Officer Jones (29 page)

Chapter 67

I arrived at the city limits of Glendale, greeted by a sign promoting it as the home of the Arizona Cardinals. It made me think of Leonard Harris, which set my mind off on a wild tangent that eventually led to the image of Jones tossing Noah’s lifeless body over Samerauk Bridge. I pounded the steering wheel, shooting pain through my hand.

I was mad at myself for not thinking to check any Lucys who might have worked with Jones on the police force. The workplace has always been the ultimate dating service, even if most of them ended badly—Lauren Bowden came to mind—but I hoped to find someone who still cared for the real Kyle Jones. She must have seen Jones and Benson together at the house on Ash.

Lucy lived in a modest Spanish Colonial style home in a planned subdivision. When I arrived, she had her head tucked into the hatchback of a station-wagon type SUV, pulling out bags of groceries. She stood barely five-foot tall with dark curly hair. She wore a floral colored dress with sandals. The dress was a maternity dress. I was no pregnancy expert, but she appeared as if she could give birth at any moment. So I had better make it quick.

I parked the Taurus by the curb and like a knight in shining armor, or a kiss-ass reporter trying to get some information, I rushed to help Lucy with the groceries.

“I’m JP Warner,” I introduced myself.

“I know who you are,” she said, handing the bags to me. “Chief Dahl called to warn me you might be stopping by.”

Lucy moved to the back door of the driver’s side. She opened it and removed a child from her car seat. I was then introduced to six-year-old Dani Hayes. She looked like a clone of her mother.

“He told me you want to talk about Kyle Jones.”

“That’s right,” I said, but decided to hold off on the murder portion of the story until Dani’s ears were at a safe distance.

When we entered the house, Dani anxiously begged her mother to let her go swimming. When given approval, the little girl excitedly went to change. Lucy poured two glasses of pink lemonade and we moved to the backyard. I followed her lead and took a seat at an umbrella-covered table that provided shade. Dani soon appeared, wearing floatation devices on every appendage of her body and a nose clip, and dove into the in-ground pool.

“Chief Dahl tells me you have some wild theories about Kyle.”

“My guess is if he really thought they were so wild, he wouldn’t have sent me over here to talk to you.” I felt rushed for time, so I reached into my bag and handed Lucy the newspaper.

“Grady Benson,” she replied without hesitation. She handed me back the paper like she wanted no part of it. “I always told Kyle to stay away from that loser.”

“Sounds like you weren’t a fan of Benson.”

“He was totally living off Kyle. He couldn’t hang onto a job, claiming he had Gulf War sickness. Kyle was a nice guy and Benson took advantage of it. He played on his emotions about their bond of war, and the fact they both tragically lost their parents.”

“Don’t you find it strange that you’ve never heard from Kyle since he left Arizona?”

“Not really … are you in contact with all your ex-girlfriends?”

Good point.

“And I did hear from Kyle about two years ago when he was in town.”

This surprised me. “That’s impossible.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I believe that Grady Benson murdered Kyle Jones, long before two years ago.”

“You believe? Either he’s dead or he isn’t,” Lucy asked and patted her pregnant stomach to make a point. “You can’t be half pregnant … or half dead.”

“That’s why I need you to help me convince Chief Dahl to dig up the yard at the home he shared with Benson. I
know
Kyle Jones is buried under there. My guess is you never saw Kyle two years ago, or heard his voice when he contacted you. Email?”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but when I was still on the Gilbert PD, I got a call to a domestic dispute at the house on Ash, a few years after Kyle left. I noticed that the new owners had put a pool in the backyard. If there was a dead body buried back there it would have been found.”

I tried to act like I wasn’t even fazed that my theory just got completely blown out of the water.

I asked her about the Labor Day incident in which Benson attacked her and Jones after they’d allegedly driven drunk. She provided a similar account as Chief Dahl, but with the detail of an eyewitness.

“He apologized to me a few days later,” she added.

“What was your reaction?”

“I was furious. It was just another play to keep his free rent.” She became more and more worked-up as she talked about it. “So Grady took me aside one day and gave me a lame excuse for his behavior.”

“What was his explanation?”

“He told me he was watching a news program earlier in the night about some judge who let off drunk drivers. He claimed it brought back the bad memories of his parents’ death, and when combined with our actions that night, made him temporarily lose his mind.”

“Did you believe him?”

“It didn’t make a difference. His behavior was unacceptable, regardless. We were wrong to drink and drive, no doubt, but who appointed him judge and jury? Kyle, of course, felt empathy for him and kept procrastinating about kicking him out, as he’d promised me. Their relationship caused a big split with us, and we broke up a few months later. It wasn’t the only reason, but it did play a role.”

“So you weren’t around when Benson took Leonard Harris under his wing?”

Lucy snickered. “I just know it was some nonsense about being his spiritual adviser. It was typical Grady Benson—using people’s emotions to get himself a free ride.”

At that point, Dani rose from the pool and sprinted toward our table. Lucy wrapped a towel around her and headed for the house. I gathered the half-empty lemonade glasses and pitcher, and followed.

When the little girl entered her room to change, Lucy said, “What you tell me is disconcerting, to say the least. I am no fan of Grady Benson and wouldn’t put anything past him. So I’ll help you find Kyle. But everything you tell me is at best circumstantial. You have to get a lot more proof.”

“But you would agree it was within the realm of possibility that Grady Benson could have killed Kyle Jones?”

Her voice cracked, “I’m sure of it.”

I was surprised by the resolute response. She had no reason to stick her toe back in the troubled waters of the past.

“Based on Benson’s pattern, I’m glad he never got to you,” I said.

Lucy looked down the hallway, staring at Dani’s room, probably thinking of when someone calling themselves Kyle Jones contacted her two years ago. She then surprised me by opening up a kitchen drawer and pulling out a handgun. “I will do anything to protect my family, Mr. Warner.”

Point taken. And loaded.

A loud male voice suddenly filled the room, causing me to turn quickly. “Is everything okay in here?” said a very large man.

But there were no shots fired. It was her husband, Larry, who just returned from a long day at his pool cleaning business. She went to him and wrapped around him in an emotional hug. It made me think of Gwen.

I found Larry to be surprisingly calm, considering a strange man was in the kitchen with his wife, and she was holding a firearm.

“Everything is fine, honey. I’d like you to meet JP Warner.”

Larry and I shook hands, and he affably offered me a beer. But it was time for me to leave and take the troubling past with me. When Dani ran to the kitchen, shouting “Daddy, you’re home!” my presence officially became an afterthought. So I slipped out of the house without anyone noticing.

Once I got to the car, I called Christina. She wasn’t home and didn’t answer her cell, but I left a message to check on television news programs the Sunday before Labor Day in 1995. Especially one about a judge with a habit of giving light sentences to drunk drivers.

Chapter 68

I headed for Lake Havasu City. The ride would be over two hundred miles and I wanted to make it there before dark. I originally planned to do some digging at Luke Air Force Base—Benson and Jones’ old stomping grounds—but scrapped the idea. JP Warner was the last person anyone in the US military would be divulging information to.

I was driving through the town of Parker, situated on the northern corner of the Colorado River, nestled between the Sonora desert and rugged mountains, when Christina called.

“Do you have the information I asked for?” I greeted her.

“Sure do, boss.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“You know that glass table in the living room?”

“Yes,” I said, not liking where this was headed.

“Do you
really
like it?”

“What happened to my table?”

“It’s not important JP. What’s important is that nobody got hurt.”

I sighed. “Just make sure it’s fixed when I get back. So did you find the news program I asked for, or not?”

“I did, but I was surprised you needed to ask me for it. You would think you would’ve remembered it.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it was your report. On the Sunday before Labor Day in 1995, GNZ and their
dashing
young reporter did a segment about a Judge Raymond Buford from North Carolina. Buford was from the school of ‘drinking and driving is only a problem when you spill your drink.’ Nobody really noticed until a guy named Craig Steele, a repeat offender whom Buford kept sending away with a light tap on the wrist, killed an entire family that was traveling on vacation.”

The report was starting to come back to me, but the details were a little hazy. But what was very clear, was that it had set Benson off.

“It gets better,” Christina continued. “Buford owned a home on Ocracoke Island just down the street from … guess who?”

“How did Buford die?”

Christina began to chuckle. “Let’s just say the judge had an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“I would say an embarrassing one. Ever hear of auto-erotic asphyxia?”

I thought for a moment, wondering if it was a name of one of those crazy bands she listens to. “Doesn’t ring a bell, no.”

“Well, it’s a solo sex act where the participant constricts air flow to heighten the pleasure during orgasm. But I’m guessing the fact that Judge Buford accidentally hung himself made it less pleasurable.”

I continued to be puzzled. “How could that heighten the pleasure?”

Christina laughed again. “I have no idea. All I know is those things you guys carry around make you do some strange things.”

I got back on track. “What was the date Buford died?”

“This is where the plot thickens a little. All the others were on Benson’s favorite holiday—the one with the fireworks—but the judge died on October 10, 1998.”

I tried to think of any significance of the date. “Was Steele the only one who caused a fatality after Buford let them off?”

“I didn’t find any besides Steele.”

“Was his accident on October 10?”

“Nope—April. He only received a six month suspended sentence and probation for killing the family, thanks to a clean record that was helped by Buford continually letting him plead to lesser traffic violations, which I’m sure Benson didn’t take kindly to. He moved to Panama City, but must not have been able to kick the habit because he crashed into a telephone pole on July 4, 1998. The police report indicated they thought it was a suicide because there were no skid marks, but after they saw the blood work, they decided he had passed out behind the wheel due to alcohol consumption.”

A suicide. Just like Noah. My blood began to boil. “Good work. Anything else?”

“I was able to obtain a copy of the sealed documents from the settlement Kyle Jones received for his parents’ death.”

“Since Jones is no longer a suspect, and likely a victim himself, I’m not sure how that would help.”

“I thought it might add some insight into the Benson/Jones relationship. Just got it like two minutes ago, so I haven’t had time to even look at them yet. If I find anything interesting I’ll email you the PDFs.”

I found a receipt from my fast-food lunch and jotted down Benson’s 1998 timeline. He likely killed Real Jones in May, moved to Ocracoke, took care of Steele on his favorite holiday, and finally his new neighbor, Judge Buford, on October 10. It was a busy year.

“Anything else before you hang up on me?” Christina asked.

“Yeah, keep trying to find a connection to October 10.”

Chapter 69

When I arrived in Lake Havasu, I went directly to the office of Kelly Dumas, the deputy sheriff who worked the Leonard Harris case. Luckily for me, it seemed that nobody in Arizona ever changed jobs.

Kelly stood to greet me. She was a plain but pretty woman with a boyish bowl cut. But what caught my attention was her height—she towered over me.

We exchanged pleasantries, but I could tell she was less than enthused by my visit, especially at this late hour. I took a seat facing her cluttered desk and noticed a bumper sticker push-pinned to a cork bulletin-board behind her:
I know I’m tall—please don’t ask me if I play basketball
. I saw my icebreaker.

“So do you play basketball?” I asked with a smile

“As a matter of fact I played for Northern Arizona University. Three time all Big Sky Conference.”

“I’m impressed.”

My niceties didn’t fool her. “Did you come here to discuss my basketball career? My guess is you’re here to discuss the only two issues the national media is interested in talking to me about. So is it MTV Spring Break or Leonard Harris?”

“MTV Spring Break? I can’t watch that crap—it makes me feel two hundred years old,” I replied with another smile.

“So what do you want to know about Mr. Harris’ death?”

“I would like to know why your department called it an accident when it was a homicide?”

She looked annoyed. “Unless you have some evidence I wasn’t privileged to see, that’s a baseless claim. And you’re wasting my time.”

She opened a file drawer and pulled out the folders from the Harris case. The fact that they were so accessible after all these years told me that it must come up often.