Meet Your Maker

By Bob Killinger

Three gruesome murders in six months, all connected but no leads and the Houston Police Department is under public pressure to find the serial killer. The mystery breaks when an anonymous caller reports a possible burglary and the police accidentally stumble on one of their officers at the scene, Detective Frank Kirkland, smoking gun in his hand, covered in blood and a dead body on the staircase. They found their killer. The Houston DA, realizing it's an election year, takes the case against the detective, and gets his best man, David Springer, to find evidence and strengthen their case.
But the well known, and publicly despised, female defense attorney, Trisha Thomas, comes to Detective Kirkland's rescue and tries to save him from prosecution. At the arraignment and bail hearing, she fights for her client's life, though not sure herself of his guilt or innocence. Then, with the help of David Springer, Trisha finds out the shocking truth about her client's past...

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543936155

Book preview

maker."

1

The Ford Taurus settled in front of an open corner lot near the back of the subdivision. The driver checked the rearview mirror, surveying the residence three houses down. 4707 Holly Terrace. No lights were on in the house. One car filled the circle driveway.

After snuffing out his cigarette in the butt-laden car ashtray, he pulled out two black gloves from under his seat and fitted them on his hands. He wiped the slow sweat weighing on his upper lip, then grabbed the 9 mm off the passenger seat, checking the clip—fully loaded—and placed the pistol in his holster. He noticed the half-moon glowing over the trees and that his left hand was shaking.

The car door opened and he stood casually, scanning the other houses on the block, with no one watching him. He walked down the sidewalk toward the house, trying to move under the shadow of trees when possible. After making sure no one was watching, he bent his head down and ran toward an azalea bed on the side of the house. He waited as a minivan turned the corner, then jumped over the six-foot wooden fence, his moves still silent after all these years.

He was in the backyard.

Hiding behind an oak tree, he gazed in the large picture window outside the garden room in the house. Nothing moved inside, but it was dark so difficult to tell. No help. He pulled out his pistol and sprinted toward the backdoor, hoping that an element of surprise might help.

The backdoor was missing. No, broken down. The door frame was shattered. It made no sense under the circumstances, but he couldn’t dwell on that. He had to find her.

Entering, he stepped to the side of the broken door and pressed his back against the kitchen wall, pistol poised as he searched the room. Table. Six chairs. Refrigerator. Pantry door open. Pantry empty. The room was clear. Tightening his grip on the pistol, he hoped no one else could hear his heart beating. What is going on?

Crossing the kitchen, he stayed low behind a door panel and studied the living room. Couch. Loveseat. Chair. Chair. Two tables. Fireplace. Desk. Just like it had always been. Nothing disturbed. Gun out in front, he slowly inched through the room, his back now pressed against the maroon living room wall.

He stopped. Something was wrong. The air. Something familiar. Faint, but he smelled it.

It was the smell of blood.

Jesus, no! he yelled, giving up the plan for secrecy. There was no need anymore. It was too late. The smell of blood and the brutal silence screamed it.

His life was over.

The 9 mm at his side now, he raced out of the living room and into the main hallway. Suddenly, the hardwood floor beneath him became viscous and slick. Unable to gain control of his balance, he fell, face down, his body sliding in an endless sanguine pool resting on the wooden floor. Wiping his now-bloody face with his coat sleeve, he looked around frantically, trying to understand his surroundings in the darkness. He recognized the front hall stairs and looked up.

Something was on the staircase. At the top, laying down. A body. It had to be a body. White. Motionless. Naked. Probably dead.

He stood, crying, trying to make a sound, to make some sense of all this, but couldn’t. Stepping through the blood pool, he moved toward the stairs and up. Her face filled his mind. Never to be seen alive again, never to feel, to touch. Never again, and he didn’t even know why. Grabbing the railing for support, he gradually inched forward, step by step. He had to see her, no matter how difficult.

The white body on the stairs became more evident with each step and the visual confused him. The body started appearing masculine. Hairy. Fat. He stopped crying and moved further up the stairs. It wasn’t her. It was Trevor Maddux. Dead. The man’s neck twisted and nearly severed. His abdomen sliced open, cut with a knife, the weapon lying next to his dead body. A hunting knife, still wet.

Professional. No, military. He remembered this cut. This cut was a message. A message for him, not Maddux.

He looked at Maddux’s defunct face again for posterity. He didn’t know why this was happening, but he knew it was time to get out of the house. She wasn’t here.

He headed down, stopped, then turned, glaring at Trevor Maddux now. Maddux deserved this. Primal instincts of training gripped him. He had one thing to do. One thing for himself.

Meet your maker, he said, then shot the dead man in the forehead.

The front door burst open. Six police officers flew through, two slipping and falling in the massive puddle of blood at the foot of the stairs.

Freeze! Police. Drop your weapon! they yelled, targeting the armed man on the staircase.

2

The lone beam of mid-morning sun warmed her face, forcing her swollen eyes to open. The master bedroom looked barely alive, lit only by the thin light piercing through a tiny slit between the bay window curtains. She lay there but wasn’t sleeping. She couldn’t sleep. She never slept anymore. Just lied in bed, cried, and prayed for darkness. Whenever. Whenever it got too painful. Whenever her broken heart and spirit gave out again. Her bedroom had become an escape for the past two weeks; a flight from her life, her emotions, and everything else. But it didn’t help. She lay there trapped. Her feelings were out of control, running through a mind weary from torturous battles of the soul. Nothing mattered anymore, and it seemed nothing ever would.

Lying in bed had become her daily ritual. Lying in bed and trying to keep her mind clear. Clear from introspection into her life. Or her lack of a life. But she couldn’t. Her mind continued to race. Even nature was conspiring against her, shining the thin beam of light across the room and on her cheek, warming her senses, bringing her in and out of misery. At dusk, her thoughts slowed with the coming of darkness. Darkness. The dark comforted her by helping to keep the world and her mind black, empty and groggy. But then the sun rose again, waking her obnoxious memories with the light. The bedroom bay window seemed a blessing when they had bought the mansion a year and a half ago, but now, always letting the morning sun in too early, it was a curse. A curse from nature, from God Almighty maybe, gently resurrecting the memories of who she was.

The memories of her faltered marriage and public divorce. Just two weeks old. And public was an understatement. One year of marriage shattered in a courtroom, covered across the nation on cable television. The first nationally televised divorce ever.

The television world loved it. Divorce cases were short, so the networks adored not having to pay for months of useless testimony. They piqued the public’s interest daily, leading up to the trial. The Woman No One Could Please, She-Devil Wants Everything and other lurid headlines smeared on tabloid TV and publications. Once she was one of the nation’s leading defense attorneys, winning more high-profile murder cases in the Southwest than any female ever. Now she had become Trisha Aldridge Thomas, the bitch who wanted to take her millionaire husband’s fortune.

Televised on four channels due to its popularity around the globe, her divorce case somehow became a statement on the lack of love in marriage today, and how women only marry for money.

In a downtown Houston courtroom, the trial began with her husband, Jeffrey Thomas, taking the stand. He pleaded no contest, saying to the camera that he didn’t know why this was happening and that he still loved his wife, that he had made a vow before God to always honor and care for her, and he didn’t want to break his solemn pledge. But he would give his wife a divorce and as much money as she wanted if it would make her happy. Then Jeffery burst into tears, making every female in the televised world fall more in love with the handsome, middle-aged real estate developer. His attorney, shedding a tear himself, said he had no more questions.

Trisha, representing herself in the divorce case, quickly attacked her husband on the stand. She mocked him by asking brutal questions about his character, but Jeffrey only gave answers like I’m sorry, Trisha, Don’t you still love me? and Just talk to me, Trisha. She asked the judge to make him respond correctly to her questions, but Judge Travis Wilson, an old-guard Texas judge, stared at the camera, straightened his robe, and backed her husband.

Your husband already said he pleads no contest in this matter. A matter that sounds like can be handled quickly. In a divorce case that you filed for months ago. And he’s acting in your best interest, Mrs. Thomas. I don’t see why you feel the need to berate him and take up court time. There’s no real need for cross-examination. You used to be a much better lawyer than this, Mrs. Thomas, and I won’t tolerate this mockery in my courtroom.

Your Honor, I filed for divorce because of this man’s character, Trisha said. I’m trying to establish—

This man? Judge Wilson interjected. Mrs. Thomas, you don’t feel you can even address your husband by his name? Aren’t we all adults here? The judge shook his bald head. "I’m sorry, but I’m appalled. Appalled by this whole circus. Shocked at your lack of commitment to the sanctity of marriage, Mrs. Thomas, something rampant in society, a morose culture that I see every day in my courtroom. The word commitment doesn’t seem relevant anymore, and it makes me damn sad. Have you forgotten, ma’am? Jeffery Thomas is the man you once swore to love forever. You swore before God. And now you want out after only a year of marriage. One year. It’s hard on me at times like these. But it’s my job to resolve this mess for society, no matter how difficult on my own beliefs.

"And Mr. Thomas is willing to let you walk and help you continue at your current economic level. He’s willing to do everything you could wish for in a divorce settlement. But that isn’t enough for you, Mrs. Thomas, is it?

Therefore, I don’t know if I like your line of questioning, Mrs. Thomas. I feel you’re using this proceeding to belittle your husband in front of the cameras, and I don’t want to use my courtroom as a platform for such malicious intentions. I order you to stop this line of questioning. Now, do you have anything relevant to ask your husband?

Your Honor, Trisha interjected, give me a chance to plead my case. I have the right to question Mr. Thomas, and you are not his attorney. Maybe if you stopped looking at the cameras for a moment—

Young lady, one more comment like that and I’ll hold you in contempt! Judge Wilson yelled, his cheeks reddening. Do you have anything relevant to ask? If not, sit down!

I’m not a young lady. I’m a forty-year-old lawyer. Now let me try my case. And stop talking to the cameras during my cross-examination! Trisha pounded her fist on the judge’s mahogany bench.

Judge Wilson slammed his gavel, mouthed a few words to himself but didn’t speak aloud. Filled with embarrassment and anger, the judge glared at Trisha.

Please, Your Honor, Jeffery said from the witness stand, don’t punish Trisha. She’s sick. She’s really sick. I know she needs help, but she won’t listen. Trisha won’t let anyone help her anymore. Give her whatever she wants. I’ll do whatever she wants. He bent over in the witness chair, his trembling hands covering his face.

We’ll have a ten-minute recess, Judge Wilson said, composing himself. Mr. Thomas, you may leave the stand for now, if you wish, and thank you. The judge tried not to look at the camera as he turned toward Trisha again. I won’t rule on your unethical behavior for now, Mrs. Thomas. You obviously aren’t in complete control of your faculties at this time. Please use this recess to get a hold of yourself. The judge stood. I feel it’s my duty to recommend to you, Mrs. Thomas, that you might be better served with separate legal counsel. The judge slammed down his gavel and left the courtroom.

The trial resumed twenty minutes later. Trisha, without apology, rested her case. No character witnesses were brought by either side, and no closing arguments were put forth, so the trial was over within a couple of hours, angering the networks and the television audience.

The judge deliberated for two days, adding suspense to his ruling, and came back with the settlement: a 75-25 split of assets, twenty-five for Trisha. Trisha got the house, the limousine, the Labrador retriever, and $40 million. Jeffrey received the Galveston home, the Ford Explorer, the condominium in Vale, and $120 million in cash and assets.

Judge Wilson closed the proceeding with a prepared speech.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Thomas, but I can’t give you everything, even if your husband wants me to. Your husband, now ex-husband, doesn’t deserve it. For many reasons, like you gave up practicing law and used Mr. Thomas as your sole income for the past year. You also brought very few assets into this marriage compared to Mr. Thomas. And now you file for divorce against him, in a marriage that you claim no physical abuse or mental anguish at all. You filed for divorce from this man and never established any real grounds for doing so.

Your Honor, you never let me! Trisha pleaded. I don’t want the money. I want everyone to know who this man—

Quiet! Judge Wilson interrupted, sternly slamming down the gavel again, not willing to have his moment cease. I don’t understand your actions, Mrs. Thomas, but I must respect your feelings. Therefore, in my ruling, I feel he has done enough for you and deserves at least 75 percent of his assets. You deserve 25 percent because you were his wife. I have to admit, part of me felt he might deserve it all. The judge stood up, almost looking directly into the camera. Mrs. Thomas, I hope you use this money to help with your mental well-being. I sincerely hope this settlement might restore order back into your life. I hope you realize that Mr. Thomas and I feel deeply sorry for you and that this ruling is in the best interest of everyone involved, especially yours. I also hope that I never have to see you again in my courtroom. Marriage is a sacred institution, young lady. Learn that before you reach the pearly gates. God bless this courtroom, the great State of Texas, and God bless the United States of America.

It was a nightmare. The media jumped on Trisha like the plague. Her most egregious mistake was declining to speak to the press as she left the courthouse that last day. She never realized it would infuriate the world. Right before she ran out of the building, Trisha watched her ex-husband speak to the crowd as the media hopped on the Jeffrey Thomas bandwagon.

I’ve only got one thing to say about this trial, Mr. Thomas said, in-between tears. I’m deeply sorry this ever happened, and that my wife, no, now my ex-wife, felt she needed to do this. I don’t want anyone to think ill of her. I won’t and can’t. I’ll always remember her as the woman who saved my life from loneliness, and the only woman I’ve ever loved.

Trisha disappeared into her limousine and went straight home. While undressing in her bedroom that night, she couldn’t help turning on the television. She found trial highlights on CNN, before a panel of so-called experts on a judicial talk show. One of the legal analysts called Trisha the worst example of the female gender since Shannon Faulkner dropped out of the Citadel. Trisha turned off the television, crawled into bed, and had remained there for the past two weeks.

Four police officers guarded the mansion for the first week, due to the constant death threats against her after the trial. Her cook and two of her housekeepers quit a few days later, most likely to sell some story about Trisha to the tabloids (She used to beat me if dinner was late. Mrs. Thomas had racing stripes in her underwear.). But one housekeeper, Shirley, stood by Trisha after the trial, bringing three meals to her bed daily and caring for the mansion all alone.

Trisha’s accountant called every other day, to keep her up to date on the transfer of funds into her name, the process almost completed. But she didn’t even care about the money, never really paid attention to it.

The chocolate Labrador, Chester, her only settlement treasure, stayed at the foot of her bed, looking as if he wanted to help somehow, and she hugged him every once in a while, recognizing a dog’s unyielding love, wishing others could love as much. But mostly she stayed in bed, hiding from the cruel world outside.

Slowly sitting up, Trisha took a sip of orange juice from a bed tray brought in by Shirley hours ago. Staring at the ceiling, she wondered what to do with her life, then wondered why she was asking the ceiling. Probably because it couldn’t talk back. It couldn’t hurt