After looking at Maloney, as if to get permission, Rich answered, “As the First Selectman stated earlier, we are in the early stages of this investigation. But what’s clear is that Mr. Benson was affected greatly by his parents being killed by a drunk driver. All the victims Mr. Benson confessed to killing had some link to a drunk driving fatality, including Noah Warner.”
Lauren was still not satisfied. “Do you have any evidence, besides the confession of this homeless guy, that he was involved in any way in the murder of Senator Kingsbury? How would a homeless guy get to North Carolina? Don’t you see how ludicrous this is?”
Rich just shrugged his shoulders. Welcome to my world, Chief. I flashed Maloney a look to indicate he needed to stop mugging for the national cameras and wrap this thing up.
“I just want the people of Rockfield to know they are safe and always have been. And with dedicated servants like Chief Tolland and Officer Jones behind me, they will continue to be. Grady Benson never targeted average citizens-he specifically chose his victims based on their past actions.” A satisfied look formed on his face and I thought for a moment he might take a bow. He was probably already strategizing how he was going to ride this all the way to the governor’s mansion.
At that point, Rich announced that they were going to hand out the latest photo of Grady Benson to the media members present. He had Officer Jones assist him in this endeavor-awkward. The picture was of Christina’s friend, and Fordham theater major, Damon, who was getting his big acting break. Sort of. With the help of make-up he looked twenty years older, which would coincide with Benson’s current age.
A young JP Warner would have done his due diligence and found an old photo of Benson. He would have been fascinated by how much he looked like Officer Jones and dug deeper, but that type of detail is no longer prevalent in the rapid pace of the modern 24-hour news cycle. So I doubted any connection would be made.
Lauren gave me a dirty look on her way out, but Chuck smiled at me. He knew I’d delivered him a big story. But little did he know that I’d completely gone to the dark side and finally embraced the modern cable news mantra of: if you don’t like the news, make up your own. I once thought that newsertainment would be the end of me, but now I realized it might be the one chance to save my life.
Chapter 81
I drove the van to the
The headline read:
I read the front-page story that I wrote under Gwen’s name. It wasn’t too bad, considering I hadn’t written for a newspaper since college, but it didn’t compare to Gwen’s work, and I knew it.
I moved on to the more important, and much better written, full-page editorial. As only Murray can do, he turned Benson into a heroic figure, lashing out at the epidemic of drunk driving that took approximately eleven- thousand lives last year, more than triple the number of lives lost in 9/11. Where is the outrage? he asked. He compared Benson’s actions to everyone from Robin Hood to New York subway vigilante Bernie Goetz. And of course, Batman.
He used his endless connections to get the editorial run in most major newspapers around the country. The article sparked debate, much to Murray’s delight. He always was a firm believer in the accuracy of news stories, but the editorial page was the playground for his contrarian nature. The “Hero vs. Vigilante” question was being argued on the Sunday morning news shows, and trending on the Internet. Grady Benson was getting his headlines.
Murray put on his fedora and headed toward the door. Before leaving, he turned back to me with a smile. “I’m off to church, John Pierpont. Hopefully nobody will decide to hang me on one of those many crosses they like to decorate the walls with.”
“Thanks for everything, Murray.”
“We will get our girl back, don’t worry.”
He didn’t have any sources to back it up, but his words made me feel a lot better. When he exited stage left, I skimmed through the rest of the paper. A fake opinion poll said 75 % of all citizens in the area believe Benson performed heroic deeds and shouldn’t be prosecuted. Fake letters to the editor vociferously praised Benson. We were turning him into the heroic figure he craved to be. The only problem for him was that he was no longer Grady Benson. Two can play that game.
I leaned back in my chair and ran my hands through my hair. I thought about the beautiful editor who the letters were addressed to.
Chapter 82
Gwen sat on the concrete floor shivering in her wet clothes. She was angry and drained.
There was no possible escape. For a man who built a whole life on lies, Benson sure picked a great time to start telling the truth. She could hear pieces of wood ripping away from the house, along with cracking tree branches. The whistling of the wind was so loud that it was hard for her to think. But the room was holding up against Hurricane Ava. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.
She wasn’t sure what day it was, but had narrowed it down to either Sunday or Monday. It took her three days to get out of the handcuffs. A torturous experience of trying to maneuver her fingers in ways they shouldn’t bend, in order to get the key into the small hole. She did all this without being able to see her cuffed hands behind her. It was like trying to put her contact lenses in without hands.
The food and water had dwindled. It took a lot of willpower to ration it when she wanted to gulp the entire bowl. Her mouth was as dry as the Sahara, with lips chapped to the point they were bleeding.
Carter remained unconscious. She wiped the sweat off his head, and the stubble felt like sandpaper. She noticed a big gash where Benson had knocked him out. The blood, mixed with the sweat, trickled down his face like wet paint. Gwen guessed he was in some sort of body trauma or shock. She knew he needed a doctor soon or he would die.
With all the free time, she was able to catch up on her reading. But Benson’s journal entries were so disturbing that they made her never want to read again.
Suddenly a sharp noise jolted her. It was Carter-the giant was awakening.
“Did somebody get the license plate of that truck that hit me?” he grumbled as he tried to sit up. He didn’t make it, and laid back down.
Gwen felt relief. “Carter, are you okay? How do you feel?”
“Are you an angel?”
“I’m JP’s friend Gwen-you’ve been out for days.”
“I figured I’d only see a piece of ass like you in heaven,” he said, before going on a long tangent about some guy named Jimmy Snuka, who was something called a super fly, and one time jumped off a top rope in a wrestling match and caught him with an elbow that put him in a coma for a week. He was definitely delirious.
On his second attempt, Carter managed to sit up against the concrete wall. He took a whiff of himself and made a face of displeasure. “What the hell happened?”
“If you remember, you were following me like you shouldn’t have been. Now we’re being held hostage at the beach house.”
He rubbed his hand over the gash on his head and nodded like it was all coming back to him. “The pictures-I remember looking at them before I got whacked.”
A large crash shook the room.
