The Silent Reporter (A Police Procedural Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Hyder Ali #1)

by Thomas Fincham

  They also wanted to put a face to the initials.

  Jessica took the bus to the first address.

  The house was located in a nice neighborhood. It was surrounded by a wall with a giant metal gate in the front.

  Jessica pressed the buzzer and waited. A few seconds later a female voice said, “Yes?”

  “Hi, I’m looking for Mr. James Lowry. Does he live here?” Jessica said.

  “He does. What’s this about?” the woman said.

  “Can I speak to him, please?”

  There was a pause. “Wait.”

  A minute later a man came out of the house. Jessica spotted a young woman holding a baby by the front door. The woman was looking in her direction suspiciously.

  The man had salt and pepper hair and he immediately unlocked the gate.

  “I’m James Lowry,” he said.

  “Mr. Lowry, were you a student of Professor Eric Freeland’s at the University of Franklin?”

  Lowry’s face was hard. “I was. How did you know?”

  Jessica was prepared for such a question. She couldn’t possibly tell him that they had found his name on stolen university records.

  She had to bluff and hoped that it worked. “We saw your name on the university’s alumni list and we wanted to speak to you.”

  “Alright,” he said, crossing his arms.

  The next question would give Jessica the indication whether this was the person she was looking for. “We wanted to let you know that Professor Freeland was dead.”

  Lowry’s face didn’t soften. “So? What’s it got to do with me?”

  Jessica wasn’t expecting that response but kept going. “We were creating a web page devoted to him and we wanted to get some quotes from his students to put on there.”

  Lowry shrugged. “I don’t mind saying something about him, but I’m a busy man. It would have been better if you had called instead.”

  He provided some generic lines. When he was finished, Jessica said, “Where do you work, Mr. Lowry?”

  “Is that important?” he said.

  “It would be nice to put underneath the quote, to show what Professor Freeland’s students had become.”

  Lowry sighed. “Okay, whatever. I’m the owner and CEO of Lowry Paper Mills. Are we done?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  As Jessica left, she crossed out James Vincent Lowry’s name. Lowry wasn’t the person they were looking for.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Hyder sat in the office of Jonathan Vess Lanham. Lanham was in his early thirties, but he looked like he was ten years younger. He was portly, with no signs of any facial hair. Lanham was the marketing director for an ad agency.

  Hyder had gone through the same routine as Jessica, informing Lanham of the death of Professor Freeland.

  When he was about to tell Lanham the reason he was there Lanham broke down in tears. The man sobbed so uncontrollably that Hyder felt like getting up and giving the poor man a hug. Hyder offered him tissues instead, which he took and blew his nose loudly with.

  To Hyder’s relief his cell phone rang. He politely excused himself and answered it out in the hallway.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hyder, it’s Dunny,” his editor said.

  Hyder’s back tensed. He had never received a call from Dunny before. Was he in trouble? Was she calling to fire him?

  “Yes?” Hyder barely said.

  “You know the story you told me about your Professor… well, I want you to drop it.”

  “Why?” Hyder said.

  “I don’t think we should be using our valuable resources on a phishing expedition. Plus, Veronica had already printed the story on his suicide.”

  “But what about the pages he sent to me from his diary?”

  “Hyder,” Dunny’s voice became stern. “We are not the police. We don’t investigate a crime, we report it. If you feel your professor was murdered, then you need to speak to the authorities.”

  “I did,” Hyder said.

  “And?”

  Hyder sighed. “They thought it was a suicide.”

  “Exactly. So drop it. We need something we can print now. I’ve got another story for you to follow.”

  Hyder listened. There was a dispute between two neighbors and Hyder had to get quotes from both of them.

  When he hung up, he felt sick to his stomach. How was he going to explain this to Jessica?

  He wouldn’t, he decided. After speaking to the neighbors, he would continue going down the names on his list.

  He was certain Jonathan Vess Lanham was not the person who was somehow involved in Professor Freeland’s death, however.

  Lanham was still sobbing when Hyder re-entered his office and politely excused himself.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Jennifer Valerie Little lived in a two bedroom condo on the south side of the city, near the waterfront.

  Right away Jessica knew Little was not the person she was searching for.

  There was no possible way a mother of two, aged three and nine months, could have been involved in corruption, bribery, and even murder.

  Little was a stay at home mom who spent most of her day tending to her children.

  Unlike Lowry, Little had read about Freeland’s death in the newspapers and she was deeply saddened by it. She wished she could have gone to the funeral, but it was just not possible with the children.

  Knowing this somehow comforted Jessica. She told Little that Freeland was her father. This in turn made Little even sadder.

  The two women spent the next hour talking about Eric Freeland. Jessica spoke about growing up with Freeland, and Little talked about her time spent in Freeland’s classroom.

  When Jessica left Jennifer Valerie Little’s condominium she felt much better. Her visit had become therapeutic.

  Jessica waited by the elevator when she noticed a man appear by the side stairs. The man was wearing a dark gray suit. His eyes were covered by dark sunglasses and he wore black gloves.

  The man was too far for Jessica to clearly see what he looked like, but the way he watched her made her uneasy.

  She pushed the elevator button again.

  She was on the twelfth floor of the high rise building and the elevator was taking its time to get up to her.

  Jessica pressed the button again and again.

  “Come on,” she said under her breath.

  Suddenly, the man began walking in her direction.

  She noticed him reaching inside his jacket.

  Jessica wasn’t going to wait and see what he pulled out. She bolted the other way.

  When she reached the other set of stairs she turned and saw the man sprint in her direction.

  She raced down the stairs, skipping, and at times, jumping, over the steps.

  When she was down three floors she paused, heard footsteps rapidly descending.

  Jessica kept going.

  As she moved past each floor she felt her legs grow tired and heavy, but she was too terrified to stop.

  She reached the bottom floor. She tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. It needed a key to be opened.

  She spotted another door. She tried the handle. It didn’t open as well.

  The man’s footsteps drew nearer.

  He was maybe a floor away.

  She caught a switch for disabled persons and pressed it.

  The door slowly began to swing open. Jessica pulled it wide and entered.

  She felt cold and quickly realized she was in the condominium’s underground parking lot.

  She ran past the parked cars and toward the exit sign on the other end.

  She heard a door open and close behind her.

  She was certain it was the same door she had just come through.

  Jessica couldn’t allow herself to turn. She was afraid of what she might see.

  She turned the corner with the exit sign above it and found herself facing a tunnel that went up. Cars entered and exited the building though it. On top of that
, it was steep and winding.

  Jessica raced up.

  She went around the loop and stopped at a metal door. She looked down at her feet. Jessica wasn’t heavy enough to trigger the door to open. Only the weight of a car could do that.

  The sounds of footsteps coming her way were getting louder.

  Jessica couldn’t go through the door and she couldn’t go back from the way she came. She was trapped.

  The steps became heavier and more distinct.

  To her horror, Jessica saw a shadow loom in the corner of the tunnel.

  She was certain it was the same man from the elevator.

  Jessica braced herself for what was to come.

  Suddenly, she heard a noise.

  The metal door began to roll up.

  A bright light entered the tunnel, nearly blinding her.

  To her relief, a car was waiting to enter the parking lot.

  She moved past it, startling the driver, and ran away from the condominium.

  A bus was approaching a stop.

  Jessica quickened her steps and caught it.

  When she was safely on it, she turned to see if the man was still after her.

  He was nowhere to be found.

  Jessica found a seat and sat down. Her lungs were on fire, her heart was pounding, and her legs were burning.

  She wiped sweat from her forehead, tried to control her breathing.

  When the bus was a good distance away, she finally allowed herself to close her eyes.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  He rang the doorbell and waited.

  He was wearing a white blazer, with beige khaki pants and black loafers. His beard was still long and thick but he did apply a bit of water to his usually unruly hair.

  He removed his sunglasses and patted down the hair on his chin.

  The door swung open and a short woman with gray cropped hair said, “Tom, what are you doing here?”

  “Hi, Ethel,” Nolan said sheepishly.

  “Come in, come in,” she said as she quickly waved him inside.

  He looked around the interior. “I like what you have done with the place.”

  There was the familiar old gray sofa to one side with a worn out coffee table before it. On top of the table were copies of Reader’s Digest stacked high up. The drapes covering the large windows were brown and hadn’t been changed in years or even a decade. Nolan had always joked the drapes were once white. A heavy 32” CRT TV was next to the sofa. Nolan remembered that he had nearly broken his back once from trying to move it.

  “Sit, sit,” Ethel said. “I’ll go get you something to drink.”

  Nolan placed himself on the sofa. “Where’s George?” he asked.

  “He’s out in the back, trying to keep busy. After retiring, he’s taking on more projects around the house.”

  “I gotta see this.” Nolan got up and went to the backyard.

  He found George in the back shed. George was slim, with full gray hair and a neat and trimmed beard.

  George was hovering over an old lawn mower. He pulled the cord, but the mower didn’t come to life. He pulled again and again, but after a few coughs it died again.

  “You sure you’ve got gas in there?” Nolan asked.

  “Of course, I do,” George growled. “What kind of an idiot do you…” he turned and stopped. “Tom, what’re you doing here?”

  “Ethel asked me the same question,” Nolan said.

  “I would shake your hand, but my hands are greasy,” George replied.

  “I understand,” Nolan put his hands up. “I wouldn’t want to stain this nice jacket of mine.”

  George eyed the mower from top to bottom. It looked as if he would kick it, hoping that would make it work.

  Nolan said, “Ethel told me you’ve become quite the handyman.” This was a joke, of course. George couldn’t screw in a light bulb if his life depended on it. That was left for Ethel to do. George had spent thirty years as a mail carrier and that was why he was still in good shape. But that didn’t mean he was qualified to repair things.

  George shrugged. “The house is falling apart and I plan to make it like it was before.”

  Nolan knew Ethel would never let George touch anything inside the house. It was one thing to fix a broken lawn mower; it was another to fix the electrical wiring in the house.

  Ethel popped her head out. “Tom, George, come inside. I’ve got refreshments ready.”

  “You go,” George said. “Let me get cleaned up and I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Nolan went back inside and sat on the sofa once again.

  Ethel had placed a jug of orange juice, a plate of biscuits and crackers, and a bowl of dried fruits on the coffee table.

  “Help yourself,” she said.

  Nolan filled his glass with the juice and grabbed a couple of crackers.

  George came inside and sat next to Ethel.

  George and Ethel Barton were Simone’s parents. Nolan spotted a picture frame next to the TV. It was of him and Simone on their wedding day. In it, he was shaven and his hair was trimmed and parted from the side. Simone’s black hair was curled, with her lips painted bright red and her eyes were covered in black mascara. He remembered telling her how beautiful she looked.

  George chugged the glass of juice down in one gulp.

  “How are you doing, Tom?” Ethel said.

  “I’m doing fine.” He shrugged.

  “How’s work?”

  “Okay, I guess.” He stared at his shirt.

  “We think we know why you’re here,” she started to say, but then stopped. Today was Simone’s birthday and Nolan wanted to share it with her family. “What has happened has happened,” she said. “There is nothing we can do to change that.” George looked away, his eyes moist. Nolan had a lost a wife and he and Ethel had lost their baby girl. “You were always good to Simone,” Ethel continued, “and you will always be a part of our family, but you have to move on, Tom. Simone would have never wanted to see you like this.”

  Nolan said nothing. His eyes were moist too.

  Ethel’s face brightened up. “But that doesn’t me we still can’t have a good time. I have baked a special cake for just this occasion.” Ethel had run a small bakery for over eighteen years. She baked some of the best cakes in the city. There was not a single person who would turn down the chance to taste her delicacies. “Now, who wants a piece?”

  Both Nolan and George smiled and raised their hands.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The glass building was located near the lake in South Franklin. It had been built not more than ten years ago. Prior to its construction, the land was used by the city for social housing. When the city was going into a deficit, TriGate Management Group purchased it to build their new headquarters.

  Naturally, the residents of Franklin were not too pleased with a giant corporation displacing the poor and needy. There were regular protests during the construction of the building and some politicians jumped in to oppose the new building. To diffuse the situation, TriGate offered a piece of land on the other side of Franklin for a substantially lower price to the city. To sweeten the deal, they offered to build the new complexes that would house the poor and needy at cost, with no additional markups.

  This quickly brought them the positive coverage they needed, and the uproar soon faded.

  What most didn’t realize was that they had paid only half the market price for the land they now had their headquarters on. If anyone ever did stumble upon this fact, TriGate would argue that the city was under financial hardship and they were only helping by unloading the land upon themselves.

  Grant was aware of TriGate and its business practices, but he was never one to judge when it came to taking on a client. He thoroughly researched TriGate, which he did on every new client, and the only thing that mattered was whether they were able to afford his substantial fee.

  Grant was known in the corporate world as a fixer. He did things that others would not or could not dare do. Nothing
was beneath him, even murder. The clients didn’t care how he did his job. They cared only that he made the problem go away.

  TriGate’s problem came in the shape of Eric Freeland, a professor at the University of Franklin. It was not a difficult or complex problem to solve, one he had done many times before: make the death look like a suicide. But what he had failed to realize was the involvement of others. These people were now making the problem more complicated.

  Grant had to deal with it now, before it got out of hand.

  He took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. The TriGate Management Group’s logo was clearly visible behind the glass.

  He approached the front desk and asked for Ian Marshall.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. “Mr. Marshall is currently in a meeting.”

  “I don’t, but can you please contact Mr. Marshall and let him know that Mr. Grant is here to meet him.”

  Grant wasn’t his real name. It was one he had taken on to serve his purpose. If one of his clients ever decided to change their minds or make their agreement known to the police, Grant would disappear; but not before punishing the client for their betrayal.

  The receptionist dialed a number and relayed what Grant had told her.

  “He’ll be with you shortly,” she said. “Would you like to take a seat?”

  “I’m fine,” Grant said. Ian would leave whatever he was doing and come and see him right away. There was no point in sitting down.

  As if on cue, Ian appeared from behind an oak door. He looked angry and bewildered.

  “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

  “We need to talk,” Grant said calmly.

  Ian was fuming, but he wasn’t about to blow his top in front of the receptionist.

  “Not here.”

  They went down the hall and took the stairs up to another floor. Ian found a vacant board room and when he had shut the door behind him, he said, “Are you out of your mind?! Do you have any idea how risky it was for you to be here!?”

  “I tried calling you,” Grant said. He had learned never to lose his cool in front of clients.