Rather that endure the sounds of the interstate again, I found a slightly nicer extended stay place, at two fifty per week. When I checked the bank balances, they appeared to be untouched. I put holds on the savings and checking accounts. We had a lockbox with the paperwork for a few small CDs, but that key was at home in my nightstand. The lawyer will need to tell me how to handle this and Rhonda's car.
My phone was clogged with voice mails and texts. They were from Rhonda, my parents, her parents, my brother, and several numbers not in my contact's list. I neither wanted their advice nor did I have the stomach to handle the drama at this point. They remained untouched as I had no desire to listen to anyone.
The evening news spent a lot of time on Gloria's disappearance. They disclosed the link to the recently pardoned felon. The vindictive loser of the election had emptied the solitary confinement cells, using his right to pardon. My blood was boiling.
They cut to a live interview, with a tearful older couple, so I unmuted.
"Please, if you have Gloria, let her go. She has two children who need her."
The crawler, at the bottom of the screen, identified the older couple as Mark and Cindy Gleason, Gloria's parents.
Amongst many other things that ripped my heart apart, were the flyers that people had put up around town. Searching for press tidbits, on the internet, I found nothing. There were several abusive comments about how the slut got what was coming to her. Slutting should be punished, but dying at the hands of someone already behind bars serving life without parole is not one of them. As much as I hate to admit it, I was wishing it had been Rhonda who had hooked up with the murderer. At least that way, no children would be left motherless. I no longer recognized some of the thoughts I was having.
With the television muted again, I started going through the voice mails and texts. I tried to listen and read them in the sequence they were left. As far as Rhonda, hers were laughably predictable. She was sorry. It was stupid. She loved me. If she thought that line of crap was winning me back, she couldn't have been more delusional.
When I got to the messages and texts from the relatives, it was very clear that Rhonda hadn't disclosed her Friday night activities. I guess the shock of Sunday had blinded me. The realization that this probably wasn't the first time that the slut sisters had done this finally hit me. Like being swamped by a tsunami, my emotions were now battered and raw. They'd been doing their 'line dancing' about eight times a year, for at least two years.
It took a few hours to wade through all of the voice mails, emails, and text messages. I sent a text to my brother and parents, letting them know that I was safe and to please leave me alone for the time being.
Tuesday evening's meeting, with the divorce lawyer, was very productive. Rhonda would be served no later than Thursday. Tuesday and Wednesday's news shows contained nothing new. Gloria was still missing and the felon hadn't been spotted.
Thursday afternoon, my cell phone was dancing with texts and missed calls from Rhonda. Educated guess is that she's been served. I'll wait until this evening, in my hotel room, to listen to them. Thankfully our company parking lot is secured, so no outsiders can get in. That meant Rhonda couldn't ambush me. What it didn't prevent was Rhonda following me when I left the parking lot. It took over fifteen minutes before I was able to shake free.
The nightly news said there was a rally planned on Saturday to scour the wooded area north of the nightclub. The saddest news was that the felon had been apprehended two states over. He was being held, pending extradition. The blood stains, in his car, had been identified as belonging to Gloria. My blood pressure was at an all-time high. Somebody should put that fucking politician in the ground. My thoughts about Rhonda and the felon weren't much better. What am I becoming?
I did a boys varsity game on Thursday night and another on Friday. It really helped me to focus away from my declining mental state.
+ + + +
My attempt to get Saturday off failed. Too many people on vacation or out sick. I really wanted to help with the search party. The television, in the break room, was turned on, but the volume was down low. I couldn't locate the remote to up the volume, but the breaking news was the discovery of a body. I really didn't know Gloria, but I was an emotional mess. Somebody needs to pay for this. Maybe it wasn't Gloria that they found. Hope springs eternal. It was hard to concentrate, but I soldiered on. After my shift, I found a sports bar and drank my dinner. Thankfully I didn't have a basketball game to officiate, as I would have had to cancel.
Across the pool tables, a television was tuned into the local channel. Gloria's picture was shown with the caption 'Missing woman found dead.' I sat there crying. I'd never been with someone who would be dead a few hours later. It hit me hard.
When I left the sports bar I had to walk past some smokers. The smell of their cigarettes sent me into a rage. I guess it triggered the memory of Rhonda coming home that Friday night. I was shouting, screaming, and stomping around the parking lot like a mad man. After weaving several circles around the parked cars, an officer grabbed me. Crying out to him about Gloria, we agreed that I shouldn't drive.
Taking a ride share back to my hotel, and then another to pick up my car Sunday morning, I felt like shit. The alcohol hadn't removed the searing pain in my heart. I blamed lots of people, including Rhonda. Being the only one without kids, was she the driving force behind 'letting loose'? I had thoughts of putting her in the ground, and the convict, and the politician.
It had been three days since I last checked emails, texts, and voice mails. What a backlog. None of my relatives lived close by, and I didn't want to bother anybody I worked with, but I needed to talk with somebody. Who better than a bartender? Nope, my head and stomach were still not happy with me for last night. I started through the voice mails and texts. Rhonda's voice, both when she was served and when Gloria was found, echoed with pain. I wasn't the only one hurting. Her parents begged me to reconsider. My mother wanted to hear my voice.
A brief talk with my parents helped some. Not enough to reconsider taking Rhonda back, but it did allow me to vent on politicians, convicts, and sluts. After just a few minutes I was ranting and raving and hung up. I was becoming withdrawn, angry, and thinking things I'd never thought possible. I was scaring myself, but nobody was there to help.
Leaving the grocery store, Monday night, I encountered another group of smokers. It triggered my rage again. This time I sat in my car and vented. I know it scared the lady I'd parked next to. She looked very frightened as she loaded her groceries and children. As I sat in my car, pounding on the steering wheel, I saw the sign for an indoor shooting range.
The only thing I'd ever fired was a cap gun when I was but a lad. They wouldn't let me borrow a weapon to fire, but I could and did sign up for shooting lessons. They were more than happy to take my money. Since I was now a student in their class, they armed me with a rifle.
I went through a box of shells without coming close to the bullseye. If bullseyes talk to each other, I'm sure mine was telling the others to come on over as they'd be safe. My shoulder was begging me to stop and my arms weren't all that happy with me either. All things considered, it was therapeutic. Off to the sporting goods store to get the paperwork started for buying a rifle. It would be a few days before I was cleared to make the purchase. That's fine as I just wanted to return to the range and hone my skills.
On Wednesday night a very agitated Mark Gleason, Gloria's father, was bemoaning how the miscreant had pardoned his daughter's killer.
'I'm an attorney and I will represent, for free, whoever puts an end to this travesty.'
You could see the shock in the reporter's eyes. Mark refused to answer any further questions.
The news anchor stated that the former politician was unavailable for comment. That asshole better stay in hiding.
+ + + +
If I had been sane, I probably wouldn't have thrown the rifle off of the bridge into the lake. I failed to consider the obvious, that homeless people sleep under the bridge. Hearing a car stop and then a splash far from the shore was something several had no problem reporting to the police.
Yes, it was my gun. Yes, my fingerprints were the only ones found on the gun. The ballistic fingerprints proved that the fatal shot came from my rifle. The spent shell did not contain my fingerprints. Nobody witnessed the crime. Although I had no alibi, nothing could place me near the shooting. Borrowing a car, and leaving my cell phone in my hotel room, bought me that reasonable doubt.
Mark Gleason's closing statement certainly helped.
"Ask yourself this. How are you going to feel when the police announce that they have arrested someone who admits to stealing Mr. Taylor's gun? Someone who admits to stalking his prey. Someone who's cell phone and car can be traced to the exact spot where the spent gun shell was found. Are any of these things possible? Of course they are. The prosecution has failed to prove their case. You must acquit Mr. Taylor."
Six hours later, a somewhat flustered judge asked "So say you one? So say you all?"
One by one the jurors affirmed the not guilty verdict. We all knew I was guilty. But, in the eyes of the legal system, I was innocent. A jury of my peers felt that the crime MAY have been committed by someone else. One well-placed shot cut short the government sponsored retirement of a very perverted politician. Reasonable doubt was helped by the prosecutor who wasn't out for blood. He'd originally convicted three of the now pardoned criminals, and wasn't willing to waste much time or effort bringing justice to this case.
Mark Gleason beamed as we all accepted congratulations. He was masterful in defusing the prosecutions damning evidence. True to his word, he did all of the legal work pro-bono.
I was firmly embraced by Mark and then Cindy Gleason. Chad, Gloria's widower, and I cried on each other's shoulders. Nancy, Andrea, and Rhonda were all present although they did not sit together. None were accompanied by a male companion. All ended up patting me on the hand. Rhonda wanted to talk, which was something we hadn't done since that fateful Sunday. In a sense, I wanted closure, but felt that there was no good reason to ever speak with her again.
