Officer Jones

by Derek Ciccone

  I shook my head at the absurdity of the whole thing. With all the dangerous places I’d traveled to throughout the world, I couldn’t believe the irony of meeting up with such danger in quaint Rockfield. In our teenage years we used to constantly whine, “I can’t wait to get out of this town-it’s so boring! There is nothing to do!”

  “I only had one glass. You’re the one drinking like there’s no tomorrow.”

  Bad choice of words.

  I thanked her for dinner, stood, and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

  As I began to walk away, Gwen grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me around. Then she kissed me.

  My mouth engulfed hers. We slammed up against a wall, knocking a family photo to the floor. I pulled away and tried to catch my breath. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “JP, I know eventually you’re going to leave. I’m okay with it. I’m not concerned with the future anymore. Nobody’s guaranteed tomorrow.”

  Instinct took over and lips locked again. We crashed into another wall, hoping we didn’t wake Tommy and Mr. Delaney.

  “I’m not going to leave, Gwen.”

  I knew she didn’t believe me, but didn’t seem to care. “Will you please shut up JP?”

  Good enough for me. First, off came her sweatshirt. My T-shirt was next. She reached up to the waist of my jeans, and began to unbuckle them. After a struggle that briefly turned comical, they came off and she threw them onto the coffee table, knocking over a remaining glass of wine.

  We swept through the living room and into her bedroom.

  Gwen pushed me onto the bed and then climbed on top. She looked down at me intently and said, “Because he wasn’t you.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been dying to ask me why my marriage broke up. I finally decided to answer you.”

  There was nothing left to say, so for once we didn’t.

  I would not get the rest I sought for my trip. I didn’t want to go to sleep, worried that I might wake to find it was a dream. I barely got an hour, but being intertwined with Gwen’s body made it the best sleep I’d had in years. I woke to streaming sunlight coming through the small crack in the shades. I kissed her and she woke with a smile. It was not a dream.

  I was sure of this, because in no dream I’d ever had about this moment was Tommy Delaney standing in the open doorway that we forgot to close in our haste. “Gwen and Mr. JP sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” he sung out gleefully.

  Mr. Delaney arrived to remove Tommy. He didn’t look the least bit shocked, and smiled at us as he pulled Tommy away from his sightseeing and shut the door.

  After we dressed, and I ate a plate of leftover spaghetti for breakfast, Gwen drove me home so I could pack. We kissed again before I exited the van, and I pleaded with her to be careful when she followed Jones. I’d given up on trying to stop her.

  I walked into the house, whistling, and was surprised to see my mother. I suddenly felt like a teenager again-Mom waiting up for me as I tried to sneak in.

  She inspected me as I came through the door. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

  It was nice to see the peaceful smile on her face. I walked over to where she was sitting on the floor and took a seat beside her.

  “You aren’t using your cane,” she observed.

  I’d almost forgotten. “After seeing Byron in his wheelchair, it made my problems seem as if they weren’t problems.”

  “It’s nice to see you smiling again. It’s been a while. That wouldn’t have anything to do with that pretty girl that drove you home this morning?”

  There was no way to fool Mom. “She is pretty great, huh?”

  “It took you long enough to figure that out, John Pierpont.”

  “I figured it out a long time ago, but things were just a little complicated. They still are.”

  “Yeah, it’s called life. But when you find a way to be with the one you should be with, it sure makes things seem less complicated.”

  My eyes wandered toward the old cardboard box she’d been sifting through, and realized it contained Noah’s old junk. I noticed a high school yearbook, assorted photos of Noah and Lisa, and some sort of ugly contraption he’d made for a school project. I thought it was an ashtray, but my mother contended it was a paperweight. Noah had always claimed it was a key-chain holder.

  I joined her in the sifting. I came across a second-grade paper with the topic being who Noah wanted to be like when he grew up. When I read it, I felt my eyes well-up with tears.

  “He never wanted you to see that. He was afraid you wouldn’t think he was cool with all the mushy stuff he wrote about you.”

  “I wish I’d lived up to his expectations.”

  She looked shocked. “Noah was so proud of you, JP. You should have heard him talk about you, and I’m sure he is especially proud of what you are doing for him right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “JP, I wouldn’t feel the same sense of peace if I believed Noah took his own life. I want you to nail that bastard, Jones.”

  “I plan on it. In fact, that’s where I’m headed right now. Do you think Dad could take me to the airport? I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  “I’m sorry, your father is bailing your brother Ethan out of jail this morning.”

  I looked at her with surprise. “Ethan’s in jail?”

  “I guess some loud mouth at Main Street Tavern said some not-so-nice things about his brother and Ethan socked him in the nose,” she added casually like it was some mundane event. After what she’d been through the last few years, maybe it was.

  “They were saying bad things about Noah?” I asked.

  “No JP. He was defending you.”

  Chapter 66

  Gilbert, Arizona

  October 4

  I arrived at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport at just before noon. My mood was aglow, my thoughts still focused on the previous night with Gwen.

  I rented a Taurus and headed for the Phoenix suburb of Gilbert. I walked in the police station demanding to see Chief Dahl “right now!” as if I owned the joint. My leg was killing me. Too much driving and sex in the last week-not that I was complaining.

  Almost an hour later, I was escorted into his office.

  I expected a rigid looking, mustached cop with a straight brimmed hat and a surly attitude. But quite the contrary, Chief Dahl appeared more like an aging surfer.

  His attitude was laid back. I hated laid back. Dahl’s feet were up on his desk like he’d just awoken from a nap, and the remnants of the salad he ate for lunch were strewn over his desk-not the doughnut or artery-clogging meat sandwich I’d expected.

  “Can I help you?” he greeted me with nonchalance.

  “My name is JP Warner and…”

  He cut me off, which irritated me. “I know who you are, Mr. Warner. If you’re here to uncover some sort of police corruption, I can assure you that you’ve come to the wrong police department. Let’s start again-can I help you?”

  “I’m here to talk about a police officer who once worked here.”

  “Since I’m fairly certain you’re the anonymous reporter who phoned me last month to discuss Kyle Jones, I’m going to assume that’s who you’re referring to.”

  His street smarts impressed me and I confessed to making the call.

  “If I recall, you mentioned an award he received back east. He’s a good man and I’m glad to see he’s doing well. Is that why you’re here?”

  “I wish I could say that,” I said, my voice darkening.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “It’s my belief that Kyle Jones is dead. It’s also my contention he was killed here in Gilbert back in 1998. I believe his body is buried in the backyard of a house he rented at 52 Ash Street.”

  Dahl glanced at his desk calendar like he was checking to see if it was April Fools’ Day. “Well, if that were true, Mr. Warner, how do you explain the reference I gave for Kyle to get a police job in Connecticut?”


  I reached into my overnight bag and pulled out the newspaper from the day Jones was given the award at the fair. A photo of Officer Kyle Jones accompanied the article.

  I tossed it onto Dahl’s desk and pointed to the article in the lower right corner. He kept looking at it, and I got the impression he knew who the man in the photo really was. I thought he might.

  “Do you recognize him?” I asked impatiently.

  He nodded. “It’s Kyle’s old roommate-Grady something.” He tapped his hand on his desk as if it would help him think.

  “Grady Benson,” I tried to speed up the process. “I want you to dig up the yard on Ash Street.”

  “You’ve made quite a leap from stolen identity to murder. Do you have any evidence that Kyle is even missing?”

  “With all due respect, Chief Dahl, you know as well as I do that Jones had no family, and his friends were the people he worked with at any given time. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Benson picked him to prey on.”

  “I’ll take that as a no on the evidence.”

  “If you don’t take some action, then I’ll go over there and dig it up myself.”

  “If you think being held captive by terrorists was bad, I can guarantee you, Mr. Warner, it will seem like Club Med compared to an Arizona prison.”

  A stare-down followed. He wasn’t the pushover I’d suspected-I could hear my mother’s warnings about judging books by covers. My eyes wandered to some of the framed photos on the wall behind his desk-numerous shots of Dahl, posing with other police officers and state officials. What I found most interesting was that a few of them featured the real Kyle Jones. For Kyle to make the wall of fame, they must have been close, and hopefully had formed an emotional bond that I could tap into.

  “Listen, I understand your hands are tied. But if you can’t do something as a police officer, can I at least get your word that you will look into this as Kyle’s friend?”

  Dahl saw right through my act. “I met Grady Benson on a few occasions. He was your typical hanger-on. Maybe he saw stealing Kyle’s identity as an opportunity for a new life. It would make sense that he landed in an obscure small town in Connecticut, where he would likely never be questioned. I’ll contact the Rockfield Police Department and present them with the possibility that the Kyle Jones they know may be impersonating an officer. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Your best isn’t good enough,” I raised my voice.

  Dahl studied me, before asking, “This is personal, isn’t it?”

  “Grady Benson killed my brother.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t need you to be sorry, I need you to do something about it. You should take it personally-he killed your friend!”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Don’t you find it strange that you never heard from him again once he left here. And you’re a smart guy, so you now realize that those emails you received from Kyle Jones were actually from Grady Benson, as were the Christmas cards.”

  “Kyle was always a loner. He’s probably living in some remote section of Alaska, or saving some rainforest halfway around the globe. To be honest with you, I never really expected to hear much from him again, unless he needed a reference.”

  “You obviously aren’t willing to accept the truth. Can you at least give me the name of Kyle’s former girlfriend? In our earlier conversation you said it was Lucy, but cut me off before I got a last name. Maybe she still cares what happened to Kyle.”

  “I’m not at liberty to give out information to someone looking to serve up some vigilante justice.”

  “Vigilante justice?” Oh, the irony.

  “What else would you call it? Despite your preconceived notions, Mr. Warner, Arizona isn’t the Wild West with shootouts at the OK-Corral. But there’s a good Wyatt Earp Museum about two hours south of here if you’re interested.”

  “I’m talking about justice and you are talking about bad Costner movies.” I boiled over. “Grady Benson is the only vigilante here!”

  “It’s been fun. I believe you have a great future writing fiction, Mr. Warner.” He stood and reached across the desk to shake my hand.

  Fire shot through my veins. I rose and pointed at him. “Grady Benson’s parents were killed by a drunk driver in Redmond, Washington on July 4, 1989. It sent him on a two-decade killing spree to exact revenge on drunk drivers. One of the cases I’ve been able to link him to is right here in Arizona-Leonard Harris, who you might remember was the drunk driver who took the lives of two college students. Benson worked so closely with him that Harris considered him his spiritual adviser.”

  Dahl shook his head in disbelief. “Leonard Harris was a high profile case here in Arizona, and nationally. If there was some foul play, and Benson was involved, then I’m sure it would have been discovered.”

  I would not be deterred. “Upon moving to Rockfield, using the identity of Kyle Jones, Benson was involved in two suspicious deaths. One was a man named Casey Leeds and the other was my brother, Noah. Both men were connected to alcohol related deaths. And in each case, Benson was present at their death. Do you really think all this is a coincidence, Chief Dahl?”

  He sat back down in his chair where he remained silent for moments. He seemed to be debating whether he should open a smelly can of worms.

  “There was an incident a few years back that Kyle mentioned to me,” he finally said.

  I was all ears.

  “It was Labor Day weekend and we had our usual department picnic. Afterward, my wife and I went out with Kyle and Lucy, along with a few other couples from the department. Kyle had a little too much to drink. I offered to take him home, and looking back on it, I shouldn’t have taken no for an answer. It went against every oath we took. The next day I called him in my office and we both agreed we were in the wrong. That’s when he told me what happened.”

  “Which was?”

  “When he came home, Benson physically attacked Kyle and Lucy. He said he thought the source of the rage was that Benson’s parents had been killed by a drunk driver.”

  “Dig up the yard.”

  “Even if I wanted to, I would need more to get a warrant.”

  “What can you do?”

  He took out a business card and wrote the name Lucy Enriquez-Hayes, followed by an address and phone number.

  Chapter 67

  I arrived at the city limits of Glendale, greeted by a sign promoting it as the home of the Arizona Cardinals. It made me think of Leonard Harris, which set my mind off on a wild tangent that eventually led to the image of Jones tossing Noah’s lifeless body over Samerauk Bridge. I pounded the steering wheel, shooting pain through my hand.

  I was mad at myself for not thinking to check any Lucys who might have worked with Jones on the police force. The workplace has always been the ultimate dating service, even if most of them ended badly-Lauren Bowden came to mind-but I hoped to find someone who still cared for the real Kyle Jones. She must have seen Jones and Benson together at the house on Ash.

  Lucy lived in a modest Spanish Colonial style home in a planned subdivision. When I arrived, she had her head tucked into the hatchback of a station-wagon type SUV, pulling out bags of groceries. She stood barely five-foot tall with dark curly hair. She wore a floral colored dress with sandals. The dress was a maternity dress. I was no pregnancy expert, but she appeared as if she could give birth at any moment. So I had better make it quick.

  I parked the Taurus by the curb and like a knight in shining armor, or a kiss-ass reporter trying to get some information, I rushed to help Lucy with the groceries.

  “I’m JP Warner,” I introduced myself.

  “I know who you are,” she said, handing the bags to me. “Chief Dahl called to warn me you might be stopping by.”

  Lucy moved to the back door of the driver’s side. She opened it and removed a child from her car seat. I was then introduced to six-year-old Dani Hayes. She looked like a clone of her mother.

  “He told me you wa
nt to talk about Kyle Jones.”

  “That’s right,” I said, but decided to hold off on the murder portion of the story until Dani’s ears were at a safe distance.

  When we entered the house, Dani anxiously begged her mother to let her go swimming. When given approval, the little girl excitedly went to change. Lucy poured two glasses of pink lemonade and we moved to the backyard. I followed her lead and took a seat at an umbrella-covered table that provided shade. Dani soon appeared, wearing floatation devices on every appendage of her body and a nose clip, and dove into the in-ground pool.

  “Chief Dahl tells me you have some wild theories about Kyle.”

  “My guess is if he really thought they were so wild, he wouldn’t have sent me over here to talk to you.” I felt rushed for time, so I reached into my bag and handed Lucy the newspaper.

  “Grady Benson,” she replied without hesitation. She handed me back the paper like she wanted no part of it. “I always told Kyle to stay away from that loser.”

  “Sounds like you weren’t a fan of Benson.”

  “He was totally living off Kyle. He couldn’t hang onto a job, claiming he had Gulf War sickness. Kyle was a nice guy and Benson took advantage of it. He played on his emotions about their bond of war, and the fact they both tragically lost their parents.”

  “Don’t you find it strange that you’ve never heard from Kyle since he left Arizona?”

  “Not really … are you in contact with all your ex-girlfriends?”

  Good point.

  “And I did hear from Kyle about two years ago when he was in town.”

  This surprised me. “That’s impossible.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I believe that Grady Benson murdered Kyle Jones, long before two years ago.”

  “You believe? Either he’s dead or he isn’t,” Lucy asked and patted her pregnant stomach to make a point. “You can’t be half pregnant … or half dead.”

  “That’s why I need you to help me convince Chief Dahl to dig up the yard at the home he shared with Benson. I know Kyle Jones is buried under there. My guess is you never saw Kyle two years ago, or heard his voice when he contacted you. Email?”