Corpus

By Michael P. Earney

Corpus means there should be a body, and there is! Detective Matt Grey has to do some driving around South Texas, including Corpus Christi, Kingsville, Alice, and Port Aransas on Mustang Island, to find the connections surrounding a murder -- or is it suicide. Malfeasance and family feuding will keep you page-turning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael P. Earney
• Release date: Sep 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310714757

Michael P. Earney

Michael Earney is a renowned fine arts painter and has been a ceramic sculptor, a potter, and an award-winning documentary filmmaker. He co-authored "Land and Cattle", and wrote and published "Magic Faces, Caras Magicas", a collection of Mexican mask paintings with text in English and Spanish, "The A to Z book of birds". His work is included in "Los Aves de los altos de Chiapas" and "La Pitahaya en las Artes Plasticos", and has contributed both artwork and writing to a variety of publications.

Book preview

Corpus

Michael P. Earney

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Book design by Michael Earney and Jason Muñoz

Cover design by Michael Earney and Carol Elliott

Cover photograph by Michael Earney

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Published by Michael P. Earney at Smashwords

Copyright © 2013 Michael P. Earney

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About Michael Earney

Chapter 1

A murder, a suicide? Odd people come into Matt Grey’s life

Matt Grey pulled reflexively on his left ear, feeling the small, hard, callous-like bump, he was reluctant to think might be cancerous. Years of cruising the highways and byways of California, New Mexico and Texas with the window down, the hot sun searing the side of his face, it wouldn’t be so surprising. Now he sat in an office: air conditioning, a comfortable chair, fresh coffee. Not like the dregs served at some of the dumps calling themselves coffeehouses he had frequented in those days.

The bullet that put an end to his service career had not caused sufficient injury, according to the insurance company, to command much compensation, and the early retirement pay amounted to less than it was possible to live on. Hence, Matt Grey, Private Investigator, from his office in the Plaza Mall, made his living doing the only thing he knew, chasing down Bad Guys.

The slim file before him on the desk had little to offer. There was a gun, to be sure, but no one seemed to know whose it was, or where it came from. It didn’t even appear to have been fired; not recently, at least. Surprising, considering it was clutched in the hand of Dr. Thomas Beecher when he was found, slumped in the driver’s seat of his BMW with an exit wound in the back of his head. The D.A. determined it not a suicide, but the police, due to laziness, lack of ability, or sheer indifference, after going through the motions of an investigation, seemed to have written it off as an unsolved murder.

The funeral had been held, the mourners had left, everything back to normal. But then the widow hired him. To do what exactly? She was suspicious. Something wasn’t quite right, her intuition told her. You think!? Maybe she had nothing better to do. Hadn’t yet adjusted to her new status. Rich widow. His insurance had paid in full. Whatever the case, she was paying him well and it was now time for Grey to get suspicious and apply his intuition.

There was a suicide note, scrawled in such a way as to cast doubt on its authorship. It had been Doctor Beecher, after all, so who could say. Grey would have to mend a few fences with the constabulary in order to get a look at that and, hopefully, get a copy to a handwriting expert. The police, the county prosecutor, the D.A. and the pathologist—none of them were kindly disposed to him after other investigations of his had exposed unflattering images of incompetence throughout the system. He had always kept on the best of terms with the ladies at the courthouse, though, and could usually find out whatever he needed to know. The cute girl in forensics had been friendly and helpful. Kate, was it? She was new and still enthusiastic enough about her work to offer any assistance she could. He’d have to buy her lunch. Just then, the phone rang. Call from E. Beecher.

Hullo, Mrs. Beecher.

Actually, it’s Joan Beecher. I’m using my mother’s phone.

Sorry, Miss Beecher, one of the benefits and drawbacks of caller ID, said Grey.

Perfectly alright, Mr. Grey, but please call me Joan. I hate being formal.

Joan -- had he met this woman? Certainly, how can I help you? said Grey, whom everyone called Grey.

It’s my mother. I’m worried about her.

‘Joan’ proceeded to tell Grey, for over half an hour, the ways in which her mother was worrying her. A lot of family history was divulged; the usual sibling rivalries: Joan’s older married brother, a cousin who may have been closer with her brother when they were younger than was, perhaps, healthy. Hints -- Grey reading between the lines -- of mother-daughter rivalry for father’s affections. Details about family property and financial holdings Grey was almost embarrassed to be privy to. All with little more than a few uh-huhs and I-sees from Grey. The woman had obviously been waiting for a while to unload on someone. Why she had chosen to tell him all this was hard to fathom.

I’m sorry for having run on so, Mathew.

Grey.

Grey?

Yes.

Well, I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time, and now I’m going to be late for my class if I don’t hurry. Good-bye.

Grey hung up and stared out the window. The phone rang again. Call from E. Beecher. Hello, Grey here.

I’m sorry, I completely forgot to tell you that mother would be grateful if you could drop by the house this afternoon, about four, perhaps?

I’ll be there, said Grey, but the line was already dead. Had that whole thing been a prepping, or was she more than a little ditzy?