by J. C. Fields
The Imposter’s Trail
J.C. Fields
Copyright © 2017 John Cawlfield
All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted or transferred in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system or device, without the permission in writing by the author
Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental.
This is a work of fiction.
Paperback-Press
an imprint of A & S Publishing
A & S Holmes, Inc.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the next generation:
Mikey, Chloe, Peyton and Alice.
Your presence gives me hope for the future.
Acknowledgments
Everyone should have a passion. Mine is writing. My love of writing started in my teens, continuing through college. Lacking confidence in my abilities with a pen and graduating during a particularly difficult retrenching of the United States economy, I put my passion aside.
The passion was rekindled around the turn of the century when everyone thought Y2K would cause all life on earth to cease. It didn’t.
During the years since I have made the acquaintance of numerous groups and individuals who helped accelerate my journey as a writer.
I tip my hat to the following:
The Springfield Writers’ Guild. Before I joined, I was writing in a vacuum. No one was giving knowledgeable feedback on my prose. I remember the first piece I submitted to Mentor Hour, it was ripped to shreds. BUT, it helped me understand what I was doing wrong.
Wayne Groner, friend, mentor, and former newscast announcer, is a member of the Guild. He took me under his wing and assisted my growth as a novelist with the simple phrase, “It’s over-written.”
Kwen Griffeth is a fellow author, friend, and critique partner. His varied careers, including military and civilian police, have helped his development as a magnificent story-teller. He can read a chapter and tell me to move this part here and another part there. Suddenly the story flows.
To my editorial team: Emily Truscott and Norma Eaton. Emily handles the heavy lifting with developmental edits. Norma continues as my line editor and beta reader, tasks she has endured for all three novels. She fine tunes the manuscript and provides a first review.
Not sure I would have three books published without Sharon Kizziah-Holmes, owner of Paperback-Press. She believed in the project from the beginning and has been the publisher for all three novels. Thank you, Sharon.
Niki Fowler, a graphic artist extraordinaire, created all three covers and provided the Trail series with its unique look.
As with the previous two novels, I give thanks for my wife Connie. She keeps me grounded and reminds me there are other important events in our lives besides my books. She continues to be my best friend and partner in life.
Part 1
St. Louis, MO
Six Years Ago
Paul Bishop parked the rented Kia Rio next to the lake and stared across the water in the pale early light of dawn following another sleepless night. Geese swooped in, flared their wings, and one by one, gracefully settled on the calm water. On any other day, he would have marveled at the beauty of the sight.
He once again opened the white envelope addressed to his brother, unfolded his hand-written one page note, and read it for the twentieth time. A tear slid down his cheek as he folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. This time he sealed the envelope, then placed it on the passenger seat next to the Taurus Millennium G2 9mm and stared at the gun. Returning his gaze to the eastern sky, he watched as the sun peeked above the horizon.
Looking back at the pistol, Paul picked it up, placed the barrel under his chin, and without hesitation, pulled the trigger.
The sound echoed off the hills surrounding the lake, startling several flocks of geese and ducks. Eventually, the clamor of their honking and quacking subsided and once again, the tranquility of early morning returned to the lake.
***
FBI Agent Sean Kruger stood in the middle of Paul Bishop’s sparsely furnished living room. It was a small house located in the town of Wildwood, MO west of St. Louis. The house contained two bedrooms, a kitchen, laundry room, and one bathroom. Today the entire place was a beehive of activity, with members of an FBI forensics team and local detectives combing every room for clues about the owner. Referring to a small notebook, Kruger said, “Teri, can I ask you a question?”
Teri Monroe, lead technician for the FBI team, walked over. “Sure, what’s up, Sean?”
“We’ve worked more than a few cases together over the years, haven’t we?”
“More years than I care to think about.” She smiled.
“Do you notice anything unusual about this place?”
She looked around and shook her head. “Nope. Looks like a man’s house to me.”
She looked back at Kruger. “Why?”
“It’s unnaturally neat.”
“We’ve seen it before.” She shrugged. “The guy was a compulsive cleaner. Everything has its place, and everything’s in its place.”
Kruger shook his head. “The guy lived here twenty years. I don’t see any pictures of family, friends, or pets. There’s nothing personal in this house, absolutely nothing.”
Monroe looked around the room and frowned. “Now that you mention it...”
Kruger checked his notes and continued, looking back at Monroe.
“There’s nothing in this house identifying who the envelope is for. Just the name Randy. No last name. Who’s Randy?”
He frowned and paced the small room. “Did Paul Bishop strip this place clean before he took his life, or did this Randy person do it?”
He stopped moving and focused on Monroe. “I need answers, Teri.”
“Shit.” Monroe shook her head. “Okay, everyone gather in the living room. We have a problem.”
Of the four technicians gathering evidence, three were women from the St. Louis FBI office, and the fourth was a young skinny man who arrived at the scene with Monroe. Monroe waited until everyone was in the living room. “Agent Kruger just made an observation, and I tend to agree with him. Before we arrived, someone may have been in this house and taken evidence. We need to step up our game and determine if anything is missing. You know the drill. Let’s get to it.”
They all nodded and returned to their tasks.
“Charlie, would you stay here for a second?” Monroe pointed at the tall skinny kid. “Agent Kruger, this is Charlie Craft. He’s young and inexperienced, but someday will make an excellent forensic technician for the FBI.”
Kruger smiled and shook the young man’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”
The young man stared at Kruger while he shook his hand. “Uh… Oh my… I mean… Uh, nice to meet you, Mr. Kruger.”
“The name is Sean.” Kruger chuckled. “My dad was Mr. Kruger.”
Monroe grinned, “Mr. Kruger, please show Charlie how you would look at a crime scene.” She winked at Kruger and walked away.
“Charlie,” Kruger looked around the room, “what do we know about the man who owned this house?”
“He committed suicide and left a note confessing to the four killings known as the Quarry Murders. That was your case, wasn’t it?”
Kruger nodded. “The reason we’re here. What else, Charlie?”
Charlie shook his head. “That’s all I’ve been told.”
“Exactly. We know very little about this man, except he owned th
is house free and clear. No mortgage. We know his name: Paul Bishop. We know he had one credit card with a zero balance. We know he had a cell phone because of a bill found in his mailbox. We also know he owned a computer because the house has a Wi-Fi router. But we haven’t found a cell phone or a computer, have we?”
Kruger remained silent as Charlie looked around the room. “Maybe he hid them off-site, or possibly they were stolen.”
Kruger nodded. “I prefer to think the former.”
“Why?”
“Good question. I’ll answer it in a minute. One other fact we know about our Mr. Bishop: he has a clean background. Never been arrested, not even a traffic ticket, nothing. He didn’t exist in the criminal system until they found his body with the note. It’s rare. Most people get a speeding ticket at some point in their lives, but he didn’t.”
Charlie’s eyes didn’t waver as he watched Kruger.
“So here we are in his home of twenty years. It should reveal something about Mr. Bishop, wouldn’t you agree, Charlie?”
Charlie nodded.
“So why is this house not telling us anything about Mr. Paul Bishop?”
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know?”
Kruger smiled.
“I think our Mr. Bishop has a secret. A secret someone doesn’t want us to know.”
While the forensics team systematically searched Paul Bishop’s house, local detective Barry Winslow tapped Kruger on the shoulder. “Sean, we found someone at home who says she knows Bishop. I think you need to talk to her.”
Kruger nodded and followed the detective out of the house. It was a picturesque neighborhood: a shady canopy of mature trees drooped over the street, with sidewalks on both sides of the road, nicely manicured lawns, and well-kept older homes. They turned to the south and walked diagonally across the street toward a house obscured by shrubs, flowers, and hanging baskets on the front porch. Alfonzo Cordero, another local detective, opened the door and introduced Kruger to the elderly owner.
“Mrs. Sellers, this is FBI Agent Sean Kruger. Agent, this is Norma Sellers.”
Kruger smiled and offered his identification, which the petite woman examined with care. Though slightly stooped over, she stood barely as tall as Kruger’s chest. He smiled. She probably didn’t weigh as much as the German shepherd his parents used to own. Her silver hair was nicely done, and she wore a patterned dress accented with an open solid blue sweater. She handed his ID back. “I’ve never met anyone from the FBI.”
“It just means I travel more than these detectives.” Kruger smiled. “I’m basically here to assist them.”
She returned the smile. “Can I offer you coffee, Mr. FBI Agent?”
“No thank you, ma’am.”
“I offered these gentlemen coffee, but they turned it down too. You know, you remind me of my late husband. He was tall and slender just like you and a runner. Do you run, Mr. FBI Agent? Sorry, I’ve forgotten you name.”
“It’s Sean, ma’am. Yes, I run. What can you tell me about your neighbor, Paul Bishop?”
“Nice man. Friendly and always waved, a rarity in this neighborhood. After my husband passed, Paul always shoveled my driveway and sidewalk when it snowed. Never asked. He just did it. Wouldn’t take a penny for his labors. He’d tell me he was already shoveling and got carried away. Then he’d laugh and continue shoveling.”
Kruger nodded. “Do you know if he had any family?”
She frowned. “There was a woman living there when my husband and I moved into the neighborhood, but she disappeared several years later.”
“Did he ever mention someone named Randy to you?”
She shook her head “Not that I recall.”
Kruger nodded and smiled. “Okay. What can you tell me about the woman?”
She was silent, tapping her right index finger on her lips.
“When we moved into the neighborhood, oh, I guess it was nineteen years ago, we would see her on rare occasions. She wasn’t very friendly—kind of snooty, actually. She never waved or spoke. One day she disappeared, and we never saw her again. I thought it odd and was going to ask Paul about her. But my husband told me to mind my own business.”
“Do you know if they were married?”
“Oh yes. Paul introduced her as his wife when we first met them.”
Kruger looked up at the two detectives. Winslow nodded and left the house. Kruger returned his attention to Norma Sellers. “Did you ever see him with another woman?”
She shook her head. “No. Can’t say I did. Bob, that’s my late husband, always said he thought Paul was queer. You know, uh, didn’t like women.”
Kruger nodded. Cordero jotted something down in a small notebook, and Kruger asked, “Did he ever mention a brother or sister?”
“No. Now that you mention it, he never talked about himself. He would ask about our health and was concerned when Bob got the cancer.” She paused. “I will never forget, he stayed at our house during the funeral—kept the burglars away, you know. They wait for people to die and then steal from them during the funeral.”
“I’ve heard that.” Kruger paused for just a few seconds. “What else can you tell me about Paul Bishop?”
After a long silence, she shook her head. “Don’t you believe a word they’re saying about him. He was a gentleman, respectful and considerate. Not many men left like that anymore.”
Kruger talked to Norma Sellers for another twenty minutes but failed to learn anything else of importance. He thanked her and left the house with Cordero. Once they were off the front porch, Kruger said, “Let’s see if Winslow’s found anything about the mysterious Mrs. Bishop.”
They found Winslow sitting in the passenger seat of a dark green unmarked Chevy Impala police car. The door was open, and Winslow was hunched over, holding his cell phone to his ear with his shoulder as he rapidly made notes on a yellow five-by-eight notepad. When they approached, he held one finger up. Finally, he spoke into the phone, “No, that’s what I needed. Thanks, Sharon. I owe you.”
He smiled as he looked up at Kruger and Cordero. “We didn’t think to look at divorce records. Bishop wasn’t married here. They were married out of state. The divorce papers were filed here.”
Kruger titled his head slightly. “And?”
“Timeline doesn’t jive with the story Miss Sellers told.”
“How so?” Cordero asked.
“She indicated the woman disappeared a few years after they moved in. The divorce wasn’t finalized until six years ago. That’s a ten or more year gap.”
“Maybe she was confused,” said Cordero. “Got her times wrong.”
Kruger shook his head. “No. Her husband died six years ago. She mentioned a long period without Bishop being seen with a woman. Her husband thought Bishop was gay.”
Cordero nodded. “Yeah,” he paused. “There is that.”
“What was her name?” Kruger asked.
Referring to his notes, Winslow flipped back a few pages. “Court papers state her name was Brenda Parker Bishop. Petition states reason for divorce was abandonment. It was filed by Paul Bishop, and her maiden name of Parker was restored. He got the house, and she got cash.”
Kruger frowned. “I don’t suppose there is any mention of her current address.”
Winslow shook his head.
“I didn’t think there would be. Dammit. How many Brenda Parkers can there be? Six or seven million?” Kruger slapped the roof of the police car.
All three men were quiet. Kruger rubbed the back of his neck. “Where were they married? Does the petition say anything about that?”
Winslow referred to his notes and nodded. “Illinois.”
“She might have gone back to Illinois. Or, she could still be here in St. Louis. I’ll have one of the techs start searching for her there. Why don’t you two see if you can locate her here?”
Cordero nodded and headed toward the driver’s side.
Just before they drove off, Kruger bent down to look into the
car. “Have we been able to determine where this guy worked?”
Winslow shook his head. “Not yet. None of the neighbors at home knew him. Apparently he kept to himself. He’d wave, but they never spoke to him. The neighbors on both sides of the house aren’t home from work yet. Maybe we’ll get lucky with them.”
Kruger nodded and looked back at the house. Yellow crime-scene tape was stretched around the yard. A white forensic van was parked in the driveway, along with several black-and-white police cars. The crowd on both sides of the house was growing. Curious onlookers were scattered in various yards on both sides of the street.
Cordero leaned over from the driver seat and remarked, “How many of your neighbors do you two know?”
Winslow looked over at him. “Not many.”
Kruger smiled slightly. “I know one.”
Chapter 2
Wildwood, MO
An hour after the two local detectives left, Charlie Craft waved at Kruger. Kruger walked over to the kitchen table where Charlie worked. “Did you find something?”
Charlie nodded and pointed at the laptop. “I believe that’s her.”
Kruger looked at the screen; it showed a profile of Brenda Parker of Rockford, Illinois. Charlie pointed at the screen. “I hacked into her Facebook page. A week ago, Paul Bishop sent a friend request; so far, she’s ignored it.”
Kruger put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Nicely done. Have you ever been to Rockford, Illinois?”
Charlie shook his head.
“Me neither.”
***
Brenda Parker lived in a quiet neighborhood in the southeast section of Rockford. The homes were small and older, with the occasional car parked on the street. Her ranch-style home sat at the end of a cul-de-sac and featured a triangular-shaped yard. A ten-year-old Oldsmobile Cutlass was parked in front of the detached garage, and Kruger parked the rental car behind it. He turned to Charlie. “Let’s go meet the ex-Mrs. Paul Bishop.”
