“They ruled it an accident. They said…” Again more crying. “They said he must’ve been doing heroin with some friends and OD’d. His friends panicked and dropped him off at the hospital.”
“And you don’t believe that?”
“No.”
The man who was arguing with his girl in the diner got up. He passed by. I tried my best not to look or make eye contact, but those attempts were to no avail. We briefly locked eyes. There was an expression on his bearded face that made me feel guilty for eavesdropping. That guilt was short lived. They shouldn’t have aired their dirty laundry in public.
“Are you still there?” I realized I kept Mrs. Clark hanging.
“Okay, Mrs. Clark. Let me get your address and I can come down and talk to you in person.” I took out my notepad and pen.
“We live at 107 Bainbridge in Stone Harbor.”
“1-0-7. Okay, got it. I’ll be there soon.”
Mrs. Clark was surprised. “Now? You’re coming now?”
The Other Half
“So this is how the other half lives.” That is the sort of cliché that a character from the slums would say when they head into the more wealthy side of town. As much as I despise a cliché, there was something to it.
Normally, I tend to avoid driving through neighborhoods like Bainbridge. The well-manicured lawns and million dollar homes just remind me of what I will never have. They are unobtainable goals behind veneers of suburban perfection. Older I get, the more I realize that I don’t want that kind of life.
Money often goes hand-in-hand with problems. Look inside the medicine cabinets in any of the homes on the street and you’d find a virtual pharmacy. There are pills for when you’re too sad, too happy, tired, can’t sleep, anxiety and panic attacks. Men in freshly dry-cleaned suits have to take medication to keep the passion alive in their marriages. Women in mom jeans swallow a couple of units so they can force a smile for their kids.
107 Bainbridge wasn’t too hard to find. The number was painted on the curb in front and in iron digits nailed to the door. It was a nice place. There was nothing unique about it. But it was nice.
I rang the doorbell. They had a novelty ring that was a chorus of bird chirps. Behind the door I could hear someone walking down stairs. Mrs. Clark answered.
“Hi, you must be Ms. Reid?” greeted Mrs. Clark. The poor woman was a wreck. Though she clearly tried to look nice for her guest, there were signs of grief obvious to any investigative eye. Her blonde and grey hair was tied back but hadn’t been washed in days. She tried to cover up the dark circles under her eyes with makeup. It was in vain. Both the sweater and the jeans she was wearing were wrinkled, and her polite smile was forced.
I shook Mrs. Clark’s hand. “Please, call me Riley.”
“Come in.” Mrs. Clark led the way into her home. I followed.
The inside of the Clark residence gave further proof of their turmoil. I wouldn’t call it messy, but it was in disarray. There was a visible layer of dust on the furniture which was highlighted by the sunlight. Papers were strewn about the dining room table. Rugs weren’t vacuumed. Floors weren’t swept.
“Please, have a seat.” Mrs. Clark motioned for me to rest on the couch.
“Is Mr. Clark home?” I asked.
“He’s at work.”
I took out my notepad. “And where’s that?”
Mrs. Clark look confused. “Where’s what?”
“Your husband, where does he work?”
“He’s an investment banker at Hewitt and Goldman.”
I nodded my head and recorded that in my notepad.
“How does this work?” asked Mrs. Clark. “Where do I start?”
“Tell me why you think your son’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“I guess I should first tell you that Dennis used to have a drug problem. In high school he started with oxycotin and vicodin.”
I recorded every word Mrs. Clark said. “Do you have any idea why?”
“He started spending a lot of time with a bad group of kids. Neither I nor my husband knew when he started with the pills, but we caught on when he started stealing from us.” Mrs. Clark didn’t enjoy talking about her son’s faults. She had trouble looking me in the eye when she did. It was a mixture of shame and embarrassment.
“We don’t know exactly when he started the heroin. What we did notice were the changes in his behavior. He used to be on three different varsity teams, had a 3.8 GPA, and even led the school debate team. One by one he dropped out of all of those, including school. My jewelry started disappearing. So did my husband’s tools.
“Finally, we had enough. Dennis was given an ultimatum. He either went to rehab or he was out of this house and cut off financially.”
“And he went?” I asked not looking up from my notepad.
“He did.”
“Which facility did he go to?”
“Fresh Horizons, outside of Norfolk.”
“Fresh Horizons,” I repeated as I wrote it down. I looked up. “Do you happen to have an address or contact information for Fresh Horizons?” I could’ve looked up where Fresh Horizons was on my phone. It would have taken me seconds. But I could tell that Mrs. Clark was barely holding it together. Maybe I could give her a temporary break before continuing her son’s story.
“Yeah, hold on one second,” Mrs. Clark got up and retrieved her purse. From inside it, she produced a business card from the rehab facility. She handed it to me. I glanced at it, then put it in my pocket.
“He was there for a couple of months. When he got back, everything seemed great… at first. A year later he was arrested for possession. He was caught with two hundred dollars worth of pain killers. My husband kicked him out of the house.”
“And when was this?”
“About three years ago, I think.”
I wrote down what Mrs. Clarke said. It was important in my line of work to record every little detail, no matter how inconsequential it may seem. You never know what will serve as a vital clue later in a case.
“We’d hear from Dennis every once and a while. I’d get a phone call or a text on holidays or birthdays. Then one day he just showed up here. And he looked good. He told us he was back at Fresh Horizons. He got his GED and was going to start taking classes at the community college. And he had a serious girlfriend. We were so happy for him, but wary. He had relapsed before. But we were hopeful.”
“His girlfriend?”
“Holly Kennedy. I have a picture of them together if you’d like it.”
“Yes, please.”
Mrs. Clark reached into her purse again. This time she took out a photo. She handed it to me. In the picture was a handsome young man with short blonde hair and brown eyes. He had one arm around a shorter female with long brown hair and big grey eyes. Both were in swimsuits and tanned. It must’ve been taken at the beach. There was so much joy in it.
“Things continued to go well. Dennis stayed clean. He got a job delivering packages. Then, a couple of months ago, he told us that Holly was pregnant.” Mrs. Clark started to cry. “We were so happy for him. It really felt like everything was going right, you know? All the drugs and the stealing were behind us. Then, two weeks ago, he was found outside of Saint Mercy.” The crying got more intense. “The doctors said he was dead before he even got there. They said he OD’d.”
“On heroin?”
Mrs. Clark nodded.
“And what did the police say?”
“They told us that it was a clear-cut case of accidental suicide. There were no signs of foul play.” Grief turned to anger on Mrs. Clark’s face and in her voice.
“You don’t believe that he did it to himself?” I knew the answer, but I asked anyway.
“My boy didn’t kill himself, accident or otherwise. He had so much to live for, so much to look forward to. It just … it makes no sense.”
I closed my notepad. “Okay, Mrs. Clark. I’ll take the case.”
Mrs. Clarke looked surprised. She had every reason to be. M
ost people would assume that the police were right in this case. But there was something in her eyes, in her voice and, yes, in her tears, that convinced me it was worth looking into.
Home Away from Home
I’m very familiar with the Stone Harbor Police Station. I say “the” because there is only one station in the small town. It was a small brick building with only enough room for two holding cells and a handful of desks. The only office belonged to Police Chief Mark Owens.
After Detective Richard Greyson took me in, I spent a lot of time in the Stone Harbor Police Station. It wasn’t because I did anything wrong. Perhaps it was the feeling of safety within those old sturdy walls. Perhaps it was the staff, who always treated me well. Perhaps I was just a weird kid.
When I walked in that evening, I was greeted by the motherly voice of Loretta Dawson. She was sitting behind her desk in front of the chief’s office. Loretta was a kind, seemingly ageless black woman. Her personality was such that I couldn’t help but love her.
“How you doing, baby?” asked Loretta as I entered through the glass front doors.
“Can’t complain. You?”
“I could complain for days. But who’d listen?”
I smiled at Loretta. “Is the chief in?”
“No, he went home for the day. You need something?”
“Not from him. Is Sam here?”
Loretta gave me a wry smile. “He’s around here somewhere.”
I continued through the station. It was not a fancy place. The walls were painted off-white and topped by rows of deteriorating drop ceiling tiles. I’d always suspected that above those tiles was insulation made of asbestos. Fluorescent lighting lit up the building and gave everyone an unflattering glow.
There were only twenty officers employed by the county of Stone Harbor. One of the newer hires, Officer Amy Paxton, met eyes with me as I searched among the desks for Sam Greyson.
“What kind of trouble are you getting into, Riley?” asked Amy. It was hard to tell with her sitting down, but Amy was a small woman. She was no bigger than I am. And I’m only five foot six on my best day. What she lacked in size, she made up for in attitude.
“Solving your guys’ cases, as usual,” I joked.
Amy laughed. As hard as she may have tried to hide it with her short haircut and intimidating personality; when Amy laughed you could see the lovely young woman underneath.
I kept looking for Sam. He wasn’t in the main area of the station. I would have seen him. The six foot two detective stood out. Not only was he tall but also in great shape. At thirty-five, only four years older then I was, he looked thirty. There wasn’t a gray hair on his head.
It wasn’t long before I saw Sam come out of the back room. When he saw me, there was a wave and a smile.
“Hey, Riley,” said Sam as he spotted me walking towards him.
“I…we need to talk.”
“What did I do?”
“Nothing. This is serious. Can we go somewhere more private?”
“Don’t see why not. C’mon, will go to the holding cells.”
I followed Sam into the back of the station where they kept prisoners. On that day, the cells were empty. It was just me and Stone Harbor’s only detective.
Sam looked at me with his grayish-blue eyes. It was the kind of look I’ve seen him use at bars and parties to woo women. It was a look he gave me often. And no matter how many times I see it, my heart flutters a bit. But under no circumstances would I let him know that.
“So, what can I do for ya?” asked Sam.
“The Clark case.”
“What about it?”
“Can you tell me anything about it?”
Sam sighed. “What’s there to tell? The kid overdosed. It’s sad, but not uncommon.”
“There was nothing strange about it? Nothing stood out?”
Sam’s eyes moved to the top corners of his eyes. After spending a couple of seconds accessing his mental vault, Sam told me. “He did look a little roughed up.”
“Roughed up?”
“Yeah, like he had been in a fight. But the coroner ruled that the injuries were suffered days before the night he died. We looked into it but never found out who, when or why.”
“Anything else? Did they find anything on him?”
Sam leaned up against the bars of one of the cells. “You know, I’m really not supposed to be telling you any of this. If the chief found out…”
“I’m not going to tell him. Are you?” I gave Sam a smile.
“We won’t have to. I swear he can smell it.”
I got closer and gently put my hand on Sam’s arm. It was a dirty move, I know. Sam had had a crush on me since I moved in with his dad. Every time he’d come home from school to visit, the attraction grew. I didn’t return his interest. It just didn’t feel right.
“What did you find?”
“You’re going to ruin me, woman.” Sam stood up straight. “We found an empty baggie.”
“A baggie?”
Sam bent his thumb and forefinger towards each other to indicate the size of the baggie. “You know, like dealers use? There was residue inside. It tested positive for heroin. A picture of a purple jester was printed on it.”
I took out my notepad.
“Can’t you at least wait until you leave? There are cameras in here you know?”
I put my notepad away. “You guys find a lot of those? Jesters I mean?”
“They’ve been all over the state lately. Dealers use it to brand their garbage.”
“Thanks, Sam. This means a lot.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
After obtaining the information I sought, I headed towards the exit. I heard Sam’s voice as I walked away.
“You gonna be at Dad’s tomorrow?”
I turned around, confused. What was he talking about?
“His birthday is tomorrow. We’re going to go over there for dinner. Samantha is bringing the kids. You’re going to be there, right?”
Nocturnal Investigations
Dreams have always fascinated me. The mind’s ability to generate whole worlds is nothing short of amazing. Then, it fills that world with people you know and others born out of errant thoughts and the subconscious. But for me, dreams served an even more important purpose.
My brain seemed to sort out information during sleep. Often, this process produced clues or gave me a path to follow. On more rare occasions, my dreams gave me insights that I was wholly unfamiliar with. How that happens is beyond my understanding. I just accept and embrace it.
That night, I had a particularly strange dream. It was one of those you just can’t seem to forget. Some of the details may be off. The following is what I remember:
I suddenly found myself in downtown Stone Harbor. It was during the day and the sky was overcast. But what stood out were the buildings. They didn’t have any graffiti or broken windows. There were no junkies or drifters.
It was as if I was transported into the past. The long-closed Encore Theatre was even lit up. There was something on the marquee, but I couldn’t make it out. That was around when I noticed I wasn’t alone.
Standing in the middle off the intact streets was Dennis Clark. I recognized him from the pictures his mother shared with me. Unlike the photos, this Dennis was the shade of pale reserved for the dead. The blue veins underneath were clearly visible. His eyes were cloudy and lifeless. He just stood there, staring at me.
I tried to ask, “What are you doing here?” What actually came out was a scramble of what resembled words. It didn’t even qualify as a real language.
Dennis’s head jerked from side to side violently. That should’ve freaked me out. It didn’t. What accompanied it did.
The sky quickly turned from gray to black. Weeds, vines and ivy overtook the downtown buildings in front of my eyes. I had to dodge the vegetation that aggressively broke through the asphalt.
When downtown returned to its familiar, depressing state, Dennis started to move. He he
aded down the road with a confidant nonchalance that was magnetic. I found myself following him.
Everything around me was moving. The trees appeared to be reaching out for us. Grass moved in waves like a stormy, green ocean. I looked down and the street looked like millions of gray insects trying to avoid my footsteps.
I followed Dennis through town. The surroundings looked familiar but at the same time a little off. It was like when a friend gets a new haircut. Upon first seeing it you recognize them, but something is different. You can’t put your finger on exactly what changed at first. Not until you take a good look do you notice.
The dream version of Dennis didn’t even seem to notice I was following him. There was no acknowledgment of my presence. Wherever he was going was much more important than myself.
I heard a voice. It was like a narrator in a movie. Or maybe it was the voice of God? What or whoever it was must’ve been important. But, for the life of me, I don’t remember what was said.
In a blink of an eye, we were somewhere else, somewhere with vomit-green colored walls and filthy carpeted floors. I knew where Dennis and I were. It was the only other apartment complex in town, Hunters Glenn.
Why we were in the hallways of the Glenn was beyond me. Maybe it meant nothing. Not everything in dreams means something. Sometimes it’s just your brain throwing up.
Dennis turned a corner. I tried to follow, but found myself in the woods instead. It was chilly. Even though it was dark, I knew it was someplace I’d never been before. There was a sinister feel to the place.
I attempted to start walking again. My feet didn’t budge. No amount of effort I put into it helped. The forest around me started to thin out. Trees disappeared without me seeing it happen. When they cleared out, I again saw Dennis.
The living dead Dennis was facing me. I made contact with the glassy marbles he had for eyeballs. Behind him was what looked like a marina. Its dock hosted a graveyard of broken boats. There was one large building that had a hole in it big enough to fly a plane through.
Dennis started to scream. The sound was horrible. His mouth distended to an extremely unnatural width. And with that I woke up.
Jamie Garrett - Riley Reid 01 - Jesters and Junkies Page 2
