Mystery, Ink.: Murder By Text

CHAPTER ONE

Up and down, back and forth—this was my life, the life of a middle-aged lawyer, and it’s the one I’d chosen. I had ten more miles of the roller coaster road. Finally, I reached the oak tree, split down the middle like the fork in the road I had to take. I turned right like I had the last hundred times. Pops of red, yellow and orange dotted the trees like droplets of paint. The seasons were changing and I contemplated what was next for me. Over the last year-anda-half, my life had been full of change. Going back and forth from Chicago was taking its toll on Barb, our marriage and me. The weekend with her had been like old times—long walks, intimate dinners and passionate nights. When I left, her eyes welled up with tears. She fought them back, and then started yelling at me for nothing. I knew it was a defense mechanism—if she got pissed off at me then she might not miss me so much. We both hated the goodbye. I hadn’t convinced her to leave behind the big firm and city life to join me in Centerville and she hadn’t convinced me to come back. We’d come to the T-intersection in our relationship but neither of us was turning. A strong gust pulled my car to the right, a cyclone of leaves and gravel smacking against the windshield. I steadied the wheel, sitting up a little straighter, and turned down the radio.

I drove onto the blacktop that had become so familiar. I crested the hill and the moon reflected off the road lighting my way home. In the distance, I saw the blinking red tail-lights of a car parked on the side of the road. As I approached, I slammed on my brakes when I saw shards of metal, broken white plastic, and glass littering the highway. Pulling over to the shoulder, I saw a motorcycle parked in front of the car but no driver. Then, voices rose from the ditch. I got out of my car, walked to the shoulder and peered over it. In the ditch a once sleek sports car was now a crumpled ball of aluminum with a person dangling inside it. The other car teetered on its side. I ran toward the smashed metal, steadying my feet on the uneven steep hill. My throat tightened and cut off my breath for a moment. A woman yelled into her phone that there were injuries and help was needed NOW! A flashlight blinded me when an older man frantically used it to explore the crushed cars, searching for the injured. He shouted orders for an ambulance, blankets, water, and first-aid kits. I caught my breath and ran to the car on its side to search for an opening. Inside, a teenage boy lay trapped, his face covered with blood. I pulled and prodded at the passenger doors on top of the car, but they wouldn’t budge. I heard a bang-crack-crack when the other man pounded the rear window with his fist wrapped in a jacket. His strength wasn’t enough to crack open the rear window. Neither of us could find a way in to the motionless body. The man looked at me for an answer.

A stout woman with short salt-and-pepper hair approached him, patted him on the back, and said, Still no luck, honey? Her brown eyes looked up at me as she shook her head and the man whispered, No.

Let me see if I have anything in my car to pry it open, I said hoping I could do some good. The man stopped for a moment, took in a deep breath, wiped his receding hairline with the jacket and nodded yes at the same time as the woman next to him.

I sprinted back up the ditch to my car, my thumb searching for the unlock button on the key fob. In the trunk, I pushed aside my black, hard-side suitcase for a jack or anything that might open the jammed doors or break a window. Sweat dripped into my eyes while the north wind sent a chill down my neck.

A faint sound of sirens calmed me, letting me know professional help was on the way. By the time I got the jack out of my car, the red-and-white rescue vehicles lined the road. I hoped their heroic work would succeed where the others and I had failed. The police blocked the road with flares and bright orange cones.

The fire department brought out extrication equipment to open up the flipped car. The oversized can opener jaws of life pried open a hole in the side of the car. Working with the giant prongs, the firefighters pulled a lifeless body out of the metal cage. The mechanical arm gently laid the bloodied man on a stretcher. A female paramedic pounded on his chest and began compressions and the male paramedic tried to breathe life back into the body. They switched places, and another paramedic brought a defibrillator over. The electric current lifted the man’s torso off the stretcher, but there was still no life when he landed. The hard-fought battle was over and they placed a clean sheet over his face, looking at their watches as they pronounced him dead and took his body to one of the waiting ambulances.

The other firefighters had unjammed the door to the car on its side, and one poked his upper torso in to assess the situation. The firefighters began their work removing the boy from the car. The paramedics readied a stretcher at the side of the car. When they pulled him out, his head was hanging to the right with his short, black hair matted to his ear. The light brown skin was tinted red with blood. They put a neck brace on him and placed him on a stretcher unconscious. Once he was secured, the white-coats and the firefighters navigated the kid on the stretcher out of the ditch into an ambulance. He must’ve been breathing because the paramedics didn’t perform C.P.R. Would they have to life flight him or would the ambulance get him to the hospital fast enough? I jumped when the ambulance horn suddenly blared alerting us there was time and the kid might survive. Sirens screeched and the ambulance raced away dodging the cars and emergency vehicles lining the road.

The police measured skid marks and distances from the road to the ditch where the cars landed, taking notes on their yellow pads. I took a few photos of the road and the decimated cars on my smart phone. The front passenger tire of the overturned car barely hung on. I held my phone up to the car and clicked multiple shots of the interiors of both cars.

An officer nearly knocked me over and yelled, What the hell are you doing?

I’m trying to help out, I answered brushing myself off.

We’ve got it buddy. It’s a car accident and we don’t need anyone messing with the scene, the officer said pushing me back to define the boundaries with his yellow tape. I didn’t like the unnecessary body contact.

A friendlier face approached, Chief Clark, the police chief. I had gotten to know him and Deputy Ryan well since I moved to Centerville. He asked, Hey, Sly, what are you doing out here?

I was driving home and came upon the accident. There were people already here. I don’t know if any of them saw the accident, but they were making calls to get help. I’m here to help.

Thanks, Sly, but I think we’ve got it under control. Go on home and get some sleep. It looks like the teenager was texting. These damn kids and their phones, the Chief muttered, taking off his chief hat and caressing his baldhead. The officer walked away securing the yellow tape to keep onlookers away from the accident scene.

No witnesses other than the drivers, so at this point there isn’t anyone we can talk to or much else we can do, the Chief whispered.

I looked around and discretely took a couple more pictures of the scene and the cars before I started toward my car. A woman in a black trench coat worn over light blue flannel pajamas ran up and screamed at no one, turning her head from side-to-side, Where is he? Where’s my husband?

The Chief ran to her.

They called me. They said they had to pull him out of his car. Where’s my husband? she yelled and began sobbing.

The Chief put his arm around her, Mrs. Zilchrest, I need to talk to you.

They walked away and I heard her scream, NOOOOO!!!! She fell to the ground with her hands pulling at her hair and cradling her head. After several minutes she pulled herself up with the Chief’s help and walked to the ambulance where her husband’s body had been placed. She climbed in, and the paramedics pulled the doors shut and the ambulance drove away in silence.

Drained by what I had seen, there was nothing I could do to help. I waved to the Chief and went to my car to finish my drive home knowing this one accident had forever altered so many lives.

The next day I ate my steel-cut oatmeal and read the thin local paper, the Centerville Gazette. I found a short article on the front page about the accident. The headline read: Local Businessman and Philanthropist Dies in Tragic Accident. I read: Last night, at approximately 10:00 p.m. a two-car rollover accident off County Road 15 killed local businessman and philanthropist Aiden James (also known as A.J.) Zilchrest. Zilchrest was Vice President of ZOOM Technologies, a family-owned computer software company founded by his father, William Zilchrest. The Fire Department extricated his body from the vehicle. The other driver, Jorge Casa, is in serious condition at Mercy Hospital. Chief of Police Clark stated, The ongoing investigation indicates that the accident may have been caused by a distracted driver. A police investigation is under way and may result in manslaughter charges.

According to the article A.J. Zilchrest turned his life around eight years ago after he caused a serious accident while driving under the influence. Next to the article, a list of the charitable boards he served on showed his numerous contributions to Centerville.

There was very little information about the other driver. I knew he was probably part of the immigrant community, which had grown in Centerville when so many relocated here from Mexico and Central America to fill blue-collar jobs. The prosecutor would likely file charges against the eighteen-year-old driver, Jorge Casa, for involuntary manslaughter for A.J. Zilchrest’s death. I felt sorry for him, even if charges weren’t filed, because he would have to live with this for the rest of his life. If only he’d thought about the consequences of his actions. I guess none of us think it will happen to us, especially teenagers.

I put the accident out of mind and spent the next few days grinding through a pile of work. Later that week, a middle-aged Hispanic couple greeted me at my office door.

"Please, help, ayudeme, por favor," the woman said as she touched my arm. Her almost black eyes encircled with grayish bags begged me to listen. The silent man next to her stood shifting his feet back and forth. The tussled black hair on top of his lanky frame looked as if his tiny wife had dragged him out of bed to come see me.

Come in and we’ll talk, I said as I unlocked the wooden front door.

They followed me in and I took them to my office.

Please, sit down, I said gesturing toward the two plump leather chairs in front of my desk. They sat down.

"We need abogado," she said looking down.

"I am a lawyer, abogado. First, I need to know what the problem is and whether I can take your case or not," I explained.

"No dinero. Un poco dinero," she said gesturing toward her cloth purse.

The man pulled out his wallet and handed me a small stack of bills. I pushed it back without counting it and said, Let’s talk about the problem first and then we’ll see if I can help or not.

"Me llama Maria Casa. Es mi esposa, Pedro Casa. Mi hijo, son Jorge in accident. Hombre, muy importante died. Policio say Jorge’s fault. He needs abogado, but no dinero. Amigos say, ‘Sly, bueno abogado’ so we try," the woman said again staring into her lap rubbing her hands together. The man remained silent, only nodding his agreement. I understood some Spanish, after three years in high school and another two in college. I understood she was looking for a lawyer for her son, but they didn’t have any money.

Is this the accident that killed A.J. Zilchrest? I asked even though in a small town like Centerville, there weren’t many fatal car accidents.

"Yes. Jorge es nino bueno. Por favor, Senor Sly," Maria said leaning toward me, her dark brown eyes staring into mine.

If he hasn’t been charged yet, the Court won’t provide a lawyer. I can talk to him and help him request a lawyer if he is charged, but there is no guarantee I can help you. Your son absolutely should not talk to the police until he has a lawyer. I can meet with him at the hospital when he’s awake, I explained.

They both nodded as their faces softened.

"He’s awake. Por favor, vaya al hospital?" Maria asked getting up. Her husband followed her lead.

Yes. I’ll try to go today, I promised. They each shook my hand vigorously before they left the office. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to help them out until a lawyer was appointed because I’d seen police rip apart an unrepresented minority kid before.

Centerville General Hospital smelled of bleach so strong it burned my nostrils and overtook my breathing for a moment. The smell and sight of the pristinely shined stainless steel brought me back to the day I lost my best friend. I got the call at my dorm room—my roommate and childhood best friend had been in a motorcycle accident. I dropped everything to rush to the hospital. When I arrived it was like I entered a horror movie. The more I searched for his room, the more lost I became, lost in a mouse’s maze, opening doors to stairwells that led to more doors with stairwells. By the time I found the right path and opened the door to his room, a nurse had covered my best friend’s head with a sheet. Through the years, I’ve watched friends and family die, and have determined a hospital is the worst place to be if you want to stay alive. I should have been thankful I wasn’t the one fighting for my life. I stopped at the information desk and asked the volunteer, Could you give me Jorge Casa’s room number and tell me how to get there?

Yes, sir, the white-haired gentleman said as he taptap-tapped on the computer. He looked up and said, "They moved him from ICU to a