The Redemption of Charlie Devlin

By Mr. Gerald Vincent Hickey

Readers ranging from twenty somethings to octogenarians have raved about Gerald Hickeys The Redemption of Charlie Devlin.
--Bill Connolly of Ocala, Florida, said
that he had a difficult time putting the novel down.
--Reader Gloria Naas of Kingston, Ohio,
commented, "It left an impact on me like no other book Ive read. Its the only book I have ever read twice."
--Julie McGuire of Colorado Springs, Colorado, called the novel "a great read."

Here is a synopsis of the book, also
acclaimed as well written and insightful:

Recently divorced by his attractive wife, Sheila, and removed from the crime beat at The Phoenix Post, Charlie Devlin feels adrift in a murky sea of uncertainty. He plies himself with alcohol as he gropes for an anchor.

Traumatized by his divorce, he has lost his touch as a crime reporter. His city editor has placed him on probation and assigned him to the education beat. Charlie has fought boredom on his new job for several weeks, when someone murders Leslie Cashman, a dedicated young high school teacher.

As a crime reporter, he became inured to homicides, but the brutal murder of Leslie gnaws at him. The turbulent eighties are winding down when the teacher is slain in Verde Hills, a Phoenix suburb.

Although Charlie pines for Sheila, he was beginning to have tender feelings for Leslie, whom he met when he interviewed her for a story. Her death changes the lives of several people, in addition to 33-year-old Charlie. He decides to try to help police solve the murder case.

...He saw a fresh vision of the fair sex in Leslies caring, hopeful spirit. She might have restored his faith in women. The world needed more, not fewer, people like Leslie....

The epitome of a rootless urbanite in the new Southwest, Charlie is a flesh-and-blood character with recognizable faults and frustrations, not a larger-than-life hero with nerves of steel. He typifies legions of thirty-somethings who have fallen short of their own or others expectations.

As he tries to atone for his failings by
helping solve Leslies murder, he finds evil in
unexpected places. He stumbles on an unrelated
homicide and becomes involved in the case, before he can find the key to Leslies death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 30, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469105864

Mr. Gerald Vincent Hickey

Gerald Hickey worked as a newspaper reporter for 22 years, nearly 16 of them with The Arizona Republic in Phoenix. He also worked for dailies in Colorado Springs and Las Vegas. He did copy editing for a Los Angeles suburban newspaper and served a stint with a Beverly Hills public relations firm. He grew up in the Columbus, Ohio, area, where his father was president of a bridge construction company. He attended Kansas City University and Northwestern University. After spending four quarters in dental school at Ohio State University, he earned a B.S. degree in business administration there.

Book preview

Chapter One

The jangling of the telephone on Charlie Devlin’s night stand jolted him out of a restless sleep. He picked up the receiver reluctantly. Dave Hinton, the city editor, was calling, his raspy voice like sandpaper scraping metal.

Sorry to bother you on Sunday, Charlie, but I’m short of people, and there’s been a homicide. Can you do a story?

The clock on the night stand showed a half past 10. Charlie’s head felt as if it had been trampled by an elephant, and his mouth was as dry as cotton.

Why was Hinton calling him? The man had taken his beat away from him and given it to Kevin Keagan. I thought I wasn’t covering crime any more, Dave.

The story’s on your beat. Someone murdered a teacher in the Verde Hills district last night. Keagan’s handling the main story. I’d like you to talk to the victim’s family and school officials and then write a sidebar.

Charlie sat up in bed, a queasy feeling in his stomach. Who was the victim?

A high school teacher named Leslie Cashman.

The sudden throbbing in Charlie’s head seemed unbearable. You’re sure it was Leslie Cashman?

That’s the name the cops gave Kevin. Why, did you know her?

I did a feature on her. She was the district’s teacher of the year.

I remember that story—not a bad piece. Teacher of the year, huh. That’ll give the story a nice angle. We haven’t had a murder like this for a while. Call Keagan at the newsroom and get the gory details. We’ll play it up for its shock value.

Charlie found himself loathing Hinton as their conversation ended. Another murder meant nothing to a tough-minded city editor: Leslie’s death hadn’t even touched him. What mattered was getting the story ahead of the opposition.

But hadn’t Charlie Devlin approached scores of homicides the same way as a crime reporter? Besides, Hinton had never met Leslie Cashman, so he didn’t know that someone had murdered a gem.

Charlie climbed out of bed, pulled off his pajama top and tossed it into his open clothes hamper. The cool air from the ceiling fan felt soothing on his head and shoulders, but the alcohol had left him woozy. He shouldn’t have killed that bottle of champagne last night. Friends had given it to him and Sheila as a Christmas present, and they’d planned to save it for a special occasion. It ended up in his possession after their divorce, one of the few items Sheila hadn’t wanted.

He thought of the ornate, king-size bed that they had shared in their north Phoenix home. The sight of the cheap pine bedroom furniture that he’d bought for his apartment depressed him. Sheila had better furniture throughout the home where they had lived together for a decade.

How sweet life had seemed back in 1978 when—newly married, armed with a journalism degree from Ohio State and determined to succeed—he joined The Phoenix Post, a major metropolitan newspaper. He could scarcely believe that nearly 11 years had passed since then. Now, in early May of 1989, he was sifting through the ashes of his life.

It’s happened before, Hinton had said in the wood-paneled conference room in April, when he put him on probation and assigned him to cover education. A marriage collapses, and a reporter loses his touch. You let a personal problem interfere with your work, Charlie. Scowling, his black, bushy eyebrows dominating his fleshy face, giving him an oddly sinister look, Hinton added, We need to improve our crime coverage, so I’m assigning Kevin Keagan to that beat . . . .

Brash and overly aggressive, Keagan had a reputation as a merciless competitor who would forsake a dying parent for a scoop. One wag had passed around a caricature of him in the newsroom captioned number one asshole. Having to call him about the Leslie Cashman murder seemed more than Charlie could bear at the moment.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to make the call. This is Charlie Devlin, Kevin. Hinton wants me to do a sidebar on the Cashman murder, so give me the details.

Keagan groaned. You’re doing a sidebar? I don’t see why that’s necessary. I can include what you get in my story.

Take it up with Hinton.

Fuck it. I don’t have that much anyway. The details are sketchy. The Verde Hills cops say this school teacher, Leslie Cashman, was beaten to death. No weapon used apparently. Just an old-fashioned bare-knuckle beating. Her panties were missing, but the cops don’t know yet whether the creep sexually assaulted her.

The county medical examiner’s office should be able to clear that up after the autopsy.

Yeah, I know.

Grudgingly, Keagan gave him more details. A security guard who patrolled the campus at Verde Hills High School had discovered the body in the parking lot there about 2 a.m. Sunday. He had known Leslie and identified her at the crime scene, despite her battered condition.

She was wearing a red cotton dress and red shoes. Police found no purse with her body and had no suspects. Because they observed little blood at the scene, they believed that the murderer had killed her at another location and dumped her body in the lot. Rain in the area after midnight had hampered the investigation . . . .

As he lathered his body with soap in the shower, Charlie speculated that the sleuths would have a tough time cracking this case. The killer had left few, if any, clues. It seemed incredible that Leslie Cashman, the lovely young woman whom he’d interviewed for a story only a month ago, was dead. How galling that Kevin Keagan—not Charlie Devlin, who had covered crime for nine years—would keep the public informed of developments in the case.

Keagan appeared most impressed with himself for having served a stint in the Marine Corps before earning a degree in journalism at Arizona State University. But what did he know about crime? He’d joined the Post three years ago and had covered county government until Hinton handed him the crime beat. He’d made his biggest splash by writing an inflammatory story alleging ethical lapses by certain county officials in administering their departments.

As if Charlie Devlin hadn’t had his share of successes in the past as a crime reporter. But newsroom honchos had short memories and little patience when your life was falling apart.

Personal problems can lead to burnout, Charlie; you’ll enjoy having a new beat, Hinton had said in assigning him to cover education. "It’ll give you new direction.

You’ll attend some state board of regents meetings, but I want you to focus a lot of attention on the Verde Hills School District. Right now it’s the state’s fastest growing district.

Charlie had nodded as if he were interested. Hinton, a 40year-old bachelor who shared his pad with a female copy editor, endured education pieces, but he reveled in crime stories. The previous education reporter had quit in frustration over the lukewarm reception editors had given his sometimes tedious copy.

At Hinton’s request, one April evening shortly after Charlie started his new beat, he attended the Verde Hills School District governing board’s weekly meeting.

At the press table in the board’s spacious hearing room, Ivonne Andros, a reporter for the Verde Hills Daily Outlook, gave him the low-down on the all-male governing board. The five board members—each identified by a nameplate—sat at a table on a platform affording them a commanding view of the capacity audience, which exceeded 400 people.

Only Geoffrey Cargill, the tallest of the five, ever made quotable comments, according to Andros, who characterized Ed Terrell, the soft-spoken, elderly board president, as a wimp.

Cargill practically runs the meetings, said Andros, an outgoing, plump brunette in her late 20s. He’s an architect—a very successful one. The locals still talk about his fabulous hook shots when he played for the Verde Hills High School basketball team.

Cargill, who had a shock of dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, exuded the confidence of a film star. He waved to Andros and trained his dark eyes on Charlie momentarily with mild curiosity. More dapperly dressed than the other board members, he sported a double-breasted Navy-blue blazer and a red-and-blue paisley tie.

It amused Charlie that because of Cargill’s height, he looked like a giant sitting with four dwarfs. He appeared to be in his early 30s.

During the meeting, the board discussed proposed outlays relating to a controversial district expansion plan. Cargill, who did most of the talking, displayed cool-headedness and finesse at one point in quieting an angry spokesman for a group opposed to the expansion plan. Charlie liked his take-charge manner. Compared with him, the other board members seemed doltish or indecisive.

A recognition ceremony for 26-year-old Leslie Cashman, the district’s Teacher of the Year for 1989, had attracted many of those attending the meeting. Terrell introduced her, saying that she merited the honor because of her innovative teaching methods and the scholastic achievements of her students.

He presented her with a bronze plaque and then asked her to say a few words. A tall, willowy blonde, she looked jubilant as she faced the audience, her green eyes sparkling.

It’s gratifying to know that the district appreciates your efforts, she said. I hope I’ll still be in a classroom forty years from now, helping young people realize their potentials . . . .

The audience applauded vigorously, and Cargill handed her a bouquet of roses. If the rest of our teachers are half as dedicated to education as this young lady, our students should have brilliant futures, he said.

Leslie Cashman smiled pleasantly and then left the room, followed by scores of teachers who had come only for the recognition ceremony.

Terrell announced that district officials would hold a reception for her at Verde Hills High School after the meeting. Charlie wanted to attend the reception, but he felt obligated to write a story about the controversial district expansion plan discussed during the meeting. He drove to the newsroom in central Phoenix and cranked out the story, but it didn’t make the paper the next morning because of a lack of space.

Later that morning, he called Leslie Cashman and arranged to interview her after her last class for a feature story. A staff photographer took some pictures of her in her classroom interacting with students. The story would be fluff, but he didn’t mind doing it because she seemed sincere about teaching.

Spread over a 45-acre campus, Verde Hills High School resembled a small college, with its cluster of modern brick classroom buildings and manicured athletic fields. The school served about 3,500 students, many of whom were leaving the campus as Charlie arrived, wholesome looking youths wearing shorts, designer shirts or blouses and perennial tans.

He met Leslie Cashman in a conference room used by the school’s English Department. She looked younger than she had at the board meeting. Her unlined, slightly angular face glowed with health, and, although she had just put in a full day of teaching, her wide-set green eyes sparkled with animation.

Thanks for agreeing to do this on such short notice, he said, aware of a lilac scent.

My pleasure. I just hope it won’t bore your readers. Teachers aren’t the most exciting people in the world.

It occurred to Charlie that she had a rare combination of beauty, personal magnetism and humility. She radiated charm effortlessly, her smile as dazzling as golden sunlight streaming through gray clouds after a rain.

I had in mind a personality profile, Charlie said, opening his notebook. Did you have any other aspirations before you decided to become a teacher?

Originally, Leslie told him, she had wanted to become an actress, hoping to find fame and fortune on Broadway or in Hollywood. She had performed in amateur theatrical shows throughout the Valley and, in her late teens, had small parts in several professional productions. But after serving as a volunteer tutor in a program for illiterates, she became hooked on teaching. To help pay her tuition at Arizona State University, she groomed Arabian horses at a Verde Hills ranch and operated a pet-sitting service.

The interview ended too soon for Charlie. Leslie had affected him like a song of spring brimming with hope. Later, he kept thinking that being in her presence had somehow transformed him, at least temporarily, leaving him less cynical and raising his expectations. The interview led to a Sunday feature, enhanced by a front page picture of Leslie in a classroom.

A few days after the story appeared, Charlie received a letter from Leslie thanking him for it. The letter included some favorable comments about his approach in profiling her. He took this as sincere praise rather than flattery. The letter seemed so positive that he felt compelled to keep it, tucking it in a file folder for quick reference when he needed a lift. But he had no illusions that he had contributed anything to journalism in writing the story.

Leslie must have thought otherwise. A week after he received her letter, she called him and asked him to speak to her 11 a.m. English class about communications skills. Charlie agreed to do it. To hold their interest, he laced his talk with brief accounts of some macabre incidents that he had covered as a crime reporter.

After the class ended, he and Leslie lunched together in a nearby Chinese restaurant. As they chatted over won ton soup, mandarin duck, fried rice, bean sprouts and tea, he felt his spirits soar. Leslie had a subtle way of burrowing into a person’s heart, he thought. He found the reserve that he’d built up over his divorce melting, and he became more gregarious and expansive. Although he still pined for Sheila, he felt tender emotions beginning to stir inside him for Leslie.

But when he left her that afternoon, they had no plans to see each other again. The idea of asking her for a date seemed more than he could handle. He was still grieving over the loss of another woman.

Now Leslie had left this plane, and it was as though the sun had dimmed permanently.

During the interview, she had mentioned her widowed mother, Marlene Cashman. Barely more than nine hours after the discovery of Leslie’s body, he steeled himself to call the bereaved woman.

Chapter Two

Charlie’s wrist watch showed nearly 1 p.m. when he parked his Chevrolet Cavalier in the driveway at the small white stucco Spanish-style home where Marlene Cashman lived. She had reluctantly agreed to talk to him about her daughter’s death.

Sunlight glinted on ivory-colored pebbles spread among desert plants in her front yard as Charlie plodded toward her front door, notebook in hand. His eyes flitted from a yellow-blossomed paloverde tree to a scarlet-flowered ocotillo plant and then to a pepper tree, where a mockingbird was imitating a finch.

He hated having to interview the woman. Even after spending nearly a decade on the crime beat, he still felt uncomfortable talking to families of murder victims. It seemed callous to bother them while they were grieving. But Hinton would show little mercy on a reporter who let his feelings interfere with his job.

Marlene Cashman looked as tall and almost as attractive as her late daughter. Like Leslie, she had wide-set green eyes and delicately chiseled features, but her blonde hair was streaked with gray. Her face showed the same sadness and strain that Charlie had seen in the faces of other murder victims’ parents.

Leslie took an apartment after graduating from college, Marlene said when they were seated in her living room. The room exuded warmth, with its abundance of furniture with dark wood and floral prints. I never stopped worrying about her. It isn’t safe for a young woman to live alone today. Her eyes misted, and she averted them.

I know this is hard for you, Charlie said. I’ll try to make it as brief as possible.

I’ll be all right. She gazed at a photograph of Leslie on a bookcase near his chair. It showed a serene-faced young woman wearing a powder-blue pullover sweater, a silver chain necklace and large silver oblong earrings.

When was that photo taken? Charlie asked.

In February, a few days after Leslie’s twenty-sixth birthday. I gave her the necklace and earrings. I had the earrings specially engraved for her. Marlene’s face contorted with anguish. I still can’t believe she’s . . . Her voice trailed off. She choked back tears, then added, She was coming here for dinner this evening.

I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do . . .

Only God can perform the miracle I need. She wept for several moments, then, regaining her composure, wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. It’s just so hard to lose a loved one this way. There’s so much senseless violence today.

After lighting a cigarette, she began talking about the past in a subdued, forlorn voice. Her husband, a career Air Force officer and pilot, had lost his life during a bombing mission in Vietnam when Leslie was eight years old. Ever since his death, Marlene had worked at the Verde Hills Library. She had managed to provide modestly for herself and Leslie, but she had often struggled to make ends meet. She had built her life around her daughter, rejecting a marriage proposal a few years after her husband’s death because her suitor, an accountant, had ignored Leslie.

Having been stationed at Luke Air Force Base in Phoenix before being assigned to Vietnam, her husband had planned to settle in the area when he left the service. Marlene decided to remain in Arizona after his death, although she and Leslie had no other relatives in the state . . . .

When Charlie rose to leave, Marlene asked him if he knew anyone who could care for a dog. She explained that she now had Leslie’s dog, Sadie, a 10-year-old, nearly blind female Boston terrier.

I hate to give her up. But I haven’t been feeling well lately, and she needs more attention than I’m able to give her. She’s been spayed, and she’s housebroken and very gentle.

He and Sheila had talked about getting a dog. But she had balked at the idea of having to clean up a mess in their yard, even though he’d offered to share that chore with her.

It occurred to him now that a pet might make being single more bearable. Other tenants at his apartment complex had dogs.

I put Sadie in the back yard before you came, Marlene said.