’s silence emboldened the younger woman to continue her persuasion. “Mattie’s killer is still out there, Helen. I feel it. You do, too. If you didn’t we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Let’s say you’re right about everything. You’ve got some sort of plan in mind, don’t you? What is it?”

  Jess laid out her early morning plotting. Assuming something horrible hadn’t happened to Vivian before Tommy Taylor’s funeral this afternoon, she would definitely attend, and Jess would be there before Vivian arrived. She planned to approach Vivian and persuade her to tell her the truth.

  “I know she’ll tell me. That’s why she gave me the evidence. She wants me to know.”

  Helen sighed again. “And then what?”

  Jess bridled at the patronizing tone that she felt more than heard in Helen’s words. “I could shoot him myself if you like. I’m perfectly willing to do that.”

  Helen seemed startled at first. Then she laughed. “Oh, Jess,” she said. “You remind me so much of myself sometimes it’s scary.” She strode back to her desk and sat down, all business. She picked up the receiver and punched a couple of buttons. “Frank, can you come in please?” She replaced the receiver and looked up at Jess, a small smile on her lips. “Let’s let the lawmen do the heavy lifting, okay?”

  Jess grinned, too, realizing that Helen had rather skillfully led her to a much more rational solution. “Fine by me.”

  They spent the next twenty minutes with Frank Temple outlining the plan they would use to locate Vivian Ward, question her, and bring her into protective custody until they found Matthew Crawford’s killer. Jess felt much better about their plan than the one she’d come up with earlier. But she hadn’t been kidding when she told Helen she’d be happy to shoot the bastard. Nor was the threat an idle one.

  Before she awakened Mike and headed out to the Taylor funeral, Jess took a few moments to relocate her .38 hidden in the back of the SUV, placing it where she could grab it quickly if the need arose. She had a strong feeling that it might.

  35

  Dentonville, Florida

  Sunday 10:30 a.m.

  Ben walked into Tommy Taylor’s funeral feeling deep satisfaction. Funeral ceremonies reminded him of his younger self, the innocent who’d attended so many funerals as a boy. Often, he would wake up on a bleak, snowy morning warmed by the soothing organ music wafting up from the funeral chapel on the first floor of his parents’ home. His mother’s work in the kitchen of their upstairs living quarters sent pleasant breakfast aromas his way. Back then, he’d felt like a beloved only child, cherished by parents who served their community with compassionate caring whenever their neighbors were grief-stricken. That feeling of safety and caring at funerals had lingered long after he’d left childhood and bleak landscapes behind.

  Ben straightened his tie and smoothed his black jacket, buttoning the center closure as he walked toward Tommy’s mother. He had helped Tommy Taylor’s mother Sarah through two decades of her son’s torturous escapades. Since he’d first met Tommy all those years ago, today was the only time Ben Fleming could recall that Tommy wasn’t in trouble or causing trouble.

  Impression management and corpse preparation was the essence of the funeral director’s art. Tommy, Ben could see, was laid out in a burnished mahogany casket at the front of the funeral home’s largest chapel. The open casket revealed a face at peace, perhaps for the first time in his life. His eyes were closed, his mouth relaxed. He wore a navy blue suit with a white shirt and red tie. His hands were crossed at his waist, the left resting over the right. Tommy looked perfect, Ben thought, exactly as he should look for his final appearance.

  Sarah Taylor stood at the head of the open casket, accepting condolences alone. Her husband had died six years before. Ben always believed he’d died of a spirit broken by his only son’s intractable violence. The parents had tried everything to manage their son, but they’d failed. Ben admired Sarah’s resilience in the face of all Tommy had done and found her nothing short of remarkable.

  Ben moved to the head of the small line of mourners who had arrived early to support Sarah. Her face brightened when she noticed him. He reached out to her with his left arm and hugged her.

  “Hello, Sarah, dear. How are you holding up?” He asked, in his most solemn and supportive tone. Closer, he noticed her red-rimmed eyes and knew she’d been crying, as she always seemed to be when involved with her only son.

  “God is taking care of me, Ben, you know that. I’ll be fine,” she said. Indeed, she’d told Ben many times that her faith sustained her, but Ben didn’t understand a faith that strong when all of her earthly experience with Tommy proved so destructive. Beyond that, Ben knew God had nothing to do with Tommy’s funeral today. Without Ben’s efforts, Tommy’s execution would never have happened. Ben was glad he could help Sarah when her God had failed.

  “I’m glad for that, Sarah,” he said. At this point, there was nothing to be gained by thinking about how many children Tommy had tortured and killed. No one knew for sure, anyway. At least four. Probably more. “Did you get any sleep last night? You look tired.”

  Another weak smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep after today.”

  “Would you like me to stand here with you for a while?”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  He moved off to her right side and kept his arm around her shoulders as the mourners passed by. Ben’s father had taught him that to spend time in homage to the mortal remains that lay before Sarah and to mourn what she really loved is the first step to healing.

  After a few moments, Ben’s mind wandered back to Tommy Taylor’s life. Tommy was twenty-eight years old when he was arrested for Mattie Crawford’s murder. At least ten years of opportunity to kill, if he began killing at eighteen. Ben’s experience was that serial killers with a perverted sexual bent like Tommy often started killing for sexual release in late adolescence.

  However when a killer’s motives were not sexual, the time of murder’s onset varied and was often tied to a triggering event. Sometimes an obscure triggering event, he knew.

  Ben stifled his tendency toward reflection at funerals. He had work to do. Essential work. He turned his attention to the mourners, seeking Vivian Ward or, if she weren’t present, either of Mattie Crawford’s parents, because Marilyn had been with Vivian when she made her surprise call to him last night.

  His gaze scanned the smallish crowd. The funeral was scheduled for one o’clock with early viewing for family and friends. People trickled in through the front door. Later, victims’ families would arrive. Not only that, but Tommy’s death by execution also attracted the usual batch of vultures like crusaders and media and curiosity seekers, all of whom would arrive soon if they weren’t already here. The chaos could serve or hinder his mission. He’d made several contingency plans.

  Ben gave Sarah’s shoulder one last squeeze. He’d stood here long enough to be seen by several witnesses, so he leaned toward her and excused himself. There would be plenty of time to work with Sarah in the days ahead.

  A guest book lay open on a bookstand at the entrance to the viewing room. Ben walked over and flipped through the pages. He saw many names he recognized, pe
ople from Sarah Taylor’s community. It was a blessing that Sarah had received so much support from her friends and neighbors. Some people had appropriately blamed the Taylors for their son’s crimes. Others offered misplaced compassion for what they assumed was the unjustified horror Tommy’s parents had suffered. The balance appealed to Ben, who appreciated the value of contrast.

  Ben’s experience was that parents were rarely as innocent as they wanted to believe themselves. But no one deserved to suffer forever, either. Both Tommy and his parents had suffered too long. At last, the ordeal was over for them all. Sarah was the only survivor. With Tommy’s funeral, she could get on with her purpose in life. Ben had worked with her extensively. With his help, over a period of years, she’d moved from guilt to grief to gratitude. He knew she was ready.

  The guest book did not contain the signatures of the Crawfords or Vivian Ward. Neither had arrived yet. Good. He stood off to the side of the front entrance and waited, appreciating the time he’d been given to work through his plan to kill Vivian before she revealed what she thought she knew.

  The old dear was suffering from dementia of some sort, he would explain to anyone whom she might have told already. He’d revised his treatment notes for his sessions with her and backdated several entries to reflect her growing mental incapacity. With luck, he wouldn’t need to explain anything, but if he was required to do so, he was ready.

  Before either of his targets arrived, a white SUV pulled up out front. He’d seen the vehicle before. Parked at Helen Sullivan’s ranch last night. The driver was that young photographer, Mike something. His heart beat a little faster when he recognized the passenger, Jess Kimball.

  Ben had expected her because she’d been at the execution. He’d researched her on the Internet once he’d learned who she was. He knew she was writing a story in support of Tommy Taylor’s victims and was therefore harmless. But he’d also seen Jess speaking with Vivian Ward after Tommy’s execution. At the time, he hadn’t worried about Vivian at all, and it was unlikely she’d told Jess Kimball anything problematic then. But given what Vivian had said to him on the phone last night, Ben could not allow the journalist another conference with Vivian before he’d had his chance to silence her permanently. How would he manage that?

  Another car pulled into the parking lot that he recognized shortly after Jess Kimball containing two of Frank Temple’s team. What were their names? He couldn’t remember. But more importantly, why were they here?

  Ben’s brow began to sweat, and he smelled the faint odor of last night’s Scotch. Since Vivian’s call, he’d had precious little sleep and drunk several entire pots of coffee, but he’d been unable to eat the hearty breakfast he normally rewarded himself with before a funeral. Seeing Jess Kimball and Frank Temple’s men made his stomach feel queasier. How should he handle this?

  The decision was made for him moments later when Providence rewarded him once again. The Crawfords’ car drove past the front entrance and moved around to the back and he could plainly identify the occupants of the vehicle: Matthew and Marilyn Crawford in the front seat. And Vivian Ward alone in the back seat. He hesitated briefly. First things first, he reminded himself under his breath. He moved with purpose toward Vivian.

  By the time he’d reached the rear entrance, the Crawfords had parked in the processional line behind the limousine that would carry Sarah Taylor to her son’s final resting place. Matthew and Marilyn had already exited the car and removed Vivian’s wheelchair from the trunk.

  Ben wiped the sweat from his brow with one of the tissues he kept in his pocket for mourners at funerals. He’d never needed those tissues before. The small reminder of his situation irritated him disproportionately.

  He adjusted his jacket, and said, “Good morning,” in a voice loud enough to draw their attention. The Crawfords’ open, grateful expressions revealed everything he needed to know. Vivian had not told them. Not yet.

  Ben moved toward the car. He spent a few moments comforting Matthew and Marilyn before saying, “You two go on inside. I’ll help Vivian into the viewing room.”

  “Are you sure? It’s a bit of a struggle to get the oxygen and everything,” Matthew said.

  “We need a few moments alone, Matt,” Ben told him, conveying sympathy for both the Crawfords and Vivian in his tone. “You understand.”

  Marilyn put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Come on, honey. Let’s give Ben and Vivian some privacy.” She glanced at Ben and said, “We’ll see you inside.”

  He watched Matthew and Marilyn make their way into the building before he turned to deal with Vivian. He opened the car’s door. “Good morning, dear. Did you have a good night? I was so worried about you. You didn’t sound well at all when we spoke.”

  Vivian smiled up at him as he lifted her from the back seat and placed her in the wheelchair. She weighed almost nothing, it seemed. He’d done this sort of service for frail people many times. He settled her into the chair, then reached farther into the car for her oxygen tank.

  After placing the tank on the platform on the back of the chair, he moved around to check on her again. “Okay?” She nodded, unable to speak for the moment. The slightest bit of exertion literally took her breath away. “Let me check the flow of your oxygen, dear. You may not be getting enough.”

  Ben looked at the regulator on the oxygen tank. It was properly set to flow at a rate of two liters per minute. He turned the dial, increasing the flow to ten liters per minute.

  “There,” he told her. “That should do it.” He glanced at his watch. If his estimates were correct, Vivian should slip into a coma in ten minutes or so. If he kept the oxygen flow so elevated for twenty minutes, she’d be dead. He needed to get her inside before that happened.

  But first, he slipped down to talk with her. Perhaps he’d been mistaken about what she’d said last night. He’d been tired and more than a little tipsy. He could have misheard her. Of course, it probably didn’t matter all that much. Vivian didn’t have a lot to live for anyway.

  Still, it would be nice if she had a few more weeks to enjoy her victory over Tommy Taylor, and to feel her gratitude for that gift. Gratitude made people happy, Ben knew. Vivian deserved some happiness before she died. And he needed to kill a bit of time before they went inside, too. Give her a chance to breathe a bit more oxygen into her damaged lungs.

  “Vivian, dear, how are you feeling today?”

  She took a few short, shallow breaths in through her nose and puffed them out of her lips before she was able to say, “Fine.” She put her bony grip on his arm and he barely felt it through his suit coat. More breaths and puffs. Then, “Ben?”

  “Yes, dear,” he said, still kneeling in front of her chair.

  Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Puff, “Thank you.” Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Puff, “Tell Mari—” inhale. Puff, “—lyn.”

  He waited a while longer, but she was never able to say more. Ben was feeling better by the minute. If Vivian hadn’t told anyone anything yet, she would never be able to do so now.

  “I understand, dear. You’re welcome. Let’s go inside, okay?” She closed her eyes slowly by way of response. “Here we go,” he said, as he pushed the wheelchair up the ramp and into the building. He didn’t hurry.

  Once in the chapel, he and Vivian wheeled to the front to view Tommy Taylor in his casket. He didn’t want to deny Vivian the final pleasure of seeing her sons’ killer one last time. He kept up a monologue of soothing chatter to prevent her from speaking until they reached Sarah Taylor.

  In full view of the mourners, Vivian and Sarah exchanged a few words of farewell and forgiveness. Sarah did almost all of the talking, but Vivian responded to her breathlessly once or twice, saying “yes” in response to Sarah’s questions. Sarah could testify that Vivian was alive when Ben brought her into the room, if the need arose.

  Ben checked his watch. It had been fifteen minutes, but he gave it a few more seconds just to be sure. Then he surreptitiously dropped the wet tissue from his ha
nd and started to bend down to retrieve it. On the way up, he’d planned to return the dial on the oxygen tank to deliver two liters per minute for the remainder of Vivian’s short life.

  But the mourner behind him interrupted. “Oh, let me get it,” the man said. “You’ve got your hands full there.”

  It would have seemed odd to object, so Ben said, “Thank you,” noticing that his brow had begun to perspire again. “Sarah, let me get Vivian settled. Other folks are wanting to offer their condolences to you. I’ll be back in a little while, okay?”

  Sarah nodded, dabbing at her eyes with a soaked tissue. Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh one for her. As he placed it in her hand, he took the damp one away and stuffed it into another pocket, planning to drop it and do the retrieval in a minute or so.

  “Thank you for coming, Vivian,” Sarah said. “It means a great deal to me to know that you don’t blame me for what Tommy did.”

  Vivian’s eyelids blinked twice and she took a breath that lifted her chest enough to puff out her response, a silent attempt at words that would be her last.

  As Ben wheeled Vivian into the chapel and placed her wheelchair at the end of the row of chairs next to the Crawfords, he resisted the urge to smile. But before he’d managed to drop the second tissue and reset the oxygen regulator, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  He turned to find Jess Kimball standing slightly behind him, in his blind spot. “Excuse me, Ben, but I need to talk to Vivian, if you don’t mind.”

  He felt sweat from his brow drip down into his eyes and he blinked much as Vivian had, but from a different cause. It had been more than fifteen minutes. Vivian should be sleeping her last sleep now, or shortly. He needed to stall Jess as long as he could. Several possible lines of inquiry passed through his pounding hangover. Finally, he hit on one that might work.