Too Rich to Live: Was it Suicide--or Murder?

By James Babcock

A poor young black man, winner of a $23 million lottery, is found dead in his bed with a pistol in his hand—clearly it’s not an accident and apparently it’s a suicide. But with all that money at stake, could he have been murdered? Detective lieutenant Joe Phillips teams up with bank trust officer Maryanne Larkin to investigate. Working together while falling in love, they discover a wholly unexpected answer! A bizarre crime reflects the ethnic pattern of a small southern town on the Gulf Coast shores of the Florida Panhandle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Babcock
• Release date: Jul 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458055453

James Babcock

Following three years in the Navy and forty years in international and domestic banking, Babcock took up a second career as a writer and composer. His plots draw on his travels abroad and experiences in foreign exchange trading, bank operations, lending, trust services, auditing, and bank management. Active in community work, he served as a university rector, symphony president, and chairman of economic development organizations. He holds degrees from Princeton and the Wharton School. In addition to his novels and short stories, his creative work includes books of humor and games and a number of pieces for violin and piano. He resides with his family in Blacksburg, Virginia.

Book preview

Too Rich to Live

Was it Suicide—or Murder?

James Babcock

Copyright 2022 James F. Babcock

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

Contents

of the first book in the

Joe and Maryanne

series

Too Rich to Live

Chapter  1 Sunday morning

Chapter 4 Monday morning

Chapter  7      Tuesday morning

Chapter 10     Wednesday morning

Chapter 13   Wednesday afternoon

Chapter 16   Thursday morning

Chapter 19      Friday morning

Chapter 22      Saturday afternoon

About the Author

More Books by James Babcock

Chapter One

Sunday morning

You can turn off the siren, the detective said. No sense disturbing the gentry. Pine Valley is just up there on the left.

The driver, a plainclothes sergeant, turned the unmarked squad car sharply into the neighborhood. The wheels squealed. 

You can slow down, too, Maroney. Detective Lieutenant Joe Phillips smiled. Sergeant Maroney was older than Joe, with white hair, ruddy cheeks, and a thickening waistline. He liked his beer and loved to drive fast.

Pine Valley was a part of town not very familiar to the sergeant, or to Phillips for that matter. The Valley’s collection of estate mansions occupied the northwest quadrant of town. The entrance to the rich development was marked by elaborate white brick gate posts on either side of the winding drive. Many of the homes had water access to a man-made pond in the center of the development. All had immense expanses of green lawn. At this time of year magnolia trees standing in individual settings displayed scores of waxy white blossoms. Near the water, cypress trees were draped with veils of hanging moss.

Phillips glanced again at the pink message slip he’d crammed into his shirt pocket. The name seemed vaguely familiar.

88 Pine Valley Acres. Randle Washington.

Gunshot. Forensics on the way. Coroner notified.

It should be the next one around the bend on the left, the detective said.

A black aluminum fence surrounded the property. The driveway gate stood open. The house stood on a rise a hundred yards up the paved and stone-curbed driveway lined with pink rhododendrons.  A sprawling mansion in the old style, it had a pillared veranda. Parked by the house were two police cars, the early responders. At the foot of the porch stairway an ambulance was positioned, its back door open, the gurney already out on the pavement.

Maroney pulled into the curb and shut down the motor. Both men left the car and strode up the stairs onto the front porch. They were greeted by a uniformed officer. The front door stood open. Another policeman inside, in the marble-floored foyer, pointed Phillips to a broad staircase. Upstairs, Mr. Phillips, first room on the right.

Phillips surveyed the bedroom. The ceiling light was turned on.

A young black man in pajamas lay on his back in his own bed with a gun in his hand and a bullet wound in his chest—an apparent suicide.

The report had been made by the young man’s mother, in tears. She had called 911 and the 911 operator had notified the police dispatcher. Now it was Sunday morning, 9:00 a.m.

The bedroom was a large one, appropriate for the mansion that was the young man’s recently acquired home. But the room was furnished only with a dresser, a single chair beside the bed, and a night table and lamp on the other side of the bed. Sliding doors to a wall closet were opened, showing a modest wardrobe. On the dresser lay a tan baseball cap and a television remote. The TV screen was mounted on the wall opposite the bed. The picture was on, but not the sound. The dancing light from the television screen flickered in the stillness of the otherwise silent room.

Phillips studied the neat room. No signs of violence. No liquor bottle or glass on the night table. No reading material. No suicide note.

A door leading to an adjacent bathroom also stood open. Phillips gave it a cursory glance. The room smelled of air freshener. All the towels were neatly hung on the wall racks. There were no bottles or other items lying about. It looked almost as if the young man had just moved in.

It was a mansion, but the occupant had been fastidious, his needs spare.

Phillips returned to the bedroom. Though the coroner would rule on the time and cause of death, it appeared the young man had shot himself sometime during the previous night. His body lay on top of the bed covers. His hand, holding the pistol, lay on his chest. His pajama top was stained red with blood. The right hand thumb was still inserted in the trigger guard, and the rest of the hand curled loosely around the pistol butt. A single used cartridge lay nearby on the carpet. Forensics would deal with that.

Phillips sighed and returned downstairs. To the policeman in the lobby, he asked, Is there family?

Just the mother. The officer pointed to a parlor off the foyer.

The grieving mother sat on a sofa with a black policewoman at her side.

The heavy black woman held a soaked handkerchief in one hand, the other hand rested in her broad lap. She wore a plain print house dress and worn slippers. Her only jewelry was a necklace of brown wooden beads. Her eyes implored the detective as if there were some explanation he might provide.

Mrs. Washington, Phillips said, I’m so sorry. It does appear he took his own life.

Oh, my baby! the woman sobbed.

Phillips sat on the edge of a stuffed armchair. I don’t want to trouble you any more than necessary, but I have to ask a few questions. Do you mind?

She shook her head.

Did you notice whether your son had been sad or upset about anything recently?

Well, you know, he won the lottery las’ year, and that just change his life every way for the worse.

Now Phillips remembered why the young man’s name had seemed familiar. He had won a state lottery worth millions. That would explain why he and his mother were living in this mansion.

The woman twisted her fingers together. "An’ he been doin’ so well before that! All that teenage badness behin’ him. Bought his own company. Had a steady girl, a good girl."

Yes, those should have been happy changes for him. Given all that, Mrs. Washington, would you know of any reason why he would take his own life?

"No, nothin’ at all! Jus’ that ever’body was allus houndin’ him for money. An’ I know it bothered him no end. He jus’ couldn’t handle all that fuss, I guess. He was such a good boy when he was little, my darlin’ baby. An’ then his life jus’ turned awful when he won all that money! It was like a curse!"

Phillips stood up. Thanks very much, Mrs. Washington. I really sympathize with you for your loss. I don’t expect I’ll need to bother you again.

She nodded. The tears were now under control, but she was still breathing raggedly.

Phillips pursed his lips. Mrs. Washington, would you like me to call your doctor? He could give you something to help you rest.

No, officer, we ain’t got no doctor. I’ll get some sleepin’ pills from the drug store myse’f, later. But thank you jus’ the same.

Well, if you need anything at all, just tell Doris. He nodded to the black policewoman seated on the sofa.

As the forensics crew and ambulance were already on the scene, Phillips decided there was no point in his remaining. He left the old woman to her thoughts.

All yours, he said to the policeman on the front porch. The officer raised his hand to signal the two white-jacketed ambulance attendants to bring the gurney.

The detective trotted briskly down the front steps. As he opened the door to the squad car, he looked back at the huge mansion. He shook his head. It was a sad story. Alright, Maroney, he said to the sergeant, let’s go. It’s pretty clearly a case of suicide.

Back in his office on the third floor of the Hall of Justice, Phillips shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a wall hook near his desk. Seated at his computer screen, he scanned the local newspaper’s online archive. Curious about the young man’s story, the detective searched for the article about Randle Washington having won the lottery. Randle’s mother had emphasized the negative influence of that bonanza. Maybe that would explain this curious suicide.

Bingo! He clicked the link to the complete text of the article.

The year-old news item described the total lottery prize as a whopping $23 million, but it explained that the lottery rules provided no option of receiving the money immediately in a lump sum. Instead, the state would pay it out in gradually increasing annual installments, starting at $50,000 and averaging over $750,000 during the thirty-year payout. Any remaining balance would be paid to the winner’s heirs if he were to die before the end of the thirty years. The article was accompanied by a photograph of a state official handing a check to a stupefied Randle Washington.

Phillips shook his head. Hell of a note! he said to himself, wondering why a young person with his whole life ahead of him and such a huge stroke of good fortune would take his own life.

He sipped the last of his cold coffee, tossed the paper cup into his waste basket, and went back to typing his report.

That chore out of the way, he returned home, packed his dog and cat in the car, and went fishing in the bayou.

Back to Contents

Chapter Two

Monday morning

Joe Phillips’ hometown was one of those somnolent hamlets on the Florida Panhandle that had grown into a lively community devoted to sugar, fishing, and tourists. The first settlers, finding a small bay protected from the Gulf of Mexico by a necklace of islands with beaches of glittering white sand, had put down stakes between a shallow river that fed the bay and, to the east, a meandering creek that watered a cypress forest, swamps, and gator-infested marshes. The entire shoreline between these streams was covered by the town’s harbor, festooned with gulls and  pelicans. Tied up at the town marina, a line of shrimp boats, yachts, and boats for hire added the smell of fuel oil to the briny odor of the waterfront. Sport fishermen came here hoping to land a big silver tarpon but settled for grouper, redfish, and cobia.

In the back country north of town, an Air Force Base and old sugar plantations surviving on federal subsidies provided a stable prosperity that justified a sugar warehouse and railroad siding smack in the middle of the old downtown waterfront. The Victorian railway station now served as a visitor’s information center and parking lot, and bright orange and blue diesel locomotives were parked beside the warehouse as a tourist attraction.

From the marina the original main street rose gradually up a gentle incline. Shops with gaily colored awnings lined both sides of the street, and baskets of red poinsettias hung from old fashioned green lampposts. At the summit of Main Street, the Town Hall and Hall of Justice buildings, rebuilt in federal style in the 1930s, faced each other across a small square park. At its center stood a Civil War statue and three flagpoles crowned with the town, state, and national flags. Like flirting señoritas lifting their hems, the colorful banners waved languidly in the warm breeze that sauntered in off the bay at dusk.

Joe Phillips had grown up here, gone off to college and a stint in the Navy, and then trained for police work in Miami. But he returned to his hometown when he decided he preferred a more settled pace of life. Here the peacefulness of an azure sky and crystal blue waters was only infrequently disturbed by the violence of inevitable hurricanes. The casual visitor would not visualize this Florida Panhandle town as the scene of crime.

On Monday, Phillips went out for his early morning run with his dog. Ossy was a golden retriever, raised by Joe from a puppy into a loyal and competent bird dog. Recognizing Joe as his alpha leader, Ossy jogged beside him every morning when the detective gave himself and the dog their daily workout. They shared the same sandy brown hair and dark brown eyes, and they were best friends.

Phillips opened the gate in the white picket fence of his back yard. Followed by Ossy, he clambered down the cut in the embankment that he used as a shortcut to reach the avenue below.

Heading north up the riverfront on Riverside Drive away from the town’s marina, he and Ossy jogged at a steady pace alongside the narrow strip of beach until it petered out into riverbank and the divided avenue narrowed to a two-lane road on its way west out of town. At the bridge over the river he turned around and started back, picking up his pace to give himself a good workout.

Lean, broad shouldered, a little shy of six feet tall, at thirty-two Joe Phillips was fit and happy with his work and life, except that he was feeling the need for more than animal companionship to share his bachelor house. I ought to get married, he told himself for the fiftieth time.

Run! he commanded Ossy. The big dog promptly bounded ahead, flew over the low curbing, and raced across the strip of sand to the river’s edge. He looked back as if to ask permission, but he didn’t wait for it before leaping into the water. By the time Joe had caught up to him, the dog was back up on the pavement shaking himself dry. He joined his master for the final lap of their morning run.

Panting as he reached the top of the shortcut path from the road up the bluff to his house, Phillips let Ossy paw open the gate latch of the picket fence. The dog ran to his doghouse and lapped at his water bowl. Joe did his stretches, then walked the final yards across his small lawn to his back door and let himself in and went to his bedroom.

Following his usual routine, he hung his jogging outfit in the closet, showered, and dressed in his daytime uniform: a gray suit and nondescript dark necktie. He transferred his wallet, pocket comb, and keys from the top of his dresser to his trouser pockets and tucked his service pistol into the holster at his waist.

From his front hall closet he retrieved his jacket, made sure the pockets were empty, and then checked his appearance in the mirror of his foyer. With closely cropped hair and a clean-shaven jaw, Joe looked as sharp as he ever had as a Naval officer. He blocked his tie. In other jurisdictions, neckties were being abandoned, but Sheriff Holtz, also former military, was a stickler, even a bit of a martinet. He had not allowed his police force to slack off, even those few in plainclothes. Joe had merely exchanged one form of disciplined service for another.

In the kitchen, Phillips made sure there was food in his cat’s bowl. The cat dropped down from his favorite pad on the windowsill and rubbed himself around Joe’s ankles. Abbi was a Bengal, brown with black tiger stripes on his forearms, black leopard spots on his back, and lime green eyes. OK, good buddy, the detective said, tonight you get tuna.

At the nearby McDonald’s Joe parked and bought a newspaper from the canister outside. Inside, he ordered coffee and a breakfast biscuit, sat at a table by the window, scanned the front page headlines of his newspaper and opened it to page two. Nothing yet about the Washington suicide. He finished his breakfast and resumed the short trip to his downtown office in the Hall of Justice.

At ten o’clock Phillips’ phone jangled. He grabbed the receiver. Phillips, Homicide.

It was the dispatcher. Mr. Phillips, on line two, the medical examiner’s office in Tallahassee.

Phillips pressed the line two button and again gave his name.

Lieutenant Phillips? Harvey Taggart here, the coroner identified himself. You’re in charge of the Randle Washington case, right?

Right. You already have a report?

Sure do. I’ll be sending the written version to the State Attorney, but I wanted to let you know promptly of my findings. First off, though, let me ask you something. Wasn’t this the kid who won the lottery last year?

Yes.

"I thought so. Well, that gunshot to the heart would certainly have killed him. The pistol was evidently pressed right against his chest because the gases behind the bullet also tore up his insides. Normal. However, here’s the interesting news. I also found evidence of an overdose of oxycodone, which I confirmed by tests of blood and urine. He probably swallowed OxyContin. It’s an opioid, like heroin, and it shows up