Not only was I not getting anywhere, but was actually making a case that Gwen would be better off with Jones. The guy was a Boy Scout.
My questions soon turned more personal in nature and Dahl became suspicious. When I asked how I could reach the ex-girlfriend whom he’d broken up with prior to his move from Arizona, I crossed the line. Dahl began to answer, giving her first name as Lucy, but then his police instincts took over. He stopped in mid-sentence without providing a last name.
When I pushed, he turned testy. “Why are you so interested in his love life?”
I stumbled through an obvious lie. My lack of sleep dulled my usually sharp answers. Dahl demanded a number of my superior at the paper. I gave him Murray’s name, but couldn’t remember his phone number, which made me seem even more suspect. The next sound I heard was the click of the phone.
At that point, I tried to get some much-needed sleep, but my dreams kept reliving my last conversation with Noah.
I gotta take off JP, but we will definitely hook up at Ethan’s on Monday.
Hot date?
No, I’m just going to meet an old friend. We haven’t talked in a while.
I woke up in a cold sweat, realizing that I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I got justice for my brother.
I always believed when panning for information, the true golden nuggets came from “Joe Local.” So that’s where I decided to start. The police department would have their own spin on Jones, and Gwen was obviously fooled by him. I paused in thought; still unable to believe Gwen could be with this guy. I doubted I could accept anybody she dated, but this one really didn’t add up.
Then a sad truth hit me. One that I had been aware of since our encounter at the fair, but I didn’t want to admit it-Gwen Delaney wasn’t the person I once knew.
Chapter 36
While wandering around the Rockfield Fair on Saturday afternoon, in one of the few moments I wasn’t fighting with someone, I ran into an old friend from high school named Adrian Herbert. He invited me to watch the opening week of NFL football at Main Street Tavern with him and some of the old gang, and gave me his phone number. He said it would be like old times, although I couldn’t remember ever watching football with Herbie. I doubted I’d take him up on the offer at the time, but I gave him lip service about keeping it in mind. And following Noah’s death, I suddenly had the urge to meet up with the boys and swap some stories. Preferably about a certain police officer.
Main Street Tavern was a wooden firetrap that was a favorite watering hole of the locals. A small but raucous crowd was always present on fall Sundays to watch NFL games, including some of my old high school football buddies.
They proceeded to greet me warmly, along with providing condolences for the loss of Noah. I spotted my old teammates, Vic Cervino and Steve Lackety. We used to get together once a year for a reunion of our league championship team, but the reunions became fewer and fewer, before dwindling to non-existent about ten years ago.
I knew it must look strange that I’d be here, just twelve hours after my brother committed suicide, but nobody questioned my presence.
Before I could get into the topic of Kyle Jones, there were old football stories to be told. They had grown into Greek mythology over the years, and what they lacked in truth, they made up in grandiosity. Between stories, I continued buying rounds of beer for the boys until one o’clock; when the game between the Main Street Tavern favorite, New England Patriots, and the Miami Dolphins began.
When halftime arrived, it was time to talk Officer Jones. I was counting on the alcohol removing all inhibitions, and assisting in some honest dialogue.
Herbie was the first to take issue with him, “I’ll tell you what that guy did. He came to our softball party-he was dating the sister of one of the guys on the team, who worked at the bowling alley-hung out with us and acted like our best friend. Then he left and hid down the street and nailed half the squad with a dee-wee.”
“But you guys were breaking the law by driving drunk,” I played devil’s advocate.
“I’m not saying we were right, but if Jones really wanted to stop people from driving, he could have taken people’s keys or arranged rides when he was at the party. He wanted credit for making the bust.”
I noticed a bunch of nodding heads. A man named Lucas caught my interest. He identified himself as being a former member of the Rockfield Police force, who had worked with Jones, but left for a job in the private sector. “The guy is obsessed. Something is not right with him,” he remarked.
The bartender, Wally, who was also the tavern owner, chimed in, “He’s not allowed in here anymore. He used to wait in the parking lot in an unmarked car and follow my customers home.”
“You should do one of your investigative reports on that bastard,” Vic Cervino shouted out with a mouthful of salsa chips.
I smiled. “I would if I had something good on him. So far, nothing you told me is against the law. And those he arrested certainly were breaking it. Sounds like he might just be doing his job a little too well.”
The former cop, Lucas, spoke up again, “I’ve witnessed him break the law.”
“How come you didn’t report it?”
Lucas laughed as if I were naive. “If I accused the department’s fair-haired superstar of doctoring Breathalyzer results, or that he pulled people over without just cause, it would have been spun that I was not committed to reducing crime. Besides, with all due respect to Noah, the fact he got off with what appeared to be a slap on the wrist put a bull’s-eye on Rockfield. Maloney, like any public official looking to get re-elected, made drinking and driving his top priority, and Jones became his poster boy for this pursuit. Even if Tolland wanted to do something about Jones, Maloney would overrule him, especially after the money began rolling in from the ADDs.”
“The ADDs?”
“The against drunk driving organizations. They are good organizations, don’t get me wrong. They’ve played the biggest role in cutting fatalities. But sometimes when money gets involved, people tend to turn their heads at the means, as long as they get to the ends.”
Sounded like the Maloney I knew.
Halftime would be ending soon, so I had to move fast. A guy named Scott Busby, who owned a local hardware store, provided me with the incriminating story I was waiting for.
“Jones had heard a rumor that I’d driven home from here, three sheets to the wind. I don’t know where he heard that, but I was home the whole night watching the Yankees game. I put down a six-pack and chomped on a bag of potato chips. I got a knock on the door and when I answered, it was Jones. He dragged me down to the station, where they charged me with drunk driving.”
“And he got away with it?” I asked with great surprise.
“Yeah, they gave me a Breathalyzer, which of course I failed because I was drinking…in my house! It was Jones’ word against mine. The judge basically called me a liar at my sentencing.”
Herbie asked, “Hey JP, what’s your beef with Jones-did he pull you over?”
Before I had a chance to answer, Lackety cut in with a knowing smile, “I hear that Jones has been dating Gwen Delaney. I’ll bet that’s the problem.”
This led to hearty laughter at my expense.
“The woman from the paper?” the bartender asked, obviously new to the town.
Lackety butted in again, “She could put me in her story anytime, if you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, everyone did.
Herbie cleared it up for anyone who didn’t know the story of JP and Gwen, providing the Cliff Notes version of the past thirty years. It was not a happy ending and I cringed with embarrassment, but kept my mind focused on the task at hand.
“So that’s your issue with Jones,” the bartender said. “That punk stole your girl. He’s bad news!”
Everyone at Main Street Tavern agreed, raising their beer-filled mugs in salute. I shrugged, acting as if I was busted, even though I knew my girl left by her own choice a long time ago. “W
hat can I say, I guess I still have a thing for her.”
The second half began, diverting attention back to the screen. I remained until the game ended. Herbie offered me a ride home, but he was sloppy drunk, courtesy of myself, as were most of them. So I called cabs for everyone on my dime. “Hey, you never know if Jones is out there,” I explained.
Once I made sure everyone was safely getting a ride, I autographed a few things for Wally, and in return, he gave me a lift home.
The house was empty. There was a note on the kitchen counter from my mother. It read in matter-of-fact language that she was making funeral arrangements. It was like she was describing a trip to the grocery store-as if by keeping a sense of normalcy, she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the truth.
I was glad she was keeping busy, but knew that one day it would hit her like a ton of bricks. One thing I learned the hard way is that it’s impossible to run away forever. I vowed to be here for her when the storm hit.
Leaving was not what I did, it was what I used to do.
Chapter 37
Monday was Labor Day. It was also the day of Noah’s wake at the Laconia Funeral Home on Main Street. I didn’t attend.
The whole point of the wake and funeral is to lay someone to rest, and in my opinion, Noah couldn’t properly rest until justice was served.
I bummed a ride from Herbie to the local police barracks, and it wasn’t to invite them to a Labor Day barbecue. I wanted an update on their investigation into Noah’s death, even though I knew none was planned. Rich Tolland didn’t seem thrilled by my appearance, but he tried to play nice with me. It was the best strategy to make me disappear.
“I’ll do what I can, JP,” he told me.
I knew the answer was a load of crap, but I wasn’t ready to pick a fight with the police department … yet. I thanked him and left. I needed more ammunition to fight city hall. I did get a copy of the police report, but it was the same fiction they tried to sell me that night-a distraught Noah jumped to his death from Samerauk Bridge as the courageous Officer Jones tried to save him, blah, blah, blah. I would perform my own investigation.
I was supposed to spend Labor Day at Ethan and Pam’s picnic, catching up with Noah, but instead I spent it at the local library researching his death. I couldn’t handle being in the house, standing on the same floors where Noah crawled around as a baby, or deal with the endless stream of well-wishers who kept stopping by. But most of all, I couldn’t face my mother right now.
On Tuesday, my first call was to Christina. She put up a mild fight, since it was the first day of classes, but like myself, she was always drawn to the action. I wouldn’t go into details as to why she was summoned, but instructed her to bring Hoseman.
I had covered the death of an American woman in Rome a few years back. She was a newlywed who’d accidentally fallen to her death, while making some wild marital bliss with her new hubby on their hotel balcony. But the more I studied the “grieving” husband, I grew convinced that her death was no accident. So to prove my theory, I worked with a local fire department in Rome to create a fire hose to simulate the woman and re-enact her tragic fall. The husband is now serving a life sentence in an Italian prison, and I got to keep Hoseman as a souvenir.
Christina greeted me with heartfelt condolences, but then our conversation returned to normalcy. “A hose that looks like a woman, JP-not getting any up here in Sticksville?”
I struggled into the vehicle without a response. I then instructed her to drive us up Zycko Hill to Samerauk Bridge.
“So are you going to ever tell me why I had to return to Colonial Williamsburg, and miss the first day of classes?”
“We’re going to solve a murder,” I said without further detail, as she parked the Humvee just before the bridge. It was the exact place where Noah had left the Cherokee.
I hopped out with anticipation. But intense pain shot through my body, a reminder of my current condition. I gritted my teeth and went to the back of the vehicle, leaning heavily on my cane. Christina opened the hatchback.
She took her time, which annoyed me, “C’mon, I don’t have all day.”
“I had a late night. So how about a little more gratitude and a little less attitude,” she snapped back.
I glared at her, causing her to back off. I think she realized today wasn’t the best day to push her luck. We dragged the heavy hose out of the back of the Humvee.
I headed straight for the four-foot high guardrail on the side of the bridge, where Noah allegedly spent his last moments. Christina followed, draped in hose like she were being attacked by a giant Boa. “Are you going to help me with this?”
Ignoring her, I dropped my cane on the road and climbed up on top of the guardrail.
Christina peeked out from under the heavy hose, her face filled with shock. “Are you trying to have your mother bury two children in one week!?”
She had a point, but logic never stopped me before, and I didn’t plan to let it start getting in my way now. “Based on the police report, Noah would’ve had to be up here for at least the three to five minutes that Jones estimated he spent trying to talk him out of jumping. It’s very hard to maintain your balance for that long. And remember, it had begun to rain. It’s possible he could have, but not probable.”
It was also possible that Noah was recreating the scene from a year ago and lost his balance. But I doubted that, and why would Jones lie about it and say he jumped?
Christina struggled to hand me the end of the hose that was knotted like a balloon animal to simulate the woman in Rome. I wrapped it in one of Noah’s denim jackets, and placed his favorite Red Sox cap over the wig. Since the Warners were born and bred New York Yankees fans, I never understood my little brother’s devotion to the hated Red Sox. My best guess is that it had to do with the “rebel without a cause” image he embraced, which I was sympathetic of, but never fully comprehended.
I secured the hose and held it next to me, as if it were Noah, while I balanced myself. It was like a twisted version of Weekend at Bernie’s.
“See that rock there? That’s where they said Noah landed.”
Christina followed my point to a jagged rock formation at the bottom at the river’s edge.
“I’m going to prove that it was impossible to fall in that direction without a good amount of force.”
“They said he jumped, wouldn’t that have the same result as a shove?”
“It’s impossible to get the proper footing up here to jump with that much force, and even more so when wet. A jump would end a similar distance from the rail as an accidental fall. If you don’t believe me, maybe you can come up here and test it out.”
“Very funny. I wouldn’t want my hard head to damage the rocks.”
“I guess I’ll have to settle for you securing your end of the hose as tightly as possible, while I toss it off.”
She sat down in the road, gripping the end of the hose between her clenched legs like she were the anchor in a tug-o-war, and held on for dear life.
When I sent Hoseman over, the simulated arms flailed and the wig blew in the wind. It looked like a bungee jumper. It hit the rocks thirty feet below and bounced in a lifelike style. The Red Sox hat flew off, landing softly on a small rock. I decided I would leave it there as a tribute.
Christina ran to the edge of the bridge, still holding the other end of the hose. Working together, we pulled it up slowly.
“So what did you see?” she asked.
“I saw that there was no possible way Noah wasn’t forced off the bridge in some fashion, especially since he was much heavier than the dummy. I also saw, by the way the hose bounced, the impact wounds on both his right side and on the back of the head were impossible to achieve by jumping. I think he was killed earlier, and then he was thrown over to make it look like a suicide. I’m betting that Jones’ nightstick caused those wounds.”
If so, I knew that weapon was long gone.
“But it was just a hose, JP,” Christina questioned. �
��And it’s not like it was made to Noah’s exact measurements.”
“I’m not saying it’s a smoking gun. All I proved is the need for a full investigation to answer the questions.”
We performed the same test five more times. Like a mad scientist, I used different levels of force and dropped it at different angles. Then after about forty-five minutes of tossing and hoisting Hoseman over the side of Samerauk Bridge, a police car appeared with lights flashing, but no sirens.
A uniformed police officer, along with his female partner, stepped out of the car. He formally introduced himself as Officer Williams, and his partner as Officer O’Rourke.
“Mr. Warner, you are going to have to come with us,” he stated.
“What charge?”
“Chief Tolland wants to talk to you. If you want us to come up with charges such as suspicion of stealing a fire hose, we will.”
“So let me get this straight-in Rockfield it’s illegal to toss a fire hose over the side of the bridge, but it’s perfectly fine to throw my brother over?”
“I’m sorry about Noah. I went to school with him and he was a good guy. I’m just the messenger here,” said Officer Williams.
I looked forward to a discussion with Rich Tolland, especially after what I just learned. “I tell you what, officers. If you make my life a little easier by helping me load my hose into my vehicle, then I’ll make your life easier by getting into the back of your squad car without a fuss.”
Williams and his partner must have seen this as a peaceful solution to a potentially volatile situation. They helped Christina finish hoisting Hoseman from its final swan dive, and loaded it into the Humvee.
I turned to Christina. “See how small town politics work. You wash my back and I’ll wash yours. Look the other way and accept my money and one day you get to be mayor. It’s no different in Rockfield than it is in Kabul or with tribes in Pakistan.”
The police officers didn’t appear to be amused, but neither did they seem overly offended. Like most people I’ve encountered, they just wanted to get rid of me. I told Christina to follow me to the police station, then I joined the police officers in the squad car.
Officer Jones Page 12
