Officer Jones

Chapter 47

An hour went by.

It was actually more like a minute, but it seemed like an hour. I started to panic. I had to get in. Calling 911 wasn’t exactly an option.

But suddenly around the corner of the house, Gwen appeared like an angel. She looked unscathed, and said, “I opened the front door, let’s go.”

She wore gloves and provided me a pair. I had no idea where she stored them in that dress. I handed her the shoes that she’d removed.

“Are you okay?” I asked with concern.

“No thanks to you dropping me, I am.”

I followed her around to the front entrance. The place was cold and sterile, I thought as we entered, and the only detectable odor came from the recent use of a fireplace.

We entered the living room. It contained two chairs and a couch. A small coffee table sat empty in front of the couch. No magazines, notes, junk, or anything. It was as bland as Kyle Jones’ physical appearance.

“Look what you’ve been missing out on,” I remarked.

“A little too clean for my taste.”

“A little too clean is making me suspicious.”

“JP, we already are suspicious. That’s why we broke into his house. We need to find something that connects him to Noah’s death.”

I walked a circle from living room to dining room, through the kitchen and back to the living room. I checked for cameras, listening devices, and anything that someone like Jones might put in his house because he was paranoid. A handy news-industry survival skill that I had picked up over the years.

I found nothing.

Gwen headed down a hallway, stopping to look at photographs hanging on the wall. “Do you find it odd, JP, that every picture and memento he has is related to his time in Rockfield. No old friends, family-it’s as if his life started the day he arrived here.”

“Not really,” I said. “He’s an only child who moved around, so he likely doesn’t have a lot of longstanding relationships. And as far as his parents, he probably doesn’t want a daily reminder of their death. We haven’t found any cracks in his timeline-he had a good record in the military, his boss in Arizona thinks he’s the Second Coming, and if he had something to hide in North Carolina, then why did he keep his house there?”

She nodded, but my words didn’t seem to convince her, so I stole Murray’s theory, “I think he might be running toward something, not away from it.”

I entered the first bedroom on the right. It was neat and antiseptic, just like all the other rooms. A single bed, a laptop computer sitting on a light colored, wooden desk, and a twenty-inch television in front of the bed.

Gwen followed me in, and went directly to his closet-dry-cleaned police uniforms on one side, casual wear like jeans, flannel shirts, and sweaters on the other. On the floor, hidden behind a folded ironing-board and a pile of heavy winter sweaters, were three cardboard boxes. Gwen knelt down and began going through them as I looked on.

It contained the history Gwen sought. A lot of awards and certificates dating back to Little League, including those noting his military and police achievements. He was so anal that he actually saved his schoolwork from the many schools he’d attended, spanning the globe from Germany to San Diego to Kentucky. Nothing incriminating.

Gwen appeared to discover something and summoned me over. She handed me a copy of the picture of Jones’ parents. I took a close look at them-they appeared to be out on a houseboat at some unidentified lake. “I told you he doesn’t want to deal with it every day. Those memories are best kept in a box in the closet.”

Gwen handed me more photos. They were from the Air Force days. Most were group shots-a bunch of cocky Top Gun wannabe pilots hamming for the camera. It made the military seem more like spring break than the blood and guts of war that I had witnessed firsthand.

She handed me more shots of Jones, posing in his Gilbert, Arizona police uniform, along with some assorted ones from his time in North Carolina, proudly standing by a small airplane.

Gwen continued to dig, finding a photo titled “Batman amp; Robin.” This was another Air Force photo, but this one was specifically of Jones and another man. The photo was signed: Batman amp; Robin-Wingmen Forever! It was dated January 28, 1991. She handed them to me.

Both men, dressed in their sand-colored flight suits, were young, vibrant, and didn’t seem to have a care in the world. They stood beside their aircraft, arms draped around each other, either about to embark on another successful mission, or perhaps just victoriously returning from one. Jones seemed to be having a more difficult time with the desert sun, his skin was blotched and blistered, while his buddy had a bronze tan.

“Do you think you can find out who this wingman guy is? He might know something about Kyle that we’re missing.”

“The only military contacts I have left are the kind who would like to use me for target practice. Maybe Carter can help with that. He’s like a cult hero with the troops.”

Gwen quickly changed the subject, handing me another photo. “Check this out.”

I studied a photo of Jones standing beside an attractive girl with curly dark hair. It was titled: Lucy’s 30th. “I’m guessing this is the Lucy that the police chief in Gilbert mentioned. And I must say, for a strange anal-retentive murderer, he does pretty well with the ladies.”

I’d love to have a conversation with this Lucy, but without a last name, and only a photo, she’d be difficult to locate. I looked for a copy machine, but couldn’t locate one. It would be too risky to take the photo, so I took a picture of it with my phone. It would have to do. I did the same with the photo of Batman amp; Robin.

We knew we didn’t have much time left, so we did one final sweep.

In his desk I found the usual identification markers, such as his social security card and his pilot license from both North Carolina and Connecticut. Unfortunately, there was no diary where he confessed to killing my brother. Gwen found a pile of old VHS tapes with my name marked on them in magic marker, and according to the label, they contained some of my most famous stories for GNZ. Looks like he was returning the favor by doing a little research on me.

All interesting finds, but nothing worth risking a long prison term for. “Hurry and put that stuff back, Gwen, I want to check out the basement before we go.”