I think I started having stroke-like symptoms. What if she hadn’t answered my call? I couldn’t go there right now, so I put forth a different theory, “Perhaps he isn’t sure about our involvement and is trying to test us by seeing how we react to the letter.”
Her crinkled face said she wasn’t buying it. And she was right. Benson knew by going after Carter he was going nuclear. This move was not meant to be subtle. We were getting too close and he was the first to blink.
I was never short on theories. “He’s sending a message, but think back to Casey Leeds and the fires, where he covered his tracks with an alibi. Perhaps he’s doing the same thing here. So he can lure us, eliminate us both, and nobody could connect him to taking Carter.”
“I still don’t know how he was able to do it. Do you think he has a partner?”
“I doubt it,” I said. I hadn’t thought about the partner angle until Christina brought it up. I was quick to dismiss it at the time, but with the current situation I felt it required further review.
But I ruled it out again. “He’s working alone.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Ever hear of the fable of the Fox and the Hedgehog?”
“I think you’re forgetting that any class you passed in school was with my help.”
“Then I’m sure you remember that the Greek poet Archilochus used the fox and hedgehog as a metaphor to support his belief that human beings are categorized into two types. The hedgehog is symbolic of those who have one central vision of reality. Their existence is completely shaped by that vision.”
“And a fox has a sense that reality is too complex to try fit it into one central vision. What does this have to do with anything?”
“Benson is a hedgehog. His central vision is that it’s his destiny to eradicate the ills of drunk driving-he has a messianic view of himself. And most people I’ve met with such a divine sense of their work, tend not to like to share the credit. No partner.”
“Then where do you think the real Kyle Jones is?”
My look turned grim.
“I thought so, too,” she replied in a soft voice.
Our destination was the small building on Main Street that housed the Rockfield Gazette. The only employee present on the late Monday afternoon was Murray. As usual, he was typing away on his 1950s black typewriter, writing his weekly editorial.
Murray was all business, and didn’t spare anything beyond a pleasant greeting. Gwen and I went to her office-a desk adjacent to the one where Murray typed away. This was not the New York Globe by any stretch of the imagination. She moved to a dry erase board tacked to the wall behind her desk and began scribbling. We were the foxes, filled with complex questions, but not a lot of definite answers.
As if our mentor was sending subliminal reminders from across the room, we first went back to the beginning to try to decipher the ending. To the best of our knowledge, it began when a drunk driver killed Grady Benson’s parents in 1989. We didn’t have the name of the driver, due to state laws protecting juveniles, but we researched suspicious deaths in the Redmond, Washington area on Benson’s preferred holiday for killing. One that caught my interest occurred on July 4, 1991, when a Phillip Tompkins mowed down five college students at a cul-de-sac party, in what was thought to be an accident. All victims were reportedly acquaintances, and all were intoxicated at the time of the accident. But what most interested me was that they all would have been juveniles when Benson’s parents were killed.
But we had no evidence that linked Benson. In fact, we had no real connection between him and any suspicious death until July 4, 1996, when Leonard Harris drowned at Lake Havasu. And the only link was that he was there, as were a hundred others. Not exactly incriminating evidence.
We were confident that Benson killed the real Kyle Jones around May of 1998. The next month, Benson bought the beach house in Ocracoke using Jones’ identity. But then our trail went dry until he arrived in Rockfield.
Gwen studied the board. “Okay, let’s leave Real Jones out of it for now. The common thread is that all were involved in alcohol related incidents, resulting in death, and in each case the perpetrator received a light sentence.”
She thought for a second, and then added, “He seems to have a thing for July 4, the anniversary of his parents’ accident. But Noah’s murder throws a wrench into that theory.”
“It was an anniversary though-it was two years to the day of the accident.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “But we can’t tie any of these killings to Benson, because we can’t even prove that any of them were murders. Leonard Harris’ death was listed as accidental. Noah committed suicide, and the police shot Leeds. And there was no foul play suspected in the Phillip Tompkins accident.”
Gwen looked equally frustrated. Our earlier hopefulness now seemed premature. The most we had on the guy was identity theft.
Murray finished his typing and started for the door. “Good night, fellow journalists.”
We came up for air to wish him a pleasant evening. He mentioned that he was in a hurry, hoping not to be late for his great-granddaughter’s dance recital.
Murray did have one piece of advice for us, “If you don’t mind my butting in, I think you need to answer why he came to Rockfield. His killings are symbolic, so there must be a symbol here. The alcohol related incidents of Noah and Casey Leeds occurred after his arrival, so they couldn’t be the reason he graced us with his presence. And while they are both tragic, neither case seems to fulfill his visions of grandeur. He strikes me as a big game hunter, and there must be a very large critter in Rockfield that he wants to hang over his mantle.
“But once you decipher his reason for coming, don’t get stuck trying to understand his past. You can’t bring Noah or anyone else back, but you can stop the next one. Too many dwell on the past, and they get stuck there. Always look toward the future, my fellow journalists.”
With that pearl of wisdom, Murray smiled, placed his fedora on his head, and left for the evening.
Gwen and I looked at each other. He could have just as easily been talking about our relationship. Maybe he was.
When the door closed behind him, Gwen looked at me strangely and asked, “What are you smiling at?”
“He called me a journalist.”
“He’s getting old. Sometimes he gets confused.”
I kept smiling as I glanced at my watch. “I better go. I have an early start tomorrow.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m flying to Arizona. I plan to talk to the police chief in Gilbert, along with anyone who might have been on that boat the night Leonard Harris died. Then I’m going to Seattle to find out about Benson’s parents, and see if it’s connected to this Phillip Tompkins accident.”
I was surprised she didn’t declare that she was coming with me. I kind of hoped she would. To keep her safe, of course. “I will trail Benson while you’re gone. My guess is that he’ll lead me to Carter,” she replied, catching me off guard.
“Oh no you don’t. Do you know how dangerous that is, Gwen?”
“Thank you for your concern, Dad, but why don’t you quit while you’re only slightly behind.”
I knew I wasn’t going to win the battle-again-so I decided to take her advice … for now. But despite the tough front, I could tell that the Carter letter had affected her. I noticed her hands shaking.
“Why don’t you stop by tonight and let me make you dinner. Knowing you, you’ll be so focused on the task at hand that you’ll forget to eat. And besides, Dad and Tommy would love to see you,” she offered.
She left out the part about feeling safer with someone else there, especially with her father not in peak physical condition. But it didn’t take away from the fact that those were the words I’d been waiting to hear for so many years.