One Helluva Story

By Kevin McKeehan

Jason Shaw didn't think he would be anything more than "Instagram famous" when he started writing he debut novel. With guidance from his writing mentor, as well as his down research, Jason became obsessed with ensuring the events in his fictional novel were as realistic as possible. As his story grew, he realized the characters began to guide th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Allen McKeehan
• Release date: Jul 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986436616

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cover-image, EPUB.Final.8.2022 5.06 x 7.81 copy

ONE HELLUVA STORY

KEVIN ALLEN MCKEEHAN

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission by the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in reviews.

Cover Design: Kevin Allen McKeehan

Edited By: Leigh Anne Terry - www.latwrites.com

ONE HELLUVA STORY Copyright © 2022

by Kevin Allen McKeehan

ISBN: 979-8-9864366-0-9

First Edition: July 2022

[e-mail]

For my niece and nephews

Brianna, Brandon, and Brett

PROLOGUE

MARCH 31, 2018

JASON SHAW

I’d done enough research to know how to get away with murder.

I didn’t think I could.

I knew I could.

I had filled my leather-bound notebook with common mistakes of murderers and serial killers who had gotten caught. They were the ones I had researched the most. I also filled my notebook with the perfect list of how to get away with murder. Each episode of true crime television provided a play-by-play list of what the killer did wrong and thus provided me a play-by-play list of what I needed to do right.

Ensure there was an alibi.

Ensure there was a great disguise.

Ensure no evidence was left behind.

Ensure the body could never be identified.

One: the alibi. I told Benjamin, my husband, I was going to Sedona for a private writing week. He knew how close I was to finishing my debut novel. He was in full agreement that a week alone was all I needed to come home with a fully completed manuscript. I had rented a room at our favorite resort he and I would often visit for quick weekend getaways. I bought tickets to go on a nighttime trail ride to search for UFOs as a reward for myself. That was not out of the ordinary for me to want to go on a UFO hunt as I always told Benjamin about the unidentified flying objects I encountered. After a few days of writing and editing, I would deserve a fun break. I did not plan on joining the tour, but I would check in on social media, saying how much fun I was having. The tour group had scheduled 27 people for that tour. I had done similar group tours before. I know I couldn’t identify someone who was in any of those groups, and I was assuming no one would remember if I was there or not. It was also a ‘no photos allowed’ tour as the flash from the camera caused vision problems in the night, so no one on the tour would have photo evidence that I was never actually there.

Two: the disguise. Over the past three months, I had been preparing. If there was one thing I had never forgotten from one of my favorite books—killers get caught because they are in a hurry. I purchased everything I needed with cash. I bought a short brown wig and contacts to make my eyes dark brown. I went to Walmart and purchased size 11 shoes, which were two sizes larger than my normal size. I bought ankle weights to ensure any footprints I left in the dirt would be more profound than I would typically make. It had rained yesterday, so I’m thankful I thought of this as I knew there would be tracks left in the mud. The added weight would give me—well, the detectives—the illusion of being a man much larger than I actually was. On a separate shopping trip, I purchased black leather driving gloves. I purchased bolt cutters and a new padlock in the same transaction. It seemed logical to me that if I needed to cut off a lock, I would need to replace it so I would raise no suspicion if anyone ever questioned a cashier.

I needed a large hunting knife for the weapon, one like my dad would use—one with the sharp blade on one side and the blood gutters on the other. Thankfully Walmart sold those, and thankfully my dad’s birthday was coming up soon. He would be getting a slightly-used hunting knife to celebrate him turning another year older.

Three: leave no evidence. I purchased latex exam gloves on a different supply run, which I made certain were not the same brand I used at work. The next time I went shopping, I purchased tight thermal underwear, both the bottoms and the long sleeve top. They were skin-tight, which would help prevent any body hair or dead skin from falling in or around the crime scene. I had duct tape to keep all openings in the thermals closed tight. The day I planned the murder to happen, I would go get my hair cut. I always kept my hair short. A one-guard all over was what I always requested. I would carry my newly purchased jacket in with me. While the stylist cut my hair, I would leave the jacket in the waiting area. I would request a quick shampoo because I was meeting a friend for dinner and didn’t want loose hairs stuck to my head. After I had my hair cut and shampooed, I would use the restroom and accidentally drop my jacket on the floor. This would cause multiple hairs from multiple people to get on the jacket. This jacket would be worn throughout the process to ensure that if any of my hair was lost at the scene, it would be in a blend of everyone else who got their hair cut that day. Statistically, only five percent of killers were caught using forensics, so the hairs on my jacket might be a little overkill, but you can never be too prepared.

Three months and 29 days ago, I told Benjamin that I would soon be finished with She Loves Me Not. Three months and 19 days after that, I typed The End. It wasn’t quite the end, but I typed it anyway. I was so excited that six days ago I emailed a copy to both of my best friends, Marshmallow and Leigh Anne, to get their final feedback. I gave them each a deadline to get back to me in eight days. Both of them emailed me their feedback in seven. Marshmallow’s feedback was in the form of a shortly worded text message. Leigh Anne’s feedback was seven pages long and included a 22-slide PowerPoint! Anyone could guess whose feedback I valued more.

My debut novel had been written, read, re-written, and re-read. I was completely happy with every word that I had puzzle pieced together and every comma that I had thoughtfully typed. I was happy with the character flow. I was happy with the sketch I drew for the cover art. I was happy with my dedication and thank you pages. I was happy with the beginning, the middle, and the end. Hell, I was happy with the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end. However, I was still not happy with the murder scene. It was the only part of the story that I didn’t think was believable. Leigh Anne said to leave it as is because the next step, finding an agent, would take up so much time that I needed to start pitching my book as quickly as I could. But like every other aspect of my life, I couldn’t say something was finished until I loved it. I couldn’t love it fully until I knew it was accurate. No amount of research would give me the real emotions someone felt when they murdered someone. I wanted to see the fear in their eyes. I wanted to feel my heartbeat accelerate. I wanted to smell the air as their soul left their body. I wanted to be the last thing they saw as they begged me to let them live.

I had thought of everything. I had everything I needed.

I, Jason Daniel Shaw, was actually going to kill someone.

CHARLI PLATT

That cop is out there again, I said. They’ve been coming around a lot more lately. I think there is a crush situation happening.

The cute one? Franki asked. You know he loves me!

No, I said. The other one.

My sister, Franki, and I had worked at Eight-Hundred 85 for about two months, this time around. The first time we worked here was when we were 18. It started out as a way to earn a little extra cash. Sure, our parents gave us everything we ever asked for. We were spoiled. I…we admitted that. But having our own money was different. We didn’t have to tell our parents about a new dress we found or about when we threw an unusually large party in my dorm room and my dormmate’s television got broken by some drunk guy. We just replaced it and didn’t have to bother our parents, not that our parties were ever that crazy.

We grew up spoiled-rich-twins that everyone either admired or hated. There was no in-between when you lived in a small town. When we left for college at age 18, one of my new friends told me about Eight-Hundred 85. She said she started working there her freshman year and would bring home about $500 a night—cash.

Eventually, our family did find out, but we didn’t care. At age 18, we were very good in school, and now we were also making our own money. It shocked us both when we started noticing that guys tipped more when we would dance together, a lot more. We each brought home $800 a night three nights a week. Everyone wanted to see the twins. Word got out, and eventually, we were on a billboard in the middle of Flagstaff telling everyone to come see Kendra and Blu every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. The day it went up, our father stopped talking to us. It took a very long time for us to fix our relationship with him. Thankfully we healed that relationship.

Franki selected the name Kendra, after her favorite character from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I chose Rue after a character from my favorite book (at the time). When I told the DJ ‘Rue,’ he misunderstood me and announced me as Blu. I happened to wear a blue outfit that night, so the name stuck. I wore something blue from that night forward, and it became my signature.

Ladies, it’s still a packed house. Can you do another set? the bossman asked. I’ll give you another $50 each. Julian was very selective about the girls who danced at his club. Most places would charge the girls a fee for use of their stage. Julian preferred to pay the girls a nightly wage to encourage the best of the best to represent his brand.

Come on, Julian, we are ready to go home, I said.

Here’s another $100. He walked out of the room.

Seconds later, we heard our names. Welcome to the stage, Kendra and Blu, the Twins.

We entranced the audience as we sauntered onto the stage and began our final final dance of the night. As usual, I entered stage left, and Franki entered stage right. There was one pole in the middle of the stage. We each ran to it, in perfect synchronization, as we had done hundreds of times before. Franki went high, and I went low. We spun in opposite directions holding on to the pole with just our thighs, mimicking a helicopter’s propellers. As the momentum from the initial spin died down, we lessened our grip and slowly slid down the pole until our bodies were mirror images of each other on the floor. We released the pole, intertwined our legs, and flipped onto our stomachs. Our legs would unlock, and we would crawl in opposite directions to begin our solo performance. The crowd loved it.

After our pole routine, we went our separate ways on the stage—each of us finding the perfect person to give us their remaining cash. The bossman was right. The room was packed. I saw several new faces splashed in with the regulars. Creepy Craig was in the corner again, his hand resting in his lap under the table. Leah the Lesbian was with her five co-workers crammed into a table for two. Mysterious Michelle leaned on the wall near the exit like she had for the past three weeks. Finally, my eyes found Ten-Dollar Timmy, and I went in his direction. He loved me, and I loved his stack of ten-dollar bills. We were lucky when we got a five, but Timmy always tipped his favorite girls a ten. If you danced well enough, you could easily get $100 in five minutes from him.

I could see Franki was dancing for one of her regulars. I’d never asked his name. There was also another vaguely familiar face in the crowd. I know I had seen him here before. I remember because he looked exactly like Cruel Intentions era Ryan Phillippe, one of my very first crushes. I still had the poster on my wall when I moved out of my parents’ house.

He was alone. Awkward. Something just didn’t seem right with him. Had he colored his hair? The lights grew brighter as we made our way off the stage.

Don’t forget, I’m leaving for Denver tomorrow, I said once we got back into the dressing room.

Oh yea, thanks for reminding me, Franki said. I’ll swing by tonight and help you pack.

Thanks, I said.

I guess I’ll just work alone this weekend, one sister, half the tips,

We can’t do this forever, you know.

PART 1

ONE YEAR EARLIER

CHAPTER ONE

JASON SHAW

She Loves Me Not

First Draft

Chapter 1 - The Girl at the Grocery Store

The first time I saw her, I knew she was the one. She stared back at me for what seemed like hours, even though only a few seconds had passed. Her wavy blonde hair was pulled to each side, reminding me of ripples on a sand dune. It left a deep part down the middle. Her blue eyes were piercing, almost too painful to look at. She had a small gap between her two front teeth that made her look like one of those high fashion models on the cover of some fancy French magazine. Her Marilyn beauty mark seemed so perfectly placed that I wasn’t quite sure if she had drawn it on or not. I could see why the Vista Guide picked her to be on the cover of their annual issue of 25 Under 25 Entrepreneurs in Ridgewood. I grabbed a copy of the magazine as I walked out the door—my groceries in one hand and D’Arcy Renee Chesterfield’s picture in the other.

I sat in my car and quickly thumbed through the magazine until I found the article about D’Arcy. I learned she was the owner of Flower’s Child, a vintage clothing store located in the heart of downtown. She was 23, single, and lived in the apartment above her store. She has a cat named Pork Chop, which I found ironic since D’Arcy is also a vegetarian. According to the article, she made $200,000 last year. That amount ranked her in the top 25 wealthiest people under the age of 25 living in the small town of Ridgewood. D’Arcy emphasized she wanted the readers to know the easiest way to remember her name is by her initials, DRC. By saying each letter individually, that’s exactly how you pronounce her first name. D’Arcy explained that her mother, Rose, loved to play word games and thought it was a fun way for people to remember her daughter’s name. D’Arcy joked that her future husband’s last name must also begin with the letter ‘C’ to ensure her initials always remain the same.

My last name starts with a ‘C.’

I never thought about how much personal information is in an interview, but I guess I never cared to know as much as I could about a stranger—this stranger. I also found it oddly fascinating that one could make that much money selling used clothing.

My name is Denton—Denton Maxwell Chamberlin, to be exact. I am 29 years old. I’ve worked as a science teacher for the past six years at the only elementary school in my town of Winchester, and I admit I love my job. I live alone in a small two-bedroom house on the outskirts of town. The house has been in my family for four generations. My great-grandfather built it for my great-grandmother the year they married. My nearest neighbor is three miles down the road. With a large wooded area between us, it almost feels as if I’m out here alone—most of the time. I’ve lived in the small town of Winchester my entire life. It’s small enough that everyone knows me, but I don’t have any close friends. I have co-workers, I have students, I have family, but I don’t have friends. All in all, I’m just your average awkward guy. I blend in with the crowd and live my life day by day.

Our school’s summer break started yesterday. I had bought enough groceries to last me for two weeks. I wanted these first days of break to be nothing but lazy relaxation. The last week of school is always the most stressful for a teacher; it takes almost a week to recover from the stress and excitement of the final days of the school year. This year was no exception.

I spent my first night of summer vacation tossing and turning. I could not get the image of D’Arcy’s face out of my mind. I had never had a feeling so strong for another person before, let alone a person I had never even spoken with. I silently said my nightly prayer and decided to go to Flower’s Child the next day.

Thank you God for sending me an angel, I said.

Sleep came quickly after I made my decision, and morning came even faster. I woke, as usual, at 5:47 a.m. I have an irrational fear of even numbers. They always seem to bring me bad luck. It’s called omalonumerophobia. I was born on 11/23/75. All odd. My time of birth: 5:17 p.m., all odd. I weighed 7lbs, 7oz. My mother’s recovery room after my birth, 351. There are 23 letters in my full name. Odd. Odd. Odd. I’ve heard the whispers in the halls from my co-workers, they also say I’m odd.

Odd.

I started the coffee pot, made myself some breakfast, and turned on the news. I’ve always prided myself on keeping up-to-date with current affairs. Living in such a small town, I must stay prepared for the inevitable day-to-day small talk. I quickly showered and then stood staring in my closet for my most vintage-looking shirt. I knew my future wife would appreciate my clothing choice. I decided on