Better Late That Dead; Episode 24

 This is episode twenty-four of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

(Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Episode 24

Rich drove back to Indiana. He stopped at a small-town grocery store and stocked the camper with supplies. About ten miles from Greencastle, he pulled into an empty campground. A dozen unoccupied trailers sat under the trees.

Near sundown, he prepared a simple meal. The process reminded him of cooking at sea. I don’t believe I can do this, he thought. I need the galley to be rocking. The meal was unimaginative: a toasted rye, ham, cheese, and sauerkraut sandwich. It was his own version of a Reuben. He opened a beer to accompany it.

He settled into a chair with a Nick Carter detective novel. The reading was light but distracting. As he read, his thoughts drifted back to his situation. He needed a plan with solid contingencies. What troubled him most was where the repeater might strike next. If he could anticipate the killer, he might stop him. He might force a confession for his parents' murders. Enid had convinced him that their deaths were part of a larger pattern. Even if I could locate the next murder within a five-mile circle, it would be almost impossible to stop. He turned the page. One thing is sure: I must keep on the move. A moving target is hard to hit. But I must be discreet.

I also need a legitimate driver’s license, he realized. What I have won't work if I get stopped or look at an accident. I need a real Social Security number, too—one made out to Michael Roland Chaves.

The next day, Rich found a local branch and registered the truck camper. Driving with legal plates gave him a surge of confidence. Now he just needed a proper driver’s license.

When darkness fell, he read by the light of a small wall lamp. A jazz station played softly on a tabletop radio. He feared sleep, worried the police might arrive in the night. He played back his moves, terrified he had made a careless mistake that would tip someone off. Eventually, his eyelids grew heavy. He climbed into the bunk over the cab and slept.

A few hours later, he woke and climbed down to the cab. He sat in the driver's seat and watched the empty night until his eyes grew scratchy again. He returned to the bunk.

The next morning, he made breakfast and drove to Indianapolis to take a driver's test. Before the exam, he convinced the clerks that he had spent the last four years in the Navy and had never needed a civilian license. He told the examiner that he would lose a major job opportunity if he didn't get certified today. They squeezed him into the schedule, and the license was issued.

His next step was obtaining a Social Security number under his assumed name. A few blocks from the license bureau, Rich pulled into a gas station to fill his tank. He parked near a glass phone booth at the side of the station and dialed.

“Hello.”

“Is this Enid?”

“Yes,” Enid said.

“This is Rich. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Enid said. “How are you doing?”

“Pretty good,” Rich said.

“How’s the truck running?” Enid asked.

“Like a top,” Rich said. “I drove to Chicago, and it was fine.”

“Did you go to the place I gave you?” Enid asked.

“Yeah, I got the phony ID and birth certificate,” Rich said. “However, I just got a real driver’s license with a new name.”

“What name is it?” Enid asked.

“Michael Roland Chase,” Rich said. “It was supposed to be Caves, but Betsy must have known I was being chased—a Freudian slip on the keyboard.  I can live with Chase. I have to.”

Enid chuckled. “That’s a good one. Where are you now, or don’t you want to say?”

“I'm down around Indianapolis,” Rich said. “And I want to ask a favor.”

“Sure,” Enid said. “What is it?”

“I’m going to apply for a Social Security card under this name,” Rich said. “I want to use your address for the mailing.”

“Don’t see a problem with that,” Enid said.

“I’ll come by and pick it up when it comes in,” Rich said.

“That will be fine,” Enid said.

“I’ll keep in contact by phone,” Rich said. “Just tell me when it arrives, and I'll drive over.”

“I’m curious,” Enid said. “How are you going to explain going this long without a Social Security card?”

“Remember Australia,” Rich said. “I spent enough time around the Aussies that I can pull off a decent accent. I have a birth certificate from West Virginia. My story will be that my parents moved me there in my early teens, and I just decided to come back to the States.”

“When can I expect you?” Enid asked.

“I’m applying today,” Rich said. “I’ll give it a week and give you a call.”

“I’ll look forward to your call and seeing you again,” Enid said.

“Me too.”

Rich hung up and looked through the phone book for the nearest Social Security office. By the end of the day, his application was submitted. He had a legitimate driver’s license in his wallet and a Social Security card on the way.

He drove two hours north of Indianapolis without a specific destination. Roadside signs eventually directed him to a campground on a lake. He decided the water would be a good place to keep busy. He stopped at a secondhand store along the way to buy used fishing gear so he wouldn't look like a beginner.

Rich checked in and chose a campsite twenty-five feet from the water. The fish weren't biting, or perhaps the lake required skills he didn't have. It was a strange, transitional time of year. The air stood perfectly still. The autumn sun cast long, angled shadows, though the thermometer still read in the mid-to-high seventies.

A small bait shop and boat rental sat in a quiet cove near his campsite. The morning after his arrival, Rich rented a wooden rowboat. He pushed off from the shore, sat on the bench, and dipped the oars. The boat and the blades were the only disturbances on the water.

I need this, he thought as he rowed. This time is a buffer between Rich Larsen and Michael Roland Chaves. It's not just a new name. I need to set my past life aside. Not the life I had in Maine or at sea, but the last two years. I must think of them clinically, not emotionally.

The languid shoreline passed like a lifeless painting. The ripples from his oars smoothed out long before they reached the bank. Dragonflies and water bugs hovered safely above the surface; the fish were content to swim in place in the cool, deep water.

It seems logical that I will never be Rich Larsen again, he thought. I am certain my parents' murders will never be solved. I will always remain the prime suspect. For the police, the story is over. They have their man.

There is no plausible way for me to find the killer or bring him to justice. Enid's theory is a long shot. He masterfully assembled an incredible number of coincidences, but does my willingness to believe overshadow reality? Is it true, or do I just want it to be true?

Soon I will be a totally new person. The old one will vanish. There will be sightings, but they will be bogus. In a few years, everything will be forgotten. The investigation was driven by politics and vengeance, and those things fade. A new sheriff, a new news editor, and it all becomes yesterday’s news.

Rich Larsen will have to live only in my memories. He is the one who must remain vigilant. He cannot respond, turn around, or ever raise an eyebrow at the mention of his real name. Perhaps someday, in a place far away, he will arise from his tomb. For now, he is dead to everybody but me.

Better Late Than Dead; Episode 23

This is episode twenty-three of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

(Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Episode 23

Enid gave Rich directions to a contact in Chicago who could provide a fake ID and birth certificate. Rich drove into the city, near Comiskey Park. The White Sox were playing a doubleheader. Neighborhood residents rented out their backyards for parking. Kids stood in the alleys with signs, waving cars in. 

Rich pulled down an alley into a yard. As he stepped out of his truck, a man in a floral shirt approached him. The man had two gold teeth.

“That’ll be three dollars,” the man said, grinning.

Rich handed him a twenty. “Do you know someone who can get me an ID?”

“Right now?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Rich said.

The man pointed south. “Go to Thirty-Eighth and turn right. Walk four or five blocks to a place called Happy’s. Tell the bartender the guy with the gold teeth sent you, and tell him what you need. He’ll take it from there.”

Half an hour later, Rich walked into Happy’s. It was a dive. He spoke to the bartender, who pointed toward a door with stairs leading to the second floor.

An older woman sat in a living room chair watching television. She wore a heavy nightgown and smoked a cigarette.

“Have a seat beside the desk, fella,” she said in a raspy voice. “I’ll be right with ya.”

Rich sat down. She walked over and took a seat behind the desk.

“We do good work here,” she said.

“I wouldn't know,” Rich said. “I’m from out of town.”

“What state?” she asked.

“Indiana,” Rich said.

She leaned over, pulled a folder from a filing cabinet, and flipped it open. “Only two left. I'd better order more. Sure you don’t want a different state?”

“Can I transfer a vehicle title in Indiana with an out-of-state license?” Rich asked.

“Don’t let this gruff veneer fool you,” she said. “I know the state laws. You're in good hands.” She picked up the phone. “Excuse me a second.” She dialed. “Nick, it's Betsy. Send me fifty Indiana blanks. Tomorrow is fine.” She hung up. “Nick can print anything. A real artist. I’ll give you twenty-five percent off if you take Wyoming.”

“Wyoming works,” Rich said.

She pulled a Wyoming driver's license from the cabinet. “What name do you want?” she asked. “You don’t look like the usual scum in here, so I’ll give you some advice. Pick a name that sounds like something else. I assume you want people to forget it.”

“Exactly,” Rich said. “Can you give me an example?”

“Nobody picks Jewish names, not even the Jews,” she said. “Mexicans stick to Mexican names. Black guys pick names like Reginald. Women want pretty names—no one ever chooses Matilda or Gertrude. Here’s a good last name: Caves. A good first name would be Michael, or Mike. People forget a name like Mike Caves. It's common, and it rhymes with so many things people get it mixed up.”

“How about Roland for a middle name?” Rich asked.

“You’re pretty good at this,” she said. “That’s a solid choice. Mind if I use it for someone else down the road?”

“Would it do any good if I objected?” Rich asked.

“See?” she said. “I’ve already forgotten it.” She slid the license into her typewriter and began to type. “How tall?”

“Six-two.”

“Weight?”

“One eighty-five.”

“You aren't changing your hair color, are you?”

“No.”

She finished with a few quick pecks and pulled the card from the carriage. “There you go, Mr. Graves. Or was it Crane? See what I mean? It’s already working, Dave.”

“Anything else?” she asked.

“A birth certificate,” Rich said.

“For a clean-cut guy, you must be in deep doo-doo,” she said. She opened another cabinet. “You don’t mind being born in West Virginia, do ya?”

“None of us has a choice where we're born,” Rich said.

“You sound like a college man,” she said, rolling a certificate into the typewriter. “You don't look like an embezzling accountant. Let’s get down to it. What was that middle name again?” She asked questions as she typed, finishing in five minutes.

“Here’s some advice,” she said. “Fold them up or tear them a little. Make a half-dozen copies—not of the original, but a copy of a copy. Use the worst legible copy to prove who you are. It looks older that way. Got it?”

“Yes,” Rich said.

“That’s fifty dollars,” she said.

Rich handed her a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

“You must really be in deep doo-doo,” she said.

“Maybe I just didn’t like my name,” Rich said.

She chuckled. “Not unless your name was John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.” She handed him the documents. “If you have a real driver’s license, burn it immediately,” she said. “If you get picked up a block from here, you don’t want two IDs on you.”

Rich pulled out his wallet and removed his real license. He folded it and went to toss it into the wastebasket.

“No,” she said. “Don’t trust me. I might look at it.”

“Thanks,” Rich said. He stuffed the wadded license into his pants pocket and slid the new one into his wallet.

On the walk back to his truck, he stopped for a slice of pizza. He ate as he walked. When he returned, the man with the gold teeth was leaning against the truck's front fender.

“Get your business taken care of?” the man asked.

“I did,” Rich said. “Thanks.”

“Fourth inning of the first game,” the man said.

“Who are they playing?” Rich asked.

“The Angels,” the man said.

“If it were Detroit or Cleveland, I might be interested,” Rich said. “I’ll be on my way.”

Rich climbed into the truck and started the engine. He rolled down the window. “Go, go White Sox!”

“1959!” the man replied.

“Aparicio and Fox,” Rich said. “Best leadoff and contact hitters in the game.” 

The man waved. Rich grinned and drove down the alley and onto the street.

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 22

 This is episode twenty-two of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

(Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Episode 22

Three days passed. Rich completely cleaned the truck camper. He also performed the recommended maintenance with Enid's advice and assistance, and helped Enid with the engine he was working on.

They sat down for supper. Enid prepared crappies that Rich had caught from a nearby pond. They talked as they ate.

“This is really some very good fish,” Enid said. “Half butter, half peanut oil. That’s the trick.”

“Nah,” Rich joked, “it’s all in how you catch ‘em.”

“How’s that?” Enid said. “I’m anxious to hear your explanation.”

“How would I know?” Rich said. “I just wanted to keep the conversation going.”

Enid laughed. “You’re a fine lad, Rich. I’m going to hate to see you go.”

“I’m going to hate to leave,” Rich said.

“So what’s next for you?” Enid asked.

“I’m going to move around a little,” Rich said.

“Like when you sailed?” Enid said.

“Yeah, exactly,” Rich said. It was the first time he had connected the two events. “It will give me some time to think. Hiram had a paralegal who assisted him. She will be a lawyer before long, and I assume she will take over his practice. That’s the way Hiram wanted it. In time, I’ll contact her. She believes in my innocence. I’m missing his funeral. I hate that. I should be there to pay my respects.”

“But you can’t,” Enid said to comfort him.

“Yeah,” Rich said. “Just a thought.”

“Do you believe in coincidences?” Enid asked.

“I’m not sure where this is going,” Rich said.

“It’s a straightforward question,” Enid said. “I’m sure you must have thought about it from time to time.”

“I have,” Rich said. “Sometimes they seem quite innocent, and other times uncanny.”

“Here’s what I think,” Enid said. “Problems and situations happen all the time. Somewhere, solutions exist. They are always there. Sometimes we recognize them, and other times we ignore them. When we recognize that an event and a solution are connected, we say it's a coincidence. I think I’m making this harder than it is, but do you grasp my point?”

“Do you mean that by recognizing them, we create them?” Rich asked.

“Well done, bravo!” Enid said. “I needed help with the engine. By coincidence, you showed up, eager to help. I couldn't have done it without you. So what about you?”

“Well, I got a chance to lay low for a few days,” Rich said. “I’m not going to worry about where I’m going to lay my head at night. I've got the camper.”

Enid grinned broadly. He waited for Rich to grin back. Then his face became stern. Rich sensed something bad was about to happen.

“I’m sorry for my sudden change,” Enid said. “You see, in my bedroom are several other books and journals. I have come across something that may be a coincidence.”

“I’m interested,” Rich said.

“First of all,” Enid said, “was it a coincidence you stopped here? An automobile mechanic, a former doctor and coroner, who subscribes to a half-dozen unsolved crime magazines. I used to read about cases and call the investigating departments. To them, I was just another crackpot. Investigators live on coincidences but fail to recognize them. There is too much arrogance in law enforcement. They need to be sure, but never arrogant.”

“That’s my experience too,” Rich said.

“And, in part, that’s what drove you to flight,” Enid said. “It may be the only thing that will save you. Society thinks an innocent man should turn himself in and let authorities prove his innocence. That reasoning is flawed. Innocent men serve time, are executed, or live in suspicion because of incompetence, prejudice, or bias.”

“It sounds as if you have familiarized yourself with a lot of different situations,” Rich said.

“And, lad,” Enid said, “you have lived them and are living it again. You deserve a break. Here’s what I think: you would have gotten off. Either the prosecutor would have found out there wasn’t enough evidence to move forward, or if they did, you would have been found not guilty. Not guilty and innocent aren’t the same. The police, the prosecutors, some on the jury, and maybe even most of the community would have been convinced that you got away with murder. That would follow you until the day you died and continue to hang over your name.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Rich said. “I’ve thought about those things subconsciously. When you say them, they are not a revelation to me.”

“There are a number of unsolved mysteries and cases,” Enid said. “There are similarities and a pattern. I'm working on one now.”

“Coincidences?” Rich queried.

“A discernible pattern,” Enid said.

“And I’m here at the time you were able to add to or complete the pattern?” Rich asked.

“Yes,” Enid said. “And you are likely the only one with the motivation to find out who killed your parents and the others.”

“You’re talking about a repeater?” Rich asked.

“Indeed,” Enid said, raising his eyebrows.

Rich tried to hide his natural skepticism. He did not want to offend Enid’s desire to help or his intellect, though Enid was too astute to miss it.

“I suppose you might doubt I am a doctor at this point,” Enid said. “That I might be an old codger lost in his novels, wrapped up in my imagination, living in a world created by dementia and flights of fancy.”

“Convince me,” Rich said. “I want to be convinced.”

“That is a logical and reasoned response,” Enid said. “And fair. And expected. Let’s finish. Then I have something to show you.”

They finished the meal and quickly cleared the table. Enid went into his bedroom and returned with a folded map. He placed a blank piece of paper on the table and handed Rich a pencil.

“Print the capital letter K.”

Rich printed the letter K.

“There are five points,” Enid said, pointing to each. “The top and bottom of the vertical stem. The top of the diagonal arm. The bottom of the other diagonal leg, and the point where they meet. Five points. If I place a dot on the map at the top, as if making a K run straight down to form the stem, I can link two murders. Then, by completing the K with two diagonal lines, I can find three more murders—the tops and bottoms of the diagonals, and where they meet.”

“That’s five points,” Rich said. “Are you able to connect murders using that method?”

“Yes,” Enid said. “All rural areas.”

Rich lined up the letter K. “Washington to California. Idaho back to Oregon and down to Nevada.”

“Move east,” Enid said.

Rich pointed to the marked locations. “Montana to Colorado. North Dakota back to Wyoming and down to Nebraska.”

“All in a different state,” Enid said. “It makes it difficult to connect the dots.”

“Here’s another,” Enid said. “Kansas to Texas, Missouri to Oklahoma, and down to Louisiana.”

“Where do my mother and father fit in?” Rich asked.

“I’m not sure,” Enid said. “The points on the map that make the letter K don’t follow chronological order. However, the complete letters do. He finishes one before starting the next.”

“What part of the K is he on?” Rich asked. “And at every one of these points that make the letter, there has been a murder?”

“The second,” Enid said. “And every point.”

“There are three more to go,” Rich said. “How long has he been doing this?”

“Fifteen years,” Enid said.

“So you want me to try to find him or lead the police to him?” Rich asked.

“No one will listen to me,” Enid said, “and it will clear your name.”

“What else can you tell me about him?” Rich said. “You must have a pretty good picture of him.”

“He’s a loner,” Enid said. “He’s in his late fifties. He’s likely charming and manipulative. He has above-average intelligence and he's a college graduate. He’s resentful. His work takes him anywhere he wants to go. You won’t find him in a bar. He likes to watch people. He’s like a predator searching the herd for his next victim. Like a predator, he knows which ones to strike. Once he knows, he moves quickly. Sometimes he’s in and out of a community without notice. To him, it’s an art. Now, I may not be right on all of these, but these things are part of a proven profile.”

“Is it always couples he murders?” Rich asked.

“No,” Enid said. “Singles, men, women, young, old. The killer has an amusing view of murder. Some of his murders are sadistic. It looks as if your mom and dad's were not. He was probably in a hurry and wanted to add to his letter K.”

“Is the K for kill?” Rich asked.

“I think so,” Enid said. “But I also think K is prominent in his name. Kyle, Karl, or Kelly. The last name could be Kill, Keller, or, for that matter, something like Kennedy.”

“Where will I start?” Rich asked.

“If I knew, I’d take you there myself,” Enid said. “He doesn’t necessarily move into an area that he has targeted. He has a spot picked out. He could be days away from it. When the urge comes over him, when the rage bubbles over, when he can no longer hold it in, he moves like a cheetah.”

Rich sat quietly, looking over the map. “That’s a lot to process.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “Here’s the title to the Jeep.”

Enid went into his bedroom and came out with the title to the truck camper. He signed it and handed it to Rich. “You can fill out the rest.”

“It’s been nice knowing you, Enid,” Rich said, shaking his hand. “I’ll be back someday.”

“I hope it’s not too long,” Enid said.

“I’ll sleep in the camper tonight and leave before sunup.” Rich reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. “A thousand dollars.”

“Keep it,” Enid said. “Where am I gonna spend a thousand dollars?”

“You could fly to Australia,” Rich said.

Enid tapped a finger against his head. “Already been there. Seen the koalas, wombats, and kangaroos, mate.”

“Someday I’ll tell you about the kangaroo I met.” Rich smiled and walked to the door. He turned back to Enid. “I believe you, Enid.”

“Take care, lad,” Enid said.

Rich walked down the stairs to his camper. He wondered about coincidence. There are too many of them to be an accident. He went to sleep.