Murder In Bridge City

By Kevin W. Luby

A series of murders in Portland, Oregon. Are they related? That is the question being investigated by police detectives Bill Karb and Mike Kelley, as well as investigative podcaster Meg Nguyen. With each murder, the three of them seem to increasingly dance around one another as they work to identify suspects and motives. Could on of them be the killer? If so, why?

Their individual and collective efforts reveal their respective flaws to one another, raising disturbing questions, and weaving a complex tale of violence, guilt, ambition, and intrigue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin W. Luby
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798768590918

Kevin W. Luby

Kevin W. Luby is a lot of things and has done a lot in his life. At the end of the day, he is a husband and a father. Everything else is irrelevant.

Book preview

Also By Kevin W. Luby

A Life Short & Loud: And the Long Road Back

© 2014

Chasing Shadows

© 2018

Acknowledgments

It is important to acknowledge the people whose assistance made this book possible. Hopefully, I won’t have forgotten anyone.

As is my habit, I like to have an early draft of my books read by friends who are both literate and brutally honest. These sometimes-too-honest people include Ken Price, Matt Kehoe, Hafez Daraee, Roger Boulden, Moira Luby Boulden, Brian Bice, and the wickedly funny duo of Cate Morris Daraee and Angie Groce. Each of them gave me valuable input and encouragement, some (but only some) of which I actually remembered and/or agreed with.

I also want to thank Chris Owen of the Clackamas County District Attorneys’ Office for taking the time to explain manslaughter and the concept of lesser included offenses.

One of the benefits of writing stories is that the author gets to name the characters. I coopted the names of various friends because it always more fun to write about friends, even if they bear no similarity to the real persons.

For example, the real Bill Karb is someone I’ve known almost since Day 1, but with whom I’ve only developed a strong friendship over the past 10 years or so. I am grateful to him for allowing me to use his name for the lead character. Even more importantly, he allowed me to use his late wife’s name for his namesake’s murdered wife.

Bill also is a graphic designer and created the cover. He is a man of many talents.

I first met Mike Kelley during my first year of law school. He was always just one of those special people that come into your life every once in a while (and never often enough) who makes you a better person just for knowing him. He was intelligent, funny, and athletic, but most of all, he was a nice guy and a great friend. Mike was always there for me when I needed him, and I tried to do the same for him. I can’t say enough good things about him.

Unfortunately, Mike lost his battle with cancer in October 2020 and the world is a lesser place with him not here. He was a great husband, father, and friend and will not be soon forgotten.

For the bad guys in this book, you can be assured that I reached out to all of them to obtain their consent to use their names. This may have been a mistake on their part, but such is not my concern.

Jeff Nickel is one of my wife’s bosses and is someone who I’ve really come to enjoy and like. He is nothing like his fictional namesake, other than being a Canadian. As far as I know, he isn’t violent or abusive. Hell, he’s an orthodontist for God’s sake!

The real Aguinaldo Valdez is not, in fact, a low-life drug dealer but is an attorney in Dallas, Texas. Augie and I went to law school together and I have always admired him for his intelligence and integrity.

The real Scott Sorochak is such an interesting person and I wanted to incorporate his humor into his character but, instead, chose to fictionalize all of the evil traits that might be hiding behind his friendly demeanor. When I described the character to him, he jumped at the chance to have his name used and actually came up with some ideas on how to make the character even worse than he is. I can’t help but think that Scott has as odd an imagination as I do.

The lovely and talented Jane Kessel Luby has always been so supportive of my writing endeavors. She has been so much more than wife—she truly is my best friend and confidante. She could have done much better than me and we both know it (although she graciously denies it).

Roger and Moira Luby Boulden are more than just early reviewers of this novel. I could not ask for a better daughter and son-in-law. They are both wonderful people and have brought me much joy, not to mention the world’s best granddaughter. Thank you.

Finally, I will never forget that the impetus for my late-in-life writing career was Conner Patrick Luby. It has been over twelve years since he passed, and his absence still hurts in ways I could never have imagined. We try to focus on the fact that he was in our lives for almost twenty-one years rather than the fact he is no longer with us. We mostly succeed…but not always, and so I keep writing.

Contents

Also By Kevin W. Luby

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

About the Author

When someone shows you who they are,

believe them the first time.

—Maya Angelou

Nothing is perfect. Life is messy. Relationships are complex.

Outcomes are uncertain. People are irrational.

—Hugh Mackay

Chapter One

I was impatiently looking out the front window, lightly tapping my foot on the floor, as he pulled up in his car. I stood up quietly, making sure I stayed in the shadows. With my bat in my left hand, I walked silently toward the hallway beside the front door. The bat felt good and solid. It was a medium weight, perhaps just a little too light and short for me, but with good balance. The handle was relatively thin, and the barrel was thick. This was the type of bat I would use if I were still playing ball.

In a flashback to Little League, I could hear my coach tell me to grip the bat loosely as I pulled it up to my shoulder; to bend my knees, bouncing slightly, and stay loose; stay loose until you were ready to swing.

Flexing my fingers to stretch out the tendons and ligaments in my forearm, I casually rotated my arms and shoulders to keep the muscles from tightening up.

I could hear the footsteps as he approached the front door and then the slight jingling of keys. I tightened my grip at the sound of him inserting the key into the lock and turning it. The door opened and then there was the clicking of the light switch flipping up and down, but no light came on.

Goddammit! he muttered.

He didn’t know that I had removed the lightbulb in the entry way. The limited light in the apartment came from the streetlight faintly streaming in through the curtains in the front window.

I silently bounced just a little bit on the balls of my feet and cocked the bat. He took about four steps before I saw his shadowy figure come around the corner. I timed my swing perfectly. The bat swung in a slightly upward arc and struck him in the middle of his chest, right at the level of the solar plexus.

With a loud oof, he fell backward toward the wall, his arms initially flailing out in the air for balance but then, as he crashed into the wall, they instinctively wrapped around his chest.

As I stood watching him collapse, I realized the oof wasn’t the only sound I had heard. That was just the explosion of air out of his lungs. Much louder had been the sound of his ribs being shattered. For a moment I was actually concerned that the neighbors upstairs might have heard. I couldn’t be sure if the noise from the breaking ribs just seemed louder to me because I had caused it.

He slumped against the wall and suddenly and violently coughed. I could feel spittle spray onto my face. Thankfully, between the mask and goggles, I didn’t need to worry. The cough, however, seemed to cause him even more pain and his body started to slowly slide down the wall.

With an uncomfortable thud, he landed on the floor, one leg straight out and the other bent. I could hear him struggling to breathe. Every breath was as painful as it was necessary. He groaned, but quietly, as if to avoid any unnecessary movement which might exacerbate the pain.

I walked over to the light switch on the wall behind me and flipped it on. Light bathed the entire room; I could see him and, more importantly, he could see me. A couple of bloody bubbles were forming in his right nostril and bright red saliva was starting to run down his chin. The bubbles would grow and then retract with each halting breath; it was mesmerizing. I had to force myself to look back up at his eyes.

Even through the pain, his eyes were clear, and he was staring directly at me – tracking me as I walked back and crouched down next to him.

I smiled at him.

"I know, that’s not exactly what you did to her. Your first swing was to the back of her head and only then did you work your way over and down to her chest and then back up to her face. Yeah, I could have done it that way too, but I wanted you to see me first and to truly be able to experience the whole event."

Now his eyes began to bulge as another spasm of pain seized him. His breath became more ragged and labored. Each breath was matched by a groan.

I’m curious, did your first swing knock her out? I sure hope so for her sake. Did she even know it was you?

I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder to stop him from falling over. His face suddenly contorted in pain, and he closed his eyes tightly. As he opened them once more, I spoke again.

Don’t worry, this will all be over soon. I promise. I just wanted to give you a taste of what she might have gone through. Did you have a reason for beating her to death? Was it pride? Is that what it was? You can’t tell me you’ve never been dumped before. Did you feel any remorse…ever?

Whooo, was all he could get out before doubling over in pain amidst a coughing spasm. Each cough sent powerful signals to every pain receptor in his body.

What is it? Do you want to know who I am or, maybe, why I’m doing this?

Grabbing him by the hair, I pulled his head up and leaned in closely. I could see consciousness starting to slip away.

Whoa, whoa, buddy. Stay with me here.

Standing up, I walked into the kitchen. In a cabinet beside the sink, I found a tall glass and filled it with water. Crouching back down in front of him, I again pulled his head up by his hair and threw the cold water in his face. Two things happened right away. First, he sat up, startled, and secondly, his eyes bulged before he, again, doubled over in pain.

Okay, apparently I underestimated the power of my swing. I was just trying to knock the wind out of you – not kill you…well, at least not yet.

I chuckled, although he didn’t seem to find any humor in my comments.

Well, if you’re not going to engage in meaningful conversation with me, I might as well wrap this up.

I kneeled down and placed my hands on either side of his face and leaned in as close as I could. His eyes were closed in pain, so I took one hand and opened one of the eyelids. The eye was bloodshot, and the iris was dilated.

"I know what you did. I know you beat the shit out of her until she wasn’t even recognizable to her family." I took a breath because I could feel my anger starting to well up. My fingertips were digging into the sides of his head.

Standing up, I picked up the bat and slowly squeezed the handle, finger by finger, alternating the grip from hand to hand. I could feel the tendons in my forearms loosening and tightening, one by one. I assumed my batter’s stance.

"I can’t stand the idea that you might get away with murdering the Clabby girl. I just can’t. I don’t care if it is because the DA is a chickenshit or some hotshot lawyer might find a way to get you acquitted. I just can’t let you get away with it. I know you did it. I KNOW!

"I’m pretty certain she wasn’t the first woman you hit but I can fucking well assure that she will be the last."

His eyes followed the bat as I pulled it back and cocked it. The look of terror in his eyes began to grow as he wanted to move but couldn’t. I adjusted my feet slightly and, with the most powerful stroke I could, drove the barrel of the bat directly into his face. The cheek bones and nose collapsed inward with a loud crack. There was an eruption of teeth and blood spraying out across the room. The sound was akin to a melon thrown from a great height, smashing onto a sidewalk.

Slowly, I pulled the bat out of his cratered face. The body slumped to the right and onto the ground, a pool of blood forming beside the now-shattered head. His torso twitched as he struggled to find a way to take a couple more breaths. It took only seconds before his body stilled. I felt neither joy nor relief. A monster like that didn’t deserve either on my part and didn’t deserve regret or pity on his part. There was now one less maggot to walk the streets.

Before walking back to turn off the light switch, I first looked at the walls. With my last swing, blood and spittle had reached the wall on the opposite side of the entry way, as well as onto the ceiling. I turned off the light switch and pulled out my UV flashlight. There was substantial blood splatter all over me, head to toe.

I went into the kitchen and turned on the light over the kitchen sink. Just as I expected, there was a small towel beside the sink. I wet it and then did my best to wipe most of the splatter from my sweatshirt and pants. Looking back, I could see some partial footprints in the blood splatter near the body. The police would obviously find them, and I was fine with that. In fact, it might even be important they do so.

I rinsed out the towel and twisted it to get as much water out of it as possible. I took a wet paper towel and wiped off my face. I bundled them up and put them into the small plastic bag I’d had in my pocket, along with my goggles. Reaching for the back door handle, I let myself out.

The evening was cool, and I took a moment to just breathe in the fresh air. I knew the post-adrenaline fatigue would soon envelop me, so I quickly walked to the car.

Once in the car, I took my shoes off and flexed my toes. They had been cramped for far too long, but I hadn’t really noticed how uncomfortable the shoes were until taking them off. I took off the nitrile gloves but, for the entirety of the drive home, made sure to keep my hat and mask on and drive just a little bit above the speed limit. There would be nothing to call attention to me. If there were any security cameras or doorbell cameras in the area, there wouldn’t be much to see. The hat and mask would keep me from being recognized.

As I pulled into the garage, I let out a long, slow sigh as the garage door closed behind me. Once out of the car, I took my clothes and shoes off and threw them, as well as the blood-stained kitchen towel, into the garage sink. I filled the sink with water and poured in a generous amount of OxiClean bleach.

While letting the clothes soak, I wiped down the bat and put it back in its place on the wall. After swapping out the license plates, I put on a new pair of nitrile gloves, drained the sink and squeezed as much liquid as I could out of the clothes. Putting them first into a small garbage bag, I then threw it in the trunk of the car and threw the nitrile gloves in the trash can. I was particularly glad to be rid of the shoes as the left one was far too small for me, and my foot hurt.

With that all done, I headed upstairs for a shower and bed. I let the hot water soothe my aching muscles as the fatigue began to overwhelm me. In the morning, I would toss the bag of clothes in a garbage can far from my house and the scene. The clothes had all been purchased with cash from various Goodwill centers so they could never be traced back to me.

As I was drifting off to sleep, I felt a vague sense of purpose and satisfaction. That was something which needed to be done and I’d done it. The termination had gone exactly as planned. While I could take no pride in killing someone, no matter how detestable they were, there was a measure of pride in the planning and execution. There was now one less bad guy on the streets and justice had been served. More importantly, the first step had been taken and it had, at least so far, been a complete success.

Just before I drifted off to sleep, a nagging thought occurred to me as to whether I should be concerned about the lack of remorse. What did that say about who I was? Who was I...really? I’d just killed someone. Was killing Nickel really the right thing to do? Was this murder justifiable? Would this plan actually work?

Fortunately, I was too tired to dwell on these thoughts for long and fell asleep without any dreams.

Chapter Two

The cell phone rang, and the middle-aged man reached into his