(2012) Officer Jones

by Derek Ciccone

  He secured the residence, in case of looters, or JP Warner, whom he was convinced was responsible for the previous damage. He then left the island. But before heading back to Connecticut, he decided that he needed to make a stop in Raleigh.

  On the ferry ride back to Cape Hatteras, he threw Gwen’s cell phone as far as he could and watched it plop into the turbulent waters.

  _______________________________________________________

  Part Six -

  Bridging the Gap

  _____________________________________

  Chapter 74

  Cape Hatteras, North Carolina

  October 6—present

  The minute Gwen’s phone went dead I made a beeline to North Carolina. No flights were landing in the area, so I had to fly to Norfolk, Virginia and drive. The irony didn’t escape me that it was the same city I landed in on my return from Germany, convinced that my life was about to take a turn for the better, or at least would be calmer.

  My calls to the authorities went nowhere—the local police in the Outer Banks were too busy with hurricane evacuation, while the FBI has a standing policy against taking my calls. I did get in touch with the state police, but they hung up on me after I started talking crazy stuff about stolen identities, kidnapped wrestlers, and vigilante killers.

  I rented an SUV with four-wheel drive that seemed like my best bet with the looming hurricane. But what I really needed was my Humvee, which was still docked at the Ocracoke Air Field as a security deposit on my last trip home. At least I hoped it was still there.

  The hurricane evacuation had turned the road heading out of town into a virtual parking lot. But working in my favor was that I was the only moron heading toward the storm, so traffic was clear my way. I took US-158 and then crossed over the Wright Memorial Bridge into Kitty Hawk. I wound through the center of Roanoke Island until I reached Whalebone Junction in Nags Head.

  When I reached Hatteras, I received some bad news—no more ferries were traveling to the island. I was left to face the reality that the only way to reach the island was a twenty-mile swim. I actually thought about it for a moment, before realizing I couldn’t even walk five miles in perfect weather in my condition. I retreated to Sloopy Joe’s in need of a new plan … and a drink.

  The only person present was Joe himself, and since I was his lone customer, I received the VIP service. Joe was a slim older man with a matter of fact style that was softened by his gentlemanly, southern charm. As I nursed a Killian’s Red, the past few months suddenly rose up like a tidal wave. Gwen and Carter were likely captured by Benson, my brother was dead, and another loyal friend was paralyzed. And I was no closer to stopping Benson. I’d never felt so helpless in my life.

  Probably feeling sorry for me, Joe brought another beer for his only customer, on the house. My only other request was if he would change the Weather Channel to the news. I was hoping to hear some good news on the Gwen and Carter front, but the reality was that they hadn’t even been reported missing and nobody was actively searching for them. But I clung to my delusion.

  Joe obliged, clicking the remote until he landed on GNZ. Close enough.

  Lauren Bowden appeared on the screen and I instantly regretted my request. I was about to ask Joe to change to some other form of newsertainment when Lauren announced, “GNZ was the first to report to you earlier this morning that there has been a break in the murder case of Senator Craig Kingsbury.”

  This was news to me. And seemed to grab Joe’s attention also because he raised the volume.

  “Ron Culver, a member of the North Carolina State Police, committed suicide last night in his Raleigh apartment, leaving behind a note in which he confessed to the murder of Senator Kingsbury. Culver was originally ruled out as a suspect, but the speculation now is that the Kingsbury family had provided an alibi for Culver. According to GNZ sources, they created the alibi to avoid potentially embarrassing facts coming out about the relationship between Culver and Senator Kingsbury, which might have hurt him in the upcoming election. The suicide note cited the romantic relationship between the two, and how Culver’s jealousy drove him to the crime.”

  Lauren continued on, “As many of you know, Lamar Thompson has been an exclusive guest of GNZ many times during this fascinating investigation … and Mr. Thompson joins us again.”

  Lamar appeared on a split screen from his current residence in Kitty Hawk. He looked very much like the man I remembered from twenty years ago, but his face was scarred with the lines of a hard life. The ones I could spot when I looked into the mirror.

  “Lady, can we hurry this up—I got to get back to my job.”

  Lauren faked a smile. “We at GNZ are thrilled to hear you are now employed and making a useful contribution to society. Can you tell our audience what you now do for a living, Mr. Thompson?”

  I took a swig of my beer, unable to decide if she was more condescending or patronizing.

  “I’m a tour guide at the Wright Brother Museum here in Kitty Hawk. But I ain’t gonna have no job for long if I don’t get back to it! Can we get on with this?”

  Lauren smiled again. She would’ve had the same reaction if he said he was the head of an international terrorist organization. “Mr. Thompson, with the admission by Ron Culver that he murdered Senator Kingsbury, do you feel vindicated?”

  Lamar’s face creased with anger. “Vindicated for what? The reason I came on here in the first place was to set the record straight that Craig Kingsbury was the one driving the car that night when we hit Mrs. Lacey.”

  “But it must be a relief not to be a suspect anymore?”

  “I was never a suspect.”

  “Maybe not in a court of law, but I think in the all-important court of public opinion you were,” Lauren retorted, followed by another dimwitted smile.

  His already short patience had run out. “We’ve already been over this—I had an alibi that day. Nobody in their right mind thought I was a suspect. And as for this court of public opinion, nobody sees me nothin’ more than a washed-up druggie who never lived up to his potential. Way I see it, I got nowhere to go but up.”

  “So you’re sticking to your story that Senator Kingsbury was the unidentified juvenile in the car that night?”

  “For the last time—Kingsbury wasn’t listed in the police report! They kept him out of it. Brad was dead, so they used the juvie kid to testify against me. It was my word against his.”

  “I am not that easily fooled, Mr. Thompson. GNZ has secured the police report you speak of, and the unidentified person in the car was referred to as ‘Weasel Suit’ to protect his identity. I know that the Secret Service gives code names to presidents, and candidates for the office. For example, Ronald Reagan was codenamed Rawhide, while Bill Clinton was Eagle. So the fact that the unidentified passenger was being protected by a similar code leads me to believe it was indeed Senator Kingsbury.”

  Lamar shook his head, exasperated. “He wasn’t a candidate twenty years ago. Weasel Suit was just a stupid nickname we used for the kid—Brad Lynch was a big wrestling fan, so he gave us all names based on his favorite wrestlers. Brad was the Mouth of the South because he never shut up, and I was Andre the Giant, since I was so tall.”

  “If that’s the case, what was Weasel Suit’s real name?”

  “The lawyers told me I couldn’t bring up his name or they’d sue my ass. I don’t got much, but I don’t wanna lose what I got.”

  “That’s very convenient, Mr. Thompson.”

  “Believe whatever you want, lady … I need to get back to work!”

  Lauren then used her savvy interview skills to segue to the next topic. “As reported first by GNZ, sources tell us the murder of Senator Kingsbury may have been motivated by a homosexual love triangle that included the accused, Ron Culver. Would you still vote for Senator Kingsbury if he was found to be gay?”

  Lamar looked around like he was trying to see if he was on Candid Camera. “First of all, I can’t vote because thanks to the lies of K
ingsbury family, I’m a convicted felon. But the biggest reason I wouldn’t vote for him … is he’s dead!”

  Lauren regained her look of superiority. “I hate to disagree, Mr. Thompson, but our latest GNZ Internet poll contradicts you. 72% of those polled said they would still vote for Senator Kingsbury even if he were gay.”

  Lamar ripped his microphone off and stormed off camera. I really liked this guy. The camera panned back to Lauren who didn’t seem affected by the early departure.

  Joe shook his head. “She sure ain’t the brightest bulb in the bunch. I’m sure there’s a guy out there somewhere she’s making miserable.”

  Not anymore, I thought, before turning my attention back to the television.

  “If you are just joining us…” Lauren flashed her most serious look into the camera. “There has been a thrilling conclusion this morning in the murder of former North Carolina Senator, Craig Kingsbury. His alleged lover, Ron Culver, admitted to the crime in a guilt-filled suicide note. Sources within the state police have confirmed that Culver was in charge of an undercover security escort for the Kingsburys that night. The case has taken many twist and turns, but has remained unsolved since it occurred on July 4 of this year.”

  For once I was focused on something Lauren said.

  Fourth of July.

  Chapter 75

  I had to get to Lamar Thompson.

  The northward evacuation traffic was as bad as the weather and it took over two hours to get to Kitty Hawk, which according to Joe, was normally a twenty-minute drive.

  Kitty Hawk looked much like the other Outer Banks villages I’d passed. Endless rental homes, clapboard cottages and fishing boats. The museum stood on the grounds of the Wright Brothers National Memorial.

  Lamar was dressed in a beige park-ranger-type uniform and he was hunched over with bad posture that made him appear shorter than he was. His head was shaved bald and he walked with a limp. Besides myself, the only other folks taking the tour were a senior citizen couple who must not have had access to a weather report.

  Lamar appeared a little nervous, and spoke mechanically on the tour. But the charisma I remembered from years ago would occasionally appear. And as a bonus, I learned more about the Wright Brothers, Orville and Wilbur, and their first flight than I ever thought possible.

  Following the tour, I introduced myself to Lamar, and informed him that I had a few questions for him. He didn’t look happy to see me.

  “I’m done with all you reporters. That crazy blonde lady told me she’d pay me five hundred bucks to come on, and how much of that do you think I’ve seen? It was supposed to be one time, then it was until they solve the case … I’m sure it’ll be something else now!” He limped away as fast as he could.

  It didn’t surprise me that Lauren would offer money for interviews—a definite no-no. Or at least it used to be.

  When I caught up to him, I pleaded, “Lamar, I don’t work for GNZ anymore. I don’t want to do a story with you, I just have a few questions.”

  “I don’t got time for this, man. I gotta get home to see if I still got one.”

  “I’ll buy you dinner,” I desperately offered.

  Thompson stopped. When you spend your teenage years being the most highly recruited high school basketball player in the country you get used to free stuff. He looked nostalgic … and hungry. I could tell he was up for a free dinner; I guessed it had been a while.

  We didn’t go to a fancy restaurant, rather, the coffee shop in the museum. Thompson splurged with an order of roasted chicken and a cheeseburger on the side. He ate like he hadn’t eaten in a month.

  “So how’s the new job going?” I asked.

  “You saw me out there, what you think?” he replied, and flashed the smile that was once splashed on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

  “I thought you were good,” I answered as I bit into my greasy Salisbury steak sandwich. I was pretty hungry myself. “I learned a lot about the Wright Brothers.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, an airplane is the only way a couple of white boys like Orville and Wilba could get off the ground.”

  I laughed back, finding his straightforwardness refreshing. We had a lot in common—two limping guys who wanted the truth … and to avoid Lauren Bowden at all costs.

  “Lamar, you mentioned that the Kingsbury family lied during your trial. I also believe that a deal was cut with the judge in the case.”

  He looked relieved that someone finally believed him. “The not-so-Honorable Raymond Buford. I’ll never forget that sumbitch as long as I live.”

  The thing was, Buford and the others who knew about the cover-up didn’t live that long. And I was convinced that this was because Benson got to the judge, and got him to spill the beans, probably while he was begging for his life on that hook.

  “I need to know the name of the kid you called Weasel Suit. The one who got paid by the Kingsburys to lie on the stand. It’s very important, Lamar.” I was sure I knew who it was, but needed confirmation.

  “Like I told the blonde lady, the lawyers...”

  “It’s okay, Lamar—this will just be between us.”

  I was sure he’d heard that one before. He thought for a moment, but I could sense when a source felt a trust between us. He just needed to be nudged across the finish line. “The Kingsburys are dead, Lamar. The nightmare is almost over. If you give me this name, I can put an end to it.”

  Thompson thought for a moment. “Things are better for me now. Not what I thought life would be, but better than yesterday. I don’t want to go back there.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was referring to prison or the night of the accident, perhaps both. “It’s important, Lamar.”

  “He was this rich white kid who lived down the hall from me. I didn’t even know him that good. Brad was the one who asked him to come that night. He used to wear a suit and tie to class like he was some sort of businessman. And he would blast U2 music from his room. I told him once if he didn’t turn it down, the only Bloody Sunday he was going to witness was when I introduced my fist to his face.”

  “Did he?”

  He smiled confidently. “I could always spot an opponent with no spine.”

  “Like a weasel … I need a name, Lamar.”

  His smile vanished. He rubbed his temples, as if he were having an internal debate. His face scrunched like he was feeling physical pain. But I could see he’d passed the moment of no return. The volcano was bubbling over with twenty years of pain … and then it erupted, “His name was Bobby … Bobby ‘The Weasel’ Maloney! If I ever get my hands on that sumbitch I will…”

  I was already scrambling through my overnight bag. I removed a bunch of objects, including my cell phone, and placed them on the table. Finally, I found the copy of the newspaper I was looking for. On the front page was a picture of Maloney giving the Lisa Spargo Memorial Award to Kyle Jones at the Rockfield Fair.

  “Is that him?” I asked, shoving the paper in his face. “Is this the Bobby Maloney who sold you out?”

  Lamar studied the photo. Years had gone by, but a person never forgets the man who sent him to prison. He shook his head with a combination of anger and sadness before simply saying, “Sumbitch.”

  Having spent countless hours with Coldblooded Carter, I’d become quite knowledgeable on the history of professional wrestling and it’s cast of characters. At the center of many of Carter’s stories was a wrestling manager named Bobby Heenan, who was known derisively in many quarters as Bobby the Weasel. He was infamous for talking tough at his opponent, but then cowering when confronted. This led to a famed match in 1988 against the Ultimate Warrior, in which the loser had to wear a weasel suit.

  When Lamar mentioned the wrestling nickname to Lauren, it clicked for me. I first thought of Carter’s Bobby Heenan stories, but then my mind wandered to weasels I knew named Bobby, including one who used to wear his weasel suit to school to impress the teachers. Before that moment I hadn’t connected that Maloney had also attended UNC, and wo
uld have been a freshman at the time of the accident—not yet eighteen at the time of the accident. I now understood why Grady Benson moved to Rockfield. There was just one more key piece of information.

  “What was the date of the accident?” I asked urgently.

  He flashed ten fingers. Then he did it a second time. “The day that ruined my life.”

  10/10

  I thanked Lamar like he just saved my life, and rushed out of the museum into the torrential downpour. I climbed into my rental and headed north toward the airport. I went to call Christina to pick me up and realized I left my phone in the cafeteria. It was too late to go back.

  I now knew Officer Jones’ next move, and I had the date marked on my calendar.

  Chapter 76

  Rockfield

  October 7

  All flights were canceled on Thursday night due to Hurricane Ava. This was not good news for the woman who had the misfortune of working the ticket counter. Dealing with JP Warner was not discussed in the job manual.

  I thought of driving, but the reality was that I would arrive in Rockfield no earlier than Friday morning, no matter what I did. So I gritted my teeth and took the first flight the next morning.

  When I finally arrived, I purchased a new cell phone. I then tried to get in touch with Christina, but she was nowhere to be found … or more likely, wasn’t answering. So I was forced to call my mother for a ride, which made me feel like I was twelve years old. She sent Ethan instead. It was an obvious attempt by Mom to get the two bickering brothers together.

  “Nice shiner,” I greeted Ethan. I knew it resulted from the fight he had in my honor.

  “You should see the other guy,” Ethan replied, stealing my line. We climbed into his minivan, which was filled with a strange combination of dolls and football equipment. I saw it as another sign that I should never have children.