The Photograph

By Ann Steele

How far would one man go to protect a family secret? Detective Murphy is about to find out. The Photograph begins with a case of mistaken identity in which the wrong man is viciously beaten, stripped of his valuables and identification, and left for dead in a rain-soaked parking lot. The only clue to his identity is an old black and white photograph tucked inside the breast pocket of his jacket--a photograph of a man, woman and young boy with the inscription "Dillon-1939" on the back. The circumstances surrounding the attack on the man known only as 'John Doe' are suspicious and Detective Murphy has a hunch the crime has more far-reaching implications than just a random Vegas robbery. With the photograph as his only lead, Detective Murphy teams up with journalist Lauren McArthur to discover the man's identity as well as the motive behind his assault before it's too late. As the complex investigation gradually unfolds, a shocking trail of greed, murder and deception is exposed that spans more than half a century and leads straight to the front steps of the governor's office.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Steele
• Release date: Sep 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476045405

Ann Steele

I have been writing fiction since 2002. I am married with three grown children and four grandchildren.

Book preview

The Photograph

By Ann Steele

Alex Steele, Editor

Cover Design by Laura Shinn

Copyright 2012 Ann Steele

Smashwords Edition

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This e-book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and some of the places are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual event, place, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

The initial blow seemed to come from nowhere and connected with such force and intensity on the right side of the unsuspecting man’s head that it knocked him off balance. The pain registered a split second after the moment of surprise. A subsequent series of blows, to his head and torso, came in rapid succession, both forceful and intense. The man collapsed hard onto the wet pavement, dazed, confused, and now in excruciating pain. The sudden rush of adrenaline brought on by the savage, unprovoked attack caused his heart to beat with frightening speed as he instinctively curled his body into the fetal position and struggled to protect his head with his arms from the kicks that were now connecting with relentless brutality to his stomach and back. Had he been 20 years younger, he may have been able to fend off his attacker after the moment of surprise and escape to safety with minor injuries. As it was, the most he could do was shield his head and hope that whoever was beating him would soon stop. He was unable to cry out for help; the blood that was now pouring from his broken nose and the cuts on his head, face, and hands, together with the falling rain, made it difficult to breathe. Dear God, the man thought in agonized terror, why is this happening to me? He both heard and felt a bone snap and his left arm dropped onto the ground, exposing his head. After a well-placed kick by a heavy boot, the man lost consciousness.

The assailant, satisfied with his handiwork, stripped the man of all his valuables and identification and slipped away unnoticed into the darkness. The violent attack was short in duration yet brutal in intensity, leaving the bruised and battered man alone on the rain-soaked pavement of the parking lot, comatose and near death.

* * * * *

Lauren McArthur, a five-year veteran journalist with the Las Vegas Examiner, received a phone call from Sarah at the assignment desk about a possible homicide behind the Aja Hotel less than a minute from the time a city dispatcher radioed for police and an ambulance. It was late on a wet Thursday in April. Prior to that call, it had been a slow day for news. Lauren had taken some of her accrued comp time and left work earlier than usual, seeing no useful purpose in hanging around the newsroom with nothing much to do. She spent the remainder of the day running errands and catching up on some overdue housework. When the call came, she was sitting alone in her two-bedroom condominium, reading a novel. She tossed the book aside, grabbed her briefcase, a light jacket to ward off the chill of the rain, and an umbrella, heading out the door to an address that was minutes from her home located in a tidy, affluent area of town that saw little crime, as a rule. A murder here was exceptional; the Strip was where most of the unsavory nighttime activity took place.

Before long, Lauren approached the parking lot at the rear of the Aja Hotel, whose single entrance was on the north side of the block. The lot was not meant for guests of the hotel; it had its own high-rise parking facility across the street to the south, complete with a connecting covered walkway. This particular lot was for the handful of restaurants and businesses located on the east and west sides of the block. The Aja Hotel, an older, reputable seven-story establishment, took up the entire south end of the oversized block. Assuming she would be the first on scene due to its somewhat close proximity to her home, Lauren navigated her car into the lot. She soon saw a familiar unmarked police car parked off to her left with its headlights aimed toward a body lying on its right side near the northeast corner of the lot. Back-up and the ambulance had not yet arrived.

The rain had been falling for more than an hour and was now starting to abate. Lauren drove in a wide arc until her car was facing north, its headlights also directed toward the person on the ground. It was 10:30 p.m. and the solitary streetlight at the entrance of the parking lot did not provide sufficient illumination on this moonless, overcast night. Keeping the headlights on, she turned off the engine and scanned the suspected crime scene from inside the safety of her car. Even though the body lay a mere 35 feet away, Lauren used a small pair of binoculars she kept in the glove box to get a better look. The victim appeared to be an older Caucasian man who had been beaten and left for dead.

The plain-clothes detective at the scene was bent close over the man, kneeling in a filthy soup of rain water, blood and parking lot gravel. With a flashlight in hand, he was inspecting the victim. He wasn’t touching the man, however. For that reason, Lauren believed the victim was dead. Protocol dictated that the body of a suspected murder victim could not be touched until examined and released by a state licensed coroner or medical examiner.

When he finished, the detective stood and looked in Lauren’s direction. Although the car’s headlights shone in his eyes, making it impossible to see her face, he recognized the car. He gave her a brief wave of acknowledgement indicating that her presence, at least for the time being, would not be a problem. Lauren acknowledged his greeting by turning her headlights off and back on again. It was Detective Daryl Murphy, known as Murph to his friends and colleagues. Lauren had collaborated with him on several previous robbery and homicide investigations and found him to be a fair-minded, affable sort of man whom she trusted and respected. She was pleased that he was the first officer at the scene and would, therefore, head the murder investigation. She scanned the parking lot for his partner and saw no one else.

Taking a pen and notebook from her briefcase, Lauren turned on the car’s overhead light and began making a few notes—documenting the scene, the time, the weather, and her first impressions of the victim. Within minutes, a patrol car with two uniformed officers arrived, followed by an ambulance. Three paramedics leapt from the vehicle and set to work as Murph began briefing the two officers, stepping aside to allow more room for the emergency medical responders. Although she was anxious to leave her car and join them, Lauren waited until Murph gave her the signal that it was okay. Perhaps another reporter might have muscled his way in uninvited; experience and respect for Detective Murphy dictated Lauren’s restraint, however.

She didn’t have to wait long. Murph beckoned for her to join him with a motion of his hand. She scrambled from the car, notepad and pen in hand, and a small tape recorder in her pocket with the microphone clipped to her jacket lapel. She switched the recorder on as she hurried to Detective Murphy’s side. Although she didn’t consider herself as being squeamish, the inevitable adrenaline rush she felt each time she saw a dead body caused her hands to sweat and her pulse to quicken.

The paramedics soon determined that the man was alive. His sport coat and shirt were cut up the back, removed, and shoved into a plastic bag as evidence. He was then rolled onto on his back. While two of the paramedics retrieved the gurney from the rear of the ambulance, the third checked the man from head to toe for broken bones and other emergency considerations. The victim’s face was battered, bloody and swollen, as were his torso, hands and arms. It was difficult from Lauren’s perspective to see what other injuries he may have sustained. It was evident though that he had taken a terrible, violent beating.

The gurney was collapsed and placed on the ground next to the victim. Once his neck was stabilized with a cervical collar and his arms were immobilized with splints, he was moved onto the gurney and an IV line was started. Murph was then given the go-ahead to check the victim’s pockets for identification. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and went through the pockets of the pants the victim was wearing as well as through the pockets of the shirt and sport coat that had been placed in the plastic bag and tossed off to the side. He came up empty-handed. He did, however, find an old faded black and white photograph in the inside pocket of the man’s sport coat. To get a better look, Murph held it into the beam of his car’s headlights. It was a picture of a young boy, who appeared to be 10-12 years of age, standing next to a woman, with a man in the background. Turning it over, Murph strained to make out the inscription—Dillon – 1939—that was written on the back. He studied the photograph for a moment, thinking it was an odd thing to be carried loose in a pocket as opposed to being tucked inside the safety of a wallet and wondering whether it had been planted or overlooked by the assailant.

Do you know who he is? Lauren asked, craning her neck to see what Murph was holding.

No, he doesn’t have a wallet or other identification on him, Murph replied. It appears that everything on him was taken, including any jewelry he may have been wearing. I did find this picture, though. I have no idea who these people are and what relationship they may have to this man, if any.

Lauren stepped closer to Detective Murphy to get a look at the photograph. She, too, saw the notation of Dillon – 1939 that was written on the back. Do you think this man could be the boy in the picture? she asked.

Hard to tell, Murph answered. If we’re unable to identify him by other means, I’ll keep an eye on the local and national databases of missing persons to see if that name comes up with a matching description.

Lauren looked at the battered man lying as though dead upon the gurney. I can’t believe he’s still alive, she said with amazement. Who could survive a beating like that, let alone someone of his age? She shook her head in disbelief. Will you give an official statement before they take him or should I follow you in?

I can’t think that I can give you any new information at the hospital than what I know now, apart from what his chances are for survival. And that won’t come until the doctors have had a chance to give him a thorough examination. I’ll give you what I know now and you can call my office in the morning for an update.

Great, thanks, replied Lauren.

The two of them stepped aside as the paramedics raised the gurney and rolled it to the rear of the ambulance where the double doors were wide open and waiting. The paramedic holding the IV bag climbed in first and attached the bag to a hook before the gurney was once again collapsed and stowed inside. Two of the paramedics stayed in the back with the patient while the third shut the doors, climbed into the cab, and started the engine. The driver maneuvered the ambulance away from the scene and out of the parking lot, speeding off into the night, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

Where’s your partner? Lauren asked Murph. I’m surprised to see you here alone.

Yeah, he wasn’t feeling well. I dropped him off at his place before I got the call. I’m flying solo for now.

The two uniformed officers cordoned off the area with orange pylons and yellow crime scene tape that had been retrieved from their car’s trunk and began the tedious job of crime scene analysis, searching for any available evidence they might collect to help in their investigation. Because of the rain, Lauren suspected little evidence would be left behind and what was left behind would be compromised.

She and Murph moved away to allow the officers to do their job unhindered. Doing her best to keep the slow yet persistent drizzle of rain off her notes, Lauren began to question Detective Murphy about the crime. She wished she hadn’t left her umbrella sitting on the front seat of her car.

At that moment, the rear entrance to the Stonebury Restaurant opened and two men dressed in suits emerged. Stonebury was an upscale steakhouse located on the east and was the solitary business on the block apart from the hotel that was open at that hour. Lauren was startled when she recognized the silver-haired man as Michael Creighton, Governor of Nevada. She didn’t recognize his companion, who was a rather large, imposing-looking black man with a serious face and a shiny bald head. The two of them were deep in conversation and paid no attention to what was happening yards away. They walked toward a late model sedan that was parked near the rear of the hotel.

Murph excused himself from Lauren and jogged over to them, having recognized the governor as well. Lauren took a few steps in the same direction, hoping to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Good evening, Governor Creighton, Detective Murphy called out as he approached the two men. May I have a word with you?

The men stopped, turned and faced the person who had called out to them. Because Murph was not in uniform, they had no idea who he might be. With surprising speed, and almost acrobatic grace, the governor’s companion stepped between the governor and Murph, holding out his large hand to keep the detective from getting too close.

If you need to speak with the governor, you can call his office during regular business hours, the broad-shouldered man responded in a stern, baritone voice. This is neither the time nor the place.

By now, Lauren assumed he was the governor’s bodyguard. He was a hulking individual, standing six feet four inches tall and weighing at least 250 pounds of what appeared to be pure muscle. His features were hard and intimidating. Murph, however, did not seem the least bit intimidated.

I’m Detective Daryl Murphy, sir, he explained, stopping at an appropriate distance so as not to alarm either the governor or his associate. For all he knew, the man could be packing a weapon and would be more than happy to use it if he thought the governor was being threatened. Murph held up both hands, indicating there was nothing in them, and then pointed to the badge displayed from the left breast pocket of his jacket.

The governor looked at the badge and for the first time noticed the cordoned off area, the uniformed officers, and the patrol car with its lights flashing at the far end of the parking lot.

It’s okay, he told his companion, who stood down at once yet didn’t seem to be any less on point. The governor approached Murph and shook his hand. Hello, Detective. This is my driver, Tony, he said, indicating the massive gentleman behind him. Tony gave Murph an obligatory nod.

Driver? thought Lauren, amused at the euphemism. That’s an interesting way of saying hired tough guy.

What’s happened here? inquired the governor. There was a faint albeit unmistakable smell of alcohol on his breath.

Lauren was now standing at the rear of her silver Porche, trying to look inconspicuous as she listened in on their conversation.

A man has been beaten and robbed, Murph explained. We found him there, in the northeast corner of the parking lot. He pointed in that direction. We haven’t identified him yet; his wallet is missing.

How bad is he? Governor Creighton asked.

I’m no doctor but from what I’ve seen I don’t think he’ll make it. He took a tremendous beating.

Do you think he’s homeless? Maybe that’s why he didn’t have a wallet.

Detective Murphy shook his head. No, I’m sure he wasn’t homeless. He was wearing an expensive sport coat and pants. If he was wearing any jewelry, it was taken as well. The ring finger on his right hand was broken so I’m assuming he was at least wearing a ring.

Lauren recorded everything Murph was telling the governor in her notebook, confident the information he was now revealing would be much more edifying than what he might tell her.

Governor Creighton listened with interest while keeping his gaze on the crime scene. I suppose it’s too early to tell if the man was targeted or if it was a random act of violence? Could drugs be involved?

It is too early to tell, Murph confirmed. He may have been targeted for the mere fact that he looked wealthy and vulnerable. He’s not a young man. The detective paused for a moment. The clouds overhead were beginning to break apart; the new moon, however, kept the parking lot in relative darkness. It’s also possible he may have been targeted because he fits your general description. Did anyone know you were dining here this evening, Governor?

Creighton turned to face the detective, a look of genuine surprise and skepticism on his face. Several feet away, Lauren’s reaction was the same. She hadn’t expected Murph to say that.

You can’t be serious? Creighton demanded with a snort of disbelief.

It’s a possibility, responded Murph in a matter-of-fact voice. I don’t want to rule out anything at this point. My professional judgment is that the assault was far too brutal to be a random robbery. If the victim had been a stranger, chosen for the mere fact that he looked like he may have money on him, the mugger would have run off as soon as he had taken the man’s valuables. He wouldn’t want to stay around long enough to beat the man almost to death. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn this was a simple case of mistaken identity. I can’t think of any other reason the assailant would be in this particular parking lot. Have you received any threats recently, Governor?

Creighton gave a derisive laugh. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I wasn’t getting threats, Detective!

I wouldn’t know anything about that, Murph said, not wanting to get into a political discussion with the state’s leader. Has your office received anything out of the ordinary over the past month or so? Strange phone calls, letters, something of that nature?

My office gets hate mail on a regular basis. The same with phone calls. My secretary thinks she should receive hazard pay for the barrage of nonsense she has to put up with every day. No public official can please all of the people all of the time. He gave a sarcastic chuckle. I know I never do.

Right, said Murph, now a little frustrated. It was apparent Governor Creighton was not giving the situation the serious credence Murph thought he should. Well, is there a particular issue at the moment that may be seen as controversial that would cause someone to lash out like this?

Take your pick! Creighton exclaimed, throwing up his hands in an exaggerated fashion. Who knows what’s going to set someone off. Politics is a dicey environment and not for the faint-hearted. I don’t like the ugly side of politics; then again, I have to admit it does keep things interesting. You’d have to ask my chief-of-staff if you want specifics. They don’t tell me about every little thing that comes down the pike. I’m informed in the event of a credible threat and then my staff and I take the necessary precautions. Otherwise, I won’t hear about it. I’ve got more important things to deal with than worrying about dodging shadows all day, the governor added in his defense.

The two officers, flashlights in hand, had ducked under the yellow crime tape and, with slow, methodical precision, were canvassing the remainder of the parking lot in search of any latent clues related to the attack. They avoided getting too close to Murph and Creighton so as not to disturb their conversation. Murph, however, was keeping tabs on their progress and when he deemed it necessary, he took several steps back and invited the governor and his companion to do the same to allow the exploratory sweep to continue.

What time did you arrive at the restaurant, Governor? Murph inquired. And may I ask who you were dining with?

Creighton did not respond right away. He looked as though he was uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

I don’t mean to pry, sir, Murph explained. I just need to rule you out as the intended target. I’m sure that would make you feel better as well.

Of course, I understand. And rest assured I’ll do anything I can to cooperate with your investigation. I have serious doubts, however, that this, Creighton gave a dismissive gesture toward the crime scene, has anything to do with me.

Detective Murphy kept his eyes on the governor, waiting for the answer to the question Creighton seemed hesitant to provide for some reason. Now somewhat annoyed, Creighton said at last, Tony and I arrived around eight. I was meeting an old friend for dinner. I was already in town and he arrived this morning on business. Is it necessary for me to give you the name?

If you don’t mind, responded Murph. Over by her car, Lauren smiled to herself. She took a bit of pleasure in seeing the governor squirm. He looked like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. She wondered what he had to hide. A girlfriend, perhaps?

Governor Creighton took a deep breath and sighed before answering. His name is Harvey Blackwell. You may have heard of him. He’s a real estate developer from Reno. He and I go way back, we attended college together. This was a business meeting of sorts. We were discussing . . ., well, let’s just say a business proposition that I would prefer not to talk about at this time. He gave Murph a polished, politician’s smile and Murph nodded to indicate he understood.

Did you notice anything suspicious when you arrived tonight, Governor?

No, I’m sorry, nothing comes to mind. How about you, Tony? Did you notice anything?

No, sir, was Tony’s curt reply.

As if realizing something all of a sudden, the governor, with some reservation, asked Murph, What time did the attack take place?

Murph’s years of experience told him that was a significant question. We don’t know the exact time. My best guess would be around nine-thirty. Why do you ask? he asked, trying to keep the question casual-sounding.

The governor fidgeted as his brow creased with a look of sudden concern. I got up to use the restroom around nine-thirty. The reason I know the time is because I glanced at my watch while I was drying my hands. It had been a long day and I was anxious to get back to my hotel. I couldn’t leave then because Harvey and I hadn’t concluded our business. He paused for a moment before adding with hesitation, I guess it could have looked as though I was leaving. The restrooms are near the back door.

This small revelation excited Lauren’s journalistic interest.

Murph gave the governor a slow, pensive nod. Did you notice anyone in the restaurant who was watching you a little too close or seemed to be more interested in what you were doing than, say, the normal stares you may get in public?

I’m sorry, Detective, Governor Creighton replied. The restaurant keeps the lights dim, we were seated near the back, and, to be honest, I had other things on my mind. I wasn’t paying attention to the other patrons.

Murph turned to Tony. Were you with the governor the entire time?

Tony was standing a half-step behind the governor’s right shoulder, his large hands curled in loose fists at his side. His dark, piercing eyes stared straight into Murph’s, never flinching. I wasn’t at their table; their conversation was private and it didn’t concern me. I sat at the bar and they were always in my line of vision. Anticipating the detective’s next question, he added, I drank only soft drinks. You can ask the barman or you can give me a Breathalyzer if you want. I don’t drink alcohol and even if I did, I would never drink and drive.

Murph suspected Tony’s impassioned, unsolicited declaration came as the result of some past misdeed.

Did either of you notice anyone leave when you got up at nine-thirty? asked Murph.

Both men shook their heads; they had seen no one.

Who reported the crime? the governor inquired. I would think they would be in a better position to answer these questions than I am.

It was an anonymous tip. Whoever called it in didn’t give a name. They said a man had been beaten to death behind the Aja Hotel and hung up. That was it.

Is that normal? asked the governor in astonishment. Is it normal for people to report crimes anonymously?

"It happens a lot more than you’d expect. Some people don’t like getting involved. I suppose they think doing their civic duty means making the