(2012) Officer Jones

by Derek Ciccone

  The highest profile of any of Benson’s alleged victims was US Senator Craig Kingsbury. The Kingsbury family released a statement calling George and Craig Kingsbury patriots, and added, “The Kingsbury family has always been the strongest advocates of the law and the judicial system. We have full belief that justice will be served in this case. We also categorically deny any involvement by Craig Kingsbury in the untimely death of Marilyn Lacey, and find any allegations in that case both slanderous and insensitive to a grieving family.”

  Concerning the deaths that touched closest to Rockfield’s heart, Casey Leeds’ family had no comment, but regulars at Main Street Tavern plan to celebrate their friend’s death this upcoming Sunday by watching football and drinking beer, just as “Casey would have wanted it.” The families of Noah Warner and Lisa Spargo released a joint statement. “We are happy that justice has been served. Taking Noah’s life could never have brought Lisa back or stopped our grieving for her, which will last for the rest of our lives. Our hope is that the two of them are together again in a better place. All Grady Benson accomplished was taking another child away from another mother.”

  Benson has hired renowned defense attorney Barney Cook, who issued the following statement, “Grady Benson has an important story to tell. He looks forward to his day in court.” Benson’s arraignment will take place on Thursday in federal court.

  Chapter 93

  “Just perfect,” Murray beamed. “I’m sure somewhere out there Woodward and Bernstein are wallowing in envy. It would have been very easy for you to slant the article based on your very understandable emotions and biases, or incorporate yourselves into the story. I’m also proud you didn’t focus on the celebrity of Senator Kingsbury, like the national media did. Kingsbury was just a small part of a bigger story, which you captured the true essence of.”

  Murray completed his autograph and made eye contact with the still strangely quiet Gwen, who munched on a doughnut with Hannibal Lecter-like intensity. She was starting to scare me.

  He then turned to me and said, “I really think you are returning to your journalistic roots, John Pierpont. What would you say about working for the Gazette full time? I can’t offer you top pay, but I promise you honest and fulfilling work.”

  When I scanned the room, I noticed my mother smiling with pride, while Murray looked at me with anticipation. Gwen, on the other hand, was still brooding.

  “I appreciate the offer, Murray, but at the moment I have some other commitments I have to attend to,” I said.

  My mother asked in a soft, inquisitive tone, “Why not, JP? It sounds like a perfect opportunity.”

  Gwen walked slowly to the office answering machine. No high-tech voice-mail system for the Gazette. Like a lawyer dropping a bombshell in a courtroom drama, she pushed the “play” button and coldly said, “Maybe because of this.”

  “John Peter, it’s Lauren. I’m calling to congratulate you on returning to the GNZ family. I’m glad to hear that you finally were able to put your ego aside, and see that working for me is best for you.”

  Click. Rewind.

  Gwen stared at me so hard I thought I was going to catch on fire. “I always knew you’d leave again. All that talk about staying was just that, all talk! I hope you enjoy North Korea, you son of a bitch!”

  She covered her mouth and turned her back to me. It hurt to watch, but at least I now understood the drastic mood swing—I shouldn’t have underestimated what a great reporter she was.

  “You promised that you were done with that life, JP,” my mother said in a disappointed voice.

  The glares grew intense. I cleared my throat and offered an explanation that I hoped would get me out of here alive, “Yes, it’s true I’m going to do some work for GNZ, but it’s not what you think. I’ve agreed to do six features a year on domestic problems that I feel need more attention. I already have the first year lined up—what can be done to curb drunk-driving fatalities. Another to expose the generator death traps of house boats.”

  I smiled, hoping that I avoided the bloody mutiny for a few more moments. “My first feature will be about finding cures for paralysis and the work the Rubber-band Foundation plans on doing to make sure it happens. I’m excited about this. Plus, the travel will be minor, and a lot less dangerous … at least if I can avoid flying coach.”

  No laughs. Tough room.

  Murray and my mother looked on with pride, seemingly buying the answer. Gwen was still a holdout. She turned to face me. “Why should we believe you this time?”

  The ringing of the historic landline phone on her desk cut off her words. Gwen was closest and guarded it so nobody could answer it until I answered her question.

  The machine clicked on. Following a professional message from Gwen and a loud beep, a message projected for the whole room to hear.

  “JP, it’s Christina,” she started off, sounding annoyed. “Pick up if you’re there. C’mon, JP—pick up the phone, you lazy ass.”

  After some more choice words for me, she finally gave up. “Well, I guess you really aren’t there. I just wanted to let you know my train just got into New Haven. I am taking a cab to Rockfield, which I hope you know will be expensed on your dime. I want to hook up so I can say goodbye to you—with the plane to North Korea leaving tonight, and all.”

  I attempted a tension-easing joke, “She’s just mad I gave her Humvee to Lamar Thompson.”

  Still no laughs. Just the deadly silence of the lynch mob. No wonder they have those drink minimums at comedy clubs.

  Gwen pointed an angry finger at me. “You lying sack of…”

  She held back, sucking in an extended deep breath, then slowly decompressed. “I don’t know what I’m upset about—I always knew you would go back. You just needed a warm body while you were stuck in this one-horse town. It’s not what you do—it’s who you are. It was pretty arrogant of me to think I could change that. Enjoy North Korea—send me a postcard … and remember to duck.”

  She started to throw the answering machine at me, but held back at the last moment. We just stood there and stared at each other for what seemed like an hour. I let her win the battle of wills. I urgently looked at my watch, as if I were late for something, before turning toward the door.

  When my face was safely out of Gwen’s view, I smiled. I chose not to tell her that part of my deal with Sutcliffe included an agreement that GNZ would hire, young, aggressive, and talented field reporters as the core lifeblood of the news organization. Less style, more substance. One of those new reporters would be Christina, who was headed to North Korea as a rookie correspondent. Not me.

  I could feel Gwen’s eyes boring a hole in my back as I began walking toward the door. When I reached it, I looked back and flashed her my smuggest of smiles. The one that has annoyed people on all seven continents at one time or another.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I have a meeting with a realtor—I’m looking into buying a farm.”

  Thank you for reading Officer Jones! If you enjoyed it, I hope you will leave an honest review or rating.

  Feedback and support appreciated by liking Derek Ciccone Book Club on Facebook

  Follow on Twitter: @DCicconeBooks

  email: derekbkclb@yahoo.com

  Other Books by Derek Ciccone – Painless, The Truant Officer & The Trials of Max Q. Excerpt for The Heritage Paper (coming soon) following Acknowledgments.

  Acknowledgments

  Finding someone to “edit” a book is easy, but finding someone who understands the story like you do and cares for it like it's there own is a not. So I want to thank Charlotte Brown once again for helping to mold the pile of clay called a manuscript into a flowing story. I've also found (often the hard way) that it takes a village to proofread a book. So I want to thank all those who volunteered, especially Sandra Simpson for her meticulous work and going above and beyond. And to many of the readers of the advanced copies, who made some great suggestions, including Ramin, Ralph, Don, Kelly, and Bob.


  Another great cover from Carl Graves. If you're interested in hiring Carl, here are more examples of his work. And thanks to Curt Ciccone once again for his ebook formatting. If I had to rely on my tech ability to do this, the book would have been out sometime around the year 2046.

  One of the things I enjoyed about writing this book was that it took me back to my time growing up in a small town of Bridgewater, Connecticut, where I lived until I was ten. We had 16 kids in my entire class at school, and yes, there was a fair in town every year. There wasn't much to do, but it sure was a great place to shape an imagination.

  I hope you enjoyed “Officer Jones,” and found it a fun read. But under all the twists and turns, and JP's antics, there is the very real message of the dangers of drinking and driving. Thanks to awareness and tougher laws, the fatality rate has fallen in half since Grady Benson began his fictional rampage in the early 1990s, but there were still something like eleven-thousand deaths in the US in 2011 related to d&d, or some crazy number like that. We all like an occasional cocktail, but be sure to call a cab when you do.

  Excerpt from The Heritage Paper (Coming Soon)

  Chapter One

  She laid still in her bed with her hands clasped close to her nightgown, pretending to sleep. The thick darkness was only penetrated by a trickle of moonlight sneaking past the curtains. But she could still feel his presence.

  The man was not the Grim Reaper, but she knew he’d be the last face she saw in this life.

  “Has the great Nazi hunter come for me?” her voice sputtered and creaked. After almost nine full decades of life, turning on her voice was like starting a car in a frigid Munich winter. She could no longer read an eye-chart without the assistance of a telescope, but she could still sense the surprised look on the man’s face. He had no idea she knew.

  “Hello, Ellen,” he spoke in a hushed tone. “Think of me of a gypsy moth that has come to defoliate your evil family tree.”

  “How did you figure it out?” she played naïve. She didn’t know if she’d fooled the man, but she sure had convinced her own family that she was a dementia-stricken loony tune. The most damning evidence being when they discovered her wandering the grounds in the middle of a cold night, and claiming to have spotted aliens.

  “When I was a young medical student, a wise doctor told me a story. It was about a young prostitute he treated in Munich named Etta. She had been impregnated by a German soldier who’d threatened her life if she elected to have the child. The pregnancy was further complicated by Etta’s lifestyle, which included a treacherous case of syphilis.

  “The doctor risked his own safety to hide Etta from this soldier and nurse her to health … and she eventually gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. It wasn’t until many years later that this doctor realized he’d helped spread the seeds of evil—a knowledge that led to his murder.”

  “And this is relevant to your presence here tonight?”

  “You see, that child he delivered was named Ellen.”

  She tried to smile, but the muscles in her face no longer cooperated with her demands. “There are those who claim that you no longer have the passion—that you’d been diverted by your wealthy American lifestyle. But I can tell that the fire still burns deep inside you. It’s why I chose you.”

  She strained through her foggy cataracts to see the surprised look on his face. But there was no time to savor small victories, so she briskly moved to the next step. She pointed sharply at the small end-table beside his chair, causing a painful tingle in her arm.

  He pulled the chain on a small desk lamp and a dull light illuminated the table. The gold-cross glistened in the light.

  The Nazi hunter appeared mesmerized. He was looking at a traditional Christian crucifix made of pure gold. Stretching across the crux of the T-formation, the symbol v^988v^ was engraved. On the back was Ellen’s Apostle name of Andrew. Like the original, and more famous Apostles, there were twelve of them.

  He handled the cross with the care of a newborn. “The only time I have ever seen one was when we captured Bormann in South America, almost a half century ago. He declared that if we ever saw the symbol again, it would mean the Reich was on the verge of regaining power. I thought he was just using it as leverage because…”

  “You and your partner were about to kill him,” she finished his thought.

  He said nothing, his silence admitting his guilt. That is, if killing a swine like Martin Bormann, the Führer’s personal secretary, could ever be associated with an emotion like guilt. Not only did he betray the Apostles, but he hurt Ellen in the most personal of ways. His Apostle name of Judas was fitting.

  The Nazi hunter continued to peer at the cross. For all his “big game hunting” that took him across the globe, those he most dreamed of having stuffed on his mantle were right under his nose. But the ironies were just beginning.

  “What does this symbolize?” he demanded.

  “Why are you dragging this out? You came to kill me tonight—so get on with it,” she bristled at him.

  “If you don’t answer me, I will not only eliminate you, but the rest of your family.”

  The response was laughable. He’d already begun to “defoliate” her family, and once the gypsy moth began spreading its larvae, it wouldn’t stop until the tree had died. She did find interesting that his threat to kill her family was synonymous with the Nazi tactic called sippenhaft. She always was fascinated that victims who sought revenge often ended up more like those responsible for their pain.

  “It symbolizes the seeds that have been planted. Those seeds grew into a tree, full of leaves. And over time that tree grew into a forest—one that would one day spread over the land. And that day is here.”

  “Why would you tell me this?” he asked, still staring at the cross.

  “Because I believe you’re the only one who can stop it.”

  He tried to conceal his surprise. “Why would a Nazi like you want to stop the expansion of this evil forest, as you call it?”

  “The struggle has led to nothing but suffering for my family. My children have been taken from me, and now with the moment so close, I fear an even worse fate for those who remain.”

  “Any suffering you faced doesn’t remotely compare to what you’ve inflicted. The only way to stop another generation of evil is to remove the tree at its roots.”

  “Evil is not passed on like brown hair or the shape of a nose—it is taught and nurtured. Using your philosophy, you would kill all the flowers in the garden just to ensure there are no weeds. But all you would accomplish is to steal beauty from the world. Are you saying that all those SS men were genetically inclined to murder? And if so, why did most return to peaceful lives when the war ended?”

  “The evil your family perpetrates is far greater than the common SS man, no matter how vile he was. Because you have the ability to transfer your evil to others and inspire them to spread your hatred.”

  “Was my grandson transferring evil when you murdered him? He was an innocent victim—a father … a husband—just like those you claim to seek justice for.”

  His tone remained unyielding. “Once I learned of his heritage there was no other option. He was a scorpion.”

  “A scorpion?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of the fable of the scorpion and frog, in which the scorpion asked the frog to carry him across the river. The frog was afraid of being stung during the trip, but the scorpion argued that stinging the frog would cause them both to drown, convincing the frog to give in. But halfway across, the frog felt the scorpion’s stinger lodge into his back. With his final breaths, the frog asked, ‘why you would do that?’ To which the scorpion replied, ‘I couldn’t help it—it’s my nature.’”

  Ellen didn’t have time to advance the ‘nature versus nurture’ debate. It had been going on long before they arrived on this planet and would rage on long past their deaths. Besides, her plan wasn’t to dissuade the Nazi hunter from his beliefs—there was little chance of that—what s
he wanted was his assistance in crossing the river.

  She pointed to the drawer of the end-table. He was now under her spell, following orders like an attentive student. But he looked disappointed when slid out a piece of paper from the drawer. This object was not gold, nor did it have historical significance. It was an amateurish invitation to her great-granddaughter’s presentation of her Heritage Paper for her sixth grade class.

  He looked quizzically at it. “If you want to protect your family, as you claim, why would you provide me such access to them?”

  The irony caused the smile to finally appear on her face—likely her last. “Because if you’re going to stop the Reich from returning to power, you will need Maggie’s help.”

  “You will use any lie or tactic to save yourself. How else can you explain how you’ve hidden out all these years under the cover of being a persecuted Jew? As if the actions of you and your fellow Nazis were not depraved enough!”

  “I’ve lived many lies throughout my life, many of which I’m ashamed of. But I never lied about being Jewish.”

  “More lies! Your deception can’t save you anymore!”

  “My mother’s name was Etta Schwartz—a Jewish prostitute from Munich. Perhaps your doctor friend failed to mention that part in his story. History tends to pick and choose the truth, depending on whether it fits the narrative of the author. Without a father around, I took her surname of Schwartz—the name I used upon coming to America, and until I married. While many of my fellow Apostles took aliases to survive, Ellen Schwartz was my given name.”