Crime Scene Cover-Up
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Julie Miller
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Chapter One
Mark Taylor loved the scents of fish, grill smoke and the outdoors that clung to his clothes and filled up the cab of his truck. He and the silver-haired man sitting in the passenger seat across from him were chasing the sunset along Highway 7, speeding home to Kansas City after their annual camping-and-fishing weekend at Truman Lake.
The scenery on either side of the twisting highway was especially picturesque in the summer. The rolling hills were carpeted with endless green trees giving way to tiny towns, the steel-gray water of wind-whipped lakes and the grittier browns of creeks and rivers filled with the rain that had flooded parts of the state earlier that year. Although some of the highway had been straightened and expanded into dual lanes, Mark preferred the narrower cuts of the two-lane sections because it still felt like he was out in the country. As much as he loved Kansas City, where he’d grown up and now worked as a firefighter/EMT, there was something inherently relaxing about the slower pace of the countryside.
And something good for his soul in sharing another memorable one-on-one weekend with his grandfather, Sid Taylor.
The two men had been doing this for twenty-three years, since Mark’s fifth birthday. Grandpa Sid had done more than teach him how to pitch a tent or fish. As the youngest of four adopted brothers, with five uncles, an aunt and their families, it had been easy to get lost in the boisterous shuffle of holiday gatherings and Sunday dinners when the entire Taylor clan got together. But Sid had singled him out as his baby boy—his little buddy who shared his love of the outdoors. If Sid hadn’t closed his butcher shop a few years back, Mark might have considered learning the trade so that he could take over his grandfather’s business. Instead, he’d followed in his adoptive parents’ and birth brother Matt’s footsteps, and joined the KCFD.
As a little boy, Sid had made Mark feel like his favorite kid on the whole planet. Mark now knew that Sid had singled out each of his grandchildren to develop a special bond with, but he wouldn’t trade these twenty-three years with his grandfather for another Chiefs Super Bowl victory. Their conversations over the years had been about nothing and everything. Sid had been there through the insecurities of getting to know his new family and measuring up to his overachieving brothers’ standards; his concerns for his extremely withdrawn brother, Matt; some messy teenage angst; and the ignominy and heartache of his girlfriend saying no to his proposal and moving away to pursue a dream he wasn’t invited to be a part of.
This afternoon’s conversation was no different as they segued from the Royals trading away good players and relying too much on their farm system, to probing questions about whether Mark had started seeing anyone again, and on to a friendly debate about the success of their time at the lake.
“That bass was over twenty inches,” Mark insisted, adjusting his wraparound sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Maybe even two feet.”
“The one that broke your fishing line or the one in your imagination?”
Mark grinned, refusing to take that gibe without giving back one of his own. “My largemouth was twice as big as that shrimp of a striper you caught.”
“Why don’t you just make him a mile long now, so he doesn’t have to keep getting bigger every time you tell that story,” Sid teased, pulling his ball cap lower on his forehead to shield his eyes from the bright June sun.
When Mark had been a boy, his grandfather had planned the weekend to his lake of choice, packed the food and driven him—filling the time with jokes and deeper conversations about life, answering questions and challenging him to make good, thoughtful decisions about any problems he might have confided in the older man.
Now that Sid had survived two heart events, the knuckles of his workingman’s hands had knotted with arthritis and his broad shoulders had stooped with age, their roles had reversed. Mark planned, packed, drove. Although he still let Sid, a retired butcher and former marine, clean the fish and grill them because there were some talents the old man had that he’d never be able to surpass. He could only emulate. Like his adoptive father had before him, like his uncles and brothers had. Every man in the Taylor family had learned about hard work, honor and integrity from this guy who was still teasing Mark about his lousy lack of fish this weekend.
“I’m just sayin’ my cooler has six crappie and that eighteen-inch bass on ice to show your grandma.” Sid pointed his thumb to the camper on the back of Mark’s truck. “Yours is, what? Holding dirty laundry?”
“Fine. I surrender. You get the Taylor Prize for Best Fisherman this year.” Mark rested his elbow on the door beside him as they crested a hill and drove down into the valley where the next creek flowed. “It’s a good thing I love you, old man. I wouldn’t put up with this kind of trash talk from anyone else.”
“Right back at ya, son.” With a drawn-out sigh, Sid sank back against his seat, looking out the side window at the pin oaks and pines, and occasional glimpses of a colorful redbud or white dogwood peeking out from the dense woods as they sped past. He shifted again, as if he couldn’t quite get comfortable in his seat.
“You okay?” Mark asked, feeling a twinge of concern. “Did we overdo it?” The long pause only worried him more. “Grandpa?”
“This has always been a pretty drive. No matter what time of year it is.”
“Yes, sir.” But Mark had a feeling his grandfather wasn’t thinking about the scenery.
“I’m a lucky old dog. I’ve spent a lot of years with the woman I love, and I’m so proud of all my children and grandchildren. And the great-grands.” Without taking his gaze from the scenery, he nodded. “Damn lucky.”
Mark reached across the console to squeeze Sid’s shoulder. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Too maudlin for you?” He patted Mark’s hand, his familiar smile returning. “Don’t worry about me. I just get tired sooner than I used to. My eighties haven’t been too kind to me.”
“You know I love our time together, but if these trips are getting to be too much for you, we could stay closer to home. Or do something else.” Mark returned his hand to the wheel. “It’s the time we spend together that matters. Not the activity. I’d be just as happy to come over and watch a game with you.”
“I know.” Another worrisome pause. “I just wanted to see all this one more time.” Mark was about to press him on what had brought on this sudden melancholy mood when Sid sat up straight and pointed through the windshield at the wisp of a gray-and-black cloud just above the horizon. “Is that smoke?”
They crested the hill and Mark spotted a scene that no firefighter wanted to see. Two mangled cars, compressed together, lying at an angle down in the steep slope of the ditch. “There’s been an accident.”
“Looks like it’s a head-on collision. Mark?”
Mark had already punched in 9-1-1 on his phone on the dashboard as he slowed his truck and pulled onto the shoulder of the highway above the wreck. He set his blinkers on and identified himself to the local dispatcher. “This is Mark Taylor. I’m a Kansas City firefighter. I’m on Highway 7 heading northwest out of Truman Lake.” He reported the last mile marker he’d seen to give a better location. “I’ve got a two-vehicle accident. They’ve rolled into the ditch. I need fire and a bus to roll ASAP. I’m off duty and don’t have all my gear with me, but I’ll do what I can to help.”
With the promise to notify the local sheriff’s office and volunteer firefighters, the dispatcher ended the call. Mark slipped on his black KCFD ball cap, grabbed his phone off its mount and slid out of the truck. “Stay put.” But Sid was already climbing out of the other side. “Grandpa.”
His grandfather waved him closer. “Hand me your phone. I’ll stay out of your way, but the least I can do is watch for traffic and call Dispatch while you work with the victims down there.”
Yeah. Even at eighty-seven, this man was a Taylor, born and raised to serve and protect.
Mark winked and handed over the phone. “You know how the fancy new tech works, Grandpa?”
“Get out of here.”
Matching the old man’s grin, Mark turned down the steep slope, half sliding on the wet grass and half sinking into the water-soaked ditch as he followed the swath of muddy tire tracks down to the two cars.
A quick assessment showed him three potential victims—the teenage boy driving the rusting farm pickup truck, the woman slumped over the steering wheel and deflated airbag of her SUV, and the crying infant strapped into the back seat. With no skid marks on the road above them, he’d wager that one of the drivers had fallen asleep and drifted over the center line. Or one or both drivers had been distracted with a text or phone call. It wasn’t his business to determine the cause of the accident or who was responsible—Mark’s job was to get everybody out of the wreck alive, treat any injuries and get them safely onto an ambulance or to a hospital for any further care they might need.
Ignoring the mud and water at the bottom of the ditch that oozed up over his hiking boots and soaked into his jeans, Mark reached the SUV first. It was tipped partially onto its side, and he had to climb up onto the running board to see inside. The woman was out cold. Judging by the lump on her forehead and blood dripping from the wound, she’d hit her head on the side window when the vehicles had rolled. With the doors locked, he couldn’t check her pulse, but her chest rose and fell, indicating she was still breathing. The car seat in the back was strapped in correctly, and the baby was wailing up a storm, probably good indications that the infant might be scared but hadn’t been harmed in the accident.
Mark jumped down and circled around to the driver’s side of the pickup. It was partially wedged beneath the SUV and sunk into the mud, and this time he had to squat down to get a look at the driver. The truck was old enough that, without air-conditioning, the kid had been driving with his windows down. Thank God the driver was wearing his seat belt. But he was bleeding from a head wound, too, and holding his chest as he squirmed in his seat, shouting for his phone.
“Where’s my phone? I can’t find my phone.”
“Hey.” The startled teen spun toward Mark, wincing with pain. “My name’s Mark. I’m here to help you. What’s your name?”
“Wyatt,” he answered in a breathy gasp. “I can’t find my phone. I think it flew out of the truck. I just got it with my last paycheck.”
“Okay, Wyatt.” Mark kept his tone calm and friendly as he reached inside and turned off the ignition. “I’ll look for your phone in a minute. Are you hurt? Do you feel pain anywhere?”
The young man clutched at his chest. “I’m having a hard time catching my breath.” That could mean a dozen things, from having the wind knocked out of him to internal injuries. The kid’s unfocused gaze might mean a head injury, or he could be going into shock. Mark placed his fingers at the side of his neck. His pulse was fast, but even. That was a good sign, at least. “I’m not sure what happened. Can I get out now? I want to look for my phone. My mom’s gonna kill me if I lose another one.”
When he opened his dented door, Mark pushed back. Typically, he didn’t want the patient moving until he’d done a thorough assessment and had a backboard to put him on. But Mark’s eyes and sinuses stung with a whole new set of priorities, as smoke filtered from under the dashboard and through the vents. The same smoke Sid had pointed out earlier. Engine fire.
Mark pulled the door open himself and stood, keeping his voice calm, despite conveying a deep sense of urgency. “Yeah, Wyatt. That sounds like a good idea.” The young man unfastened his seat belt and swung his legs out the side of the truck. Mark hooked his arm beneath the young man’s shoulders. “Can you stand okay?”
The young man swayed for a moment before smiling from ear to ear. “There it is!”
He reached down and pulled his cell phone from beneath the driver’s seat. Mark shook his head and pulled the kid into step beside him, leading him back up the side of the ditch to the shoulder of the road. Another car with an older couple had stopped on the far side of the road. While the woman talked on her phone, hopefully to emergency services, the man had been chatting with Sid. “My wife is talking to the highway patrol. I have a blanket in my car,” he offered.
“Get it,” Mark ordered. “Grandpa, we need the sleeping bags out of the camper.” While the two older men left to fetch those items, Mark did a preliminary exam of Wyatt’s head wound. Wyatt’s relief might just be fueling him with adrenaline for the moment. He wasn’t going to take a chance with the kid going into shock. He sat the young man down and told him to call his parents while the other man wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.
His grandfather dropped the sleeping bags beside Mark. Mark stood, turning over Wyatt’s care to the other couple. Sid rubbed his shoulder, as if the joint was stiff from the exertion, and nodded toward the wreckage. “The fire’s spreading.”
Flames were visible now, shooting through the gaps in the warped hood of the truck and traveling up to the SUV’s engine.
“Can you make it down the hill?” Mark asked, jogging to the back of his truck and climbing into the camper. On the fire engine, he’d have a Slim Jim to slide into the SUV’s door panel to unlock it. He jumped back down to the pavement. Today, the crowbar from his toolbox would have to do.
“Of course I can. What do you need?” Shaking off Mark’s guiding hand, Sid followed him down the slope to the upended SUV.
Mark climbed onto the running board again to peer inside. The woman was conscious now—disoriented, but aware that she and her child were in danger. “Courtney?” She flopped her right arm over the back of the seat. “Are you okay, sweetie? Mommy’s here.”
Mark knocked on the window, capturing her attention. “Ma’am? I need you to turn off your engine.” With a nod of understanding, she turned the key, killing any sparks in the motor that could set off an explosion and turn the small fire into a deadly inferno. Mark held up the crowbar, indicating his intention. “I need you to look the other way.”
She turned, raising her hand as if it might shield her baby in the back seat. Mark found the precise spot on the window, shielded his own eyes and shattered the glass with a single blow. In a matter of seconds, he swept the glass shards from the ledge of the door and reached inside to unlock all of them.
“Hang tight, ma’am. I’ll be right back.”
“Save my little girl,” the woman pleaded, understanding Mark’s intention as he opened the back door and reached inside. “Is she hurt? It all happened so fast.”
“You okay, little one?” A quick check indicated that the car seat had done its job protecting its occupant. Possibly a few bruises, and the child was good and scared, but she quieted and reached for Mark as he inched inside to release the carrier from the car seat. “I think she’s okay.” He climbed out and handed the baby in her carrier to Sid. “Can you get her up the hill?”
Sid nodded and climbed slowly up the hill. “You come with me, sweetie. I know all about little girls. I have one named Jess. She’s a big girl now. But she’ll always be my...”
The familiar voice faded as Mark turned his attention to the injured mother. With the seat belt jammed, he pulled out his pocketknife and cut through the straps, catching her before she could slide to the other side of the car. Pulling her arm around his shoulders, he carefully lifted her as he stepped to the ground. Her soft grunt of pain and lack of complaining told him she was probably the more seriously injured of the two drivers. And even though moving her risked aggravating any spinal injury, the spreading flames weren’t giving him any choice.
He slid once in the grass, before finding traction and completing the climb. Sid had spread one of the sleeping bags out on the ground where Mark laid the woman. He asked the other woman to hold her hand and talk to her while Sid covered her with the other sleeping bag and set the baby carrier beside her. “There you go, sweetie. There’s Mama.”
The sounds of distant sirens echoed through the hills as Mark ran to the back of his camper again, pulling out the small fire extinguisher he carried, and dropped back down into the ditch. The pickup’s hood was too hot to touch, but it had twisted enough that he could spray the fire-suppressant foam through the gaps and douse the fire. He wouldn’t have enough foam to put out two engine fires, but if he could stop the flames from spreading to oil lines and fuel tanks—
“Hey! Mister!” Mark squinted against the stinging chemical fumes of the smoke and ignored the voices calling out.
“Mister Mark! Hey, Firefighter Guy!” That was Wyatt. He turned toward the teen’s panicked tone. “He doesn’t look too good.”
Mark followed his gaze past the two women and baby to where the other man was helping Sid move from his knees, where he’d apparently collapsed, to a sitting position. “Grandpa!”
Sid Taylor was lying flat on his back on the shoulder of the road by the time Mark reached him. Ah, hell. He was pale. His skin was clammy. The subtle signs had been there, but Mark hadn’t been paying close enough attention. The pulse at his neck was thready at best.
His grandfather was having a heart attack.
“I’m feeling a little light-headed.” Sid’s dark eyes drifted shut. “That climb...too much...”
“I shouldn’t have asked you to do it. Damn it, I shouldn’t have asked.” Mark dug through the front pockets of his grandfather’s jeans, pulling out the small bottle of baby aspirin. His fingers shook as he twisted it open. This shouldn’t be happening. They were supposed to be having fun this weekend. He and Grandpa Sid always had fun.
“Nonsense... Happy to...” For one frightening moment, his voice drifted off.
“Grandpa!” Mark bent his ear to his grandfather’s nose and mouth. Was he still breathing? He flattened his palm over Sid’s chest, searching for a heartbeat. Where the hell was his med kit when he needed it? Back at the station, on the truck, where it was supposed to be. He and Sid were on vacation. This wasn’t supposed to happen. “Grandpa, you hang in there.”
After three compressions, Sid’s eyes slowly opened. But they were hazy, unable to focus.
“There you are.” Mark popped the pill onto Sid’s tongue, lifting him slightly and running his hand along his throat to help him swallow. “You scared me, old man. Here. Take this.”
Then he laid him flat on the pavement again and resumed compressions.
Someone covered Sid with a blanket. Someone was talking on the phone to 9-1-1. Someone else was crying.
“Did we save the day?” He’d never heard that voice sound so weak.
“Yeah. We sure did, Grandpa.” Mark swiped angrily at the tears that clouded his vision. “As soon as the ambulance gets here, they’ll all be okay. So will you.”
With a flop, Sid covered Mark’s hands with one of his, brushing his fingers against Mark’s wrist. His touch was cold, jerky. “My good boy. Good...man...”
Sid Taylor’s eyes focused for a split second. And then they closed.
“No!” Mark continued the compressions against the old man’s brave heart. “Grandpa!”
