A Deadly Echo

By Edward Thornton

"A Deadly Echo" is an enthralling murder mystery that takes readers on a chilling journey where the boundaries of justice and friendship blur. Sergeant Michael Callahan, haunted by the murder of his wife Katie and their unborn child, embarks on a relentless quest to catch a serial killer, known as "The Artist." Although not responsible for Katie's death, The Artist forms a precarious alliance with Callahan, intertwining their fates. As they delve into the investigation together, secrets unravel as they uncover an illicit child-trafficking ring with apparent connections to those in prominent government positions.
"A Deadly Echo" is a riveting tale of suspense, psychological intrigue, and the unbreakable connection between two adversaries in a world where justice and vengeance collide. The exploration of their alliance and the psychological tension between the two will intrigue those who enjoy morally ambiguous and thought-provoking narratives. The novel builds to an intense climax, challenging Callahan's convictions and leading to a heart-wrenching decision that will forever impact their lives.
The narrative intensifies, reaching a climactic peak that tests Callahan's staunch convictions and leads to a heart-rending decision with lifelong consequences. "A Deadly Echo" is a riveting blend of suspense, psychological drama, and a study of the complex relationship between two adversaries in a world where the lines between justice and vengeance overlap
Additionally, "A Deadly Echo" will captivate readers who enjoy stories that explore themes of justice, revenge, and the blurred boundaries of morality. The intricate puzzle-like plot, filled with cryptic clues and surprising twists, will keep the audience engaged and guessing until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350917802

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Copyright 2023

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 979-8-35091-779-6 (print)

ISBN: 979-8-35091-780-2 (eBook)

Contents

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1

The air was crisp. The late afternoon sunlight made it feel warmer than the thermometer suggested. However, around here I was the only one who would care whether it was warm or not. Everyone else was dead.

One of the dead was my wife.

My wife’s death was the kind that made the headlines. Murder. And hers even stuck around on the front page for a while. Most homicides are what the newspaper business calls little murders—their hold on the imagination is short-lived and the level of drama low. The stories are buried inside the paper much like the bodies are buried in the ground.

But when the victim—gunned down in the parking lot of a shopping mall—is the wife of a local police sergeant, the papers create a lot of space for it. Speculations and conspiracy theories abound. And of course, there were those that suspected nefarious issues in the home. The investigation—conducted by two outside agencies—concluded that she was the victim of a botched carjacking. But that’s only part of the story.

She was not the only victim. Our unborn child died with her.

I never realized how fragile life was until it broke. And that day it all smashed.

The overseeded annual ryegrass glistened from the mist the sprinklers carefully emitted around the numerous gravesites. I came here often, driven by guilt and loneliness. In some strange way, I found the grounds consoling. I could ask questions that had no apparent answers. I could shout and cry. But this is the first time in the seven months since her death that I’ve come here to listen.

I settled back against the wood of the bench across from the gravestone bearing two names: Katherine Callahan, Madeline Mae Callahan. She would have been Maddie to us. The attractive wrought iron bench suddenly appeared one day, and I pretty much knew who contributed it. Within the law enforcement world, grief is often expressed in actions rather than words.

I had my own theories and questions about what had happened. I was certain I had caused their deaths. I didn’t kill them, of course, but was I responsible for their deaths? I had put so many people away over the years—people with no moral compass, evil, vile, merciless. It was no stretch to think that somebody had wanted revenge. And it was not hard to find out where I lived. And so easy to learn about my family. Our habits and routines. Now I have no family.

I was in pain—actual physical pain—but it was not from the spinal injury I’d recently suffered. It physically hurt to be so close to them. They were dead and I was not. I could simply not accept that fact.

Other than two physical therapy appointments a week, my time was my own. That’s what worried me the most. I never did well with an abundance of free time, and now that even my physical activities were limited, it was even harder. No physical exertion. Let yourself heal from the injury and the surgery and your progress will be measured, they said. Whatever the hell that meant.

The flowers in the gravesite container were never fake and never wilted. The groundskeepers made sure of that. The cemetery was not responsible for putting freshly cut flowers onto the graves, but somehow, they were always there. Katie’s parents didn’t live close by, so I highly doubted it would be them. We never met because Katie had an estranged relationship with them. Understandable, I guess, but it was another bit of fuel to feed my guilt. I should have tried.

But someone who cared for her in her life was letting her know they still did in her death. At least I hoped that was the motive.

A bird, a yellow chested variety, zipped by in front of me, then perched on the headstone, and looked up at me. I made eye contact. I’ve always thought that people search for signs that connect them to their departed loved one (and maybe, some not so loved). I’ve heard about the cardinal, or the butterfly, or another living creature that appeared to bridge the gap between the world of the living and the world of the dead. I never believed the dead just appeared—poof! —from the afterlife. Now I wonder.

The sun had ducked behind a cloud and the warmth I’d felt a few seconds ago was replaced with a chill and a shiver. I stood from the bench and sought out a sliver of sunlight. A good bit of my body insulation was absent due to the twenty-plus pounds I had dropped in the last few months not by choice, but because muscles like movement and they tend to go away if they don’t get it.

The flowers in the vase were colorful. They seemed to have been picked from a garden. I knelt to get a closer look and noticed a small, handwritten card tucked among the foliage. The card was weathered and some of the ink had run and faded but not so much that I couldn’t make out what was written on it.

I will not behave myself

Instinctively, I looked around as if I expected someone would be there claiming to be the author. There was no one close by. I swallowed hard and felt a deeper shiver. The monotonous drone of the lawn mower stopped. The birds stopped chirping. Everything around me fell silent and the noises inside my head grew loud. I felt as if I was awakening from death. As if the last seven months had never happened. It was as if I’d been paralyzed, immobile, and suddenly could move again.

I re-read the note. The note stayed the same, but I began to feel different. A new fire ignited the anger inside me. I’d spent the last six months looking for answers because I’d thought knowing would change something, make me a little less miserable. I was told a long time ago by someone much smarter than me that when you run out of questions, you don’t just run out of answers, you run out of hope.

The birds started chirping again. Off in the distance, a lawn mower started. I took the note from the flowers, put it in my pocket, and set off towards the sound of the mower.

The operator of the mower saw me approaching and killed the engine. His face matched his surroundings—mournful, an expression supported by his long gray hair and beard that looked like a failed experiment. His cheap sunglasses were masking his eyes. He was somewhere around sixty years old.

Good morning, he said, flashing an unexpected smile at me. I had prepared myself to meet an aging curmudgeon. Is there something I can help you with?

I nodded. Perhaps you can. My wife’s gravesite is—

Yes, Sergeant Callahan. The groundskeeper lost his smile. I am familiar with your wife’s place of internment. I helped prepare it. Is it not being cared for as you would have hoped?

No, no, it’s well kept. I was just wondering if you have noticed the person who’s been placing the flowers there.

The groundskeeper looked away for a moment. Umm, no sir. Not that I can recall. We have hundreds of sites here, as you can see.

I nodded. I was simply curious. I just want to let the person know it’s appreciated.

Sorry, Sergeant, but I’ll keep an eye out. He smiled and tipped his hat.

I thanked him and began walking to my truck. From the distance, I could see Rufus, my German shepherd, stare at me from the window. As always, his watchful nature brought a smile to my lips. And then a thought, a memory, a reality spiked my cortisol to a level I hadn’t felt in many months. One of Katie’s favorite sayings—perhaps her most favorite—hit me. I’d rather spend my life being close to the birds than waste it wishing I had wings.

I joined Rufus, started the truck, and slowly drove by my wife’s grave toward the exit. My intuition, my gut told me not to look but I knew he was there. Then I saw him reflected in the rearview mirror—standing there, lighting a cigarette, his stare following my car as I left the cemetery.

2

It’s common knowledge that cops don’t make much money, and I was no exception. If a person’s goal in life is to become rich, law enforcement should not be on their short list of career choices. However, if done right, a person can carve out a decent living, retire after twenty-years, and still be young enough to start another career. That is if they live that long.

But then there were those in law enforcement who thrive on stress, like me. Adrenaline junkies.

The sun was setting, turning the desert to gold. Dusk was upon us when I drove through Gate’s Pass, a picturesque, winding road leading west out of Tucson and to Me Sueno, or My Dream, the name we had fondly bestowed upon our acreage.

My five acres were situated twelve miles west of Tucson, just beyond a small range of 2,500-foot-high mountains, nothing more than hills covered with lava rock, saguaro cactus, and creosote plants. This is where we’d planned to build a house, brick by brick, with our own hands for our future family. But for the time being, we resided in a manufactured home, placed in the corner of the property farthest from the roadway. We’d planned to make it as a guesthouse once our permanent home was completed.

Ten young mesquite trees that I’d recently planted, dotted the grounds of the natural landscape I retained within the confines of my barbed wire fence. When I cleared the land, I didn’t touch the creosote plants, scrub oak bushes, and four other large mesquite trees, just as it should be. River rock, gathered one at time from various obscure washes within the area, lined the ninety-five-yard driveway from the gate to the circular drive to the front of the house. Painted wooden stakes, different colors for different projects, poked up from the dirt like birthday candles. I’d complete the numerous jobs I’d put on hold because of my health, but that day was not today.

I collected the mail from my roadside mailbox before I entered my property through the partially opened eight-foot sliding gate. I stopped before my customary parking spot to let Rufus out to do his usual perimeter run before I continued on. I parked next to my old ’55 Chevy pick-up and tugged the tailgate down. I grabbed a Coors Light from the old refrigerator tucked inside the metal, store-bought storage shed. Even though I was expecting it, a piece of mail in my hand made me pause and take a deep breath.

The letterhead indicated the letter was from the police retirement board. The body of the letter gave the details. As of April 1st, Sergeant Callahan would become Mister Callahan. I knew the decision had been made by my neurosurgeon. The surgeries had given me my mobility back, but the risk of future injury was a liability issue that the city could not accept.

It had been nine weeks since the spinal fusion and ulnar nerve reattachment and it all went without a hitch in my recovery. I didn’t want to accept the surgeon’s recommendation that my police service must be terminated, but I knew I didn’t have a choice. The doctor’s words to me were to view the circumstances as a gift, not as a failure. A gift? Yeah, sure. I had a little trouble seeing a broken neck as an opportunity.

My occupation was responsible for my injury. We all know that is a possibility going in. But my occupation could very well be responsible for my wife’s death, too. None of us signed up for that.

As I sat on the tailgate, I thought about anything and everything involved in the life I’d led, fragments of time frozen in my mind: a flash when I’d been shot in a warehouse, and the smile of the man who shot me, the sight of the children I had rescued from an apartment fire, the first sight of a newborn child, my mother churning buttermilk on the farmhouse porch.

The images entered my mind like pictures that hung on the wall of my memory, flashes of color in the black and white night. Despite all the trouble, violence, and malice I’d seen, life had been rather good. Not much to regret.

Until now.

Well-meaning friends handed me the usual cliches, but I just wanted them to offer their deepest condolences. I didn’t want to hear that I was young. I didn’t want to hear that it will get better, and that Katie was in a better place and it was part of some divine plan. I didn’t want to hear that I was lucky to have known such a love. Every one of those platitudes pissed me off.

I kept hearing that better to have loved and lost bullshit. Trust me, it’s not.

Rufus nudged my knee. He wanted to eat. I wanted to drink. I stood and walked mindlessly into my sparsely furnished mobile home. Rufus had a can of food. I had two more cans of beer. It was just enough alcohol to free me up from today, but also enough for me to get serious about tomorrow.

Only eight days remained in my law enforcement career. I needed to use them wisely.

3

Day One. Friday. March 23nd.

I expected the phone call that would set up the meeting. It was nothing more than a formality. The department had received the retirement board’s approval of my medical retirement. First step was the meeting with my immediate supervisor, Lieutenant Ben Thompson. It would be awkward. I knew that when I’d eventually leave this building with so many memories, I wouldn’t be the same man who came in.

That both frightened and exhilarated me.

I sat in a chair—arms folded—outside Thompson’s office and waited. The four chairs faced away, but a reflection from a window across the room gave me a somewhat distorted view into his office. Thompson was alone and on the phone. By his body language, it appeared I was the subject of his conversation. He waved me in and motioned to close the door.

I received your retirement information, Thompson said, holding up an envelope.

He waited for a response but didn’t get one.

Ben Thompson looked every bit the cowboy that he portrayed; tall, six four, lean, with high cheekbones and short, blond, hair combed to one side. And he always wore western boots, even with his police uniform. He was a thirteen-year veteran of the Tucson Police Department and had quickly climbed through the ranks. Thompson became a sergeant after three years of tenure, the minimum, and lieutenant after two more, also the minimum. But, in spite of his success, he remained a friend and advocate of the frontline field officer. We became instant friends because of a common passion: basketball—I played college ball and Thompson wished he had. But we previously played on the Police Athletic Team which had created an instant bond.

Even though I sat in the same chair I had occupied numerous times before, the surroundings looked different. They felt different. I didn’t belong here anymore.

How’s your rehab going? he diverted. You’re looking well.

I nodded. My official last day is the thirty-first . . . eight days from now. But until then, I have my credentials. Correct?

Thompson eased straight up in his chair and studied me. Why?

I glanced around the 8x10 office. The corners of the ceiling.

Just making sure I had access to the building. I’ve got some things to find and take with me. You know, fourteen years’ worth.

Thompson dropped his eyes as he stood. Let’s take a walk.

It wasn’t a suggestion. He moved by me and opened the door.

Perfect.

The location of the Tucson Police Department Main Station was a study in contrasts: The historical, adobe bricked neighborhoods, sat proudly to the south; two blocks to the north were modern buildings caged in by asphalt and automobiles. In less than five minutes by foot, you could literally go back or forward in time, depending on your personal view of progress.

It’s not that I don’t trust my own office, Thompson said as we walked along a quiet side street. But sometimes I wonder.

He threw me a sideways glance. I know this was not the way you wanted your law enforcement career to end, Thompson continued. It has to be hard for you.

I hesitated for a moment, not sure I wanted to admit this to myself. In some ways, but then I realized I don’t want to be a cop any longer. It would just get in the way.

Thompson waited until a couple he knew passed by. I’m not following. In the way of what?

I didn’t even contemplate giving him an answer. Learning what I did being in law enforcement for fourteen years is more than valuable to me. But I have to move on.

Thompson smiled. I’m glad you’re at peace with the circumstances, Callahan.

I didn’t say I was at peace with anything, Lieutenant. It’s just the opposite.

What’s with this lieutenant shit? We’ve been friends a hell of a lot longer than I’ve been a lieutenant.

Beautiful. Now I know which angle to use. We had been through many critical situations together where trust was assumed. It had been created and built upon. One minute we were at the other’s side—the next, we were covering the other’s ass.

Sorry, Ben, you’re absolutely right. I don’t want to compromise our friendship or your position in any way.

Alright, Callahan, speak to me, Thompson said. Enough small talk. What is it you want from me?

Who killed my wife and child?

The question hit him hard. That had been the plan. I didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t expect the question. Interrogation Tactics 101.

What’s that? Thompson asked. He needed time to process.

I know you weren’t directly involved in the investigation, but what have you heard? In your position, you’re privy to a lot more insider information than I am. You’ve never taken the time to talk to me about it.

You know the state’s Department of Public Safety has control of the investigation, Callahan. I received the same briefings that everyone concerned did. I answered their questions but wasn’t given any additional insight. You know that’s how it works when a crime happens to one of our own: Outside agencies get the call.

So, from what you know about the case, you’re alright with their investigation, and the conclusion that Katie’s murder was more than likely a botched carjacking?

Thompson slowed down his speech. He measured his words. I’ve always thought it didn’t add up. The camera to the part of the lot where she was shot wasn’t working. Mall security said it was offline but hadn’t noticed it being dark. DPS investigators found that to be a fact for that time period. But a couple hours later it was functioning. No apparent reason for the outage. Investigation didn’t probe far enough, in my estimation.

I felt blood fill my face, my scalp. Did you approach them about it?

Yeah, through our homicide unit. I was told they looked into it. Thompson stopped walking. What’s going on? What’s with these questions?

I handed him an envelope. He opened it. His eyes on me.

Two sheets of paper, each bearing a letterhead, were folded together. One letterhead read US Marshals Service, the other, State of California Office of the Attorney General. No text, no words other than the pre-printed headers.

Thompson looked closely at the papers and shrugged. What are these supposed to show?

I have no idea. It was in my departmental mailbox, here at the station.

Have you told DPS about this?

I just got it yesterday, but why would I? What would they do with it? Give me a weird look and throw it in the file! There is nothing in it that they could tie to anything or anyone. Listen, I have a week and a half with access to what little information I can get from the law enforcement network. Am I right?

Yep…until the first of April. What are you thinking?

I smiled. I won’t do that to you.

Thompson squinted a frown. Hands palms up.

Yeah, that’s where I am, too, Ben. Why did the investigation of my wife’s murder get shit canned? I can understand if it had gone stagnant, but there was no real investigation. It was as if it was put in the freezer for a reason. Explain that?

Thompson lowered his hands. I can’t.

Or won’t? I’m not naïve or stupid about what’s out there. I’m quite aware that when a spouse is murdered the remaining spouse instantly becomes the primary suspect. I see it, feel it, sense it in almost every face I see around here. It’s more painful than the broken neck I suffered, Ben.

Thompson stuffed his hands in his pockets.

I shouldn’t be dumping on you, but my frustration keeps growing. I don’t know what Katie got herself into, Ben, but there’s a killer out there that does.

4

The drive back to my place was short. My thoughts were long. What got me—what gave me that surprise punch—was the way grief seemed to enjoy catching me unaware. Grief can be, if not handled, somewhat manipulated, finessed, concealed. But grief also likes to hide . . . anywhere. My grief enjoyed leaping out of nowhere to startle me, mock me, and strip away any pretense of normalcy. Grief lulled me to sleep. It made the blind-sided hits even more jarring.

I walked the perimeter of my property and spotted nothing that would warrant concern, just peace. Rufus walked ahead and occasionally stopped to turn and inspect and protect. I looked to the west and estimated the sun had about forty-five minutes or so before it dropped out of sight behind the Baboquivari Mountains. Several chores awaited, but none of them inspired me. However, starting up the fire pit did.

I have always liked to work night hours. In that respect, I am lucky in my career choice. It had never been a chore or drudgery or something I do simply to put food on the table. I disappeared into my work. Like a troubled athlete, I forgot everything when I was playing the game. I entered the zone. I was at my best.

I see now. I was selfish.

I pushed the dried mesquite logs around with an old two iron and looked for answers in the sparks and whispers of smoke. Another beer would help, or better yet, a couple slugs of tequila.

Nope. Forget that.