Innocent Until Proven Guilty

NOVELS

INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUITY

LOSER

DESTINY

ABSENT WITHOUT LEAVE (AWOL)

DEADLY DECEPTIONS

THOMPSON’S BOUNTY: A SHIP OUT OF TIME

THE AMERIAD

NOVELLAS

BETWEEN A LAUGH AND A SCREAM

ALL ROADS LEAD TO PINE BUSH

MAPPING THE SILENCE OF DREAMS

THE SHADOW PEOPLE

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

DARKENED PASSAGES

POETRY

LICENSE TO QUILL

SHORT STORIES

BURIED MEMORIES

NONFICTION

NEO REVOLUTIONARY MESSAGES

INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY-TITLE PAGE

The character and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright 2010 © Duane Gundrum

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission of the copyright holder.

PROLOGUE

The sweetest sound he could remember was one of silence.  Its peaceful tranquility, undisturbed by the harassment of the outside world, was one of the few enjoyments Thomas Scandler had left in his later years.  With the ever-increasing workload from his corporate position, the opportunity to sit in his study and read a book was a rare occasion for him, but it was one he savored when it finally became his.  Unfortunately, an intruding sound had no intentions of allowing him his one pleasure.  The one sound was obviously not one of silence.

The voluminous creak of pressure on floorboards could be heard throughout the entire estate house.  The estate's only occupant put down his copy of Stephen King's new book and glanced around the study nervously while searching for a logical—yet, innocent—clue as to the origin of the mysterious sound.  While he was a fan of mystery/horror novels, he was not a willing participant in anything that might be mysterious or horrific to him.

Looking around, he could find no clue as to the source of the mysterious sound.

Thomas took several breaths and calmed himself down.  With two wars behind him, he knew his nerves were only playing tricks on him.  The sound was probably the building settling while the situation was only increased in his mind because he was reading a horror novel as opposed to one of a more peaceful genre.  Still, there was that nagging feeling of the unknown that continued to haunt him.

He went back to the novel, his senses on the alert for anything out the ordinary.

The floorboards creaked again.

He stood up from his plush chair and crossed the room to the fireplace.  He picked up the stirring iron and placed it into the palm of his hand.  With a violent swing, he convinced himself that it would be adequate protection against anything that might attack him in the night; he hoped.

Again, the stairs creaked.

Stepping into the master hallway, Thomas inched his way slowly towards the top of the stairs.  Nervously, he glanced down the dark abyss expecting anything while praying for nothing.

The stairs were empty.  He was alone.

A shrill wind attacked him from behind.  He whirled around with the stirring iron gripped tight within his fingers, but laughed an uneasy laugh when he realized the breeze was coming from an open hallway window.  Thomas had left the window slightly ajar earlier only to have it pushed open by the late evening wind.

He crossed the hallway and locked the window shut.  Without a second thought, he turned back to the stairs to head back to his room.  He intended to finish the next chapter of that book before turning in for the night.

Good evening, Thomas, said the man at the top of the stairs.  It is a pleasure to see you.

Thomas let the stirring iron fall to his side.  How the hell did you get in here?

The man smiled.  I used the front door.  How do you think I got in?

Thomas stepped back a couple of inches.  That's impossible.  I locked the front door over an hour ago.

The smile grew deeper.  You must be mistaken.

I don't think so, he said as his eyes stared with suspicion at the man.

There are needs in this world that not even a locked door can contain, said the man.

Thomas's survival instincts took over his emotions again.  His muscles tensed and the stirring iron came back to its defensive position.

The man laughed.  Come on, Thomas.  You are going to need a lot more than that piece of useless metal.

What do you want from me?

He didn't answer.

Why are you here?

Still, no answer.

The hallway window, still not properly secured, flung itself open again.  The icy wind pounced on Thomas's back.

The man reached into his coat and pulled out a .44 Magnum revolver.  He aimed the receiving end of the barrel at Thomas.

What are you doing? said Thomas.  The fear on his face did not mask his surprise.  You work for me.

The man stared at Thomas and laughed at him for a couple of seconds.  It's the only way I can reach my goals.  You served your purpose long enough.  It's not my fault that you got in my way.

Thomas readied the stirring iron and lunged at the man.

The revolver fired a round.

Thomas took the round in the stomach and fell back against the window ledge with blood gushing from his wound.  His own weapon fell to the wooded floor.

The man watched as his victim slithered downward to the floor.  He waited until Thomas finished sliding before he raised the weapon again.

Unable to speak, Thomas pleaded to the man with his eyes resembling those of a wounded deer begging for mercy from a merciless hunter.  Seeing no mercy, his tearful eyes prayed for a miracle.

The man smiled to himself as he cocked the hammer of the revolver.  It was already too late for mercy, and it was too early for miracles.

The smile on the intruder's face killed any hope Thomas had left within him.  An explosion later, a little more than hope died with him.

CHAPTER 1

A crowd of reporters screamed questions at the man as he attempted to get through them to the building's entrance.  Police officers, with batons drawn to push back the charging journalists, forced a small path to make it through the crowd.  The path, as small as it was, allowed the man to continue to a police barricade that held back any crossers.  As the man was ushered through the crowd, a reporter stepped in front of him and brazenly stuck a microphone in front of his face.  After a quick debate with himself, he grabbed the reporter's microphone and threw it to the ground, the reporter stepping back in surprise.  Before anyone could do anything else, the man reached the safety of the police line.

Inspector, said one of the police officers to the man.  We're having trouble holding back the press.  They want answers.

Inspector James Rollerhan, one of three inspectors in the Los Angeles Police Department, glanced at the crowd before he turned back to the police officer.  They'll get their answers after we get ours.

The crowd rushed the police line as Inspector Rollerhan entered the building, but it was too late.  The door closed behind him.

The scene inside the house was one of utter chaos.  What was once an expensive estate home in Malibu was now a location for every piece of police equipment known to mankind.  Investigators were swarming through the place dusting for fingerprints, searching through private papers, and examining every item that looked like it might be important for further investigations.  If there wasn't a roof over the place, Rollerhan suspected that police helicopters would be in the air taking aerial photographs.

Who's in charge here? said Rollerhan after a couple of seconds.

A man on the other side of the living room looked up from a book he had been fingering through and noticed Rollerhan.  He rushed over to the inspector.  I'm in charge here, sir.

Inspector Rollerhan examined the man for a couple of seconds.  I know you, don't I?

We've worked together before, said the blond haired man in the tan blazer.  His badge hung from his belt.

Detective Paul Freemont, isn't it?

He smiled.  Yes, sir.

I remember.  We worked together on the freeway murders, didn't we?

Good memory, sir.  That was a long time ago.

Rollerhan took a quick look around.  We'd better not mention that case around here.  We didn't do too well on that one.

What brings you here? said Freemont.  Isn't this a Malibu crime?

The governor called our precinct, he said.  Thomas Scandler's headquarters was in Los Angeles.  In light of the political implications, he wants LA running the show.

Freemont stared at him for a couple of seconds.  You're serious, aren't you?

He nodded his head yes.  Your commander has authorized the use of assets in your department.  Until this case is solved, your precinct will fall under the control of the Los Angeles County jurisdiction.

I can't believe my commander agreed with this.

The order came down from the governor, said Rollerhan.  Under his orders, we are now part of an intercity task force that is to investigate this murder.  In case you didn't know, Thomas Scandler was the Republican forerunner in the next presidential election.

I didn't know that.

It wasn't released to the press yet, he said.  It was just decided the other night.  The governor wants results quick.

Well, said Freemont.  Feel free to take over.

Rollerhan glanced around the area for a couple of seconds.  Is this the normal procedure when you have a murder here?

What do you mean?

You have quite a few people here.  Aren't you worried that you might destroy evidence?

Our initial team has already gone through, he said.  I didn't allow the rest of the department in until the team was complete.

What have you found so far?

Thomas Scandler was reading a book last night when someone entered his house, probably through an upper floor window, and killed him with what we believe is either a .44 or .357 Magnum slug.  Two of them entered the body.  One of our men is trying to dig a slug out of the floor right now to determine its caliber.

Rollerhan noticed there was a police officer that was chipping at the hardwood floors with a screwdriver in hopes of chiseling out something stuck into the wood.  It didn't look like he was being very successful.

What happened to the book? said Rollerhan as he turned back to Freemont.

It was left in the study.  Scandler appeared to have heard something and went to investigate.  The book was still open to the last page he had been reading.

Any clues as to who might have done it?

None at the moment.

One of the police officers came over to Detective Freemont and Inspector Rollerhan.  He stared at Rollerhan for a couple of seconds before he turned to Freemont.  Sir, there is a call for an Inspector Rollerhan.

Freemont stared at him for a second before he turned back to Rollerhan.  Who knows you're here?

Rollerhan shrugged his shoulders and then grinned at Freemont.  The governor and the rest of the state.  That's about it.  Rollerhan turned to the police officer that brought the message.  Where's the phone?

The police officer ushered him through the house to the kitchen's telephone.  Here, sir.

Rollerhan picked up the phone.  Inspector Rollerhan.

A monotone voice came over the phone receiver.  Inspector, would you like to know who killed Thomas Scandler?

Daniel Parker and two of his assistants were led through the crowd of screaming reporters by a small detachment of police officers.  The large group of journalists and photographers did everything physically possible to block the door, which was Parker's ultimate destination.

One of the female reporters stepped in front of him and blocked off his path long enough to thrust her microphone into his face.  Her action forced him to take a step back.

Mr. Parker, she said.  What direction is Phoenix Industries planning to take?

Get out of my way, said Parker.  He didn't like being run down by reporters under any circumstance.  The death of his boss wasn't about to make him more acquiescent to their tactics.

Are you going to be staying in Los Angeles permanently? she said ignoring his outburst.  As Parker turned to avoid her, she turned with him and ended up in front of him again, determined to get a response from him no matter what it took.

Parker grabbed the reporter by the neck and threw her out of his way.  Before she could regain her balance and force her way back to him again, a police officer stood in front of her blocking her from repeating her action.

Parker attempted to force his way through the crowd with little success.  The police officers assigned to assist him found it hard to cut him away from the mob of reporters and spectators.  His assistants were already cut off from him several yards behind the wall of reporters.  They found it impossible to keep up with their boss.  Finally, they resigned their attempts and remained where they were until the police could reach them.

What do you know about Thomas Scandler's death? said another one of the reporters.

This question stopped Parker in his tracks.  He stood silent for a moment as police officers cleared a way through the crowd.  They cleared a path to the top of the stairs.

He walked to the top of the stairs and stopped.  He turned back around to face the crowd once he was within touching distance of the front door.  His assistants, finally reached by police officers, fought their way towards him.

He stared out at the crowd and waited until they stopped shouting questions at him.  His assistants reached him as the noise finally died down.

I apologize for not having the time to give a full statement to the press at this time, he said.  Unfortunately, I am in a bit of a hurry.  At the moment, we are not clear as to the course that Phoenix Industries is going to take.  There are a lot of programs that the late Thomas Scandler initiated that we are obligated to complete.  Beyond that, we have made no firm decisions or commitments.  The final choice of direction will be up to the new president once the stockholders have chosen one.

He turned to enter the building.  A wave of reporters attempted to reach him again.  Fortunately, the police officers were able to cut them off from him.

His aides remained amongst the reporters to answer any further questions.  After awhile the reporters realized they were not going to get an exclusive interview with Parker and accepted the fact that the statement from his aides would have to be their story for the present.

Once inside the office building, Parker took the elevator to the penthouse suite.  Entering the conference parlor room, he noticed that Thomas Scandler's secretary was still at her desk, fielding people who wanted to enter the conference room.  She smiled at him when he stepped into the parlor room.

Becky, he said.  How are you?

Fine, Dan.  How are you?

Has the meeting started?

They're waiting for you.  Go ahead.

When he entered the conference room, Marc Thompson and Robert Newsome were already seated around the round table that filled the entire room.  They sat at the far end almost next to each other behind their appropriate places, as if they were attending a weekly board meeting that everyone else forgot to attend.  Parker walked over to his own reserved spot, several chairs away from Marc, and sat down.

A smile came to Parker's face as he realized how empty the conference room looked without the rest of the cabinet.  The small group looked awkward as they were separated from the one seat, which was reserved for Thomas Scandler, the President of Phoenix Industries.  A sign which read:  We Do It Because No One Else Can, the motto of Phoenix Industries, hung on the wall over the seat that was located between Thompson and Newsome.

Marc Thompson was the current Executive Vice-President of Phoenix Industries, which explained why his chair was located directly to the right of the president's chair.  Robert Newsome, the President of the Stockholders' Association, sat to the left of what used to be Scandler's chair.  Parker sat two seats away from Marc; the seat to his left was reserved for Marc's executive secretary who was not invited to the present meeting.

Welcome, Daniel, said Newsome.  It's a shame you had to come back to Los Angeles under such circumstances.  I'm sure you are well acquainted with Mr. Thompson.

Yeah, he thought.  We're great buddies.

Marc Thompson, a brown-haired man of only thirty-nine years, wore a black, executive style, pinstriped suit.  It was unlike the stylish cut of Parker's sharp, blue designer suit.  He nodded his head when Parker turned to him.

This ought to be an interesting meeting, thought Marc to himself.  Just having to be in the same room with the slime is bad enough.

Good, said Newsome as he caught the glaring eyes of the two executives.  There was no mistaking the sneers that were passed between the two men.  Let's get on with our business here.

Mr. Thompson is the executive vice-president which made him second in command of the corporation during the time Scandler was president, said Newsome.  He turned to face Parker.  "You are the associate vice-president of the corporation in charge of east coast operations.  I'm sure it comes as no surprise to either one of you that the stockholders decided to make Marc the new president, and that you will fill Marc's old position as executive vice-president.  This does mean that you will have to move to Los Angeles.  A new vice-president will be appointed later in the week and sent to New York.

Do either of you have any objections to this arrangement?

Both men shook their heads no.