The Millstone

By Bryant Kearney

A stranger visited your town last night. His purpose: to kill a man he didn’t know and who had given him no reason for offense. The Stranger’s killing field is the entire country; his prey could be a California policeman, a Reno junkie or a wealthy South Carolina heir. Local police struggle for answers—unaware that they are searching for a cross-country serial killer with a peculiar appetite. Ironically, however, it is a widowed architect from Lowell, Massachusetts who may ultimately be the only one able to find—and stop—the Stranger.

The Millstone is a 95,000-word mystery/thriller set in a variety of U.S. cities. Over the last three years, 37 year-old Michael Gavin has seen every good thing in his life “stolen away and ripped apart in a dark corner, leaving only pain.” As Michael struggles to rebuild over the ruins of his tragic past, police in cities across the country struggle to find a brutal killer in their midst, with no results. That is until one morning, when an infamous pro athlete is gunned down at a Georgia golf course, and a small-town homicide captain accidentally stumbles across the dark thread binding each of the victims—the unseen millstone hung around each of their necks. As the captain races across the country trying to retrace the Stranger’s steps and prevent another brutal killing, Michael Gavin’s own search for answers will bring him face-to-face with the Stranger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Kearney
• Release date: Apr 29, 2011

Bryant Kearney

I was born in Lowell, Massachusetts, raised in Southern California and now reside in the San Francisco Bay Area.

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Prologue

FEBRUARY 2ND THIS YEAR

LAKE ELSINORE, CA.

The discovery of a man’s body on the floor of his own home is not, in itself, any great cause for alarm. Even for a town the size of Lake Elsinore—seated unassumingly along the 15 Freeway Corridor, an hour north of San Diego—death is an almost-daily occurrence. To further learn that the decedent was a highly decorated member of the Los Angeles Police Department raises the event to that of a local tragedy. But, when it is learned that the officer had been stripped, bound with a phone cord, savagely beaten and violated, set on fire then put out and left to die of his injuries, it becomes nothing short of a national outrage. So it was with the discovery of 41 year-old Sergeant Romulo Arrigan: LAPD veteran, husband and father of three.

Just before six o’clock on the morning of February 2nd, an anonymous non-emergency call was made, summoning Lake Elsinore police to the modest, two-story residence on Lake Avenue. In a strange order of events, a local freelance reporter and high school journalism teacher named Chris Duncan was already at the home—vomiting on the front lawn—when police arrived. Mr. Duncan had apparently received a similar call, just a few minutes ahead of police, and had come in the hope of documenting a minor drug arrest for his class. When Duncan arrived at the home, the front door was open, a strangely sweet odor coming from within. As his B-section column appearing in the Thursday edition of the Press Enterprise described:

…Entering the home, I immediately came upon the body of what would later be identified as Mr. Arrigan, on the tile floor near the stairs. All around me were signs of a vicious struggle. Arrigan’s body was still smoldering, lying face-down in a puddle of clear liquid: the melted fat from his own back.

Within days, the article appeared in several more California papers, and by the end of the week had even crept into the online editions of a few nationals. It was Duncan’s first published piece; and, therefore, the biggest of his career. The graphic nature of the attack left Sgt. Arrigan’s family, fellow officers and a frightened community, to wonder: What could have prompted such violence against this respected public servant and family man?

The Lake Elsinore Police Department immediately launched a thorough investigation. Although the city is certainly no metropolis, its police force is efficient, well outfitted, and, above all, dedicated. Vast amounts of evidence were collected at the scene, including all of the weapons used in the attack: phone wire and cutters, a small paring knife, lighter fluid, book of matches and an aluminum tee-ball bat. Strangely, there seems to have been little effort on the part the killer to mask or destroy any physical evidence—except for Arrigan himself, that is. Also, each of the items used in the killing of Arrigan came from within the home itself. However, as of the publication date of this account, no suspects have yet to be identified, nor a plausible explanation given for the motive of the crime.

****

Chapter 1 – Spring Mourning

TUESDAY, MARCH 24TH

GREENVILLE, SOUTH CAROLINA

Tension: every oak-trimmed inch of the Greenville Superior Courthouse was alight with it. At 10:44 that morning, the doors to Department 6 were opened. Within minutes, the gallery was filled to capacity with excited spectators, local and national media and fear-stricken family members of both victim and accused. In this part of the country, even whispers come with a Southern drawl, like wind spinning through a chimney-flu. And every whispering eye was focused on the back of the young man seated at the defense table. Flanked by his team of well-dressed attorneys, the unlikely defendant kept one hand busy fidgeting with his eyeglasses, while the other drummed a yellow #2 pencil against the sole of his left Florsheim. His gaze was unwavering as well—fixed on the empty black chair that stood a little higher than the others, enclosed by a parapet of decorative wood molding.

Across the aisle—separated by a four-foot gap and modest podium—the silver-haired prosecutor sat alone. A true lawyer in both mind and spirit, his every move was deliberate, efficient. At that moment, he, like the young defendant, was busy trying to avert the gaze of the hundreds of onlookers in attendance behind him. The prosecutor’s tired eyes rolled back and forth across his trial notes; but not a word of it penetrated his dispirited mind. There would be no surprises today; he knew what was coming…they all did. All, that is, except the mumbling, shuffling mass in the gallery seeking justice—whatever that meant to them individually. For the silver-haired man whose job it was to represent the People, justice and her scales would not be present for today’s hearing. As a result, one of the most brutal crimes in recent South Carolina history—the crime against a little girl—would again go unanswered.

It had been nearly two years: seven-and-a-half seasons, since nine year-old Jennifer Michelle Simmons was taken from her safe, suburban home, brutalized and left by the roadside, barely clinging to life. Handicapped from birth and confined to a wheelchair, Jenny had made for an easy target. It only took an hour or two for the fiend to savage her tiny frame. It will take centuries to recover from the wounds. For the anger and fear borne of such acts will forever change the hearts, attitudes and habits of hundreds of people nearest the epicenter, and thousands in the periphery. And little pieces of that awful deed will be passed on, like genetic flotsam, to the generations they create.

Jenny was still alive when a roadside cleanup crew found her the following morning. Things of this sort don’t happen in Greenville. An outraged community decried the attack, lit candles in their places of worship and pleaded with Heaven for Jenny’s recovery. And, with trembling fists, they demanded the ends of justice to be met swiftly and without resignation. But no greater had the outrage been felt than within the walls of the Greenville Police Department. While local citizens held hands and dripped wax on church floors, the men and women of the Greenville P.D.—fathers and mothers each—had already set themselves to tracking the violent pedophile in their midst.

Every man, woman, animal and machine bearing the Greenville P.D. emblem, worked an unending shift, often on their own time, pushing the limits of their endurance; the face of little Jenny Simmons ever before them. The collective efforts of police and hundreds of volunteers moved the ball along at an incredible pace. Loyalties were quickly betrayed and trusted friends spoke out. This was a little girl, after all. By the end of the first week, Greenville’s police chief and district attorney publicly announced that an arrest had been made. The identity of the young man they sought to charge was almost as shocking as the crime itself.

Dennis Travers, Jr.—affectionately known since childhood as Denney—was the twenty-seven-year-old heir of one the Carolinas’ oldest, wealthiest and most influential families. Denney was a bright, affable and good-looking boy, whose pursuits revolved largely around music, sci-fi movies and marathon video-gaming. A severe defect in Denney’s vision necessitated the use of heavy prescription lenses, drawing him away from the more physical disciplines, sports and the like. But this didn’t seem to hamper Denney’s popularity in the least. He was very well liked among his peers—many of whom labeled his arrest as a rush to judgment with possible political overtones. His father’s prominence in the community would make things considerably more delicate for the authorities, to be sure.

That selfsame prominence had also afforded Denney a level of anonymity not enjoyed by most. Southern politics are built on the solid bedrock of tradition, influence peddling and tasteful graft. Greenville Police would have added to Denney’s list of hobbies such unpublicized goodies as arson, vandalism, and breaking-and-entering—not to mention a few sexual misunderstandings—all graciously whitewashed from the record. But this time it was different. Had Travers, Sr. borne the title of King of the World, he would have had no more sway in this case. The crime for which the spoiled son of a wealthy sire had been accused was well beyond the reach of any political fingering. Hell, even inmates don’t tolerate that kind of behavior among their own!

Denney was arrested without incident at the historic Travers estate on the outskirts of Greenville, and no kid gloves handled him while in custody. Rights are rights, however. Within hours, Miss Winter Gibson—uber-attractive, redheaded rising star in the small-but-exclusive sky of South Carolina defense law—descended upon the city jail. To put it plainly, Gibson was hot and she was smart: a brutal combination for any prosecutor to contend with. A few days later, Denney Travers stood shackled before the court—his blindingly beautiful attorney at his side—to hear the charges against him. There were thirteen counts in all: stalking, child kidnapping, false imprisonment and a slue of assaults in various sub-categories: all of them awful.

Denney could only remember two things from that day: The fragrant burst of air that filled his senses every time Miss Gibson moved that beautiful head of hair, then his suddenly being whisked out of the courtroom, without a single charge having been read.

Denney was so caught up in imaginary coitus with his lawyer, that he didn’t even see the deputy approach the bench, bringing the news that Jenny Simmons had just succumbed to her injuries. The gravelly old judge—as overweight as he was overbearing—immediately postponed the hearing until a new complaint could be filed, and disappeared behind the well-lacquered door of his chambers. Later on, it would be said that the callous judge had been overheard, crying bitterly, in his private study. Things like this just didn’t happen in Greenville. The following morning, the charges against Dennis Travers, Jr. were revised to include first-degree murder. It was to be a capital case.

Now, twenty-three months—and two trials—later, Denney sat tapping his pencil against his shoe, his eyes fixed on the empty black chair the judge would shortly occupy. Denney’s stare was only averted for a moment, when Miss Gibson leaned across his lap to whisper a few words to her co-counsel seated to his left—giving Denney a perfect view into her blouse. Denney’s left eye suddenly began to twitch—an uncontrollable tick set off by titillation. Winter Gibson had an amazing body, and, in that moment, the young defendant whose life hung in the balance wanted nothing more than to tear her clothes off! Two years of isolated, sexless confinement will do that to a person. Miss Gibson sat up again, leaving that unbelievable smell of hers all over the front of Denney’s suit. She looked at her client and smiled; then…

‘Was that a wink?’ Denney wondered, his left eyelid pulsing like a fly’s wing.

It was. Winter Gibson was a smart woman, and didn’t mind a little insincere flirtation—even with Denney Travers, whom she hated beyond description. Gibson was working toward a much larger end. Two years of billable hours in the People vs. Travers saga had already put her into a whole new category among her peers. The first hung jury bought her a seat of respect among the bluebloods of the Bar Association. The second would win her infamy. Gibson would be able to cherry-pick her next case, and it wouldn’t be defending a sick little prick like Denney Travers, either. ‘The next case,’ she smiled at the thought.

A uniformed officer closed the doors to Department 6, signaling to those in attendance that it was nearly time to begin. The scene (for this was to be a show and nothing else) was set; and, surrounding the players on every side, was an undulating, mumbling carpet of humanity. Excitement and fear mixed like currents of air, creating a heavy cloud of tension in the courtroom. This was no small matter for a place like Greenville.

For nearly two years, the Denney Travers case (originally dubbed the Jenny Simmons case) had captivated—or rather, consumed—the collective mind of the whole region. The first trial had ended well for the defense, bringing into the second go-around a new wave of support for what TrialTV now referred to as "Team Denney". An ever growing band of guilt-doubters and sycophants entered the fray, eager to overlook the obvious for the sake of some counter-cultural win. Everyone seemed eager to pitch in, including the media. Every night on TrialTV, it seemed, some new legal pundit would come on, expressing a lukewarm admiration for Denney’s ability to outwit the prosecution. And then, of course, there was Winter Gibson: the woman who had singlehandedly made criminal law sexy. And she did. Even local law schools were reporting increased enrollment as a result of the coverage!

Without a doubt, the Denney Travers drama had now become Greenville’s hottest team sport. And today, a sold-out crowd of fans for both sides had packed into the courtroom, anxiously awaiting the judge’s decision. Finally, at 11:22 A.M., the well-lacquered door behind the black chair opened, and the same gravelly judge took his seat. The astute TrialTV anchor was quick to point out how much older the judge looked after two years of this intense drama as she put it. Why shouldn’t she? After all, the Travers case had single-handedly made the fledgling local station the highest rated cable network in the Carolinas.

The bailiff stood and instructed all who were present to do likewise, then began reciting the usual legal sacraments: the "Hear-Ye’s" of the courtroom. But the judge was in no mood for any of it that morning. Just get the jury in here, please, he ordered. Then he seemed to mutter something hateful under his breath; a tiny smirk blossomed at the corners of Miss Gibson’s rubine lips. A few awkward moments passed in which the cloud of tension grew palpably. A narrow door, on the wall behind the jury box, slowly opened, and twelve noticeably-exhausted peers shuffled to their seats.

Denney Travers sat with his head hung low. He’d already had two years of Gibson’s perky optimism, and was unable to share in it any longer. A band of sweat formed across his forehead.

The judge cleared his throat. Madame Foreman? he began, his voice devoid of any tone of stereotypical Southern manner.

A slightly overweight woman in her early forties rose, her hands tied together in a wringing sort of gesture.

The judge continued: "It is my understanding that the jury, in the matter placed before it, is still unable to render a verdict: Is that correct?"

It is, your Honor, the woman answered, carefully averting the stare of the court Patriarch. A collective gasp rolled across the gallery; a single clap sounded from somewhere in back.

The judge looked sternly toward the gallery, which quickly went silent again. He clenched his teeth, and, with a slight click of his tongue, said, And is it your opinion, Madame Foreman, that the jury is hopelessly deadlocked, and that there is no hope of arriving at a verdict should deliberations continue?

Yes, she answered shamefully.

"Oh my God," Denney whispered as the reality of those words began to sink in, and he felt the first electric impulses of freedom coursing through him. His eyes welled with tears.

Then you are all hereby dismissed, the judge told the jury, his tone matching look of disgust on his face. He paused to recompose, then continued: "I’d like to remind you that, from now on, you are released from my previous order not to discuss the details of this case. If you wish to speak with members of the press regarding your experience, you are free to do so, although you are in no way obligated to. He turned his attention to the lone prosecutor: Mr. Bennett, can I expect to hear from you soon as to whether you’ll be seeking a third trial against this defendant?"

The prosecutor rose halfway in his chair: The People will inform the court of a decision by week’s end, Your Honor.

Thank you, Mr. Bennett, the judge muttered, scribbling a note on his blotter. Then he turned in the general direction of the defense table, but withheld the respect of looking Winter Gibson in the face. As a genteel, Southern gentleman, this was not his usual custom. "Miss Gibson. I received the request for bail you filed earlier with the court. He paused to let out some air between his clenched teeth. I have decided that, under the circumstances, I will grant bail—provided that the defendant remain under supervised house arrest until the People inform me of its intentions. Therefore, arrangements will be made for the defendant’s release by the end of the day. That is all." With a few sharp smacks of the gavel, the judge rose from his seat and—yet again—disappeared behind the well-lacquered door.

Defense Attorney Gibson closed her eyes long enough to say Thank you to whatever unseen force she credited with the victory—probably God—then placed a slender, reassuring hand on the back of her client’s neck. I think this is finally it, she said confidently

Her touch burned into Denney’s skin like a hot iron. His hand snapped out for hers, forcing it away with a wrenching twist.

Gibson let out a muted, painful cry.

Suddenly aware of what he’d done, Denney released his grip and looked at her apologetically.

Gibson pulled away reflexively, but returned a forgiving smile; her eyes still watering from the pain. She wasn’t about to make a scene—not with billable hours still needing to be invoiced.

The doors to Department 6 burst open, and the mass of spectators poured from the courtroom like cattle prom a paddock, each celebrating or bemoaning the outcome. Before the courtroom was empty, TrialTV was already announcing that the trial had ended with another exciting win for Team Travers, and that a third attempt at prosecution was hardly likely.

By 11:30, the courtroom was empty, except for two bereft spectators—husband and wife—still seated along the back row. They clung tightly each other, sobbing quietly as only they could. On the bench beside them was the framed photo of a little girl, smiling out to the world that had failed her. The murder of little Jenny would likely be banished forever to the nothingness of Legal Purgatory: her killer known, his crime unpunished.

Outside the courthouse, Denney Travers placed in an unmarked police car and whisked safely away from the sacred, stone building that is the arbiter of justice. Denney wasn’t smiling, however. The time for celebration had come and gone in an instant; and Denney knew his life would never be the same again. ‘Child Killer’. He cringed as the words stung into his brain. Denney shook his head defiantly; ‘That isn’t me,’ he thought; "I can come back from this," he whispered. Yet, even as he spoke those words, Denney knew the mark he was now branded with might fade with time, but would never disappear altogether.

One short-lived moment of weakness had cost Denney two years of his life, and had nearly ruined his father’s hard-earned reputation. ‘One little cripple isn’t worth all that,’ he reasoned. ‘Never again!’ In that moment, he was convinced of the truth of those words. Suddenly, Denney felt a sharp pang in his stomach. He was hungry, and it was already past lunchtime.

****

Chapter 2 – Lowell Mass

Sometimes, the past seems so real that it could be a destination on a map. At others, it hardly rises to the tangibility of a dream.

He was at a friend’s house—a meaningless get-together—when he saw her for the first time. She was in the other room, laughing with a friend as she knocked the cue off the pool table. She laughed freely, unabashedly; flashing the widest smile he’d ever seen. She wasn’t a beauty queen, but she was definitely beautiful. Her beauty was the kind that can’t be painted on with a brush, or removed with a washcloth at the end of the day. She was so caught up in her laughter that she nearly fell against her friend, and her hair—straight and dark, turned slightly upward at the ends—spilled around her face, perfecting it. She looked up suddenly, and caught him staring.

He quickly looked away and escaped to another part of the house. He never expected her to follow after him. He was a shy student of twenty-two, just beginning to fit into his own skin. Fortunately, she was a better fit for hers. She found him—on the back porch catching his breath—approached with that wide smile, an outstretched hand and a single word: Rachel. She lived in Woburn, was a fourth-grade teacher, a committed Catholic and was three years his senior. He learned all this in a matter of a few minutes, and with less than ten words from him. She made it all so easy for him; and, by the end of the evening, he knew he loved her.

SUNDAY, MARCH 29TH

LOWELL, MASSACHUSSETTS

"Open your eyes, Michael," she whispered.

Michael Gavin slowly opened his eyes, looking around the room for her. Still in a fog of sleep, he slid his feet onto the cold hardwood floor and stumbled into the shower. The sudden crash of hot water against his sleeping skin was uncomfortable at first; but the discomfort quickly faded into blissful warmth. Michael bent his tall frame over to catch the welcome stream of water with his face; it felt like days since he’d had a decent shower. He leaned against the wall, and dazedly watched the rhythmic flow from the tiny jets. After several minutes, the water began to get colder, and Michael knew he’d lost track of time. He turned off the water, opened the shower door and reached for a towel. The bar on the wall was empty. Honey, he called out instinctively, can I get anoth…. Suddenly, he stopped; and he remembered. His call would forever go unanswered. He was alone in the house at 310 Rockingham Street.

It is true that roots grow deep. What is perhaps less known is the fact that some roots die away, while still others are cut away. This was a cruel lesson learned far too soon for Michael Gavin. ‘It was so real just now,’ he thought, feeling the cold hand of reality on his heart, mocking him. He grabbed a hand towel from the drawer and lightly patted his body with it. Then he shut his eyes in a vain effort to stop the slideshow of painful images now clicking through his memory. Every good thing—happiness, marriage, budding success, fatherhood—suddenly taken away and ripped apart in a dark corner, leaving only pain. Michael slid down to the floor and buried his face in the little towel.

Somewhere in the house, the phone rang. Michael raised his head, which felt like an iron weight around his neck. On the fourth ring, the answering machine uttered its robotic factory greeting then beeped loudly. The voice echoing through the house needed no introduction. Hey Mike, it’s me—pick up if you’re there. He had by far the heaviest New England accent Michael had ever heard, like talking through a mouthful of British leftovers. "Whatevah. Listen, Mike, hope I see you some time today. If not, well, I’m all about forgiveness, right? Take care now." The house was again silent. Michael pulled himself up off the floor and reached for a toothbrush. There were three to choose from; again, his heart sank. He dressed quickly and left the house.

Over its long history, Lowell, Massachusetts has been known for many things; almost none of them good. Lowell is a hard town, full of hardened people, and hard changes. With the exception of a few small commercial buildings at the center of town, the cemetery to the east and the brick shoe mills along the Concord River—empty and decaying since the late-fifties—Lowell becomes less familiar with each new spring. For many born and raised here, it’s not an easy thing to see the city of their childhood change so dramatically. And, in Lowell, change—like the Concord—always flows in one direction: South. The homes grow grayer as time between fresh coats of paint becomes more disparate. People move away or die, only to be replaced by unfamiliar faces—mostly imported ones. Lowell is a place to survive in, a place to survive through.

To Michael Gavin, these changes were neither good nor bad. Like Michael himself, they simply were. Buildings fell further into ruin, neighbors and childhood friends moved on, and Michael increasingly found himself a stranger to Lowell. So what? The sun still rose and set as it always had, and the universe would, as always, continue on its course, neither aided nor impeded by the beating of Michael’s heart. The only bright spot remaining in his life was the owner of the voice on the answering machine. A half-hour later, Michael was climbing the wide, concrete steps of St. Theresa’s Roman Catholic Church.

Most early American towns were built around their churches. Lowell was built around its factories, but still managed to find room for St. Theresa’s: a grandiloquent work of concrete and granite, typically overbuilt in the tradition of Catholic structures. Far more cheery than their European ancestors, churches like St. Theresa’s were built with a certain medieval modernity, symbolic of the hopeful time—both for the Church and the infant nation—in which they were built. As Michael pulled on the door’s iron handle, a warm rush of air—scented with old mahogany, linen and wax—whirled around him; drawing him in like the hand of a trusted friend. The door closed tightly behind him, shutting out the bitter and dreary world. Even the air in the old chapel felt sacred; it calmed Michael’s nerves, made him feel safe.

Finding his usual seat along the last row of pews, Michael crossed himself and took his place among the handful of blue-haired parishioners gathered for early-morning Mass. The bench was an old acquaintance, as hard and worn as Michael’s own heart. Mass was already underway; but he hadn’t come to St. Theresa’s today to attend the service. Michael had come at the request of the voice on the machine; the same voice conducting the ritual.

The thickly built, bespectacled priest officiated with just the right balance of reverence and humor, a talent whose evolution Michael had witnessed over years of church attendance and private friendship. That friendship notwithstanding, Michael’s respect for the mantle of authority was deep, and he always addressed his friend as Father. Today, as Michael listened in genuine admiration, that mantle seemed more distinct than ever. His friend had finally gotten his ecumenical sea legs; he was now truly Father Hurley. After the service, Michael remained seated as the priest attended to his parishioners, seeing them out the door with individual well wishes.

When the last member had gone, Father Hurley dashed back to the chapel and greeted his friend warmly: "Mike! I knew you were home when I called!" he said, punching Michael’s arm.

You always know, Michael answered with a weak smile.

How have you…? No—scratch that. First, let me get out of these robes, then you can tell me all about it over breakfast. In a few minutes, Hurley returned in his usual black suit and Roman collar. They walked a few blocks east of the church, engaging in minor chatter about the weather, Massachusetts politics, and boxing—the latter of which was the priest’s secret vice. Arriving at their usual haunt—an all-night delicatessen—they took a booth at the back and idled some more until the food arrived. Hurley took a large bite of his pastrami. For whatever reason, food always seemed to make him wax more philosophic: "You don’t usually come for early-morning Mass, but have you ever noticed who does?"

Michael shrugged. They’re older, I guess.

Hurley nodded in robust agreement, still chewing. "And they’re women, he stressed, bumping his fist on the table. I’m telling you, Mike, that’s what Heaven’ll be like: a bunch of sweet old gals in print dresses and little hats…mark my words." Hurley took another large bite, nodding self-assuredly.

Michael raised his eyebrows in half-hearted interest; but, having nothing to add to the subject, opted for a bite of his burger.

So, how’s things up in Boston? Although Hurley’s question was superficial, he couldn’t hide his deep concern for Michael’s well-being. His many answering machine messages were evidence of that.

Slow, Michael answered. Bishop what’s-his-name is asking for more plan changes.

"More changes? You’re doing this thing for free as it is, Mike!

Reviews for The Millstone

[Margaret O'Brien · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Rich, complex characters, riviting drama, intrigue, deep, heartbreaking emotion & a touch of fantasy. MORE, please!