by C T Mitchell
Jack kicked in the door and fired three shots at Professor Whitman in the front of the room just as she was pulling a semi-automatic Beretta 92 FS from her messenger bag. Blood splattered the white dry erase board. Professor Whitman looked down as her white shirt rapidly turned red with blood.
The classroom was swarming with campus staffers and local Lismore police before Jack had time to even lower his gun. “Detective Jack Creed.” He flashed his badge. “The threat is contained.”
*****
“So what's the latest?” Jack asked as Jo approached. She was dressed in her press conference clothes again. That blue power suit was going to get quite the workout in the coming weeks.
“She'll live. . .barely. The good news is you saved that classroom full of students. We're executing a search warrant of her apartment now. Professor Whitman seems too full of herself to not keep some sort of manifesto detailing all her thoughts and opinions. We'll get her. There are too many witnesses that can pin her as the mastermind of this whole situation.”
“Good work, Jo.” Jack sipped at his coffee. “We make a good team. Your media skills and my good old fashion policing.” Jack chuffed. Jo smiled and moderately nodded, not wanting to show Jack too much that she agreed with him.
“Well, until next time,” Jack quipped as he started out the door.
“Perhaps you ought to think about a sea change, Jo? Kingscliff is Heaven on Earth, you know.”
Jo smiled.
DEAD RINGER
By
C T Mitchell
CHAPTER 1
Kelly Lang had run the new Beach Resort for 17 years. Before that his dad owned the original Cabarita Hotel, famous for a cold beer overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Sunday afternoon sessions were legendary amongst the local motorcycle club members.
The hotel, and now the Cabarita Beach Resort, was well-known for its food. Patrons drove from afar to sample the restaurant’s famous seafood platter. In all that time, there had never been anything remotely hinting at trouble, unlike some other pubs in the area. Friday nights in the region can get pretty wild. Laborers quenching their thirst after a hard working week and the influx of trendy snobs from Brisbane down for the weekend can make for a volatile mix.
The party-goers tended to hang out in the public bar and dined on a diet of liquid amber and beer nuts. Families made a fast track to the restaurant.
Today was the first time he had ever gone to throw out the trash and found a dead body in the industrial waste bin at the back of the pub. That wasn't the weirdest thing about the discovery, though. No, the weirdest thing was the dead man was wearing ten rings – one on each finger. Those would fetch a pretty penny. He could buy that sport's car he always wanted and retire in style. Kelly was tempted to pocket the rings and not tell anyone, but he didn't want to be caught lying, especially by Detective Sergeant Jack Creed.
Jack Creed was well-known in these parts. He was tenacious, thorough and always got his man. Kelly didn't want to be under Jack's microscope. Instead, he dialed the local police station and waited for them to break his 'top spot in Cabarita' streak. They were going to get publicity for this. Kelly just hoped the old saying of 'any publicity is good publicity' was true.
Jack Creed and Detective Constable Jo Boston-Wright watched as Peter Monroe took pictures of the crime scene. Their most recent case was a university shooting by spoilt rich kid Nicholas Weatherby. Jack liked working with Jo and requested they team up again up for this latest case.
The media was already calling the dead man “the ring man” because of the 10 rings on his fingers. Even without reading a report, Jack could tell the man's fingers and toes were broken. Maybe someone decided to teach him a lesson. That's what usually happened in these dump job types of situations. It was probably a mob hit. Their John Doe was some guy brought in from out of town and dumped in the waste bin behind the Cabarita Beach Resort. Criminals always wanted to dispose of their trash in a new location. It kept the cops off their trail for a little while longer. Jack had seen it all before. He never got tired of the various twists and turns the cases took. For a quiet resort town, Carabita Beach had rather creative killers.
"What we got here, Jo?" Jack crouched down by the dead man. They had moved him from the industrial bin and continued to take pictures of the crime scene.
“No ID. The first John Doe of the season.” Jo wore white plastic gloves so she wouldn't contaminate the evidence or scene with fingerprints. She also wore a smart blue pantsuit. Jo was just like one of the boys down at the station – or at least she wanted people to see her as just one of the guys. If she let her blonde hair down out of that bun and dressed in something a little tighter there was no way anyone would mistake her for just one of the guys.
"Have you checked dental records?”
"We're working on that.” Jo looked down at her notepad where she had scrawled 'rush means rush' across the top. “We put in a rush order. Now we just have to sit back and see if they actually rush it."
"This murder is the first we've had since the university shooting.” Jack straightened from his crouching position. "My bet is they'll rush it just to get on the evening news."
Jo laughed. "Sounds about right. I haven't seen you around much lately, Jack. What's going on? It's like you've been lying low waiting for all the buzz surrounding the Weatherby kid to die down. "
How much should he tell Jo? She knew he was married and had a daughter, but that's all he told anyone about his personal life. He didn't like them snooping around his business like they were trying to solve a crime. His life wasn't a murder mystery.
No one but him needed to know about his daughter's mental illness or the need to keep a separate home. His marriage wasn't on the rocks, but that's the first conclusion they would jump to. The other house was a better fit for his daughter's needs. She was close to the best medical help and the beach apartment at the Seaview Motel, which he called the ‘penthouse,’ was more like a bachelor pad rather than a family home.
Besides, the medical help in and around Cabarita Beach was a bit too alternative for Jack’s liking. Herbal this or natural that didn’t sit well in Jack’s traditional mind. In his opinion the best results came from administrating traditional medicine rather than all that mumbo jumbo stuff. Melissa was Jack’s top priority. He put in the long hours and claimed the overtime. Private medical insurance was not cheap, but he had responsibilities that included seeing Melissa get back on track, no matter what the sacrifice. If it was good for Melissa, then it was good for everybody.
“We all need a break now and then. Even me,” Jack replied. But Jo wasn’t buying it.
“Really? I had you pegged as a complete workaholic.”
Jack threw his plastic gloves into the dumpster before turning away from Jo and heading back to his ’67 Navy blue Mustang. Not your standard police car issue, but nothing about Detective Jack Creed was standard. He even opted for personalized car plates – “JC.” They represented his initials but to his detractors they referred to the plates as “Jesus Christ,” which was mainly brought about by Jack’s aloofness. Jo hurried to follow him. Her high heels clicked on the pavement like a jittery pocket watch or an out of step nag at the Albion Park trots.
"Hey! I'm not done talking to you yet!" Jo jumped in front of Jack and locked his door so he couldn't escape. "I know there's something going on with you. Either you tell me or I’ll figure it out. And you know I will. I'm a good detective, and if I wasn't, we wouldn’t be working together."
Jack pressed the button to unlock the car door before gently brushing Jo aside and climbing into the car. “Nothing is going on. Why don't you mind your own business for once? You’re not my wife, but some days you sure sound like her.”
“You can't get rid of me that easily,” Jo replied in a forceful but concerned voice.
"I was with my daughter, okay?” His voice quivered for a moment. What I do in my off time is no one's business but my own. Remember that and we’ll get along fine.”
CHAPTER 2
Jack sipped at his coffee and did his best to tune out the noise all around him: police scanner chatter, Monroe's less than stellar typing skills, and Monroe’s even less than stellar pick-up skills. Seriously, if Jo wanted to date the guy, she would have said yes by now. Monroe was nothing if not persistent, so Jack had to give him credit for that. Jack took another sip of coffee. It was time to open their John Doe's autopsy file.
Jack started by reading the toxicology report. There was nothing unusual there. No alcohol in his system and the only drug was a prescription for a heart condition. The autopsy report pointed out the ten broken fingers, ten broken toes, and the fact that he had red marks around his mouth and nose, as if someone had pressed a cloth so tight against his face it left an imprint that didn't fade even in death. That spoke of passion. This wasn't a robbery gone wrong. If it was, the murderer would have stolen the rings. John Doe knew his killer, Jack was sure of it.
"Find anything interesting?” Jo sat down next to him and read the report over his shoulder. “Lorazepam. He seems like the kind of guy to have heart troubles. I bet he juggled so many women he couldn't keep them all straight. Maybe that's what the rings are all about.” Jo mimed taking a ring off her index finger. “One ring for each woman. What do you think?”
Jack shrugged. “Maybe the rings are the killer's calling card. If we find where the rings came from, we find our guy.”
“Guy?” Jo laughed. “Guy? There's nothing about this crime that points to a guy as our murderer.” Jo swiveled in her chair and ran a hand through her blonde hair. It was down for once. The light coming in through the window made it look like a fuzzy halo. "Nothing about this crime necessarily suggests a guy, more like a crime of passion to me. I'm telling you, a guy didn't do this. It was definitely a woman.”
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?" Jack frowned. “Nice theory, but right now that's all it is. Get me some hard, cold facts and then I'll believe you."
Jo put her hands on the desk and leaned forward. Jack did his darnedest not to let his eyes leave her face, but he couldn’t help noticing that her blouse gaped when she stood like that. He could see straight down her shirt to her lacy camisole. When was the last time his wife wore lacy anything? Ever since Melissa's medical bills started mounting, it seemed like her interest in dressing nice and feminine left.
“I'll get my evidence.” Jo's voice brought him back to the present. They had a murder to solve. He couldn't waste his time wondering about the what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. “I just need your help to get it.”
“You need more than just my help if you're going to catch this perpetrator." Jack sipped his coffee. It helped him to forget. Forget about his wife. Forget about Melissa. Forget that this case will be a tough one to crack. “We need Dr. Russell."
“The forensic pathologist?” Jo asked. “She can get involved in our little case?”
“She can get involved if I say she can. This case is a puzzle. Dr. Russell can find us the missing pieces.”
“If you say so.” Jo picked up the autopsy report. She flipped through it, stopping at the last page, which included a paragraph about what they found after running the dental records. “Well it looks like our John Doe isn't a John Doe anymore." She jabbed her finger at the summary and read out loud:
“'James Jameson. Fifty years old. Accountant. Ex wife Cassandra earned big settlement. Son, Carl, living off of trust fund. More than one house. Business residence, an apartment at the Cabarita Beach Resort.' Has anyone been sent to pick up the wife and son for questioning?”
“Already on it.” Monroe leaned over from his desk. “They'll be waiting for you in the main interrogation room in ten.”
CHAPTER 3
Carl Jameson was your stereotypical spoiled rich kid. Too much money, at too young of an age, turned him lazy and disrespectful. Instead of answering questions, Carl just rolled his eyes or muttered “whatever.” Jack wished he was playing bad cop. Then he could rough up the little punk, although it wasn’t strictly within the books. But Jack didn’t always act within the guidelines, which had kept this long serving officer down in rank. Instead, he needed to keep his cool and try to get some answers out of the kid. It was a task proving easier said than done.
“When was the last time you saw your dad alive?”
“That depends on your definition of alive,” Carl said. Good, the kid was willing to talk. All he had to do was remind him that a dead daddy meant more money for Carl. "I don't call a messy divorce and a gold digging mum living, do you?” Carl rolled his pen along the metal interrogation table. Back and forth, back and forth. It made a whirling sound of metal on metal. Jack waited for him to keep talking. He didn't have to wait long. The kid unloaded like he’d had all these resentments piling up his whole life. Maybe he had. Maybe he was resentful. Jameson didn't seem like the kind of guy that was all warm and fuzzy with family, especially kids.
"If you want to know, the last time I saw my dad was three weeks ago." Carl picked up the pen and started pushing the button on the bottom that retracted the tip. Click, click, click, click, click, click. "My trust fund was running low," Carl continued. “I just got back from Cabo. I spent a little too much on tequila and peyote. I needed a quick fix of cash and dad came through. It's the only time I ever talk to him. I needed money, he gave it to me. I don't need money, I don't talk to him."
"And this so-called relationship with your dad works for you?" Jack pushed his chair back so he could kick his feet up on the table. He crossed his feet at the ankles. If he was supposed to sit here listening to this little snot go on and on about money and Cabo and Mexican hookers, there was nothing saying he couldn't be comfortable doing it. “You need money, you give him a call; you don't need money, you don't give him a call. This works for both of you?"
“It was the best possible relationship." Carl mimicked Jack by swinging his legs up onto the interrogation table and crossed them at the ankle. “I don't bother him, he doesn't bother me. He gives me money, I keep his secrets. It works."
“What kind of secrets was your Dad keeping? Were they big enough to make someone keel over of a heart attack?"
“That depends.” Carl’s eyes narrowed. He had secrets, too. Jack was sure of it. Now he just needed to figure out what they were and how it fit together with Daddy Dearest's secrets.
“You staying a free man will depend on telling me the truth." Jack took a sip of coffee. He waited a beat before continuing. Intimidation always worked best with punks like this. They thought they owned the universe. “What do you say, Carl? Care to spill some of those dirty little secrets?”
“He was having an affair with his secretary, Simone.” Carl took the bait. “I'm not the one you should be questioning. If you’re smart, you'd pick up Simone. Mum said she was the last one to see him before we got the call about his death. She's the one who should be sitting here, not me."
“You got a last name for this Simone?” Jack grabbed his notepad and pulled it over. His pen hovered, ready to write down whatever Carl said.
“Simone Lindstrom.” Carl recited off an address. It was close by. Jack didn't bother to ask why Carl knew the name and personal address of his dad's secretary. That was a whole new bag of tricks. Jack wasn't ready to reach into that grab bag just yet.
*****
Jo sat across from the supposedly grieving widow Cassandra Jameson. Cassandra was dressed in a bright red knockoff Gucci suit and wearing just as bright matching red nail polish and lipstick. Her hair was the sort of platinum blonde that never came naturally. Jo's nails weren't nearly as pretty and perfect as Cassandra's, but she was used to hard work. She bet Cassandra never experienced a day of good old fashioned work in her
entire life. People that moved in her sort of circles never did. It was all about letting someone else do it for you, and never doing it yourself.
"Do you mind taking off your sunglasses?" Jo glanced down at the police report laying open in front of her. "You've claimed domestic violence in the past. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“There's nothing to tell.” Cassandra slid her oversized, black-framed sunglasses off of her face to reveal an equally dark black eye. “Even rich people fight.”
“Did he give you that shiner?”
“What didn't he give me?” Cassandra picked at one of her finely manicured red nails. “I consider this his last parting gift.”
“It says here that you reported a domestic disturbance a week ago. Care to elaborate?”
Cassandra shrugged. “Why don't you ask James' secretary? She was there.”
“She was there and didn't do anything to stop him from beating you? I find that hard to believe. Women usually stick together.”
Cassandra greeted that statement with another shrug. “I guess her loyalty was tested and it wasn't to me. Let's just say, when James is involved, it's every girl for herself.”
Jo slammed the police report onto the table. “I don't believe you. Now tell me the truth.”
