A Memorable Murder. John Schlarbaum
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A
Memorable
Murder
A JENNIFER MALONE MYSTERY
by
John Schlarbaum
Copyright 2011 by John Schlarbaum
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0548-3
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
ALSO BY
JOHN SCHLARBAUM
BARRY JONES’ COLD DINNER
A Steve Cassidy Mystery #1
WHEN ANGELS FAIL TO FLY
A Steve Cassidy Mystery #2
***
THE DOCTOR’S BAG
A Sentimental Journey
AGING GRACEFULLY TOGETHER
A Story of Love & Marriage
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank all those who read preview copies and then gave me their unvarnished opinions. Your comments, ideas and enthusiasm for this novel helped shape this final version in ways I had never imagined.
As a former P.I. I obviously know a thing or two about the human brain and how it works ... oh wait ... nevermind. Fortunately for me, my dear friend Debra Kigar is a former McMaster University brain researcher who worked on Einstein’s brain - yes, THAT Einstein. Thanks Deb for your technical medical input that makes me sound smarter than I really am.
As always I thank the readers who continue to encourage me to write. I trust you will take Jennifer Malone to heart as you have Steve Cassidy. She is easier on the eyes and doesn’t carry as much emotional baggage - yet.
Finally, I’d like to thank those individuals who have stuck by me through the highs and lows of the past two years. You know who you are. I could not have accomplished everything I have without you.
John Schlarbaum
September, 2011
DEDICATION
For Kevin Jarvis
“It is by chance that we met, by choice
that we became and have stayed friends.”
ONE
The voices were familiar yet distant, as if the speakers were communicating through bullhorns miles away. Their words drifted in and out of clarity, spoken in measured tones, although Lynn sensed an undercurrent of urgency in their manner. Rushing to tell their story; trying to convey a particular feeling - a scene - to those listening. As the stream of hopelessly unintelligible words droned on, Lynn thought she recognized a sound in the background. A police siren? Possibly an ambulance? Regardless of its origin, the disembodied noise did not reassure her in the least.
Her head began to pound as she opened her eyes. It took a moment for them to adjust to the semi-darkened room. Although her vision was blurred she saw the walls were bathed in a faint blue light that flickered sporadically, creating a strobe effect. She found it near impossible to lift her upper arms or body, which felt like they were filled with concrete.
Where am I? she thought.
Lynn turned her neck toward the source of the mysterious light. The twenty-inch television on the bureau answered many of her initial questions. On the TV was a split-screen showing a well-dressed man and woman at an anchor desk and a female reporter outside a large building. At the top of the screen “NCN Special Report” appeared.
Lynn strained to hear their conversation. Their mouths moved, words came out, yet she was unable to decipher what they were saying. Was it in code? Frustrated, she studied the images, trying to piece together what was important enough to have interrupted the afternoon soaps.
Was it afternoon?
Lynn’s eyes moved from the screen to the tiny window where curtains hung haphazardly. Through the numerous rips in the material and at the centre where the curtains didn’t quite come together, she could see the blue light strobing off the glass. Beyond it, however, it was completely black.
No streetlights.
No headlights.
No moon.
No sun.
Nothing.
Panic set in as an increasing sense of doom engulfed Lynn’s mind. While certain she wasn’t restrained in any way, she still couldn’t move.
She quickly resolved she was in a rundown motel room, one that she couldn’t remember checking into, or ever wanting to check into. Not knowing the time of day, Lynn willed her left arm across her chest and stared at her watch which read 8:15.
Her body went limp, the exertion leaving her both mentally and physically drained.
Was it morning or night?
What day of the week was it?
Why am I here?
The answers were not forthcoming.
Again, Lynn turned her attention to the news report. The words were slowly getting clearer. She was determined to learn all she could before the station cut back to its regular programming. As her vision also focused, Lynn realized the people at the news desk were Jason Morris and Susan Donallee, the co-anchors of the National Cable Network’s evening newscast.
“When was the last time this type of incident occurred, Tanya?” Jason asked the reporter.
The screen went full-frame showing Tanya Grahame, an extremely photogenic young woman, in front of what Lynn recognized as the network’s flagship station, WCNY. The building’s huge two-storey windows, which served as a backdrop, were part of the morning show’s much-publicized new set, allowing the public to view the show as it aired live across the country.
It was at this moment Lynn noticed the sun was shining brightly.
It must be 8:15 a.m., she thought.
She glanced again at the darkened window.
Was this place located where the sun hadn’t come up yet? It would mean a difference of time zones if that were true, her mind screamed.
She tried unsuccessfully to put the thought aside, as she concentrated on Tanya’s answer.
“Televised incidents like this have occurred before, but this type of gangland-style shooting is thought to be the first of its kind for a nationally broadcast program. Other shootings have taken place during local news reports, where a distraught family member or friend has shot an alleged killer being transferred through an airport or courthouse. And although those killings may have subsequently received national exposure, today’s shooting was seen live by millions of people, many tuned in to see Presidential candidate Douglas Adams.”
Was Douglas dead? He couldn’t be, Lynn thought frantically. I was just with him last . . .
The thought drifted away as she wasn’t sure if last night was now this morning, or if it was, in fact, a couple of days ago, or even last week. Almost immediately she felt a sudden tightness in her chest as she experienced a shortness of breath. Desperately she gulped for air in an effort to fill her lungs. With