Murder on the Lunatic Fringe (Jubilant Falls Series Book 4) (5 page)

“Hey, Addison, everything OK?”

“Yeah, we’re great. What’s up?”

“I was listening to the scanner and thought I heard Duncan’s name come across on an assault.”

I rolled my eyes. Figures Kinnon would already be on top of the story. He really needed to get a girlfriend or a hobby or something.

“Yes, just a little discussion of race relations down at the feed mill this morning,” I said. “Duncan ended up with a black eye.”

“Is that why I heard Doyle McMaster’s name?”

“Yes. You know all about him, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, McMaster is one of the jail’s more frequent guests, but there’s something else you need to know about him,” Kinnon said. “He’s being investigated for some possible hate crimes. The police and the feds think he’s up to his knees in some suspicious activities in the next county. Gary McGinnis told me about it Friday morning.”

Chapter 7 Graham

I hadn’t seen that face since my mother went to prison.

On Sunday morning, I sat in my boxers at my small round table in my attic apartment with a coffee mug, staring at the photo I’d gotten Friday morning from Chief G.

It was a little older, a little more battered, but it was still the same face that showed up periodically with whatever drug du jour he and my mother would ingest. That would be followed by what I realized now was rough sex behind her bedroom door. Late in the morning or early in the afternoon, they would awake from their mutual stupor and argue.

Then he would beat her as I cowered behind my bedroom door, hoping the violence wouldn’t extend to me.

Abuse-worthy crimes included making weak coffee, a TV that was too loud or no food in the fridge. Then she would cry as she bound up her wounds and he would leave—until the next time when he returned with whatever illegal substance he’d scored and the whole cycle began again.

One day during a visit with the social worker, I peeked inside my file on my social worker’s desk and saw my mother’s occupation listed as ‘unemployed/prostitute’ and the sentence: ‘Mother likely trades sex for drugs, possibly in child’s presence.’ By the time Mom brought me home from court on my tenth birthday, I was too thrilled to have her back to ask her where she’d been and how she’d changed.

Then I was shipped off to boarding school and other things took precedence. After I’d started covering crime here in Jubilant Falls, I sure knew the meaning of hookers and junkie mothers.

That face on the photo always denied he was my father, even though his name, Benjamin Thomas Kinnon, was listed on my birth certificate. By the time the court decided my mother wasn’t fit to keep me, finding who my daddy was didn’t seem to be a big concern. So Benny Kinnon vanished into the Indiana sunset, only to show up twenty years later, here in Jubilant Falls.

“We weren’t sure if you were related to our suspect,” Assistant Chief McGinnis said. “But with the same last name, we had to ask. We believe he could be tied up with a group known as the Aryan Knights, an off-shoot group of the KKK.”

“The Aryan Knights?” I asked. “I don’t know anything about them.”

“They are primarily white supremacist, anti-African American, anti-Mexican, and very violent. They espouse strictly traditional male and female roles, which are often enforced through domestic violence. Not surprisingly, many of them are fundamentalist Christians with extremely right-wing views.” Chief G. took another sip from his coffee.

“They recruit primarily via word of mouth and hold recruiting meetings in member’s homes, which make them difficult to track. We’d heard through some confidential informants that meetings have been held at Doyle McMaster’s place out in the county.”

Doyle McMaster was a well-known thug and all-around asshole. If he punched Duncan, it would be a misdemeanor assault, another in a long list and wouldn’t amount to more than a short item in the police blotter.

I intentionally hadn’t mentioned Benjamin to Addison when I’d heard her husband Duncan’s name come over the scanner Saturday. No sense adding fuel to the fire on that story.

And, truth was, I didn’t think I wanted to answer any of her questions. Benjamin Kinnon wasn’t anybody’s business but mine.

I left the photo on the table and went into the bedroom. I got down on my knees and pulled out a small battered shoebox, the one containing all my worldly goods while I was in foster care.

Mother asked that it be thrown out soon after I came home from court with her. I begged our maid to let me keep the little box, which held yellowing photos of Mother holding me as an infant on her lap, a small metal toy truck with chipped red paint, a bright blue rabbit’s foot charm and a small teddy bear with an arm nearly ripped off, the stuffing falling out like so much white, puffy muscle. The box’s corners were duct-taped together and at one point, someone strapped clear packing tape around the box to keep the lid on. At the bottom of the box, I found what I was searching for: my kindergarten photo, the only professional photo I would have taken until I came out of foster care.

I was wearing a striped navy and green shirt that day. My hair was tousled and I had a bewildered look on my face, like the picture had been snapped before I knew what was going on. I walked back to the table and laid the picture next to Benjamin’s.

I shivered at the resemblance: We were both tall and lanky, our faces were thin, and we shared prominent cheekbones and Adam’s apples.
No doubt,
I was Benjamin Kinnon’s son.

Across the room, the police scanner crackled to life:

“Engine 26, Medic 26, Rescue 26, Technical Rescue Team—report of a hiker falling off the path at Canal Lock Park and into the gorge. Victim is located about four hundred feed off main path on a rock ledge. Victim is a 21-year-old male, possible broken leg. He is conscious and in contact with friends at the top of the gorge by cell phone.”

Sounds like a story to me.

I grabbed a napkin, scribbling notes on it as the fire chief requested the medical helicopter from the trauma center in Collitstown be put on standby.

Canal Lock Park was the historic reminder of Jubilant Fall’s founder McGregor Shanahan, who tried and failed to turn the creek now named for him into a canal connecting it to the Ohio River, giving merchants and farmers in Jubilant Falls a way to get their goods to market.

I jumped into a pair of jeans, slipped on a shirt and put on a sturdy pair of boots, grabbing my camera as I ran out the door.

Driving toward the park, I called Addison to let her know what was up, and that I’d get photos.

“Thanks, Graham. I appreciate it. I’ve actually got company this afternoon,” she said.

Once at the park, I parked among the gaggle of fire trucks and ambulances. Volunteer firefighters, light bars atop their pick-up trucks, filled about half the parking spaces. I grabbed my press pass from its weekend post, hanging from my Toyota’s rearview mirror. It was more a precaution than anything else; I’d been here at the
J-G
long enough that most everybody knew who I was, but it never hurt to have it with me.

I smacked the glove box door with the base of my fist to pop open the broken lock. The door swung down, revealing the stack of reporter’s notebooks and the ring box I’d left there Friday. Gently, I picked up the box and held it in the palm of my hand.

Elizabeth.

After she felt better on Friday, she went home to Shaker Heights for the weekend to celebrate her mother’s birthday. She was due back home this evening and was supposed to stop by.

Maybe her mother would talk her into seeing a doctor. I know they didn’t have a lot of secrets between them. They did things together—lunches, shopping, weekend girls’ trips where they got their fingernails and toenails painted. Surely she had told her mother what was going on. And what else could it be except pregnancy?

If it was, I had to make it right. I would ask her to marry me tonight. I was not going to be the kind of father Benjamin Kinnon had been to me. My child was going to grow up with a mother and a father, knowing what it was to be loved.

The story was waiting; I stuffed the ring back in the glove box and slammed it shut.

I walked down the path near the gorge to get as close as I could to the scene, snapping photos whenever I could get a decent shot. Within an hour, a team of paramedics had rigged a system of pulleys and ropes around the trees and lowered a paramedic in a harness, along with a stretcher, down the side of the gorge.

Within another half an hour, as I shot video with my smart phone for the website, the victim, strapped into the stretcher with his left leg in a splint, was raised up the side of the gorge with the same ropes and pulleys. With my SLR camera, I got another shot of the victim being loaded into the medical helicopter and another as it took off from the wide field next to the parking lot.

Provided my photos were OK, this would likely be our main art for Monday’s paper, unless someone else covered something I hadn’t heard about.

I got a quick interview with the incident commander, who explained the finer points of gorge rescue techniques to me. I also spoke to the victim’s friends, who were crying happy tears that he had gotten out alive. Before I left the scene, I made sure of the details. Names spelled right? Check. Age? Check. Victim’s hometown? Check. Transported to what hospital? Got it. Were the injuries life-threatening or not? Got that too.

Shortly thereafter, I was walking into the newsroom to write up the story and upload my photos.

Assistant editor Dennis Herrick was already there. A Reds baseball game was blaring on the newsroom television. A half-eaten burger and a paper cup sweating with condensation sat at sports writer Chris Royal’s desk, which meant he was probably out back in the employee lot, talking on his cell phone to his girlfriend and smoking a cigarette.

It wasn’t unusual for any of the newsroom staff to wander in and out over the weekend. It was easier to get things done without the pressure of Addison breathing down our necks about a ten-thirty deadline and the phone ringing incessantly.

Dennis and I nodded at each other in greeting and I explained what my story was about.

“I’m just uploading Saturday’s stories to the Website,” Dennis said. “I can upload this rescue story and photos for you when you get it done. Did you happen to get video?”

“Yeah I did—on my phone. I’ll e-mail it to you in a second.” I sat down and flipped on my computer.

“Did you see Saturday’s paper?” Dennis asked.

“Yeah. Awesome shots Pat took of those llamas or whatever they’re called,” I answered without looking at him. I already had my lead halfway written:
A Jubilant Falls man is recovering at a Collitstown hospital, following a fall into the gorge at Canal Lock Park Sunday...

I needed to bang out the story so I could be back home by the time Elizabeth got there.

The phone at Dennis’s elbow rang. He picked it up on the second ring.

“Hey, Addison. Yeah, he’s here,” he said. “Yeah. He just came back from Canal Lock Park—he’s got photos. No, I haven’t seen them yet. Yes, he got video. He’s working on the story right now. All of Saturday’s stories are uploaded, by the way. I put your llama story on the home page.”

I tuned out the rest of their conversation as my writing picked up steam. Elizabeth would be back in town in just a couple hours and I had to make things right. If I could help it, another Kinnon child would never wonder where or who his real father was.

Chapter 8 Katya

“You have lovely farm, Addison.” I stepped from Jerome’s Jeep Cherokee and shook Addison’s hand, then the hand of her husband, Duncan, who had the black eye. “Thank you so much for inviting us.”

Jerome shook Duncan’s hand but only nodded sharply at Addison. I would have to say something to him about his rudeness when we got home.

“I appreciate what you did for me yesterday, Duncan,” he said.

Duncan shrugged. “The folks here in Jubilant Falls aren’t all like Doyle. That’s why we wanted to have you over. I hope you like steak.”

Jerome nodded and smiled, rubbing his hands together. “Sure do.”

Duncan McIntyre led us over to the maple tree in front of the old white farmhouse.

A grill and a picnic table sat beneath the rustling leaves. A blue and white cooler sat at the base of the tree, filled with beer and soda. Paper plates and plastic silverware were held in place by a large ceramic bowl filled with salad and covered with plastic wrap. A plastic-wrapped plate held brownies; another bowl contained baked beans.

I heard a cell phone ring. It was Addison’s; she stopped walking with us to answer it. Keeping myself safe is an old habit, so I stopped to listen, pretending to examine the flowers around the front porch.

“A hiker fell? At the park?” She was silent for a few moments. “Thanks, Graham. I appreciate it. I’ve actually got company this afternoon.”

I relaxed. Maybe one of these days I could hear phone conversations without fear, but not right now.

Maybe later today I could make up for yesterday with Jerome. After what I’d said in bed Saturday morning, he left angrily.

“
Za bazár otvétish,”
he said in Russian as he slammed the door. “You’ll pay for those words.”

What did he mean by that? For the rest of Saturday morning, I sat in my house, rocking back and forth on my bed as I cried and worried. I don’t know where Kolya’s name came from, or why I said it. Once again, I was thoughtless, stupid. Here I am, beginning again, with wonderful man in my life—of all things to say! Would Jerome leave me because of my stupidity? Would we become two people living just feet apart, yet strangers? A few hours later, he was home and angry at something else, not me—a fight at the feed store. Jerome let me comfort him and my intimate indiscretion was forgotten.

Now, here we were enjoying an outdoor barbecue on a Sunday afternoon as if nothing had come between us.

The four of us chose beers from the cooler and sat down at the picnic table.

“So, how did you end up in Jubilant Falls?” Duncan asked.

Jerome shrugged and his words came easily. “Katya hired me away from a farm up near Ashtabula.”

“So you’re from Ohio?” Duncan asked.

“No, Virginia. I served in the Marine Corps for a while—”

“That was where he learned his most excellent Russian,” I interjected in my bad English. “He was guard at embassy in Moscow.”

“Virginia to Moscow to Ashtabula to Jubilant Falls? That’s quite a trip,” Duncan said.

Jerome shrugged again, looking sideways at me. Once again, I revealed too much.

“I hire him because he can speak my language,” I said, trying to cover my tracks. “It makes it easier for me. Can you imagine me finding farm manager who speaks Russian? I am luckiest woman on planet!”

“We should have included his story in the piece we did for yesterday’s paper,” Addison said. “It would have made it so much better.”