STATE OF BETRAYAL: A Virgil Jones Mystery (Detective Virgil Jones Mystery Series Book 2)

by Thomas Scott

  Virgil didn’t answer. “You got a little time to spare?”

  Murton looked at his watch. “Maybe. How much time are we talking about?”

  “Probably an hour or so. I’ve got something to show you.”

  But Murton had never been the kind of guy to let someone get the drop on him. “You know what I was just thinking?”

  “What?”

  “Those Underdog cartoons we used to watch when we were kids? Do you remember what Underdog did just before he chased down the bad guys?” He was smiling when he asked the question. It took Virgil a minute to remember, but when he did, he smiled as well. “That’s right, Jonesy. He popped a pill. It’s what gave him his power.” He took a drink of his coffee, stood from the table and said, “So, where we going?”

  8

  __________

  The Governor’s Chief of Staff, Bradley Pearson and Executive Director of the state’s lottery, Abigail Monroe, sat across from each other in the living room of Monroe’s condo. Their conversation had deteriorated to the point where they were hissing at each other like a couple of alley cats. Pearson pointed his finger at her. “Let’s not forget who got you this job, Abby.”

  “How could I, Bradley? You remind me every time you want to get laid.”

  Two years ago, the position of executive director opened up when the then current director—Abigail Monroe’s soon-to-be ex-husband, Lee, opened up one too many bottles of scotch before taking his car out for a little spin. He drove the car—a sporty little Mini Cooper convertible—right off the road and through two backyards before he stopped. Unfortunately for Lee Monroe, what stopped him was the in-ground pool in the third yard. The Mini slid right into the deep end of the pool at three-thirty in the a.m. and sank just slightly slower than a lead balloon. As any good drunk driver would tell you, the formula for survival in this type of situation was simply one of time divided by lung capacity. Regrettably for Monroe—a two pack a day bureaucrat—he was short on both and the math didn’t work to his advantage when he couldn’t get his seatbelt unbuckled. He was dead before the pool owner crawled out of bed and dialed the third digit of 911.

  Over the course of the two days that followed Lee Monroe’s accident, he was buried and properly mourned by Abigail, a process that took the better part of two full minutes and even that was about a minute and a half longer than she would have liked. With that accomplished, Abigail set her sights on her dead husband’s job. She used every tool in her bag—ample tools that they were—to secure the position. Besides, who could possibly object to the grieving widow coming to the aid of the state, not to mention its people in their time of need? She might not have been the best candidate for the job, but Abigail knew someone who could help her with that.

  It didn’t take long before she had her hooks in Bradley Pearson, who, to his discredit, melted just a tad slower than a candy bar on the sidewalk in the middle of July at high noon. Pearson lobbied for Monroe’s appointment long and hard with the governor, the investigation into Lee Monroe’s death was quietly set aside—a drunk is a drunk after all—and at the end of the process, the appointment was hers.

  The end of the process also meant the end of her romantic involvement with Pearson. Monroe had what she wanted and Pearson wasn’t it, not that he ever had been. Unfortunately for Pearson, he’d been a little too busy to notice. After Monroe got the job, Pearson had quietly called in every single political favor he was owed and had the state’s legislature attach a provision on to a highway expansion bill that steered unclaimed lottery winnings into a fund designed to help pay for the completion of the state’s first private prison in neighboring Hendricks County. Monroe didn’t care in the slightest. Her job was to take the money in. What the state did with it wasn’t her concern.

  What was her concern though was the bomb Pearson had just dropped on her, said bomb being that her head programmer, a young man by the name of Nicholas Pope had just been murdered. “It’s too much scrutiny, Abby. The police, not to mention the press are going to be all over this.”

  Abby shook her head. “Try to get a grip on yourself, Bradley. We have no involvement in Pope’s murder, you know that. Besides, he was a pot hound, a doper. I overlooked it as much as I possibly could because of his talents, but in the end, he got himself killed over it. Another drug deal gone bad.”

  “Oh for Christ sake Abby, nobody gets killed over a little weed. Even I know that and I know the cops know it too. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen…the police are going to look at this and when they do they’ll discover that not only was I present when Jones shot James Pope, they’ll discover my connection to his son, Nicholas, through you. Some hard questions are going to be asked and if we don’t get in front of this there will be consequences. Serious consequences. We need to get on the same page here, Abby. We need some damage control.”

  “We are on the same page, Bradley. What else can we do? It really is just one big coincidence.”

  Pearson stood up. “I don’t believe in coincidence. I’m managing this thing on my end. What I need you to do is to not make any moves unless you run them by me. Can you do that for me, Abby? Both our careers are on the line here.”

  “How are you managing it?”

  “That doesn’t concern you.”

  “You’re asking for my cooperation, but you’re not willing to tell me what you’re doing?”

  “It’s not that deep.”

  “Then tell me.”

  Pearson sighed. “I knew the Major Crimes Unit would be investigating this mess. I’ve had the Governor relieve Jones of his position. It wasn’t that hard. He’s got a little drug problem of his own. I can control the new guy.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Pearson tugged at an earlobe and wiggled it back and forth. “He’s already on the hook. I’ve been doing this a long time, Abby. There isn’t much that gets by me. Maybe you should remember that.”

  Monroe stood from the sofa, walked to her front door and held it open. When Pearson moved through, she brushed her hand lightly across the back of his neck. “I got by you though, didn’t I?”

  He turned to say something, but Abby closed the door on him.

  9

  __________

  Virgil let Murton drive and gave him turn-by-turn directions. When they turned the last corner Murton pulled his car to a stop in front of Mason’s house, the same house where they’d both grown up. They sat for a few minutes before Murton glanced over with a ‘what gives?’ look on his face. “Let’s go inside,” Virgil said.

  They got out of the car and made their way up the front walk. The house was a small three-bedroom bungalow with a detached garage and wood siding that Mason had always kept meticulously white with regular coats of paint every other year. When they stepped onto the porch Virgil watched as Murton ran his hands across the railing next to one of the support beams. He looked out at the front yard and Virgil knew, or at the very least suspected what he was thinking about.

  It had been the year they redid the front lawn…the very next summer after the fire. Virgil and Murton had only been friends for a year or so, but the foundation of a lifelong bond had been poured and they both knew it.

  Virgil’s father had just been elected as Marion County Sheriff and to say that he was a busy man was an understatement. His days were long and his nights held an unpredictability that only a mainline gambler could appreciate. As a result of his hectic schedule he had let the front lawn go without fertilizer that spring and by the time the heat and humidity of the summer arrived, the crabgrass had taken hold so wide and deep that he could barely push the lawnmower through it without stalling the engine. When he’d finally had enough and decided it was time to address his own disregard, he did so with a vengeance.

  He began with a rented sod cutter and ripped out the entire front lawn right down to the dirt. Murton and Virgil—both of them only seven years old at the time—helped him carry the heavy pieces of cut weed to the end of the drive. It was a dirty, labo
rious job that took most of the entire weekend. On Sunday, with freshly raked dirt in place and leveled just so, they began to plant the new seed. The seed had to be sown by hand and then raked into the soil. They were almost finished when Virgil saw Murton’s father, Ralph Wheeler, walking down the middle of the street, right toward them. He wore his work clothes—a dingy T-shirt beneath blue and white striped overalls, the fingers of his work gloves sticking out of a side pocket. He walked across the freshly raked front yard as if Mason’s efforts of the past two days or their intended results meant nothing to him. Virgil and Murton were at the other end of the yard so they couldn’t hear what was said between their fathers, but Virgil had an impression that something was terribly wrong, the first indication when Mason extended his hand to Murton’s dad, then slowly let it drop to his side when his greeting was not accepted. Instead, Murton’s dad covered his face with both his hands, let out a sob and then fell to his knees in the dirt. Virgil’s mother had just walked out onto the porch carrying a tray that held a glass pitcher of lemonade and plastic cups and when she saw Murton’s dad go to the ground and heard his sobs, she dropped the tray and ran, not to the men, but to the boys. She had no idea what was happening, but she knew right then and there that her job was to protect the children at whatever sort of drama was playing out before them. Virgil and Murton watched over their shoulders as Virgil’s mom ushered them up the porch steps and past the broken glass of the lemonade pitcher, their fathers still in the front yard, out by the street. Murton’s dad was on his knees and he was bent forward from his waist, his forehead pressed firmly into the dirt. He was wailing and sobbing and when he raised his head from the ground his face was covered with dirt and grass seed that had mixed in with the spittle that ran from the corner of his mouth. What he said next was something no young child should ever have to hear.

  By the time they made it inside, Murton was already crying.

  __________

  Almost a full week went by before Virgil saw his friend again. The funeral and burial was simple, attended by only a handful of mourners. Afterward, when Virgil tried to speak with him, Murton turned and ran away without saying a word, his sense of loss and anger pointed in the only direction that felt safe. This went on for just over a month. The very next night Virgil found out what kind of people his parents were.

  Shortly after dinner the three of them walked the few blocks over to the city park where Ralph Wheeler coached Murton’s soccer team. The team played twice a week but this would be the first time that Murton played since the passing of his mother. It was the first time his father would return to coach as well.

  The night was mild, filled with the promise of sportsmanship and laughter, and regardless of the tragedy Murton had been forced to endure, Virgil remained hopeful that the night might be a turning point in his friend’s life, a frame of reference he might one day be able to look back on and recognize when his healing began. As it turned out that is exactly what happened, just not in a way anyone expected.

  Virgil’s mother carried a blanket so they could all sit in the grass to watch the game and his father carried a picnic basket filled with fresh fruit and a jug of ice water and white plastic cups. The lights were on at the corners and midpoints of the field, the moths and other winged creatures already starting their dance around the lights as the three of them settled in to watch the game.

  Murton stood at the side of the field, his father towering over him. They were deep in conversation about something, the opposing team waiting patiently at midfield. Ralph Wheeler was saying something to Murton who was shaking his head back and forth so hard it looked as if he were trying to remove a bee that had gotten tangled in his hair. Wheeler grabbed his son first by one arm, then the other. He held him so hard and tight that Murton was forced to stand on his tiptoes. Virgil’s mom started to rise, but Mason placed his hand gently on her thigh and dipped his chin just so. There was no mistaking his message. The Jones family would not get involved with the Wheeler’s grief.

  It was clear that Murton did not want to play soccer, but his father was not having it. He pushed Murton onto the field just past the sideline and then pushed him again to send him further out. When Murton turned around to walk off, his father grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragged him to the bench and forcefully sat him down. Mr. Wheeler turned to walk away and then something else happened, something that turned out to be a catalyst of change that would forever alter not just Murton’s life, but Virgil’s family as well.

  Murton said something to his father.

  No one heard what was said, but whatever it was, Mr. Wheeler was not in the mood nor the proper state of mind to hear it. He spun around and leaned into his son’s face and began to yell at him, his words thoughtless and cruel. Spittle flew from his lips and landed on Murton’s face, but to his credit, Murton never looked away in fear or shame. In fact, the more his father yelled the more defiant the look on Murton’s face. Mason stood and began to make his way over behind Mr. Wheeler, any thoughts of remaining uninvolved in another family’s grief quickly forgotten. But even as he approached it was clear that Mr. Wheeler was losing steam, his words now focused more on himself than his only child. At last he sat down at the far end of the bench, away from Murton, his head hung low. The coach of the opposing team walked over and said something to Mr. Wheeler that went unacknowledged before he gathered his team and left the field.

  Virgil was disappointed about the game and embarrassed for his friend. When he called out to him, Murton turned away as if he hadn’t heard and left the field. Virgil stood there for a few minutes and watched him go, then helped his mom fold the blanket and gather their belongings.

  Everyone mistakenly thought the evening was over.

  __________

  They hadn’t been home more than an hour. Mason was tinkering with something out in the garage while Virgil helped his mother wash the dinner dishes they’d set aside for later, after the game. Virgil had just placed the last dish into the rack when he and his mother heard a terrible crash at the front of the house. They ran into the living room and discovered the large plate glass window that fronted the porch had been shattered. Glass was everywhere and a softball-sized rock lay in the middle of the room. When Virgil looked out through the hole where the window used to be, Murton was in the front yard, his small body illuminated by the mercury streetlamps that hummed overhead at the edge of the sidewalk. He was on his hands and knees and he swept his arms back and forth and kicked and scuffed his feet across the seeded lawn in an attempt to do as much damage as he possibly could. Later in life it would become obvious to Virgil that Murton wasn’t just mad because he’d lost his mother, he was mad at his best friend because of what Virgil had…two parents who loved him and a future that was both bright and secure. Virgil and his mom went out on the front porch just as Mason came running around the corner of the house. Murton’s hands and face were covered with a mixture of dirt and snot and tears and Virgil watched as his father sat down on the ground next to him, wrapped Murton in his arms and held him on his lap until he cried himself out. They stayed out there for a long time, deep in conversation, until finally Mason walked him inside, his massive arm around Murton’s shoulders. Murton’s face was red, his lower lip was split open and he had the beginnings of a shiner on his left eye. They all stood there for a beat looking at each other before Virgil’s mom took Murton by the hand and said, “Come on honey, let’s get you a bath. We’ll put some antiseptic cream on your lip and get you an ice pack for your eye. Hey, I’ve got an idea. You can wear a pair of Virgil’s pajamas and spend the night with us. How does that sound?”

  Murton followed her upstairs without answering and when Virgil looked at his father he saw the muscles of his jaw were flexed with tension. “I’ll be right back,” Mason said. An hour later he walked through the door carrying a small canvas-sided suitcase. The knuckles of both his hands were bloody and swollen, but other than that he didn’t have a scratch on him. “Murt will be staying
with us for a while,” he said. “What do you think of that, Son?”

  Virgil didn’t remember if he answered his father or not, but he remembered hugging him, his face buried in his shirt, his boney arms wrapped around Mason’s massive body, Murton’s little suitcase banging against his side as he did.

  Two days later Ralph Wheeler bonded out of county lock-up, hopped a Southern Freight boxcar and was never heard from again. Murton lived with Virgil and his parents until they were both grown and left for the army.

  __________

  Murton had yet to turn around. Virgil put the key into the lock, opened the door then walked over to the porch railing and stood next to his friend. “What are you thinking?”

  Murton turned, his eyes dark. The look on his face caused Virgil to take a half step back. “Simpler times my ass,” he said. “That’s what I’m thinking.” But just as quickly he removed his hat, wiped the sweat ring inside the band with his index finger and placed it carefully back on his head. Then he winked at Virgil and smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “So, why are we here?”

  __________

  “I’ve got something for you,” Virgil said.