Murder of a Moral Man - 6. Chapter 6

Detective Sergeant Aloysius Hicks: J0Q 285

Grimes approached me and said without ceremony, “We may have a break.”

“Good morning to you too, Grimes. What break? What case?”

“The Keys murder. Johnson and I have combed through hours of surveillance footage, and we think we got something. This particular feed comes from Juniper Street, which runs parallel to Cypress, where Keys’ bakery was located. We’ve been painstakingly running the license plates of any vehicles parked in that vicinity between 12am and 5am, which was the window the medical examiner gave us for time of death. This footage was caught on the security camera of a sandwich shop. The shop closed at 10pm and their parking lot camera captured this vehicle. The resolution wasn’t great, but we were able to enhance the plates enough to make it out: Juliett Oscar Quebec 285. You’ll never guess who it’s registered to.”

I glared at Grimes. “No, I’ll never guess, so stop playing games and just tell me.”

“Mark Pierson.”

I shook my head. “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

“The first name? No. The last name might.”

The penny dropped. “Right. Randy Pierson. Is Mark Pierson related?”

“Mark is his sixteen-year-old son.”

“What was the time stamp on the video?”

Grimes grinned: “2.03am, when sixteen-year-old schoolboys should be in their beds, dreaming of big-titted cheerleaders—not parked on a dark street where no businesses are open. Hard to imagine what he might have been up to at that hour.”

I agreed with Grimes. We needed to bring the boy in to answer questions. I could think of any number of innocent and not-so-innocent reasons for him being there, but his father’s connection to Keys was a coincidence we couldn’t overlook.

Before I had a chance to work out how to approach bringing in Mark Pierson, I got another surprise. Robby Wishart and Sam Anderson came in with new information.

 

Robby Wishart

We waited until morning to go the police, which didn’t make for a restful night. Bright and early, we drove to the police station and asked to speak to Sergeant Hicks. We were parked in an interview room where we cooled our heels for twenty minutes.

Hicks finally came in. He seemed impatient. He gave me a questioning look, as he extended his hand, saying my name as greeting: “Mr. Wishart.”

I shook hands and introduced Sam. Once we’d taken care of the social niceties, we seated ourselves with Sam and me on one side of the table and Hicks on the other.

“I understand you gentlemen have information about the Keys case.”

With a lot of awkward explaining, which Sam assisted with occasional interjections, I explained how I’d come to haunt a hookup site. Hicks listened, mostly in silence. He did ask an occasional question. He demanded Nick’s last name, as well, which Sam gave up with reluctance after Hicks promised he would be discreet if he contacted Nick. I tried to read Hicks’ expression, but he kept his face blank. When I’d finished at last and handed him the printout of the chat between Mark_Cain and me last night, he said bluntly:

“You should have come in with this as soon as you got the email from your student, Mr. Anderson. And, you, Mr. Wishart, have no business playing amateur sleuth—nor to continue to withhold information after you did! This isn’t a Hardy Boys novel.”

I felt my temper rising. “You could say thank you, you know.”

Sam squeezed my knee under the table, applying a painful degree of pressure. I decided to heed his signal and shut up.

Hicks said sarcastically, “Thank you, Mr. Wishart.”

After a few seconds of silence, he added, “I’m glad you brought this in now, but the police could have investigated this angle if you’d come to us in the first place. It’s not easy to know if something is relevant, which leads to people withholding information and hindering investigations. Sometimes the little secrets people guard are the keys to solving major crimes. Often, a bit of trivial information leads us to a suspect.”

I couldn’t help asking, “Do you think this is important?”

To my frustration, Hicks’ only reply was, “I couldn’t possibly say right now.”

Then, he gave me a lecture: “Mr. Wishart, I understand you want to clear your name. I also understand your protectiveness towards Dylan Keys and this Mark_Cain. However, I’m warning you: do not attempt to make any further contact. If you do, I’ll arrest you for interfering with a police investigation and obstruction of justice.”

Before I could open my mouth, I felt Sam’s painful grip on my knee again.

 

Sam Anderson: Someone Needs a Licking

I took a deep breath of relief once we were outside the police station instead of in handcuffs. No sooner than we were out than Mom called me to update me on Pop’s condition (doing well) and check on Robby and me. I hit the high points, and Mom read me the Riot Act for not going to the police in the first place and then going to them without consulting a lawyer in the second. I endured ten minutes of variations on the theme of We-told-you-to-hire-a-lawyer. She wrapped it up by telling me,

“If your father’s health permitted, I’d put him on a plane so he could come up there and give the pair of you the whippings you deserve for this shenanigan. And don’t think that you’re too old for it at twenty-three, either! I love you, Sammy. Give Robby my love, too. Take care of each other.”

My face burned. Mom had demoted me from the role of disciplinarian to a naughty child in need of a dose of Pop’s belt. After were safely inside my car, Robby asked what she’d said. I told him.

The two of drove home in silence, each of us occupied with our thoughts. When we were safely inside our house, I began unbuckling my belt. As Robby stood transfixed, I said,

“What are you waiting for? Get your clothes off.”

His eyes teared up. “Sam, please.”

I drew my belt through the loops, doubled it, and snapped it a few times. Then I tossed it aside and continued to undress. Robby looked on in confusion.

Impatiently, I told him, “Hurry up. I’m giving you a licking. Then you’re giving me a licking. After what we just went through, we deserve it.”

I grinned as Robby understood my intent. I was soon kneeling in front of him, caressing his cock with my lips and tongue. It was a good licking. I got one equally as good in turn.

 

Detective Sergeant Aloysius Hicks: Missing

On a hunch, I told Grimes and Johnson to collect and preserve any surveillance video from the area where the Keys had lived from the day of Leah Keys’ death. Grimes added, “I’ll check with homeowners. Lots of people have personal surveillance cameras these days. Unfortunately, it’s been a while, but we could get lucky.”

I also told him to get a search warrant for both Mark and Randall Pierson’s cell phone records. Neither of the Keys’ phones had received any suspicious calls, but I thought we might be able to place one of them in the vicinity if his phone had handshakes with cell towers.

I cursed myself for not questioning neighbors and taking steps to preserve surveillance video the day Leah had died. My instincts had warned me Leah hadn’t killed herself, but I hadn’t pursued it. Thanks to my own incompetence, I might have lost valuable evidence. It was inexcusable.

I decided to question Dylan before questioning Mark Pierson. I needed to know what Dylan knew. It might help when I questioned Mark. I drove to Dylan’s school alone. I’d established a personal relationship with him. I was sure I’d get further with him if I approached him as his foster parent rather than a cop.

I went to the front office, where I showed my ID and requested to see Dylan. The secretary or clerk or whatever the hell she was busied herself with her computer for a minute. I could see her expression go from confident to bewildered to panicked. At last, she looked up at me.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant Hicks. Dylan isn’t in class. I’ll try to find out if he was signed out or if he’s truant.”

 

Dylan Keys: We Meet at Last

The classroom phone rang, interrupting Mrs. Stewart’s explanation on blood types. Dylan was lost in his own thoughts. Mrs. Stewart had to say his name three times to get his attention. When she finally had it, she told him,

“There’s someone to see you in the main office. They said to bring your books with you.”

Confused but unquestioning, he gathered his things and headed to the office. When he got inside, his eyes widened. Before he could say anything, Mark subtly made a zip motion across his masked lips, cautioning him to be quiet. He presented himself to the woman sat at the front desk. She looked up from her computer.

“Dylan Keys?”

“Yeah.”

“This gentleman is Mr. Marx. He’s a social worker. He needs to speak with you.”

A few minutes later, the two of them sat in Mark’s black Corolla. The idiots in the front office had let Mark sign him out without question. Dylan found his friend’s audacity amazing.

“They didn’t ask for ID or anything?”

“Nope. I introduced myself as a social worker, gave a name, and the old bat at the front desk just accepted it. You can get away with a lot of things if you act confident enough and have a little luck. I had some luck. I caught her while she was checking the absentees against phone calls from parents for first period. She barely looked at me. The mask probably helped. It was still a hell of a risk, but I had to see you, Dylan.”

Mark started the car and pulled out of the visitor’s parking space.

“We don’t have a lot of time. Dad has a tracking ap on my phone. I left the phone with a friend so he’ll think I’m still at school if he checks, but I’ve got to get back there before the end of the day. We really need to talk, though. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you last night, but I couldn’t risk telling you what I think in a chatroom.”

Dylan, thoroughly confused, asked, “What are you talking about, Mark? What chatroom?”

Mark glanced at his friend. “We chatted last night. At the Walk-In Closet. How can you not remember?”

Dylan’s mouth opened in shock. At last, he said, “I haven’t been there since before Dad was killed. I can’t even access that kind of site at the Hicks house.”

The heartbeats of both boys raced. Mark pulled into the parking lot of McDonald’s. After he’d switched off the motor, he told Dylan,

“Well, someone was there pretending to be you. I’ve talked twice to him. Last night, I told him I thought my father was involved in your father’s death. If that wasn’t you, then we both may be fucked.”

 

Detective Sergeant Aloysius Hicks: Who Was That Masked Man?

“What do you mean a social worker signed him out? Did he have ID? Let me see that sign-out sheet!”

It took a few minutes to establish some alarming facts. The “social worker” had not produced ID. Dylan’s actual caseworker had never heard of a Mr. Marx and had no idea who he could be or why he would want to sign Dylan out of school.

The women in the main office were now afraid and defensive. The attendance clerk told me, “It’s probably just a truancy scheme. Dylan seemed to know the man and was comfortable with him.”

I glared at her and vented my anger in sarcasm. “Well, that’s all right then. Can you at least give me a description of Marx?”

The women looked panicked again. The best they could do among the four of them was tell me Marx was young, tall, had dark hair, wore a suit, and was very thin. He also wore a mask. The attendance clerk volunteered he had eyelashes she would kill for. The video from the security cameras in the office was grainy but I thought I would recognize Marx if I saw him in person. I thought Marx looked like a kid himself, which made me even angrier with the cavalier approach of these adults. For God’s sake, these children were in their care! I was appalled by how easily someone had taken Dylan from the school.

Still furious, I drove back to the station. Johnson was waiting.

“Grimes is out trying to get that surveillance video from the Keys’ neighborhood. I’ve got a photo of Mark Pierson from his high school annual if you’re interested.”

The dark-haired, dark-eyed boy who smiled at me from the school photo was “Mr. Marx”. His eyes were unmistakable.

I told Johnson, “Find Randy Pierson and bring him in.”

 

Mark Pierson: Suspicions

I thought for a moment I’d throw up. I had no idea who could have been posing as Dylan in The Walk-In Closet chatroom. Whoever it was knew enough about Dylan to create new handles that were similar to his old ones. My head was spinning round as I tried to think who it could have been. I asked Dylan,

“Does anyone else connect the Fairy_Cakes handle to your real name?”

Dylan shook his head. “I don’t think so. I never told anyone but you my real name.”

“Someone could have doxxed you.”

Dylan had gone pale. “I guess. I don’t know why anyone would. Is it hard to dox someone?”

“Not if you know how. I’ve never done it, but I know enough about it to try to cover my tracks. I should have warned you and told you what to do.”

Dylan looked at me and said, “Mark, what you said about your father….”

I couldn’t look at Dylan. I stared out the window of my car, as I told him.

“My father is Randall Pierson. I’m sure you know that name well by now. Dylan, he took my car out the night your father was murdered. I’m sure it was that same night because he was so full of himself the next day. The murder was big news, and he made sure he grabbed his fair share of the cameras.”

“Are you sure he took it? Could it have been your mom or someone else?”

“I’m pretty sure it was him. Someone used it, and that person was taller than me. He let the seat out. Dad has a spare key. He also used up some of my gas. I had to stop on the way to school to fill up because the tank was so low.”

Dylan said nothing, so I continued.

“He’s been acting strange ever since your dad’s murder. I was alone in the house last week, so I searched his room. I figured I’d find pornography or something to show he was having an affair. Instead, I found a blackjack and a gun hidden in a pair of boots in his closet. I know it’s not much to go on, but….

“I suppose he might have taken my car for some reason other than to commit a murder. I wouldn’t put it past the hypocritical bastard to sleep around on Mom. They have separate rooms and barely see one another anymore. He drives a big white Escalade, which sticks out like a sore thumb, and it has vanity plates: GOOD SHPRD. He wouldn’t want to drive that to a murder or a hookup. I can’t think of any reason for him to have a blackjack and a gun, though—especially hidden like that.”

Dylan put his hand on my arm. He asked me the question I couldn’t answer. “If your father killed mine, why?”

“I don’t know. My first thought was he’d found out about you somehow. It doesn’t make sense, though, for him to kill your father. He’s always threatened to go after any boys I get involved with. Still, I think it’s just a coincidence he ended up connected with your family. After all, your dad called him.”

“Maybe it wasn’t him after all, Mark. Like you said, maybe he was just using your car because he’s having an affair and doesn’t want his seen parked wherever she lives.”

“There’s just one more thing, Dylan. Your mother is dead and he keeps talking about how you’re going to be driven to suicide. He does it on TV, but he does it at home too. I’m afraid for you.”

 

Detective Sergeant Aloysius Hicks: Missing X 3

I’d told Johnson to bring Randall Pierson in. Finding Pierson turned out to be harder than I’d anticipated. Four hours later, Johnson still hadn’t found him. Pierson’s son Mark and Dylan Keys were also still missing. I’d made repeated attempts to reach Dylan’s cell phone. He hadn’t responded. I suspected he’d turned it off.

 

Dylan Keys: Together

He couldn’t understand why Pierson would have killed his father. Dad had been giving Pierson what Pierson craved: an opportunity to stand in front of cameras and rave about gays. Dylan had detested Pierson from the start, but he hadn’t seen him as murderer. Nevertheless, he’d lived in even greater fear than usual since the day Pierson first walked into his house. How much of that fear had been instinctual and how much had simply been grounded in alarm that Pierson would lead Dad to uncover Dylan’s secrets? The fear had lingered, even after Dad’s death. Dylan had hated how Pierson had turned his mother into a prop for his demagogic performances on TV. He’d also hated the way Pierson had appointed himself Mom’s adviser and confidant. He’d suspected Pierson of encouraging her to take tranquilizers, which had turned her into a zombie.

Mark was speaking: “I’d better take you back to school. There’ll be hell to pay, but Hicks will keep you safe.”

Dylan shook his head. “No, I don’t want to go back. I want to stay with you. We can go to my house, at least for a while. It’s empty now, and I have my key.”

 

Detective Sergeant Aloysius Hicks: The Obvious Place

I called Mandy to let her know about Dylan. She was even more furious with the school than I was.

“Damn it, Al, what sort of careless people are these? I want to pull Trevor out of that school and put him somewhere where the adults give a damn about the kids’ whereabouts. Do you think Dylan’s in danger? Have you issued an Amber Alert?”

In all honesty, I couldn’t say the boys weren’t in danger. I told her, “I don’t know. I don’t think this other kid is a threat to him, but his father I’m not so sure about. I haven’t issued an Amber Alert yet. I didn’t want to do anything that might tip Randy Pierson off the boys are missing, but it's the next thing on the agenda.”

After mentioning Pierson, I had to bring her up to date on what I’d learned from Robby Wishart and Sam Anderson. I also told her Grimes and Johnson had found Mark Pierson’s car was parked in the vicinity of the bakery during the time frame when Keys was murdered. Randy Pierson would have had access to his son’s car. Then I added,

“The Pierson boy could be wrong. But if he’s not, then both those boys could be in danger from him. I just wish I knew where they are. I’ll feel a lot better when we bring them in.”

Mandy said impatiently, “Well, have you looked at Dylan’s house?”

I smacked my forehead. “No, as a matter of fact, it hadn’t occurred to me.” I’d been so focused on finding a zebra that I’d missed the horse right in front of me.

Mandy’s voice dripped with sarcasm: “Where the hell have you been looking, Al? The maltshop?”

I’d actually issued an all points bulletin for Mark’s Corolla. Grimes and Johnson had checked at several spots where teens were known to congregate, as well as canvassing cheap motels.

I said a quick goodbye to Mandy. I wanted to issue the Amber Alert and check out the Keys house before doing anything else.

 

Sam Anderson: Motive

I sat naked on the sofa with Robby stretched out, resting his head on my lap. We were enjoying our post-blow glow. We couldn’t keep the Keys murder out of mind for long, though. My phone had gone off with an Amber Alert: two missing boys with familiar names. It wasn’t difficult to identify Mark_Cain from the Walk-In Closet as Mark Pierson. Robby and I were now positive the murderer was Randall Pierson. Robby moaned in contentment as I stroked his hair. Then he said,

“I go over it and over it, Sam, but I just can’t figure out a motive. How would murdering Tom Keys have benefited Randall Pierson? If he knew his kid was involved with Dylan, he might have killed Dylan. More likely, he’d have tipped Keys off that Dylan was gay, which would have effectively ended the relationship and brought down the wrath of God on the poor kid.”

It hit me like a bolt of lightning. “We’ve been looking at this the wrong way, Robby. Ask yourself this: what did Keys’ death actually give Pierson?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see it gave him anything. He didn’t inherit. He didn’t get revenge, as far I know.”

“He got a shitload of donations for that horrible organization of his. DOCC has been raking in hundreds of thousands from outraged people who identify with Keys. The murder has also given him the attention he craves more than anything. Keys didn’t have a cause or even a case until someone murdered him. By dying as he did, Keys gave Pierson something he could rally all the paranoid, religious nuts around.”

Robby sat up. “My God, he burned the Reichstag! I gave him the perfect scapegoat.”

“Yeah. He got lucky because you had no alibi, but if you had had one, he’d just have blamed you for inciting some unknown gay murderer. He’s been suggesting that all along, whenever a reporter points out there’s no evidence against you. It doesn’t really matter who killed Keys as long as he can make them believe the killer is gay. It validates their irrational fear with something concrete.”

I wiped a tear from Robby’s cheek. “I still feel responsible for Keys, Sam.”

I replied with callous sincerity, “He’s no loss. Anyway, you’re not responsible, Robby. Pierson is. He’d probably been biding his time, just waiting for an opportunity.”

Robby shamed me with his words: “He is a loss, Sam. He was a human being, and as long as he was alive, he had the potential to grow and change. That’s been taken from him. In time, he might have reconciled with Dylan. Now, Dylan will only have the memories of his hatred. I let my temper run away with me; and no matter how unwittingly, I played a role in his death. I’m lucky I have you to help me keep that side of myself in check.”

I caressed his naked bottom with my right hand. “I’m lucky to have you to remind me what really matters. We complement each other, love. We should get married—but I’ve gone off wedding cakes.”

 

Mark Pierson: Privacy

Dylan gave me directions to his house. I pulled into the driveway, but he instructed me to drive around and park in the backyard, where my car wouldn’t be visible from the street. We went in through the backdoor, directly into the kitchen. Dylan stared at the kitchen table, probably remembering the last time he’d been home, when he’d found his mother’s lifeless body sitting at that very same table.

I took him by the arm and led him out of the kitchen into a hallway that branched into a dining room and living room. We went into the living room. The house was chilly but not really cold. It was also dim, with only the sunlight coming through cracks in the curtains preventing it from being too dark to see. Dylan tried a light switch, but nothing happened. Someone must have had the utilities cut off.

“Let’s go up to my room.”

I followed him out and up a staircase. The curtains in his room were open, allowing in more light. The room itself was small, but it had touches of Dylan’s personality in it. The artwork on one wall drew my attention. I got a closer look at it and could see it was a collage of paper strips, each of which was filled with black, blue, and red geometric patterns. It made me dizzy to look at it.

Dylan grinned. “That’s what I do in class when I’m bored. Those are the margins from my notebook. I fill them up. I cut some of them off and glued them together to make this. It makes a great distraction during a whipping.”

The two of us sat on his bed. It felt good just to be close in a private place. Dylan said, “I’m sorry there’s nothing to do. Are you hungry? There might be some chips or something down in the pantry.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ve probably got some cards somewhere, and there’s some boardgames in the closet. We could play Scrabble.”

I laughed. “Here we are, two sexually frustrated teenagers, alone in a room together, and you suggest Scrabble.”

He blushed. “We could fool around, but I’ve never done anything before. I don’t know how.”

I admitted, “I haven’t either. With a father like mine, I never got a chance to do more than talk. To be honest, Dylan, this might not be the best time and place. It’s enough that we’re together for a while.”

In the back of my mind was the certainty I’d have to take Dylan back to school before long. I was afraid of what would happen when I did, though. I thought there was a chance I might be arrested. I didn’t want to think about my father so I pushed him out of my mind. I wished we could hide in this house forever. I knew that was impossible, but I still wanted to delay the inevitable.

Neither of us suggested it, but our minds were on the same track. We stretched over Dylan’s bed, lying together. Dylan spooned his back against me, and I molded my body to his. My right arm lay under his neck, while my left wrapped around him. We fell asleep.

 

Randall Pierson: Alarm

He was enjoying breakfast at his favorite coffee shop. It was an old-fashioned place where a man could have a man-sized breakfast. A waitress hovered at his elbow with her carafe of coffee. She caught his eye and he nodded for a refill. Then his phone rang. He suppressed his annoyance. His secretary knew he hated to be disturbed while he was eating, and he was always eating his breakfast at this time of morning.

He answered with a terse, “Yes?”

LeeAnn’s voice dripped with honey and apology. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pierson, but the police were here looking for you. They wouldn’t say what they want except that you need to get in touch with a Sergeant Hicks. Do you want his number?”

Alarm bells went off in his head, though his voice remained calm. “I don’t think that will be necessary, LeeAnn. If they contact you again, tell them I’ll drop by headquarters when I have a spare moment. I expect to be busy for several hours. I’m not sure when I’ll be in.”

After he’d ended the call, he summoned the waitress and told her to bring his check. In mechanical fashion, he slipped his credit card into the vinyl folder that held the check and signed the receipt when the waitress returned.

Seated in the cockpit of his white Escalade, he frowned as he wondered why the police were looking for him. It wasn’t time to panic. They couldn’t have anything on him. It would be funny if his relentless criticism of the police had intimidated Hicks into giving him a personal progress report on the case. He permitted himself a laugh.

He grew serious again. Every instinct told him to beware. He needed time to arrange his thoughts before making any moves. If the cops had somehow stumbled onto something linking him to the deaths of Tom or Leah Keys, it was probably something minor he could explain away. In the meantime, he would stay incommunicado. To do that, he would need to get the Escalade, with its vanity plates, off the road. If that faggot son of his hadn’t driven the Corolla to school, he’d use it again.

He pointed the Escalade in the direction of Mercy Hospital, which had a cavernous, multi-level parking garage. Once he’d parked the Escalade deep within its bowels, he took an elevator to the first floor, walked past the gift shop, and into the atrium. There he leaned against the wall and used his phone to book an Uber ride.

The Uber driver, himself wearing a mask, looked askance at the maskless Pierson but didn’t challenge him. He drove him to E-ZDriver Car Rental company. There Pierson rented a Nissan Altima. He drove the Altima to his own house and parked it in the garage. He was the only one home. His wife Tamara would be busy at the same Mercy Hospital where he’d parked the Escalade. It was her day to volunteer to push the wheelchairs of colonoscopy patients down to meet their drivers.

He intended to be quick about this. If the cops were looking for him, they’d undoubtedly try the house, and he didn’t want to run in to them. He went to his bedroom—he and Tamara had separate rooms—and went into his closet where he had hidden a black leather-covered cosh in a boot. He’d cleaned the cosh carefully, but he held a superstitious conviction that one could never eradicate DNA. Some particles always remained, just waiting for lab-coated Furies to discover them. He would get rid of it once and for all.

The night he’d killed Keys, he’d arranged a secret meeting at the bakery for 2am. Keys had confided he often worked late. He’d been happy to meet at that odd hour. Pierson had flattered him, suggesting it was a strategy meeting of great importance. Knocking Keys out with the cosh had been easy. Pierson hadn’t relished the rest, particularly after Keys had regained consciousness. It had been distasteful work.

From the other boot in the pair, he gingerly drew forth a .38 caliber Colt revolver. He’d removed it from the Keys house after Leah’s death. He’d thought it would come in handy later for Dylan’s “suicide”. When Leah Keys had first shown it to him up in her dreary bedroom, he’d intended for her suicide to be a gunshot wound. The day of her death, however, he’d put it to a better purpose. He’d encouraged Leah to take one of her tranquilizers and wash it down with wine. After the pill had begun to take effect, he’d gone upstairs and taken the gun from the nightstand where Leah had showed him it was kept. Then, he’d ordered her to take pill after pill, promising her a painful death with the gun if she refused. She was a weak-willed woman. She’d been almost eager to appease him by swallowing the tranquilizers. Her death had accomplished three goals: it had rid him of her clinging and neediness; it had neutralized the possibility she might reveal he’d bedded her to gain her confidence and better control her; and it gave him a fresh excuse to stay in front of the TV cameras, where he could blame the new tragedy for Dylan Keys on Robby Wishart.

He put the cosh and gun into a black leather bag he used to carry shaving tackle when traveling. He wanted them out of the house just in case it was searched.

He took out his phone. He wanted to check up on Mark to make sure he was at school. He had an ap to track Mark’s phone, and he’d made it clear to Mark that phone had better be where Mark was. After he’d satisfied himself Mark’s phone was at school, he carried the bag containing the cosh and gun downstairs, through the house to the kitchen, and into the garage. He tossed the bag into the trunk of the Altima. He would return the gun to the Keys house and then dispose of the cosh.

 

*****

Pierson drove down the street keeping his eye peeled for police cruisers. He saw none as he approached the Keys house. The driveway was empty. He didn’t want to draw the attention of a nosy neighbor by leaving his rental in the driveway. He would pull around into the backyard. On past visits, he’d used Uber and Lyft cars to drop him a few blocks away and approached on foot, even though he had a legitimate excuse to visit, as he was acting as Leah’s attorney. He was shocked to find another vehicle—one he recognized—parked there already. It was Mark’s Corolla! He wondered what the hell was the little cocksucker was doing there.

The two boys slept upstairs. They hadn’t heard the Altima pull up. Pierson went to the backdoor. It was unlocked, making it unnecessary to use the key Leah had given him. He entered silently, suppressing the urge to shout Mark’s name. If he caught him with another boy, he’d kill them both. He’d given Mark a chance to straighten himself out, but he knew it had failed.

He passed the kitchen table where Leah Keys had drawn her final breath without a glance. He went through the passageway into the living room. A glance satisfied him Mark wasn’t there. Nor was he in the dining room. He looked at the staircase, which led to the bedrooms upstairs. He’d check up there next.

He climbed slowly, taking care to make no sound. He checked one room and found it empty. Then he looked in Dylan’s room. His son lay on the bed with the Keys boy.

 

Mark Pierson: Caught

I’m not sure what woke me up, but I immediately sensed something wrong before I realized my father was in the room. He stood in the doorway, staring coldly at Dylan and me. I could feel Dylan’s head stirring under my arm as he too woke up.

Dad’s arm were folded across his chest. When I made eye contact, he asked,

“Feel like taking a day off from school, Mark? Did you think you could fool me?”

As I struggled to free my arm and get up, Dad began to take his tie off. He came towards me and ordered me, “Put your hands behind your back.”

I shook my head. Then he slapped me hard across the face. Dylan screamed at him, “NO! Don’t you hit him!”

Dad turned his attention from me. He grabbed Dylan from the bed and tossed him over his shoulder. He stepped to the closet and began to stuff Dylan into it. I tried to stop him, but even Dylan and I together were no match. When I tried to pull to pull him off Dylan, he turned and hit me with his fist. The blow sent me staggering backwards. He succeeded in forcing Dylan through the closet door and used his own body to block it. Somehow he managed to drag Dylan’s chest of drawers over to the closet while holding the door shut with his other hand. As he pulled the chest of drawers in front of the door, he threatened Dylan, “I’ll deal with you later.”

He’d knocked the fight out of me for the moment. I couldn’t resist as he used his tie to bind my hands behind my back. He then forced me down the stairs and out of the house. When we were in the backyard, he unlocked the trunk of an Altima and ordered me to climb inside. I again resisted, but he forced me in anyway. Before he closed the trunk, he took out a leather bag. He took the blackjack I’d seen hidden in his closet from it and hit me.

 

Dylan Keys: Personal

He tried to shift the chest of drawers by pushing on the door, but it was heavy. He couldn’t budge it even an inch. He heard Pierson forcing Mark out of the room. Dylan redoubled his efforts to get out. He was terrified what Pierson would do to Mark. Minutes passed in futile struggle before Dylan heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

Pierson dragged the chest of drawers back enough to let Dylan open the door. He held a gun, which he pointed right at Dylan.

“Come out but don’t try anything stupid. You have a short enough time to live as it is.”

Dylan crept out. He glared at his captor, trying hard to control the trembling of his body. “Why? Why are you doing this? Why did you kill my father?”

Pierson motioned with his gun towards the bed. “It wasn’t anything personal with your father. He needed to die. He was a good Christian, and I’m sure he’s pleased to know he died a martyr to a cause he believed in as much as I do. He was lucky he died without knowing what his son is.

“You, on the other hand, I’ll enjoy killing. Your death will help my cause also, but this one is personal. You’re filth, just like my son, but the world won’t know it. You’ll get pity you don’t deserve as the son who killed himself in despair after the deaths of his parents.

“You see this gun? Did you know your father had it in the house? You must have. You came back here today to get it and end your life. Sit down on the bed and be very careful.”

Dylan shook with terror but asked, “What have you done with Mark?”

Pierson’s smile caused Dylan’s stomach to sink.

“Don’t worry about Mark. I’ll send him after you very soon. He’ll be another martyr to the cause. I’ll find the strength to carry on with my work somehow, though. A father owes it to his son to avenge his murder. It’s so horrible these violent homosexuals would go after me by abducting and killing my son, but they’re dangerous people. They’ll stop at nothing. The deaths of two innocent boys laid at their doorstep should open the eyes of the nation to the threat they pose.”

 

Detective Sergeant Aloysius Hicks: Rescue

I got to the Keys house and didn’t see any cars in the driveway. I drove past and turned around. I decided to park a few houses up the street and approach on foot. Something didn’t feel right. I noticed car tracks in the grass, so I went around to the backyard where I found, not one, but two cars parked. I recognized the plates on the Corolla as Mark Pierson’s. I noted the Altima was a rental, as E-ZDriver puts a small sticker on the windshield, rear window, and rear bumper. I walked around both cars, looking in the windows, but saw nothing amiss. I decided to leave them for now.

I approached the backdoor, which was unlocked. As I walked around the first floor, I heard voices coming from upstairs. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I climbed the stairs stealthily.

I drew my gun, as I closed in on the bedroom from which the voices were coming. It was Dylan’s room. I pressed against the wall and peered into the room. Randy Pierson loomed over Dylan, who sat on the bed. Pierson held a gun. I hesitated. If I made a wrong move, Pierson could injure or kill Dylan.

Dylan himself made a move. He sprang for the gun in Pierson’s hand. I came in and yelled,

“Drop it, Pierson!”

I startled Pierson, who stopped grappling with Dylan but held onto his weapon. Dylan took advantage of the situation to dive under his bed, much to my relief. Pierson stared at me. His eyes burned with hatred but also defeat. I thought for a moment he intended to drop the gun, but instead, he put the revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger. He fell backwards over the bed. The gun fell from his hand onto the floor.

Dylan screamed when the gun went off. I told him, “Stay where you are, Dylan.”

I went towards the bed and nudged the gun further away with my foot. Then I tried to find a pulse on Pierson’s body. There was none. I didn’t want Dylan to see the body, but I needed to leave the scene undisturbed. I moved to the other side of the bed, squatted, and extended my hand to him, saying,

“Close your eyes, Dylan, and keep them closed. I’ll guide you out of here.”

He emerged from the bed with his eyes closed. I helped him out of the room. In the hallway, I asked Dylan, “Where’s Mark?”

He told me, “I don’t know for sure. His dad tied his hands and made him go somewhere else. He had me shut up in the closet.”

Mark had to be in the house or the car. I told Dylan to go downstairs and wait for me. I returned to the bedroom and searched Pierson for the car key.

Mark Pierson was in the trunk of the rental. He was just starting to come around when I opened the trunk. He had a nasty bruise on his forehead where Pierson had hit him with a cosh. I helped him out of the trunk and called for an ambulance.

 

*****

I was satisfied Pierson had murdered Keys. He’d admitted it to Dylan. I was morally certain he’d killed Leah Keys, as well, but I couldn’t prove it. Grimes had no luck with surveillance video, which might have place Pierson’s car at the Keys house that day. Even if we could have shown he was there, it wouldn’t have proved murder. I was content to let Leah’s death remain officially a probable suicide, but I told Dylan I was sure his mother hadn’t chosen to leave him.

 

Robby Wishart: A Fairy Cake Ending

The satisfaction of my exoneration came mixed with pity for Dylan Keys and Mark Pierson. I couldn’t comprehend the trauma those two had suffered.

I was disappointed when most of Pierson’s followers refused to accept that he had murdered a man, attempted to frame me for the murder, and intended to murder his own son and another young boy. Instead, they spun a conspiracy theory in which the evil forces of leftist oppression had framed and murdered Pierson to further “The Gay Agenda”. The Defenders of Christian Consciences remained undaunted. Their idol had died, but in their eyes, he hadn’t fallen. Instead, he’d achieved martyrdom.

Sam and I married in summer, as planned. In lieu of a wedding cake, Sam’s mother Sharon baked cupcakes and arranged them on a tiered plate. I have an affinity for cupcakes. After all, CupCakeBoy helped solve a murder. The Hicks family, which now included Dylan, sent Sam and me a Kitchenaid standing mixer as a wedding present, which was remarkably generous of them. It will encourage us to do more baking at home! It’s lime green, which matches our dishes. I wondered how they knew we like lime green; then I remembered those detectives prowling around the kitchen the day they took me in for questioning.

Sam got his job back with apologies and a six-figure settlement thanks to the efforts of GALA (Gay Alliance for Legal Assistance) on his behalf. We’re donating half to GALA so they continue to do the good work that helped us. The rest we’re using to buy a house. We’ll still have a mortgage, but it will be a lot smaller than it would have been. We talked about moving to another state, but Sam thought we should stay and fight—and fight he does! He has become an activist and a strong advocate for the gay and transgender kids at his school. I wonder if one of these days, our roles in our relationship will change and I’ll have to start spanking him to keep him reined in. Actually, I don’t want to rein him in. The time for timidity has passed. Both of us know we need to fight. We just make sure we fight smart.

 

Mark Pierson: Healing

I’m in counseling now, but it’s a different sort of counseling than the sort my father forced me to take when I was thirteen. This counseling is helping me heal the scars he inflicted.

Mom has accepted I’m gay. She’s trying her best to support me in the aftermath of Dad’s suicide and the disgrace of knowing he killed a man. I’m doing my best to support her, as well. She told me they’d met at Christian college. His charisma and ambition had attracted her. It wasn’t until after they were married and had me that she’d begun to feel trapped and afraid. Though she didn’t say so, I’m pretty sure he was physically abusive. We’re having to learn how to help each other. Dad had dominated our family so completely, we never had a chance before.

Dylan and I are a couple, but things are moving slowly between us. After what we went through together—all the fear, death, and horror—we need time. The Hickses are very protective of Dylan, so we couldn’t move fast, even if we wanted too. Right now, we’re grateful to be alive and together. We’re also glad we don’t have to hide who we are or how we feel about each other. I’m welcome at the Hickses and Mom is happy to have Dylan at our house.

 

Dylan: Safe at Last

He eyed the Attitude Adjuster warily.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Mandy Hicks reminded him. Dylan had insisted on being part of the family tradition after Trevor had mentioned it to him.

“Oh, I want to, but not too hard, okay?” He looked at Al, who held the Attitude Adjuster, which Trevor had brought down from his room for the occasion.

“Of course, not. This is for fun. Now, bend over. Hands on the coffee table. I like a good target.”

Dylan obligingly bent.

“Fifteen swats, plus one to grow on. Ready?”

“I’m ready.”

The first swat landed lightly. Trevor took on the role of counter: “One!”

Each swat got a bit harder, though none of them hurt. Dylan had never had a birthday spanking. He found the ritual puzzling, but he wanted to embrace the family traditions. He’d expected it would hurt, despite the assurances from all of the Hickses, but he’d steeled himself to endure it. By the time he’d taken his fifteenth swat, his bottom tingled nicely.

Al rubbed the paddle around his bottom. “One to grow on, coming up! Are you okay with one that makes a good pop?” Dylan blushed, remembering how the loud crack of the paddle had sent him rushing into Trevor’s room to rescue him.

“Go for it!”

Al smacked the paddle down crisply. It made an impressive pop, though not as loud as the ones Trevor had received as punishment. It stung just a bit, but Dylan didn’t mind it. The birthday spanking triggered no bad memories of beatings in the past. Now that the Hickses were Dylan’s permanent foster parents, the Attitude Adjuster was in retirement, except for birthdays.

When he stood back up, he made a show of rubbing away the sting. Mandy brought in a birthday cake. She’d made it herself rather than buying one from a bakery. Dylan blew out the candles and made his wish, which already felt like it had come true. Mandy cut the first slice and handed it to him on a plate. The thick chocolate frosting was not artistic. It was, however, delicious. He took a bite and then turned to Mark, whom he gave a chocolaty kiss.