(2012) Officer Jones

by Derek Ciccone

  “Leonard Harris died on July 4, 1996. People sure seem to be accident prone on Independence Day.”

  “Was Benson present when Harris died?”

  “I’m a college student with access to my landlord’s computer, and a couple of data networks, not an intelligence officer.”

  “When life gives you lemons…”

  “Ask for the salt and tequila.”

  “What I really need to know is when did Benson become Jones, and is there a real Kyle Jones out there who’s had his identity stolen?”

  Christina emailed a copy of the Air Force photos to my phone. I saw why Kyle Jones would be the perfect target for Benson. They had similar looks and backgrounds. My best guess was they met in the Air Force, and Christina soon confirmed my theory.

  “Benson and Jones were together at a couple of stops along the way, and flew together in the Gulf War. Their last stop together in the military was at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona, where they were stationed for a couple of years. After being discharged, Jones became a police officer in the neighboring town of Gilbert and rented a house on Ash Street.”

  “I know all about Jones,” I said impatiently. “I need more about Benson. And is there any way to connect them besides their military service?”

  “I’m looking at some phone and electric bills from the late 90s. Guess who also lived in the house on Ash?”

  I smiled. “Benson.”

  “And they say you are washed up.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “When did they move out?”

  “Neither of them was the owner of the home, so I assume they were renting. The owner’s name was Joseph Brock, he sold the house back in 2003. The final bills from either Benson or Jones—electric, phone, cable—connected to the Ash residence was June of 1998. Coincidentally, Kyle Jones bought a house on Ocracoke Island in North Carolina later that same month.”

  “Have you found any record of Grady Benson after he moved out?”

  “He’s totally off the grid, so unless he is living Unabomber-style up in parts unknown, my guess is Benson stole Jones’ identity, and then got rid of the real Kyle Jones,” Christina said, but then thought for a moment. “Or do you think they are working in tandem?”

  I’d never thought about that possibility. Jones did seem to be everywhere, and moved with the speed of two men. But I chose to concentrate on what we did know.

  We now had visual proof that Benson was Jones, and could make a reasonable assumption that Real Jones was no longer, but had no proof of such. It was also confirmed that Benson’s parents were killed by a drunk driver, which would provide his motive. A nice start, but there were many more questions, and to answer them I would have to follow the Murray philosophy—return to the beginning of the story to figure out the ending.

  Chapter 63

  I loaded the Humvee onto the Hatteras Dock ferry for the forty-minute trip to Ocracoke. The morning looked brilliant, but out on the choppy water a brisk wind was knifing through me. The warm sunlight on my face was the lone thing keeping it bearable. I caught my reflection in the window of a neighboring vehicle, and I barely recognized myself—I looked like I hadn’t slept in a month. But there was no time to rest until I got to Gwen.

  I tried to reach her again and was surprised that she answered this time. I’d become so used to getting the voice-mail that it caught me off guard.

  “Where have you been? Didn’t you get my messages?”

  “Hello to you, too. Yes, I got all fifty of them. But yesterday was Sunday, JP. I know you wouldn’t know anything about this, since you worked for GNZ, where the assistants have assistants, but I’m the whole show at the Gazette. I write it, edit it, and on Sunday’s I deliver it.”

  “I was worried about you, so sue me. You said you’d call me back when I talked to you Saturday night. I hadn’t heard from you in thirty-six hours. And what the hell were you thinking going out on the lake with that monster!?”

  “I couldn’t talk, JP. I was in the middle of getting proposed to.”

  Stephen Dubois appeared in my head, mocking me. My stomach sank. That, or it was just seasickness. Either way, I suddenly didn’t feel well.

  “Did you accept?” I tried to mask my feelings with a joke.

  I’m sure she was tempted to tell me she had, but I think she felt the urgency in my voice. “I told him I wasn’t ready and he didn’t take it well. He got all bent out of shape and we returned to Rockfield that night. Haven’t heard from him since.”

  “I’m not sure you need to follow Jones anymore. I figured out who he is, and his motivation. The next step is to find evidence to put him away.”

  “Are you going to let me in on this or are you going to try to out scoop me, as usual?”

  She obviously hadn’t checked the latest mark on my personal growth chart. “I can’t go into the details right now. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back to Rockfield. In the meantime, research a man named Grady Benson. Be sure to take a look at his Air Force photo, I’ll email it to you.”

  “Have you left Charleston yet?”

  “I’m in Ocracoke to pick up Carter. We should be home early tomorrow.”

  Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or that I never think straight when I’m talking to Gwen. But it wasn’t until I heard the deathly silence from her end that I knew I made a major oops.

  “What is Carter doing in Ocracoke?” she finally asked.

  I got the feeling that she had a pretty good idea what the answer was. Just because she had the evidence didn’t mean she didn’t want to hear a confession.

  “Well … um … well…”

  “I thought we were going to trust each other … like partners. I can’t believe you sent your bodyguard to spy on me!”

  “The only person who can’t be trusted is Jones.”

  “You’re the one with trust issues, JP!”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “The only person you were worried about was yourself.”

  Click.

  I couldn’t help but to smile. Not only was I relieved that she was safe, but it was nice to know I could still get under her skin after all these years.

  The ferry arrived on Ocracoke exactly forty minutes after it left the Hatteras dock. I then drove the Humvee onto the sandy roads of NC-12—my injured leg throbbed with pain and I felt a little naked without my cane. The initial adrenaline of the Grady Benson discovery had worn off and I now stood at the crossroads where hope and reality collided.

  I used the lighthouse to guide me to the village. That’s where most of the island life resided, so I was sure I’d find Carter there. He was genetically programmed to search out a crowd.

  I searched bars, restaurants, stores, and beaches—no sign of him.

  I continued to search in vain for hours, before deciding to go right to the source—Jones/Benson’s house on the island. I called Christina and followed her directions to a remote sandy road on the north shore of Silver Lake.

  Just like the owner, the house was unremarkable. A weathered structure balancing on wooden stilts. A red pickup truck with an attached sailboat was parked underneath. I decided to go the breaking-and-entering route once again.

  I studied the house, noticing an open window on the second floor. I was in no condition to scale a wall, but gritted my teeth and managed to use crevices in the exterior to climb to the window, wincing the entire way.

  Once inside, I began searching each room, emptying drawers one by one, and investigating every nook and cranny. The place was clean. No Carter. Nothing incriminating. Then I almost jumped out of my skin, startled by the ringing of my cell. It was Gwen, and her tone had completely changed.

  “JP, I just received an anonymous letter from someone who claims to have Carter, and says if we don’t back off he will be killed.”

  I racked my brain. I ruled out almost all of our many enemies, including Az Zahir and his buddies. There was only one true suspect
.

  “It’s got to be Jones,” I said.

  “You mean Grady Benson?”

  “I see you got my email.”

  “I have the photo on my laptop right now,” she said, her voice quivering. “But if Carter was in Ocracoke like you say, and I was with Kyle … I mean Grady, the whole time. Then who…”

  I continued to stand in the master bedroom, suddenly feeling a little paranoid. “Was there any point during the day that you were not with him?”

  “There was only about a ten minute period when we were changing to go out on the boat. I found it strange it took so long after he was so eager to launch the boat before dark. I got the feeling that he was hiding something in his bedroom.”

  “I’m in there right now,” I said. I could tell Gwen was surprised I’d broken in. I don’t know why, she’d known me since we were five.

  I searched the entire room again, including under the bed and in the closet, finding nothing. If Grady Benson was smart enough to maintain an alternate identity all these years, he surely wasn’t stupid enough to leave a trail at any of his homes. What was clear, was that I needed to return to Rockfield—I knew that was where the next battle was to take place.

  But before leaving, I decided that if Benson was sending messages, it wouldn’t be polite not to return the favor. I tossed all his clothing on the floor and threw a chair through the sliding glass door. I departed through the gaping hole and down the front steps.

  It made me feel good. I finally realized it’s better to get things out into the open. Keeping things inside just builds resentment and hard feelings.

  Chapter 64

  I drove to the airfield, where I was told no flights were available. When I offered a pilot a couple of grand for a trip, with my vehicle to be used as collateral, suddenly a flight opened up. Funny how that works.

  Two hours later I arrived at Oxford Airport, a small, private airport near Rockfield. Gwen greeted me with a long hug that surprised me. When we finally pulled away from the embrace, she capped off the intimate moment by letting me know that I didn’t smell good. She had a point—I hadn’t changed clothes or showered since Friday morning.

  As we walked toward her van, I breathed in the cool air of New England autumn. A sharp contrast from the mild Carolina temperatures.

  “Where is your cane?” she asked

  “I decided I didn’t need it anymore, so I gave it to Byron.”

  “Did your doctor also decide that?”

  My silence answered her question, and she shook her head as if I was a lost cause.

  Once in the van, Gwen handed me the typed letter. It didn’t shed any new light on the situation.

  “Do you think Benson knows we’re onto him? Because if he did—then why let me return? Why not push me over the side of the boat and claim an accident?”

  I think I started having stroke-like symptoms. What if she hadn’t answered my call? I couldn’t go there right now, so I put forth a different theory, “Perhaps he isn’t sure about our involvement and is trying to test us by seeing how we react to the letter.”

  Her crinkled face said she wasn’t buying it. And she was right. Benson knew by going after Carter he was going nuclear. This move was not meant to be subtle. We were getting too close and he was the first to blink.

  I was never short on theories. “He’s sending a message, but think back to Casey Leeds and the fires, where he covered his tracks with an alibi. Perhaps he’s doing the same thing here. So he can lure us, eliminate us both, and nobody could connect him to taking Carter.”

  “I still don’t know how he was able to do it. Do you think he has a partner?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. I hadn’t thought about the partner angle until Christina brought it up. I was quick to dismiss it at the time, but with the current situation I felt it required further review.

  But I ruled it out again. “He’s working alone.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Ever hear of the fable of the Fox and the Hedgehog?”

  “I think you’re forgetting that any class you passed in school was with my help.”

  “Then I’m sure you remember that the Greek poet Archilochus used the fox and hedgehog as a metaphor to support his belief that human beings are categorized into two types. The hedgehog is symbolic of those who have one central vision of reality. Their existence is completely shaped by that vision.”

  “And a fox has a sense that reality is too complex to try fit it into one central vision. What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Benson is a hedgehog. His central vision is that it’s his destiny to eradicate the ills of drunk driving—he has a messianic view of himself. And most people I’ve met with such a divine sense of their work, tend not to like to share the credit. No partner.”

  “Then where do you think the real Kyle Jones is?”

  My look turned grim.

  “I thought so, too,” she replied in a soft voice.

  Our destination was the small building on Main Street that housed the Rockfield Gazette. The only employee present on the late Monday afternoon was Murray. As usual, he was typing away on his 1950s black typewriter, writing his weekly editorial.

  Murray was all business, and didn’t spare anything beyond a pleasant greeting. Gwen and I went to her office—a desk adjacent to the one where Murray typed away. This was not the New York Globe by any stretch of the imagination. She moved to a dry erase board tacked to the wall behind her desk and began scribbling. We were the foxes, filled with complex questions, but not a lot of definite answers.

  As if our mentor was sending subliminal reminders from across the room, we first went back to the beginning to try to decipher the ending. To the best of our knowledge, it began when a drunk driver killed Grady Benson’s parents in 1989. We didn’t have the name of the driver, due to state laws protecting juveniles, but we researched suspicious deaths in the Redmond, Washington area on Benson’s preferred holiday for killing. One that caught my interest occurred on July 4, 1991, when a Phillip Tompkins mowed down five college students at a cul-de-sac party, in what was thought to be an accident. All victims were reportedly acquaintances, and all were intoxicated at the time of the accident. But what most interested me was that they all would have been juveniles when Benson’s parents were killed.

  But we had no evidence that linked Benson. In fact, we had no real connection between him and any suspicious death until July 4, 1996, when Leonard Harris drowned at Lake Havasu. And the only link was that he was there, as were a hundred others. Not exactly incriminating evidence.

  We were confident that Benson killed the real Kyle Jones around May of 1998. The next month, Benson bought the beach house in Ocracoke using Jones’ identity. But then our trail went dry until he arrived in Rockfield.

  Gwen studied the board. “Okay, let’s leave Real Jones out of it for now. The common thread is that all were involved in alcohol related incidents, resulting in death, and in each case the perpetrator received a light sentence.”

  She thought for a second, and then added, “He seems to have a thing for July 4, the anniversary of his parents’ accident. But Noah’s murder throws a wrench into that theory.”

  “It was an anniversary though—it was two years to the day of the accident.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “But we can’t tie any of these killings to Benson, because we can’t even prove that any of them were murders. Leonard Harris’ death was listed as accidental. Noah committed suicide, and the police shot Leeds. And there was no foul play suspected in the Phillip Tompkins accident.”

  Gwen looked equally frustrated. Our earlier hopefulness now seemed premature. The most we had on the guy was identity theft.

  Murray finished his typing and started for the door. “Good night, fellow journalists.”

  We came up for air to wish him a pleasant evening. He mentioned that he was in a hurry, hoping not to be late for his great-granddaughter’s dance recital.

  Murray did have one piece o
f advice for us, “If you don’t mind my butting in, I think you need to answer why he came to Rockfield. His killings are symbolic, so there must be a symbol here. The alcohol related incidents of Noah and Casey Leeds occurred after his arrival, so they couldn’t be the reason he graced us with his presence. And while they are both tragic, neither case seems to fulfill his visions of grandeur. He strikes me as a big game hunter, and there must be a very large critter in Rockfield that he wants to hang over his mantle.

  “But once you decipher his reason for coming, don’t get stuck trying to understand his past. You can’t bring Noah or anyone else back, but you can stop the next one. Too many dwell on the past, and they get stuck there. Always look toward the future, my fellow journalists.”

  With that pearl of wisdom, Murray smiled, placed his fedora on his head, and left for the evening.

  Gwen and I looked at each other. He could have just as easily been talking about our relationship. Maybe he was.

  When the door closed behind him, Gwen looked at me strangely and asked, “What are you smiling at?”

  “He called me a journalist.”

  “He’s getting old. Sometimes he gets confused.”

  I kept smiling as I glanced at my watch. “I better go. I have an early start tomorrow.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m flying to Arizona. I plan to talk to the police chief in Gilbert, along with anyone who might have been on that boat the night Leonard Harris died. Then I’m going to Seattle to find out about Benson’s parents, and see if it’s connected to this Phillip Tompkins accident.”

  I was surprised she didn’t declare that she was coming with me. I kind of hoped she would. To keep her safe, of course. “I will trail Benson while you’re gone. My guess is that he’ll lead me to Carter,” she replied, catching me off guard.

  “Oh no you don’t. Do you know how dangerous that is, Gwen?”