#Poeticjustice

By Gary B. Boyd

Seldom is the path to justice easy to follow or clearly marked. The kidnapping of Terry Overton was prefaced by the murder of his younger brother, Bentley. Detective Sarah James searches for clues and a motive while the kidnappers play a nerve-racking game of cat and mouse with the Overton family. Terrys life is at stake and the clock is ticking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546236252

Gary B. Boyd

Gary B. Boyd is a story teller. Whether at his cabin in the Ozark Mountains, at his desk in his home or on his deck overlooking Beaver Lake near Rogers, Arkansas, he writes his stories. His travels during his business career brought him in touch with a variety of people. Inquisitive, Gary watches and listens to the people he meets. He sees in them the characters that will fill his stories … that will tell their stories. A prolific author with more than a dozen published titles and a head full of tales yet to share, Gary submits to his characters and allows them to tell their own stories in their own way. The joy of completing a novel doesn’t lessen with time. There are more stories to tell, more novels to write. Gary expects to bring new characters to life for years to come. www.garybboyd.com

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© 2018 Gary B. Boyd. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/29/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-3624-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-3625-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018903966

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Preface

Chapter 1     Sarah James, Day 10

Chapter 2     Christina Overton, Day 1

Chapter 3     Terrance Overton Iii, Day 5

Chapter 4     Terrance Overton, Jr., Day 1

Chapter 5     Carl Franken, Day 5

Chapter 6     Sarah, Day 7

Chapter 7     Terry, Day 12

Chapter 8     Sarah, Day 12

Chapter 9     Sarah, Day 13

Chapter 10   Sarah, Day 14

Chapter 11   Terry, Day 14

Chapter 12   Sarah, Day 16

Chapter 13   Sarah, Day 17

Chapter 14   Terry, Day 17

Chapter 15   Sarah, Day 18

Chapter 16   Terry, Day 18

Chapter 17   Sarah, Night 18

Chapter 18   Sarah, Day 19

Chapter 19   Terrance Overton, Jr, Day 19

Chapter 20   Sarah, Day 19

Chapter 21   Terrance Overton, Jr.

Chapter 22   Terry, Day 21

Chapter 23   Sarah, Day 21

Chapter 24   Sarah, Day 22

Chapter 25   Terry, Day 23

Chapter 26   Sarah, Day 23

Chapter 27   Sarah, Day 24

Chapter 28   Pauli Mcpherson, Day 24

Chapter 29   Terry, Day 24

Chapter 30   Sarah, Day 24

Chapter 31   Terrance Junior, Day 24

Chapter 32   Sarah, Evening 24

Chapter 33   Terry, Night 24

Chapter 34   Sarah, Night 24

Epilogue

DEDICATION

Every book ever written required an author plus a support team. My support team is strong; stronger than me. My wife, Shirley, a stickler for detail, provided immediate support by carefully reading every letter of every word. My daughters, Angela and Tina, supported the continuity of the book by scrutinizing the details of the timeline, the plot and the characters.

PREFACE

Violence is an emotional event.

Anger. Frustration. Loss. Jealousy. Envy. Fear. Irrational motivators, decisive catalysts for violence.

And then there is just plain mean. Some people don’t need a reason to be violent. Their brains are wired wrong. They are violent for sport. Violence is their entertainment. And when society tries to bring them to justice, mental illness is their legal defense, the soft-hearted excuse that supports misguided compassion for the violence. Our society no longer demands punishment equal to the crime.

But, violence. How does it end? Violence begets violence. To punish violence with violence proves that adage to be true. However, if the punishment is swift and final, that particular tentacle of violence comes to a bitter end, withered and unable to perpetuate.

Crime of passion as opposed to preplanned violence. How long is one allowed to contemplate the violent act before it is considered to be premeditated? A minute? A day? A week? More? A good lawyer – with emphasis on good as being good at his craft and not morally good – will argue as long as it takes to elicit compassion from an apathetic public.

Detective Sarah James did not concern herself with punishment for the crime she was investigating. She was only interested in motive. If she could identify the motive for Bentley Overton’s murder and for Terry Overton’s kidnapping, she could find the killer before he killed again. If she failed, both brothers would be dead. The person who murdered one brother and kidnapped the other was precise. Every detail preplanned. Only one obvious clue was found at the murder scene. With that single clue, Sarah pursued a tortuously unyielding investigation as the kidnappers played a game of cat and mouse with Terry’s life.

CHAPTER ONE

SARAH JAMES, DAY 10

Sarah James leaned forward at her desk. Her temples throbbed. With an ink pen balanced in the fingers of her right hand, she rubbed her temples with the tips of her middle and ring fingers, unconcerned that she might leave a black trail of ink on the side of her face if she was not careful. A severe pain started at the base of her skull, ran down her neck, spread across her shoulders, then down her spine like a tentacled monster bent on paralyzing her with its venom. Her eyes ached, almost dry from staring too long.

The Detective’s left hand balanced the cover of a folder that was spread open on her desk. A single piece of paper held her attention at that moment. The page was still inside a transparent evidence bag. Overhead lights glared from the shiny, plastic surface, further adding to the ache at the back of her eye sockets. She did not need to remove it from the bag. She had experienced tactile investigation more than once already - all after the Department’s Crime Lab and the State Crime Lab checked for evidence and clues that did not exist. She would return it to the Evidence Locker after she finished studying it, after she tried to decipher the message behind the words on the paper. She desperately hoped that she would see something that she had missed the uncounted times she had previously studied it.

The case confounded her. It had for more than a week. She needed a break, not just from the case but in her life. Carl’s absence piled a double load of work on her desk. Probably more than double, because there was no doubt her mentor was a very efficient detective, capable of disposing of cases much quicker than she could.

At thirty-six, Sarah was still single, with no discernable prospect of change in the foreseeable future. She was not concerned about it. Her work was her life; it defined her. Each case, with all the associated misery and urgency, demanded her full attention. Be it a burglary, an assault, or a murder, every victim required her dedicated support. She did sometimes wish that she had someone to provide her with emotional support. Her work, or her choice to put work ahead of life, did not allow her enough free time to participate in the typical dating scene. Her only real friends, outside of family, were members of the police department – and there was a strong non-fraternization policy, more unwritten than written. Mixing pleasure with business was not worth the hassle. But, if she ever found life-time companionship, she hoped it would be someone like Patrolman Keith Locke, recently advanced to Corporal and dead-set on moving up through the ranks. She liked to be around people who were dedicated. In a small city with a close-knit police department, it was hard to keep their secret. She suspected Senior Detective Carl Franken knew. If he did, he had not said anything. He likely never would.

The case confounded her to the point of nausea. Sarah had never witnessed a crime scene as horrific as the Overton case in her five-year career as a detective. She doubted Carl had seen anything like it either. If he had, it would have been something often discussed, used as a benchmark of disgusting crimes. She needed to visit Carl. His battle with cancer was a losing battle. But then, one never really battled cancer and won; one merely tried to squeeze as much life as possible out of a body that was ravaged by the disease.

Sarah hated what Betty Franken was going through. Betty was one of the good wives, dedicated to her husband and his career while still managing her own. She wondered if she had the ability to do what Betty had done as a wife and Realtor. Being a Realtor was not quite the same as being a detective but it had similar odd hours, with client demands and the ever-present potential for danger. She remembered when she was still in the Patrol Division and a female Realtor was assaulted while showing a house to a man. That incident occurred in broad daylight in a residential area. The lawn service was actually mowing the lawn while the rape was occurring inside the vacant house. The noise of the mower and a leaf blower masked the woman’s cries for help when the attack started. A hard punch to the face and a death threat kept her quiet until the pervert satisfied himself.

Sarah remembered being assigned to assist Detective Franken when he finally pieced the evidence together and made the arrest. She remembered the satisfied look on the face of the dedicated Detective when he clicked the handcuffs - extra tight - around the rapist’s wrists.

More than that, she saw the absolute relief on the face of a Realtor’s husband; there was one less scumbag on the streets. Betty relented and got her concealed carry permit after that incident, something to supplement her pepper spray. That was the day Sarah decided she wanted to be a detective.

Within the folder were several pages of notes and three loose photographs. There was also a six-by-nine manila envelope. Its metal clasp held it closed. Sarah could not seal the adhesive on the envelope’s flap. It was filled with photographs. The pictures had to be available for review. But, by putting the pictures inside the envelope, she could ensure they did not accidentally fall into view. Her stomach turned every time she thought about the photographs of the fourteen-year-old victim’s body. To look at them would be worse.

The pictures of the crime scene, the boy’s bedroom, were horrific enough without the body. Blood, bits of bone, brain matter, strands and clumps of bloodied blonde hair painted the inside of the room. The carpet within three feet of the body was soaked and stained red, the ugly red of drying blood. Blood splattered the walls and everything hanging on the walls. The teenager had posters of his favorite rock bands and more than a few posters of a scantily clad girl singer that Sarah didn’t recognize – other than she knew the singer was every boy’s dream; a girl singer like so many others who made the scene every few years to serve as idol to teenie-bopper girls and as fantasy to young boys struggling their way through puberty. On one wall, in an apparent place of honor, was an autographed poster of a baseball player, Jorge Bonifacio. Everything, even the window panes not protected by curtains, had red spots on it. Even the ceiling and ceiling fan blades ten feet above the body had some blood spots … and pieces of what used to be a human head. The only clean areas were in the shadows of the bed and a tall chest-of-drawers. A bloodied and matter covered baseball bat, the apparent murder weapon, was dropped in the doorway. One could easily assume it was dropped there as the killer left the room. That was the first thing Bentley Emmett Overton’s mother saw when she went to his room to check on him.

But, Sarah did not need to look at those photos again. She was the photographer. They … and the virtually headless body … were indelibly burned into her mind. The image of a teen-aged boy, whose identity was confirmed through DNA testing, with a head so severely beaten that nothing remained other than indistinguishable pulp, would not go away. That was why she had put the photos of the body inside the envelope. She had to find his killer, not just to bring him to justice, but more importantly, to save Bentley’s older brother, Terrance Emerson Overton, III. Her pains were because she was afraid she had already failed Terry … ten days missing.

Out of all the contents of the folder, the bagged piece of paper was the focus of Sarah’s attention. She wanted that single piece of paper to yield a clue that would help save Terry Overton’s life.

Dead and gone. Dead and gone.

Nothing can bring the baby home.

If you want your baby back,

Put $500,000 in a sack,

Friday, small bills, all unmarked,

At the 1st Street trash in Swanker Park.

The ransom note, constructed using magazine and newspaper cutouts, was specific enough - but there was no mention of police. The kidnappers knew the family, and they also believed they would not get caught before they had the money in hand.

Sarah thought about Terrance Emerson Overton, Jr.’s lawyer, Candon Watson. He was the immediate contact for the Overtons. Terrance and Christina were shuttered in place at their vacation home in Colorado. The three-level house that was their family home no longer felt secure. It was too uncomfortable for living. The couple could no longer stay in the house.

Before going into seclusion, at Terrance Junior’s insistence, a televised plea for Terry’s life was broadcast. The grieving parents begged for Terry’s return at any cost. Sarah understood their need, but she would have preferred the case be covered as any other high-profile crime would be. The message presented by the grieving parents exposed an opening to opportunists. The only reaction crying parents would elicit from kidnappers was an increase in demands.

While the Overtons were in seclusion, a house sitter was on site in case any physical attempt to contact the parents was made by the killer-kidnapper, or - in a best-case scenario - Terry managed to escape and returned home. The note was found less than a week after the murder, taped to a patrol car. The Patrol Officer found it when he returned from lunch at a local café; no witnesses and no trace of the person who left it.

Sarah, on the advice of Chief Keck and the City Attorney, told Candon Watson, the lawyer, that paying ransom was seldom successful, but the department would not discourage it. Sarah did not reveal that she had sought other advice prior to the meeting, advice that matched the advice given to the lawyer, to the Overtons, advice she trusted. There was nothing more they could tell the desperate parents … parents willing to do anything to save their only remaining child. They had the money. Terrance and Christina Overton made it clear in their televised plea that money meant less to them than the safety of their child.

Sarah’s befuddlement stemmed from the fact that there were no obvious clues at the crime scene, no finger prints on the bat or the door knob. Only a single, smeared handprint that the mother left on the barrel of the bat when she thought it was just her son being messy, before she saw the horror in the room, before she recoiled against the door frame and dropped the bat. The only significant piece of evidence was a single footprint, shoe print, found on the front door. A crude, but apparently effective, means of breaking into the house. Someone planned the killing well enough to wear gloves to ensure nothing of the killer was left behind. Everything immediately visible in the room belonged in the room, even the bat, a souvenir bat signed by Jorge Bonifacio, reportedly a bat highly treasured by Bentley, though his father could not identify the reason for the attraction.

A team from the State forensics lab gathered whatever trace evidence they could find. The team scoured every room in the house, looking for anything out of place. They bagged everything from cookie crumbs to hair to tiny bits of paper that inevitably become imbedded in high-pile carpets, missed by even the most fastidious housekeepers using dry vacuum cleaners. After a week of scrutiny – and the inevitable autopsy, they found nothing of value to locate the kidnappers.

Sarah was sure three loose photos, those that did not depict the aftermath of the brutal murder, were connected in some way to the note. The pictures were of a dirty, smeared shoe print on the dark stained front door, just below the ornate door handle. The print indicated the assailant, or assailants, had kicked the door open. A door-stop prevented the door from causing force-inflicted damage to the internal wall. The intruders apparently determined the direct approach to be the best approach. The note and the footprint photos told a story, but she was not hearing it yet.

CHAPTER TWO

CHRISTINA OVERTON, DAY 1

The charity event was like so many others that Terrance and Christina attended. Their money, Terrance Emerson Overton, Jr.’s success, dictated that they be invited to every such event in the county. Actually, that correlation was rightfully owed to Terrance’s father, the original Terrance Emerson Overton. Real estate development is a boom or bust business; it always has been, always will be. The turbulence of construction and housing took more men than historians cared to chronicle from rags to riches and back again. Terrance, Senior and Junior, both managed the turbulence well enough to avoid significant set backs for most of two generations. The results of their successes were an amassing of fortunes best described as stupid money. The Overton family had more money than they knew what to do with.

Christina loved the money, or at least what the money provided materially. But, it came at a price. Terrance was always busy, caught up in his projects, one after another. Sometimes, at night when he collapsed into their king-sized bed exhausted after intense negotiations and deal making, he talked about his day. Most of the time he fell to sleep. In all of that, he was thoughtful and loving; he always told her where he would be and for how long. If he had not, a sane woman would probably wonder if she was actually married to the man or if she was just part of his constantly moving entourage. Like the others in Terrance’s circle, she needed him for many things. Some things were carrots on a stick; Tantalus without water to slake an aching thirst or fruit to appease a gnawing hunger.

Much to Christina’s delight, the charity event was one of few that did not devolve into a business event for Terrance. They were home before midnight for a change. They would have time together, time they seldom enjoyed. Seventeen-year-old Terry - Terrance III - and fourteen-year-old Bentley would likely still be awake, but that would not interfere with the husband and wife. They could simply say their good nights, slip into their suite and do as they pleased.

Terrance slowly drove around the cobblestone circle drive and stopped the car under the protected portico. Christina waited. She knew he would open the door for her before he drove the black Bentley Mulsanne to the detached six car garage, his carriage house.

Terrance kissed Christina on the cheek after she stepped out of the car. He smiled, cupped one of her still firm butt cheeks and squeezed playfully, meaningfully, before he stepped aside and let her pass. I’ll be right there.

Christina was delighted. She had her husband for the night and he was not exhausted. She stood and watched him drive toward the garage. When she saw the garage door open and the lights come on, she walked to the front door. Her stomach fluttered. It had been a good day and promised to be a wonderful night.

Christina froze in her tracks. A cold wave swept across her body. The tiny hairs on back of her neck and arms stood erect. The front door was ajar, barely cracked, hardly noticeable until she reached to enter the code into the security lock. Without waiting for Terrance, she shoved the door open and yelled, BENTLEY. TERRY. There was no reason the door should be open. Both boys knew better than to leave it unlocked. She was not paranoid, but security was always a concern for people who have money. They did not live in a gated community with built-in protection. They lived on a large property on the affluent, west side of town.

No one answered Christina’s calls. Her shoe heels clicked across the tile of the foyer to the stairs. The sounds accentuate each step she took. Her blue chiffon dress, tight across her buttocks, only slightly hindered her hurried steps up the solid oak stairs. Her heels were more of a hindrance than the hip-hugging dress.

Bentley’s room was closest to the stair landing. The door was partially open, and light shined through the opening into the hallway. The hall light was off, not unusual, but it made the room light more pronounced, almost stark in contrast. Christina saw Bentley’s prized, autographed baseball bat on the floor in the doorway. With the mind of a mother, she bent over and picked up the bat by the barrel as she pushed the door open to check inside. Something tacky stuck to her hand when she grasped the bat. Her eyes immediately diverted to her hand in reaction to the unexpected sensation. What she saw made no sense; it did not compute as familiar or applicable to the situation. She tossed the bat away and wiped her hands together. The tackiness transferred. She looked up to see if Bentley was in the room. A choked scream was all she could muster. She staggered back against the door frame and slapped her hands over her mouth in shock. The stickiness transferred again.

Terrance walked through the wide open front door just as Christina’s horrified scream erupted. He momentarily froze, just long enough to locate the direction of his wife’s scream. Two steps at a time, he raced upstairs. He flipped the switch to the hall light when he hit the landing. Christina backed from Bentley’s room, half bent forward at the waist with one hand over her mouth, still choking with an anguished scream. The first thought that passed through his mind was that the mother had walked in on her teenaged son inappropriately entangled with a teenaged girl. They had, after all, arrived home at least two hours earlier than expected. Couple that with the fact that Christina allowed her baby a lot more latitude than they allowed Terry and the circumstances were ripe for the unexpected.

Christina turned to run away and slammed into Terrance, almost knocking him off his feet. Terrance grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to face him, What’s wrong?

Christina looked up into Terrance’s face and saw his eyes widen in shock. Someone … she gasped and turned her head toward the open doorway.

Terrance saw what looked like blood around his pretty wife’s mouth, smeared from one cheek to the other. He noticed that the same blood-like color was smeared on the back of her shoulder. He anxiously moved past her in the hallway. She needed him to hold her, to calm her, but not as much as he needed to see what caused her behavior. He heard her slump against the wall and begin sobbing uncontrollably.

Terrance was a business man; a man who dealt with numbers and people in some very intense negotiations. He often described his toughest negotiations as blood lettings. In reality, the only blood he ever saw was oozing from a really good steak cooked rare to perfection. His heart stopped when he saw the bloodied body on the floor. He could not hold his eyes on the pulp where a face and head should have been. He looked away, let his eyes glance around the room. He was aghast at the amount of red on nearly everything in the room. Instinctively, he wanted to rush to the body, to see if the person was still alive. His instincts were not strong enough to make him do it. The body was unidentifiable. There was no face, the hair, what remained attached to a nearly missing skull, was soaked red with blood.

But, it was only one body. His racing heart and mind remembered there was another room that housed another treasure, another vault for the family fortune. He scrambled from the bloody room and raced toward Terry’s room, yelling his older son’s name as he went. He slammed into a closed door and fought with the doorknob until he managed to get it to turn. The room was dark. His hands and fingers fought in the diffused light provided by the hall overhead fixture to locate the light switch that was inexplicably hard to find. Finally, the room was flooded with light.

Terrance’s initial reaction was disbelief. He was unsure if he should be upset or relieved. The room was vacant. Terry was not in the room, not where he was expected to be. The father gathered his thoughts, tried to determine if it was a good thing or a bad thing that his older son was not in the room. Christina pushed past him, her frantic touch brought clarity to his mind. It was a good thing. He realized that it was a good thing because Terrance was not lying dead on the floor … unless the body in Bentley’s room was Terrance, unlikely because the person appeared too short – but it was hard to reckon since the body was missing its head. Game room … he said as he turned and bolted for the stairs, his thoughts were finally assuming some orderliness. Maybe the boys were actually in the game room, in the basement, playing pool or video games. Maybe the bloody body was a stranger, not one of his children, someone who did not belong, and his sons were oblivious to the carnage two stories higher in Bentley’s room. Or, his sons used the bat to protect themselves from an assailant.

The game room was empty. Christina arrived in time for him to bump into her, almost knocking her off her feet. Are they here?