One Strange Accident

by Kay Wyont

  ONE STRANGE ACCIDENT

  The Alamo City Mysteries

  Book Two

  KAY WYONT

  Published by

  Journey Fiction

  © 2019 by Kay Wyont

  Published by Journey Fiction

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  www.journeyfiction.com

  ISBN 13: 978-1-946892-26-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – for example, electronic, photocopy, recording – without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters are creations of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover illustration by Jennifer L. Farey

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  One Strange Accident (Alamo City Mystery, #2)

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  For the real Danny,

  Gone too soon

  but never gone from our hearts

  Also dedicated to Linda,

  My sister from another mother.

  What would I do without you?

  A portion of the proceeds from

  One Strange Accident

  will go to The 100 Club of San Antonio.

  ONE

  Evan Johnson looked in the rearview mirror and grimaced. Glancing at his watch, the bus driver mumbled, “Come on, hurry up.”

  His annoyance must have shown on his face because the senior citizens’ escort frowned. Grace Seals helped another passenger down the steps. “They’re moving as fast as they can. What’s the hurry?”

  “Sorry. I have another group to pick up in an hour, and it’ll take some time to get there.”

  Grace leaned inside the bus and looked at the last two passengers carefully moving down the aisle. “Two more to go. It should just be another few minutes.”

  Evan didn’t reply. He knew better than to upset paying customers. His livelihood depended on tours getting booked. He distracted himself by watching the other buses unload passengers. Fiesta Texas will be making a ton of money today. Evan looked around the crowded parking lot and fanned himself with the manifest, wondering how in the world it could be so hot in May. Come on! Hurry up and close that door. You’re letting all the cool air out.

  The thought had barely crossed his mind when his attention was diverted by the sound of a roaring engine. Evan craned his neck to get a better look. Paralyzed with fear, he couldn’t even react before the sedan crashed into the side of the bus, the force of the impact sending him flying. Amidst a cacophony of shattering glass and twisting metal, he caught a glimpse of bodies scattered across the hot pavement. Then his head slammed into the open door and everything went dark.

  DETECTIVE DANNY BECKMAN leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the desk, and fanned himself with a file folder. “What do you think? 200?”

  “200 what?”

  “Degrees outside.”

  “This is San Antonio in the middle of summer. What do you expect?” Randy Monroe looked at his partner and then went back to reading the newspaper.

  “Is the a/c off in here? It feels like a hundred degrees.”

  “I don’t know. Leave me alone. I’m trying to read.”

  “What’s so interesting?”

  “Franklin is on a tirade about juries. He’s advocating for demolishing our jury system and letting judges decide the verdict. He’s an idiot.”

  “I take it you don’t agree?”

  “Do you remember the affluenza defense? That wasn’t a jury trial, but that doesn’t mean justice was done. The judge gave the kid ten years’ probation for an intoxication manslaughter charge. He injured nine people and killed four. A jury would have fried him, or at least given him a life sentence, so there goes the ‘judges are better’ argument. It’s a stupid idea, if you ask me.” Randy leaned over and pushed Danny’s feet off the desk before tossing him the newspaper. “Top of the page.”

  Danny’s face grew more incredulous the longer he read. “How can someone write an article containing the words ‘blah, blah, blah,’ and expect us to take him seriously? What is he, five?”

  “On the other hand, he did use the word ‘plethora’, so at least he’s got a good vocabulary.”

  “If I knew what the word plethora meant, I might agree. I don’t care how many big words he uses, it’s still a bunch of nonsense.”

  “For once I agree with you, Beckman, although you probably meant to say it’s a plethora of nonsense. I’m still trying to figure out why he wrote the article in the first place. He’s usually complaining about something, but this is over the top even for him. He basically wants to scrap the whole justice system and start over. I wonder what’s got him so spun up.”

  “If you read the paper more often, you’d know.”

  “What are you talking about? I read the newspaper every day. Unlike today, I just usually don’t have time to read it at work.”

  “Sports and comics don’t count. I’m talking about the metro section. I’m surprised you even noticed his column.”

  “In your world the sports and comics may not count, but at least I know what plethora means. Enlighten me, oh, most knowledgeable of all human beings. What’s Franklin’s beef?”

  “His nephew just got convicted on an aggravated robbery charge for holding up a convenience store. They sentenced the kid to forty years. The max he could have gotten is ninety-nine years, so I think he lucked out. Franklin probably thinks a judge would have been more lenient and let him off with probation or a fine. The max fine is ten grand, and Franklin could easily have ponied that up.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. I saw that on the news. Forty years does seem a little stiff. Wasn’t it the kid’s first offense?”

  “Yeah, but the clerk was pregnant. She was so traumatized by having a gun pointed at her, she lost the baby. Pretty sure the jury took that into consideration, whether they were supposed to or not.”

  “If I remember correctly, they didn’t charge him for the baby’s death, which was probably a good decision. I’m not sure they would have been able to get a conviction, even if they had tried. It would be too hard to prove the holdup caused the miscarriage.”

  “I remember something about the baby’s death coming out during the trial. The defense objected to it, since that’s not what he was charged with. The judge instructed the jury to ignore it.”

  “Fat chance,” Randy said with a dismissive snort. “You can’t unhear something once it’s out there. If the defense found out it was part of the deliberation, that’s almost automatic grounds for appeal.”

  Danny slid the paper to Randy and went back to fanning himself. “Franklin’s right. Judges can be a lot more impartial than a jury. But it’s still a stupid idea.”

  “Keep that in mind the next time you get called for jury duty. I don’t want to listen to you complain. Or, you could move to a state that has automatic exemptions for cops. Too bad we don’t have that in Texas.”

  “Yeah, but I’d miss the opportunity to do my civic duty if I moved, so I’ll pass.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know and I’ll google where you can live.”

  “Are you trying to ge
t rid of me?”

  “Not necessarily, but I know it’s been a while since you’ve been called. When it happens, I don’t want to have to endure your usual whining.”

  “You’d miss me if I was gone, wouldn’t you? I know I’d miss your glorious company.”

  “No comment,” Randy replied.

  “I’ll take that as a yes—you’d be heartbroken, lost without me, and can’t bear the thought of me moving away.”

  “How do ya figure that?”

  “I know you don’t like to get all mushy, so you’re hiding your true feelings. But I know what you really wanted to say. Back to the talk about Franklin. Exactly why would I care what he writes?”

  “Food for thought. He makes me think.”

  “That’s weird. I try to stay as far away as possible from anything he writes, and I sure don’t care what he thinks about juries. You know what else is weird?”

  “You mean other than you?”

  “Yes. Mary is reading The Write Decision.”

  “Sounds like a sequel to the last book you told me about.”

  “Yup. She really likes Gena Webb’s writing.”

  “What’s weird about Mary reading? Your wife must read about two a week, doesn’t she? I don’t know how she finds time to do much of anything else.”

  “The advantage of not working.”

  “She has a good excuse,” Randy replied. “It takes her mind off her kidney problem.”

  “It does. In this book, Carla gets called for jury duty. That’s the weird part. Here we are discussing juries, and Mary’s reading a book about them.”

  “You aren’t writing fiction under the pseudonym Gena Webb, are you? That seems a little too coincidental.”

  “If I was, I’d come up with some cool name. Maybe Hercules Beckman, or Danny ‘The Rock’ Beckman. Something catchy.”

  “How about Albert E. Beckman, since you think you’re so smart.”

  “I don’t see the connection. What’s the E stand for?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Did you see this other article?”

  “Which one?”

  “It’s about the crash at Fiesta Texas. You know, the kid who drove his car straight into a crowd of old people. Who does that?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Strange things are happening in San Antonio.”

  “Not as strange as a bunch of rich guys getting whacked and their bodies dumped at churches all over town.” A knot formed in Randy’s stomach as their last big case flashed through his head. “As long as we don’t have another serial killer on our hands. I never want to go through something like that again.”

  “You’re in luck. We solved that case, so no more mass murderers in town.”

  “Let’s hope so. Although...”

  “Although what?”

  “Did our murderer impress you as someone able to come up with all that on their own?”

  “Not really. I do recall a claim that ‘a higher power’ helped out, although last I checked, God wasn’t in that business.”

  “What if the ‘higher power’ isn’t what we thought?”

  “Really? You’re second-guessing it now? The killer confessed.”

  “I know. Franklin got me to thinking about it.” Randy shuffled papers on his desk, anything to keep from looking at Danny. Here we go. He’s going to think I’m crazy.

  “Franklin? From an article about juries?” Danny stared at his partner. “That doesn’t begin to make sense.”

  “Not that article. From last week’s paper. Franklin said we’re wrong. He spent two columns talking about us catching the wrong person.”

  “Further proof he’s an idiot. He spends all his time badmouthing the police, judges, juries, the government, and life in general. His stuff isn’t worth the time it takes to read. I still don’t understand why the Express-News didn’t sack him years ago.”

  “What if he’s right? What if someone else was pulling the strings? Stranger things have happened.”

  “You can’t be serious. You were there. We caught the perp in the act. What more proof do you need?”

  “I’m not arguing who did the killing, but...could someone else be involved?”

  “I don’t know why we’re discussing this.” Danny stood and started pacing. “What’s gotten into you? Why aren’t you letting well enough alone?”

  “Have you ever had a feeling that something’s not over?” Randy stared at his pen as he flipped it between his fingers. He’s right. I’m sure he’s right. It’s over. Randy’s pen slipped and clattered to the table. But then...why do I have this feeling the other shoe will drop?

  Danny leaned on Randy’s desk. “Give it a rest. Bad guy’s in the loony bin. Cracker-jack detectives did their usual outstanding job. Case closed.”

  Randy sighed. His phone rang, giving him a safe way out of this conversation. And his thoughts. He answered, eyeing Danny, who was pretending not to eavesdrop. “Okay.” Randy hung up and grabbed his car keys. “Since you enjoy it so much, you can enjoy my glorious company on the way to the hospital.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “I’m sick of this whole discussion about juries, judges, and awful journalists, but other than that, no. We just got permission to question the kid.”

  “Let’s roll.”

  “What is this? An episode of Hill Street Blues?”

  “So, what’s the E stand for?” Danny asked as he followed Randy down the hallway.

  “Einstein. Albert Einstein. Theory of Relativity? E = mc2? Quantum Mechanics? Sound familiar?”

  “Of course. I’m not stupid you know. I thought his last name was spelled with an I.”

  “Shut up and get in.” Randy opened the car door. “Forget Danny ‘The Rock’ Beckman. Your pseudonym oughta be I. M. A. Doofus.”

  TWO

  Randy and Danny stopped at the hospital information desk to ask for the suspect’s room number. Following directions the volunteer gave him, the pair ended up at an Intensive Care Unit room with a uniformed patrol officer stationed outside the door.

  “Hey, Officer, how are you doing? Is this Mr. Caldwell’s room?”

  “Fine, sir, but you can’t go in. Only authorized visitors are allowed. He’s in custody.”

  Chuckling, Randy pulled out his badge and showed it to the young officer. “Will this authorize us? We’re here to interview him. I’m Detective Monroe and that’s Detective Beckman.”

  “Sorry, sir!” The officer sputtered.

  “No need to apologize. There’s no way we can all know each other. There’s too many of us. What’s your name?”

  “Frank Jenkins, sir.”

  “You don’t have to call me sir. Just Randy.” He jerked his head in the direction of the door. “Has he been given his Miranda warning?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry. Randy. I advised him earlier this morning. He got out of surgery late yesterday, so I wanted to make sure he was fully awake.”

  “Good thinking,” Danny said. “We don’t want it coming back to haunt us if he goes to trial. Please tell me he waived his rights, so we didn’t waste a trip. It’s about a five-mile walk from the information desk to this room.”

  “Just ignore him, Frank. He’s complaining about everything today for some reason. Did Caldwell waive?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Okay, then we’ll get started.”

  “I don’t see any cuffs on him,” Danny said, looking through the window.”

  “He’s pretty banged up. They’ve got IV lines running into both arms. I figured we’d catch a lot of heat for mistreating him, so I haven’t done that. Should I?” Frank looked nervously at the detectives.

  Randy held back a chuckle. Was I ever that young and unsure of myself? “No, you made the right call. There’s a lot of publicity around his case, so we need to be careful. Besides, it doesn’t look like he’ll be going anyplace any time soon. That his folks in there with him?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re usually here.”

 
; Great! Just what we need. Overprotective parents. Randy sighed and turned to Frank. “You can get some coffee or something if you want. We got this.”

  “Thanks. Do you know how long you’ll be interviewing him?”

  “I’m not sure, but if we finish before you get back, we’ll wait. Take your time,” Randy replied.

  “I appreciate that, guys. I sure could use a break. Did you by any chance notice a public restroom around here?”

  “There’s one right across from the elevator,” Danny said.

  “Thanks again. I’ll be back in a few.”

  After Frank left, the detectives entered the room. The suspect’s eyes were closed, his pallid skin accentuating the deep purple shiner bracketing his right eye. Beneath the IV lines, his arms were nearly hidden in gauze and bandages, and his right leg was elevated in a sling attached to a rod over the bed. An unwelcome wave of sympathy washed over Randy. He looks as young and vulnerable as a baby. But he wasn’t a baby. He was a twenty-year-old man, and he’d ruined so many lives, including his own. The young man opened his eyes and Randy caught a glimpse of pain, quickly replaced by fear.

  Ignoring the other two people in the room, Randy said, “Mr. Caldwell? We’d like to ask you some questions. I’m Detective Monroe and that’s Detective Beckman.”

  “He’s not in any condition to be answering questions.” The man rose protectively from his bedside chair. “I’m his father, and Ricky’s not going to talk to you.”

  “That’s not your call, sir,” Randy said. “He already waived his rights.”

  “Well, I’m unwaiving them!”

  “Sorry, sir, but you can’t do that,” Danny replied. “He’s not a minor. It’s his decision, not yours.”

  “He shouldn’t be talking to you.” The woman in the opposite chair remained poised, but her protest was no less vehement.

  “It’s okay Dad, Mom. I’ll talk to them. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell, we need to ask you to leave. This shouldn’t take too long and then you can come back in.”

  “We can’t stay?” Mr. Caldwell shot a look of concern from the detectives to his son and back.