Appleseed Of Doubt

By M.T. O'Neil

Detective Ristrom originally cleared Decker Wilson as a homicide suspect in the short story, "Health Nut," in Break Room Anthology: Mystery And Horror Stories. Years later, investigating a series of credit card thefts and possible elder abuse, he sees the name of Decker Wilson again. Was he wrong after all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.T. O'Neil
• Release date: May 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310265938

M.T. O'Neil

Many things to many people, but always true to myself. Eternal optimist.

Book preview

Prologue

Detective Ristrom and Decker Wilson both

appeared in the short story Health Nut, in the book:

Break Room Anthology: Mystery And Horror Stories

Chapter One

He flicked the ash of his cigarette out the car window as he sped up through the intersection, the light turning from yellow to red as he did so. He was angry. His speed combined with a slight dip in the road, causing him to lift slightly in the seat, and he glanced briefly in his rear view mirror. Driving without a license, he didn't need any trouble. It was all his mother's fault.

Doug pulled into the parking lot of Lou's Tavern, determined to relax a little before he went on to do the errands for the old broad. There were times he wished she'd just hurry up and die. She wasn't much use, although she did at least continue to cook. Still, once she was gone, he'd be free to bring lady friends home with him, so he guessed that someone else would just do the cooking then.

He slammed the door of her car shut, angry that she would lecture him about driving. It wasn't like she offered to pay for a cab for him, and she certainly wasn't physically capable of driving anymore herself. Did she really expect him to walk to the store to do her shopping? He could just picture himself walking down the street with her adult diapers under one arm.

He dropped the cigarette butt to the ground, and smoothed his hair back behind his ears. The afternoon crowd was usually pretty thin, but you never knew when you might run into a willing lady. He could use some physical activity. He would get to the damn shopping when he damn well felt like it. He was forty-five years old, and he deserved to enjoy himself once in awhile.

As he stepped into the darkened tavern, stopping a moment to let his eyes adjust, he realized there were no women in attendance at the moment. Too bad, he thought, before heading over to a stool.

Hey, Doug, welcome back, the bartender called out. Doug didn't notice the lack of sincerity in the man's voice.

Hey, Steve, he answered, swinging his leg over the stool as he reached for his cigarettes. Running errands for the old witch again. Figured I deserved a break.

You could always move out.

Not that easy. Besides, who would take care of her? She is, still, my mother.

Sounds to me like you two do nothing but argue.

Doug took a deep drag on his freshly lit cigarette, blowing it out slowly. She knows when to shut up. He thought back to earlier in the day, when he'd raised his hand. That was usually all it took for her to back down. He hadn't actually slapped her in quite awhile.

Can't your brother help out?

Told you, he lives in another state. Too busy, although he does send money every month.

Well, at least that's something. I hear Social Security ain't much.

Won't be anything by the time you and I get there, Doug groused, raising the frothy glass the bartender had slid to him.

Steve nodded in agreement, then moved further down the bar to ready things for the evening business. He smiled slightly once his back was to his customer. It was customers like Doug who would keep him financially solvent with or without Social Security.

Doug admired his reflection in the bar mirror. Not bad for his age. No noticeable gray. Though he kept his hair somewhat long, his square jaw gave him a decidedly intimidating appearance. Anyone would think twice before confronting him. Not overweight, that's for sure, he muttered softly. Though he didn't work out, his lean arms looked strong. Once Mom finally got on with it and died, he'd have no problem bringing women home to share his bed. He couldn't wait until the house was his alone.

The old woman's decorating tastes were enough to turn a man's stomach. He couldn't wait to paint over all the flowery wallpaper. The once beige carpet was now a gray, mostly stained mess. It was so old, the fibers seemed to crunch under bare feet. He'd make sure he found the softest, thickest carpet he could find to replace that, and it would be a deep brown color. His mother had been an idiot to think that she could expect everyone to take their shoes off before entering her home. What a moron! He had set her straight on that score the first day he'd moved back in, nine years ago.

Or was it ten? Doug wasn't even sure anymore, although it felt like a lifetime ago. Carrie had agreed to drop charges against him, as long as he didn't come back. He'd had no place else to go, so Mom's it was.

Carrie was lucky he hadn't really hurt her. Stupid broad. He was glad he hadn't married her. Still, it had been the last long term relationship he'd had. The six months sharing her luxury apartment had been mostly good, especially when she was at work and he could bring someone else home.

Hey, Steve, bring me another one! He pushed the empty glass forward, thinking back to his two failed marriages. The first had lasted the longest, almost four years. The second one had only made a year. Three kids total, at least that he knew about. He hadn't seen any of them since. He smiled up at his reflection, congratulating himself on not paying child support on any of them either.

After the second divorce, he had stopped working officially. What was the point, when the state was just going to garnish your wages anyway? There were always small businessmen who would hire you to work under the table, cash only. If you wanted to work, that is. His main job was Mom, and he hadn't bothered with a cash job in a couple of years. Didn't need it.

Although he fully expected the house to be his when she died, he knew his mother would expect him to share her savings with his brother. He didn't have a problem with that, since Don sent money every month to help out. He'd basically just be getting some of his own money back. Doug had no idea how much she might have saved over the years, but he doubted it would be enough to cover his day-to-day living expenses until he was old enough to collect Social Security himself. He'd have to find an under-the-table job, he supposed.

Or, even better, hook up with another working broad, like Carrie. Then he'd have someone else to cook and clean. He'd have more time to fix up the place, too. Make it look decent, more modern. Get the old lady smell out of the place.

He couldn't wait for the old broad to die. She'd been in poor health for years, and the only exercise the fat cow ever got, was to walk from the kitchen to the recliner to the bed. What the hell was taking her so freaking long to croak?

Hey, Steve! he called out again. Give me something stronger.

Chapter Two

G'night, Johnny!

Later, Johnny!

Detective Ristrom nodded an acknowledgment without actually looking up from the report he was finishing. He wondered whether the departing detectives were as thorough as they should be, particularly since they rarely stayed late. Then, again, he had to admit he tended to be a bit of a perfectionist, and probably poured over reports more than he needed to.

Then, too, it wasn't like he had anyone to hurry home to. He and Denise had divorced a few years earlier, and though he had dated sporadically since, no woman had interested him enough to make her a permanent fixture in his life. He was a workaholic, and he wasn't going to apologize for it. He was happy with his life the way it was.

Johnny wasn't his real name, but it was a nickname that he had been tagged with years ago, following a specific case he had worked on. It had been early in his career, almost ten years now, and he had gained a reputation for paying attention to even the tiniest details because of it.

He leaned back in his chair, thinking back to how closely he had come to charging an innocent man with the murder of his wife. The victim had died of cyanide poisoning, in small doses and over a few months' time. It had been purely a stroke of luck that Ristrom had realized she had gotten the lethal poisoning by eating large quantities of appleseeds.

It still struck him as so ironic that in trying to maintain a healthy, organic lifestyle, she had died by eating homemade candies that she, herself, had made out of the seeds.

The day that he had anticipated arresting Decker Wilson, he had, instead, solved the mystery. He had immediately earned the nickname of Johnny Appleseed, and over time it had been shortened to just Johnny. He doubted that most of the men in the department now, even knew his real first name.

He did know that none of his coworkers, then or now, knew just how deeply that case had affected him. Always sure of himself, Ristrom had been cynical of the people he investigated before the case. He'd paid attention to detail, but he had also paid attention to his ability to read people, too, and he had learned that most suspects were liars. Some were better at it than others, but if the evidence pointed to a suspect, there was generally a valid reason that it did.

The grieving widower he had encountered during that investigation was about to earn a financial windfall through his wife's death. So sure about arresting the man that day, Ristrom had mentally awarded him an Oscar for his acting ability. It had been a fluke that he had found out about the candied poison she had been unwittingly making, and eating.

Putting his elbows on his desk and pressing his palms together with his fingers against his lips, anyone walking by would have thought the detective was praying. A longtime agnostic, that couldn't be farther from the truth. Ristrom was thinking back, remembering how horrified he had felt at how close he had come to ruining the life of an innocent man. He had accepted the compliments and congratulations of dozens of colleagues during those days, even as he went home at night to dwell on what might have been.

He had taken to drinking not long after, too, though he never got drunk. Instead of talking about the day with Denise when he got home, as he had in the past, he'd begun locking himself in the den with a drink for twenty minutes each night, before then joining her for dinner. He'd refused to discuss work anymore with her, telling her that he didn't want it intruding anymore in his personal life.

That had been a lie, of course. He never stopped thinking about work, not even in his sleep. During the weeks following that case, his dreams had focused on the grieving widower strapped in an electric chair, begging for his life.

He never shared those dreams with Denise, and had firmly refused to discuss that case (or any others) with her, until she finally got tired of asking. Instead of both of them sharing their day, he began to let her do all the talking at the dinner table. He tried to listen, to really hear what she would tell him, but his mind was always on his own work. Eventually, the only sound heard during their meal was the sound of chewing.

His guilt over nearly charging Mr. Wilson in error had caused Ristrom to begin bottling his feelings inside, refusing to share them with his wife. The truth was that he didn't want to admit out loud to anyone how close he had come to making a mistake, not even now. Let them think he was clever, but never let them know he was human.

The last couple of years, though, he'd begun to wonder that if