The Root of Murder Read online

  “Pennsylvania versus Derek Ellison. Charges are murder in the first degree and second degree,” the bailiff announced.

  J.J. and the assistant prosecuting attorney rose to their feet. When Derek didn’t stand, J.J. reached down to grab him by the arm and lift him physically to his feet.

  “Does the defendant have an attorney present?” the judge asked.

  “Joshua Thornton, Junior, for the defense, your honor,” J.J. said.

  For the first time, the judge lifted his eyes from the paperwork before him to look down at the defense attorney. “Joshua Thornton, Junior?”

  J.J. suppressed a grin. “Yes, sir.”

  “Any relation—”

  “He’s my father.”

  The judge smirked. “Well, this case promises to be fun. How does your client plead, Mr. Thornton?”

  “Not guilty, your honor,” J.J. replied while pulling Derek up when he tried to slip down into his chair.

  Derek let loose with a moan that resembled the call of a walrus.

  “Bail?” the judge asked.

  “The defendant brutally murdered a respected husband and father and then set his body on fire, your honor,” the prosecutor said. “He has a history of violent crime. For the safety of the community, we ask that the defendant remain in jail without bail until his trial.”

  “Mr. Thornton?” the judge asked.

  Unable to hold Derek up any longer, J.J. released his arm to allow him to drop into the chair. Upon hitting the chair, Derek slid to the floor—unconscious. “The defense has no objection, your honor. However, we do request that my client be held in a drug rehab facility so that he can get the medical help that he so obviously needs. As you can see, currently, he is in no condition to defend himself against these charges.”

  The judge peered over the top of his eye glasses to observe the young man in shackles who had oozed to the floor from his chair. “Does the prosecution have any objection?”

  The prosecutor let out a breath. “No, your honor.”

  “The court will have the defendant transported to the hospital for detox until he can be admitted into a state-run drug rehabilitation facility.”

  What have I gotten myself into? J.J. shot a glance over his shoulder to Cameron who was rushing out of the courtroom with her cell phone to her ear. Tony was directly behind her.

  The arraignment concluded. Two guards rushed in to pick Derek up and drag him out to await an ambulance to take him away to the hospital.

  Before J.J. had time to turn around, the prosecutor, a young man who J.J. had seen around the courthouse but never met, stuck his hand out. A wide grin crossed his face as he introduced himself as Seth Booker. “Thornton, huh? Your old man’s a legend in these parts.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Give you time, and maybe you’ll work up to fill his shoes.” Seth jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow. “Too bad you got such a dog with this case, though. What kind of deal are you looking for?”

  J.J. was about to ask him what kind he wanted to offer when he saw Heather Davis at the back of the courtroom. Her eyes met his. “I’ll give you a call.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” Seth said before slipping past Heather and going out the door.

  “Hello, Heather.” J.J. took note of her dark red sweater over a long skirt. She looked as attractive as she did back when they were teenagers and all the boys wanted a date with her. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  She responded with a slap across his face.

  The sting from her slap traveled up and along his eyebrow. He was still recoiling from the assault when he heard her whisper, “I can’t believe you said that with a straight face. I thought we were friends. How could you, J.J.? How can you stand there and tell me how sorry you are about me losing my dad when you’re defending the bastard who took him from me?”

  J.J. rubbed his hand across the welt he felt growing on his cheek. When he opened his eyes against the pain, he was aware of the clerks, journalists, and various court house employees watching him with their mouths hanging open.

  Heather Davis had left.

  Shame washed over him. He stepped out into the corridor, where he found Cameron sitting with two women on a bench near the stairwell.

  There was yet another familiar face from his past.

  Madison Whitaker. Ah, man!

  He glanced up and down the corridor. There was another stairwell at the other end of the hall. He spun on his heels.

  “J.J., is that you?”

  He stopped. Slowly, he turned around. Pasting a smile on his face, he stepped toward the slender blonde clad in a royal blue winter cape and stylish hat. “Madison! I thought you’d moved to New York.” He accepted her hug and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I’m back. Didn’t Tracy tell you?”

  He shook his head. “I guess it slipped her mind.”

  “Probably between opening her restaurant and wedding stuff.” She licked her lips. “I hear some lucky girl has managed to take you off the market for good.”

  “Poppy. She’s … awesome. That’s the only way to describe her.”

  “Is she from around here?” Madison asked.

  “No. She’s from Montana. She’s a horse trainer. One of the best.” He noticed that Cameron and the woman he recognized as Madison’s mother wore expressions of concern. “Is everything okay?”

  “We haven’t heard from my dad since Friday,” Madison said. “Mom was afraid that maybe something awful happened to him.”

  “Why would someone want to hurt your father?”

  “My dad drives truck cross-country,” Madison said, “and he meets a lot of people—all types. A few months ago, he had stopped to help a woman whose car was broken down at a rest stop. She’s been calling him non-stop ever since.”

  “How did she get his number?”

  “He gave it to her in case she broke down again before she could get home.”

  “What was her name?”

  Madison sighed. “He never told me. Maybe he told Mom.”

  J.J. stepped over to Cameron.

  “Shawn only gave me her first name,” Sherry said. “Bea.”

  “Bea?” Recalling the name of John Davis’s former employee, Cameron was startled. “Are you sure?”

  “Definitely.” Sherry’s voice trembled. “Since John Davis was killed on the same day Shawn disappeared, I’m afraid that maybe his murderer did something to my Shawn. Maybe he was a witness and they killed him to keep him from saying anything.”

  “How could they?” Madison asked. “Dad and Mr. Davis traveled in two different circles.”

  “Since Shawn’s a trucker, maybe the murderer forced him to help him escape the area.” Sherry’s face brightened. “Maybe he’s still alive.”

  “If he is, we’ll find him.” Cameron stood up. “Detective Seavers will take you down to the station to fill out a missing person’s report and we’ll start looking to see if there’s more of a connection to this than meets the eye.”

  Taking Tony by the elbow, she led him away. “Any word yet in our BOLO for Bea Miller?” she asked him in a low voice.

  “The former clerk at the plant who John Davis had a restraining order against?” Tony asked. “I’ve heard nothing.”

  “Four months ago, Bea Miller assaulted Davis and he got a restraining order against her. A few months ago, Shawn Whitaker started getting unwanted phone calls from a woman by the name of Bea.” She winked at Tony. “I don’t believe in coincidences. We need to find Miller.”

  “Are you going to investigate my dad’s case, J.J.?” Madison gazed up at him with wide blue eyes.

  “I’ll certainly be interested in what happens with it,” J.J. said.

  “Maddie.” Sherry took her daughter by the arm. “We need to go with the detective to fill out the missing person’s repor
t.”

  Madison couldn’t resist one last look over her shoulder before her mother led her away to follow Tony.

  “Boy, she’s got it bad,” Cameron told him in a low voice.

  “She was a very nice girl.”

  “And she knows you’re engaged. Based on the way she’s eyeing you, she doesn’t care.” She swiped her fingers across the screen on her tablet.

  “I may not have a ring on my finger yet, but I consider myself taken,” he said.

  “Good boy. You’re going to make Poppy a fine husband.” She stepped over to stand next to him and held her tablet out for him to see. “Did you ever meet Heather’s dad?”

  “Sure. Dad and him go way back.”

  Cameron pressed a button on her tablet and a portrait picture of John Davis filled the screen. The executive was dressed in a suit, white shirt, and tie. The middle-aged man was attractive with a clean-shaven round face and a receding hairline. “That’s John Davis,” she said.

  J.J. nodded his head. “The victim in the murder case I’m defending.”

  Cameron reached into her valise and extracted a photograph. “This is the picture that Sherry Whitaker just gave me of her husband, Shawn Whitaker, who was last seen Friday morning.” She rested the picture on top of the tablet, to the side of the screen for J.J. to see the two images together.

  Shawn Whitaker was a middle-aged man, with a round face, and receding hairline. Grinning with pride, he posed in front of a big white pick-up truck. He appeared comfortable dressed down in jeans and a plaid shirt.

  There was no mistake. It was the same man in both pictures.

  “Maybe they’re twins,” J.J. said.

  “Two different last names?” Cameron said.

  “Separated at birth?” Even as he said it, J.J. shook his head. “What did you tell—”

  “I said nothing,” she said. “I sent her to fill out a missing person’s report so that I can be sure. In the meantime, the Columbiana County Sheriff’s department has located John Davis’s car in Calcutta. Do you want to come with me to check it out?”

  “You asked me that like you think you can stop me.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Columbiana County police had spotted John Davis’s burgundy Audi in a small apartment complex tucked between two shopping centers in Calcutta, a rural town north of the Ohio River that consisted mostly of shopping centers, convenience stores, automotive dealerships, and business parks. The community consisted of five four-story apartment buildings forming a pentagon around a grassy courtyard and playground.

  When she pulled into the complex, Cameron let out a deep breath upon recognizing the dark SUV parked in the visitor’s lot. Its owner was too busy examining the Audi while chatting with the two uniformed police officers and a barrel-chested man clad in a flannel vest to notice her.

  “Who called you?” she asked after parking and throwing her door open.

  Joshua pointed at J.J. who was climbing out of his truck.

  “He’s my investigator,” J.J. said. “As defense counsel, I’m entitled to an investigator.”

  “I thought you can’t—” she started to say.

  “I’m not allowed to work as legal counsel. My contract says nothing about investigating.” Joshua pointed through the Audi’s driver side window. “This is definitely John’s car. I see a folder on the driver’s seat with the nuclear power plant’s logo.”

  “The parking in this area is reserved,” the man in the flannel vest said. “The number painted on the curb says which apartment the vehicles belong to.”

  Joshua introduced J.J. and Cameron to Ross Bayles, the apartment manager.

  “We were answering a call for a domestic dispute,” one of the uniformed officers said, “when we noticed the Audi and remembered seeing the BOLO for one with West Virginia plates. We don’t see many Audis around here.”

  “Which apartment is this parking space assigned to?” J.J. asked Ross.

  The manager pointed up the walkway to a building behind them. “Ground floor corner unit. Number A-one-sixteen. Name’s Bishop Moore.”

  “Have you ever seen this car parked here before?” Joshua asked.

  “He told me it belonged to a friend of his,” Ross said while watching Cameron examining the white truck parked next to the Audi. “His bud traveled a lot and wanted to keep his car someplace safe while he was out of town.”

  Cameron was more interested in the Ford pick-up with Pennsylvania plates parked next to the Audi. She extracted the photo that Sherry Whitaker had given to her of her missing husband. The license plate was plainly displayed on the truck in the picture. When she compared the license numbers, they matched.

  “And the truck?” she asked the manager.

  “Another friend,” Ross said.

  “And this Moore guy?” Cameron asked. “What does he drive?”

  The apartment manager’s face was blank. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” J.J. said. “Are you saying he doesn’t have a vehicle?”

  “I’ve only seen him driving his friends’ cars,” Ross said. “He works for a travel agency. He’s gone more than he’s here. He says it’s not worth the expense of a owning a vehicle to sit in an airport parking lot most of the time. The apartment is basically a place for him and his friends to crash between trips.”

  “Is Moore here now?” Cameron turned to him to ask. She saw Joshua cock his head with a questioning look in his blue eyes.

  “Is Moore in trouble?” Ross asked.

  “We just have some questions for him,” she replied.

  Ross took a full moment to respond. “Knock on the door and see if anyone answers.” He pointed in the direction of the ground floor apartment.

  Cameron stepped through them to stride up the walkway toward the ground-floor apartment. The two buildings at the end of the walkway were connected by an open stairwell.

  “What was that about the truck?” Joshua fell into step with her to ask in a low voice.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder at the uniformed officers and apartment manager. “Tell you later.” She used the knocker to rap on the door.

  The stairwell acted as a wind tunnel for the January breeze to whip through to chill them to the bone. Cameron, Joshua, and J.J. bounced on the balls of their feet to warm up.

  Cameron rapped on the door once more before turning to the apartment manager watching them with wide eyes from a position several feet behind the uniformed officers. “Do you have a master key to let us in?”

  “Don’t you need a warrant?”

  “We can get one,” Joshua said. “That Audi is registered to a murder victim.”

  Ross spun on his heels and trotted down the walkway.

  Catching Joshua’s silent message sent via a toss of his head, J.J. hurried to catch up with the manager to extract what information he knew about the relationship between the renter of the apartment and John Davis.

  Joshua stepped around to put his back to the wind to shelter Cameron, who was shivering. “What’s the story with the truck?”

  She moved in closer to him and peered up into his blue eyes. “That’s Shawn Whitaker’s truck.”

  “Shawn Whitaker?” Joshua’s brow furrowed.

  “A missing husband,” Cameron said. “Truck driver. He disappeared the same night that John Davis was killed. Not only that, but Davis’s body was dumped on Whitaker’s in-laws’ farm.”

  “And his name was Shawn Whitaker?” Joshua brought his face close to hers. “Are you certain?”

  “Positive. What does that name mean to you?”

  Joshua shook his head. “It could just be a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” she said. “Tell me about Shawn Whitaker.”

  “Kathleen Davis used to be Kathleen Whitaker and she had an older brother—Shawn Whitaker. H
e joined the army out of high school and was killed in a training exercise.”

  “How long has …” J.J. paused to recall the name of the renter while walking across the complex with the manager

  “Bishop Moore.”

  J.J. followed him to an apartment with a wooden sign reading “Apartment Manager” attached to the door. He could hear a television blasting from inside. “How long has Bishop Moore been renting here?”

  “Have no idea.” Ross pushed through the door. “My wife and I only moved here four months ago after I got hired to manage the place. I’m retired from General Motors. I worked in maintenance at their plant in Lordstown. Thought getting out of Youngstown would do her some good.”

  J.J. followed Ross into the office, which appeared to have been an apartment in a previous life. A cloud of cigarette smoke hit J.J. in the face. He let out a cough. Instantly his throat became sore.

  The first room in the office was a converted kitchen. A printer rested on the counter. A desk had been pushed up against the wall. A cupboard door hung open to display rows upon rows of hooks with keys hanging from them.

  A motorized wheelchair rested inside the living room where a heavy-set older woman was sprawled out in a recliner. A talk show was blasting on a wide screen television. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the woman was dressed in a worn bathrobe with slippers. A plume of cigarette smoke rose from the ashtray on the end table, which rested next to a can of beer.

  The television’s volume was so loud that J.J. could not hear what Ross was saying while thrashing through folders in a file cabinet.

  “Excuse me.” J.J. gestured that he couldn’t hear him.

  “Brenda! Turn that dang TV down!” Folder in his hand, Ross stomped into the living room. “We can’t hear ourselves think.”

  Brenda jumped as if she had been awakened. Blinking her eyes, she looked beyond her husband to J.J. in the office. “Who’s that?”

  “The police,” Ross said. “They’re lookin’ for Bishop Moore.”

  With a glare at J.J., she uttered a slurred curse.