Better Late Than Dead: Episode 16

  This is episode sixteen of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

Episode 16 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Over the next two days, Rich, Hiram, and Miss Winslow studied volumes of additional records of evidence. They continued to find holes in the evidence. Hiram stayed late at the office. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes or hadn’t shaved.

On the third day, Rich woke and showered. He dressed for another day at Hiram’s office. He spat into the sink after brushing his teeth. The phone rang.

“Hello,” Rich said.

“Rich, this is Miss Winslow. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No,” Rich said.

“I’m buying,” Miss Winslow said.

“Then I’m choosing,” Rich said. “Where?”

“There's this diner on Clark Street,” Rich said. “The waitress is an old friend from school. She won’t spit in our food. As for the cook, he spits in everybody's food.”

“Sounds like my kind of place,” Miss Winslow said. “See you in half an hour?”

“Perfect.” Rich hung up.

Half an hour later, Rich and Miss Winslow were sitting across from each other in a booth. Jane approached the table.

“Jane,” Rich said, “this is Miss Winslow. She works for my lawyer, but my lawyer says he works for her. If you ever get in trouble, she’s the one. And Miss Winslow, this is Jane, a friend from school. She’s one of the few folks in town who—I don’t know—who doesn’t treat me like, is that who I think it is?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jane,” Miss Winslow said.

“Same here,” Jane said.

“Don’t let the high heels fool ya,” Miss Winslow said. “I waited tables for four years. And I worked the back grill when the cook was too drunk to stand.”

“Wow,” Rich said, “a lady with a past. What else?”

“The cook was my ex,” Miss Winslow said.

“We have a lot in common, then,” Jane said.

“You’re married to a drunk cook?” Miss Winslow asked.

“No,” Jane said, “we both have exes. Mine couldn’t hold down a job. He couldn’t even hold his liquor.”

“Sounds like you ladies have a lot in common besides me,” Rich said. “How ‘bout if I find another table and let you two talk it out?”

“I’m not into that crying in my beer routine,” Miss Winslow said.

“That goes for me, too,” Jane said and smiled. “So, Rich, I get you your usual, and Miss Winslow, what do you have?”

“Jane,” Miss Winslow said, “two eggs over easy, but I don’t want them runny. Put ‘em on top of some hash browns because that’s where they’ll end up anyway. And lay three strips of bacon on top of that.”

“I’ll get your coffee,” Jane said and rushed away.

“Did you notice that?” Miss Winslow said.

“What?” Rich said.

“She didn’t write it down,” Miss Winslow said. “I bet she can wait on four tables of truckers and memorize every order. That’s a smart gal.”

“Is that what you can do?” Rich said.

“I made so much in tips as a waitress that I had to think it over before going to work for Hiram.”

“So why don’t you become a lawyer?” Rich asked.

“I take the bar exam next week,” Miss Winslow said.

“So, technically, I have two lawyers?” Rich said.

“I suppose,” Miss Winslow said.

“Does that mean you might go out on your own?” Rich asked.

“Hiram’s going to make me a partner,” Miss Winslow said.

“So, why are we here?” Rich folded his hands on the table and leaned forward.

Jane brought back the coffee. She sensed they were in a deep conversation and said nothing. Rich and Miss Winslow thanked her. And she darted away.

“Tell Hiram he’s looking terrible,” Miss Winslow said. “He needs to slow down. If he continues like he is, I may be running the practice on my own.”

“It takes breakfast to tell me that?” Rich said.

“He worries me,” Miss Winslow said. “I’ve never seen him this focused or aggressive. He’s the kind of guy who can walk like it’s a sunny day in a rainstorm. He has ice water in his veins.”

“Is there something different about this case?” Rich asked.

“He has instincts,” Miss Winslow said. “He keeps telling me there is something about this situation that is different. And I agree, there is something different.”

“What is it?” Rich asked.

“I don’t know if he’s picked up on something or not,” Miss Winslow said. “He’s not talking to me about it, and that’s unusual; he is very forward. He told you that from the beginning, but I feel as if he’s holding something back.”

“I trust what you’re saying,” Rich said. “You know him better than I.”

“I left the office at 6:00 PM last night,” Miss Winslow said. “My mother called last night. She forgot to fill a prescription, so I went out and got it for her. I drove by the office at a quarter past ten. Hiram’s car was still in the parking lot, and the lights in his office were still on.”

“Is he getting out at all during the day?” Rich asked.

“I’ve seen him get intense,” Miss Winslow said, “but he turns it off at the drop of a hat. He has an associate down the hall, and he’s sending everything to him.”

“What do you think I can do?” Rich said.

Jane brought the meals and left without a word.

“She’s savvy,” Miss Winslow said. “She knows something’s going on. Most waitresses would try to say something cute.”

They began eating.

“Maybe you could subtly say something about how hard he’s working, and if he becomes overworked, he’s no good to you.”

“How do you think he’d take that coming from a client?” Rich asked.

“He’d say if you don’t like the way he works, find another lawyer,” Miss Winslow said. “Then you’d say you’re just concerned, and he’ll come back with something smart. You’ll buckle, and after you go, he’ll relax, go home early, take a shower, and get a good night’s sleep.”

“It sounds like you’ve been through this with him a few times,” Rich said.

“I have, but this is different, and I think he might take this better from you,” Miss Winslow said.

“What if he really gets upset and tells me to get out?” Rich asked.

“Get in your Jeep, drive back to your room. The phone will be ringing about the time you walk in,” Miss Winslow said.

“You have really got this down pretty good,” Rich said.

Miss Winslow smiled and sipped her coffee. “I plan to be just like him.”

They finished and drove to the office. Rich waited ten minutes before going in. Rich walked into the office.

“He’s in,” Maxine said, tossing her head to go ahead into Hiram’s office.

Rich walked into the office. He looked at a rumpled and ghastly-looking Hiram. “You look like crap,” Rich said. “And if you don’t take care of yourself, I’m getting a new lawyer. Miss Winslow told me to be more subtle, but that won’t work with you or me.”

Hiram stood. “I’m going home to rest. You and Miss Winslow can take care of things today. I have a whole stack of stuff in the conference room that will take you two at least a day to get through.”

Hiram walked to the door. Rich caught an unpleasant odor. “Hiram!”

Hiram stopped as he grabbed the doorknob. “What?”

“Take a shower.”

“Yeah,” Hiram said. “My wife called last night. She said if I ever decide to come home, I’ve got to get to the truck stop first and take one of those trucker showers before I come home.”

Indeed, Hiram left a couple of stacks of folders on the conference room table.

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 15

  This is episode fifteen of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

Episode 15 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Rich walked into his motel room. The phone was already ringing.

“Hello,” Rich said.

“Rich, this is Hiram. Get back to the office right away.”

Rich didn’t reply. He hung up. He rushed out the door. He climbed into the Jeep and paused. His stomach turned. Hiram sounded dreadfully serious. He started the Jeep and paused again. He was now feeling sick.

He pulled out of the motel’s parking lot and onto the state highway. There was no traffic. And if there was, Rich still would not have noticed it. His heart pounded, and he felt as if his neck was swelling. At one point, he pulled into a parking lot and sat for a couple of minutes.

This is like going to the doctor’s office, and you already know he’s going to tell you that you have six months to live, he thought. At least Hiram could have tried to hide his foreboding. He smiled. If I see them erecting a gallows, I just drive on by.

He drove on from the parking lot and continued toward Hiram’s office. He arrived at the office and parked. His legs felt weak as he made his way to the office. He walked in. Maxine smiled and told him to walk in.

Rich caught immediate sight of Hiram’s face. It looked as if he was struck with grief. It was red. He glanced over at Miss Winslow. Normally, she would at least force a smile. She appeared glum. Rich swallowed and tried to take a deep breath to relax. He sat down.

“It’s not good news,” Hiram said.

“What?” Rich asked.

“There was a bloody knife at the scene,” Hiram said. “It has your fingerprints on it. It matches the wounds on your father and mother.”

“Mom set the table with three knives,” Rich said. “We had a roast that night, and each of us cut our own piece of the roast. I’m not surprised they found my fingerprints on a knife.”

“Specifically, the murder weapon,” Miss Winslow said.

“There has to be a mistake,” Rich said, “because I did not stab my mom and dad.”

“They found the gun used,” Hiram said.

“Don’t tell me my fingerprints are on it,” Rich said.

“It was wiped clean of prints,” Hiram said.

Rich held his head down. My prints might as well have been all over it.

Miss Winslow cleared her throat. “This is why there has been so much secrecy, and it has taken so long. The gun and knife were sent to the state lab.”

Hiram handed Rich a folder. “This is the evidence they have and the crime scene report. I want you to take this to our conference room and go over it.” He handed Rich a red pencil. “Circle everything you think is sketchy and put an X next to things completely wrong.”

Rich stood.

“Remember,” Hiram said, “we still believe you are innocent. As I look at this evidence, it can all be challenged, but it is for a jury to consider. Some juries think, others feel, and others daydream.”

It took an hour for Rich to read over the information Hiram gave him. After considering it, he couldn’t imagine anyone thinking he was innocent. It seemed complete and compelling. He leaned back in his chair.

How did I ever get to this point? he thought. I’m doomed. What am I going to say, I saw a man with one arm running from the house?

The conference room door opened. Miss Winslow leaned in. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Rich was so deep in thought that the words sounded like gibberish, just a bunch of syllables.

“Burgers and fries,” she said.

“Yeah, great,” Rich said.

They all sat at the conference room table and ate.

“How did you do with the red pencil?” Hiram asked.

“Pretty good,” Rich said, “but it seems like it comes down to my word against the evidence.”

“Some of this stuff is inadmissible,” Hiram said. “They know that. Lawyers always overpromise and underdeliver.”

“I hope that’s not true with you,” Rich said.

“I told you from the beginning, we speak plain at this office,” Hiram said. “If I thought right now, after seeing this, that you are guilty, I’d tell you. I’ve been presented with much better evidence than this, and when all is said and done, it looks like a pile of pigeon dung.”

“I think the biggest problem they have,” Miss Winslow said, “is the alibi. They can’t produce anyone to refute your timeline.”

“Don’t forget,” Rich said, “nobody can verify it either.”

“They can’t leave the timeline open,” Hiram said. "Anything other than two witnesses is reasonable doubt. Juries love timelines. It gives them something to measure on their own.”

“I don’t know if this is important,” Rich said, “but it’s strange. I’m looking at all the physical evidence they have cataloged. It lists two knives at the scene. There were three at the table. Maybe it’s just me, but if you’re looking for a gun, you might pass up a knife.”

“Or stop as soon as the gun is found,” Hiram said.

“But why look for a third knife?” Miss Winslow said. “They didn’t know there were three to begin with.”

“Miss Winslow,” Hiram said, “let’s give Jason Kirby a call.” He looked at Rich. “Kirby is an investigator we use. Have him look for another knife. You’re sure there were three, Rich?”

“Absolutely,” Rich said.

“There’s one thing I’ve noticed,” Hiram said. “A couple of days after the murder, the newspaper reports the time of death around midnight. In the report we have, the time of death is between seven and eight. To me, the change is obvious; they can’t find anyone who was in your room. So the time had to be adjusted to place you at the scene at the approximate time. So we will have to see if there are other reports and see where and how the reporter got the time of death.”

Miss Winslow turned to a page. She gave a side glance at Rich. “Let’s say you just shot somebody. And you flee the house going south. Do you have that pictured in your mind?”

“Yes,” Rich said.

“You jump in your Jeep,” Miss Winslow hypothesized. “You’re driving along. You want to get rid of your gun. Are you thinking of it?”

“Yes,” Rich said.

“Okay,” Miss Winslow said. “Where do you toss the gun?”

“I would stop at the bridge that goes across the river,” Rich said.

Miss Winslow smiled. “It was found in a cornfield a quarter mile from your home. The field was muddy, yet it lay there. The murderer would have had to stop their car, walk forty-five feet into the field, and lay it down. A murderer would have tossed the gun, and it would have stuck in the damp soil. You see, if it was tossed, it would have slid a little, also. That would show up. And there was hardly even an imprint in the mud. That is planted evidence.”

“Is it too early for champagne?” Rich said.

“Way early,” Hiram said. “If we continue thinking we've got this thing won, we are misleading ourselves. All games are won in the fourth quarter. We have to play as if we’re behind.”

“You’re right,” Rich said.

“We’ll have Kirby look at this,” Hiram said. “He can find a rat in a cat factory.”

“I don’t want us to lose focus,” Rich said, “but is it too taxing to wonder or speculate on who really did it?”

“Shifting blame can be a trap,” Hiram said. “Sometimes the only logical suspect beyond the defendant is a seventy-year-old grandma who bakes cookies for her grandchildren. The defense ends up looking like ghouls, willing to sacrifice a lovely old lady to get a murderer free at any cost.”

Rich grinned. “What if it really is the grandma?”

“I’d want to be her lawyer,” Hiram laughed. “She’d be easy to defend, and she’d pay me in her wonderfully delicious cookies.”

“What next?” Rich asked.

“We continue to go over the evidence report,” Hiram said. “Even if we see what might appear as an error in grammar, note it. Sometimes those are written Freudian Slips. We are looking for any weakness. A small crack in the dam, that’s how the valley was flooded.”

“Look at this!” Miss Winslow said, holding up an 8-by-10 photograph. “This is a photo of where they found the gun.” She handed it to Hiram.

He looked at it and clicked his tongue. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing? Two shoeprints.” Hiram handed the photo to Rich.

He examined it. “This is two days after the murder,” Rich said. “The ground was not muddy. The shoeprint was made when the ground was muddy.” Rich scratched the back of his head. “Can’t they see that?”

“They not only see it but they have already explained it away,” Hiram said. “I don’t know how clever this prosecutor is. He may not be, and he’s getting a lot of help. But we must caution ourselves. They may want us to feel as though we are winning.”

“Here’s a tough one,” Hiram said. “You didn’t show a lot of emotion. They will make a lot of that.”

“Two years ago,” Rich said, “the most precious thing in my life died. We were just married. Brain aneurysm. She was eighteen. One time, I saw two men fight. One man hit the other so suddenly that the man who was hit stood motionless until he dropped. Sometimes things happen so suddenly. After Bridgett died, I swore nothing would ever affect me like that again. It’s like being buried alive. I don’t want to ever feel that way again.”

“If they interview you again,” Hiram said, “say it just that way.”

“I will never use her memory to save me,” Rich said.

“I think she would want you to,” Miss Winslow said.

“They are playing like they’re behind,” Hiram concluded.

“How ‘bout them hamburgers?” Rich said.

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 14

  This is episode fourteen of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

Episode 14 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Rich pulled into a parking space at Hiram’s office building. After pulling the key from the ignition, he paused and thought, How did I get here? Did I run any lights? Geez, did I hit anyone?

He hurried to Hiram’s office, and Maxine told him to go right in. Hiram rose from his desk, and a man in a gray jacket and tie stood also. He was clean-looking and had a fresh shave and haircut.

“I’m Ned Ingram. A special agent from the CIA.”

Rich glanced at Hiram and quickly back to the agent. Rich quickly sized him up. These guys are trained liars and deceivers, he thought. I should watch myself. After all the denials, someone finally shows up.

Ingram held out his hand to shake it.

“I’d like to see your ID,” Rich said.

Ingram hesitated and reached into the inside lapel pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a leather holder and handed it to Rich. Rich looked it over and looked Ingram over. He handed the ID back to Ingram.

“How long have you been with the agency?” Rich asked.

“I’m asking the questions here,” Ingram said.

“I understand you have questions,” Rich said. “But my questions come first.”

“Ten and a half years,” Ingram said.

“Have you ever worked in the field?” Rich asked.

Ingram gave Rich a cold stare. Rich sat down, and so did Ingram.

“Did I pass?” Ingram asked.

“Agents say nothing about assignments,” Rich said.

“Why are you and your lawyer calling us and…” Ingram reached into his other pocket. He pulled out a notepad and read from it, “…and asking about a Clyde Akers.”

Hiram leaned forward. “You didn’t come all this way just to find out why we’re calling about this guy Akers. There’s something there.”

“Mr. Holiday,” Ingram said, “you’ve called half a dozen times and so has Larsen. We want to know what’s up.”

“I imagine you guys get all kinds of crackpot calls,” Rich said. “And why are you so interested in this one that you make a personal visit? Every communication from the CIA had indicated to us that Akers is lost in the shuffle, in the field somewhere, or dead.”

“You and Holiday are hardly crackpots,” Ingram said.

“Exactly,” Rich said, “and if we asked for Gomer Pyle, you wouldn’t have come here. Akers is a real person, and it concerns you that we asked about a real person.”

“Okay,” Ingram said, “why do you want to know about Akers?”

“Do you know who I am?” Rich asked.

“No, should I?” Ingram asked.

“I don’t know how the CIA works,” Rich said. “But I have been compensated by them in the past. I have helped with some covert operations which I will not talk about in Hiram’s presence or, for that matter, even in your presence.”

Ingram pressed his lips.

“Have you run my name?” Rich asked.

“Yes,” Ingram said.

“And you found nothing?”

Ingram said nothing.

“Look,” Rich said, “my back is against the wall here. This is my lawyer. Having a lawyer has nothing to do with my involvement with the CIA. My problem is that a few weeks ago, my mom and dad were murdered. And I’m the only suspect. They have no evidence that puts me at the scene when it occurred, but you know as well as I do that you can put anybody anyplace if you want to.”

“How does this affect Akers and the Agency?” Ingram asked.

“I’ve had more than one attempt on my life,” Rich said. “I have names and places. Akers must some sort of record of me. He paid me five thousand dollars. It was probably from a black budget, cover job income, ghost money, or whatever you may choose to call it.”

Ingram straightened up in his chair.

“Hit a nerve?” Rich snarked.

“What is it you want?” Ingram asked.

“I want to know if any of this is tied to anything I was involved in,” Rich said. “If it is, I sure wish in some covert manner you might persuade the local sheriff to back off and pursue some other course and clear my name.”

“I can’t guarantee anything,” Ingram said. “You seem to know more about the workings of the agency than others in a similar position to yours. However, we might be able to swap information.”

“I don’t know what information that I might have that would be useful to you,” Rich said.

“Elbert Percival,” Ingram said.

“Elbert Percival,” Rich repeated. “Never heard of him. Oh, wait. There was someone a few years ahead of me in high school. I think his name was Elbert Percival. If you could get a hold of a school annual, that might help you.”

“You teamed up with him in Africa,” Ingram said. “You made off with a large sum of money.”

“Does it look to you like I made off with a large sum of money?” Rich said. “I drive an Army surplus Jeep.”

“Maybe Percival made off with it,” Ingram said.

“And maybe the earth is flat,” Rich said.

“Where is Elbert Percival?” Ingram insisted.

“The last time I saw Elbert Percival,” Rich said, “was outside the school cafeteria smoking cigarettes with his hood friends. Wait, maybe it wasn’t him. That’s been a while, and I didn’t run with that crowd, so I may have gotten him mixed up with somebody else.”

“You’re playing games,” Ingram said.

“You have the file on me,” Rich said. “You’ve read it. Now those were games.”

Ingram stood. He handed a business card to Rich and one to Hiram.

“Mr. Larsen, if you should have a change of heart, call me. That’s my number on the card. But until you do, there’s no reason to help you.”

Ingram walked out of the room and didn’t shut the door behind him. Rich got up and shut the door. He sat back down in his chair.

Hiram clicked his cheek. “Your tax dollars at work.”

Rich stroked his chin and raised his eyebrows at Hiram. “Are you still my lawyer?”

“More than ever,” Hiram said. “I suppose that envelope you gave me is a complete report on all your dealings with the CIA.”

“I left a lot of things out,” Rich said.

“Things that have to do with Elbert Percival,” Hiram said.

“Exactly,” Rich said. “He’s a good and decent man. He broke free from the craziness he was involved in. He leads a quiet life. He’s married and has a child.”

“He must mean a lot to you,” Hiram said. “Giving him up, it sounds like you could be let off the hook.”

“We’ve been through a lot together,” Rich said. “If not for him, I might be dead. And if not for me, he might be dead. There’s no way I would give him up.”

“So,” Rich smacked his hands on his thighs, “besides Ingram, what else is cookin’?”

“The prosecutor is supposed to call me after lunch,” Hiram said. “He sounded to me like the cat who swallowed the canary. I think he has something. It’s probably nothing. They always promise filet mignon and deliver hamburger.”

“By the way,” Hiram said, “how are you holding out?”

“I’m fine,” Rich said. "The Hillcrest is not exactly the Waldorf Astoria. What I pay a night at the Hillcrest will get me a shoe shine at the Waldorf.”

“If the prosecutor doesn’t charge you in another week, ignore them and take off. Leave them a contact number or tell them you’ll contact them as soon as you settle in.”

“Is that a lawyer speaking or a friend?” Rich asked.

“Both,” Hiram said. “The prosecutor and the sheriff’s department are playing this as secret as my grandma’s cookie recipe. She took it to the grave.”

“That doesn’t stop the newspaper from suggesting,” Rich said. “Some of the stuff they are printing is libelous.”

“That reminds me,” Hiram said. “I wanted to talk to you about that. I don’t want you to think this is escaping my attention. If this goes to trial, because of the libelous nature of those articles, we can ask for a change of venue. We can get this tried on the other side of the state. And after that, we sue for damages. When this is all over, you may own the newspaper.”

Rich tipped his brow. “I’ll be back at the motel. My soap opera is about to start.”