Wrongful Accusations-Chapter 1
A child’s father murdered
Wrongful Accusations is a thrilling mystery following P. I. Sandra "Sassy" Johnson as she takes on a case to clear the name of a woman who has been wrongfully accused of killing her daughter's father. With her sharp wit and determination, Sassy must navigate the deception to uncover the truth and bring justice to the accused. Will Sassy be able to clear the woman's name and bring the real killer to justice? Or will she or someone close to her become the next victim in this dangerous game of murder?
It was November 1st, and I was bundled up at my desk, with a blanket around me and a portable heater blasting hot air in my direction. My head was pounding from the previous night's celebrations, making it difficult for me to focus on my final report for my last case. Being a Halloween baby can be tough, as it often feels like I've had bad luck my whole life. I can break away from the cycle occasionally, but the freedom never lasts long.
My name is Sassy Johnson, and I am a private detective. I make a good amount of money, but I try not to spend it all, as I have to be prepared for the periods when I don't have a steady caseload. The party I attended wasn't thrown in my honor; I simply went to a Halloween party with my boyfriend, Jerry.
"We look as good as Homer and Marge Simpson, that blue hair just does something to me," Jerry said as we got into the car.
"Thanks, but you know I disagree with people wearing hair that isn't a natural color. I know I'm not a natural redhead, but red is a real hair color. No one is born with blue or green hair," I replied.
"Sassy, you can never take a compliment and just say thank you. Why does everything turn into a debate with you?" Jerry asked.
"I don't know, I'm just a natural cynic I guess. I'll try to do better," I said, leaning in to kiss Jerry as I caressed his inner thigh. "So, Homey, would you like to show me how much you appreciate me?"
"DOE," he said, and accelerated, turning our 15-minute drive into an 8-minute race.
I was pulled out of my daydream by a frantic knock on my office door. I was relieved that my rented space was in a building where all I had to do was push a button to unlock the door and invite my visitor in. I looked at the video camera to see who was at my door. I don't like letting just anyone into my office, but it wasn't some shady character. It was a couple, and I could see that the woman was dabbing her eyes. Oh no! I hate to see people cry because it always makes me cry. So, I mentally prepared myself, putting on my serious private investigator countenance, and let the couple in.
"How may I help you?" I asked as the man and woman sat in the chairs in front of my desk.
"I need your help," the woman said, wiping her nose. "I've been accused of murdering my daughter's father. You have to help me; I'm too pretty to go to jail."
I looked the plus-sized woman over, thinking that if I was a horny woman in prison, that lady would not even be in my top ten people to seduce. "Did you kill him, Mrs. …?"
"Ms. Heard, Pearce and I aren't married yet," she said, looking at the gentleman next to her. He just smiled and remained silent. I could tell he hears this a lot. "No, I did not kill him. He was a sorry excuse for a man, but I wouldn't kill him. My daughter, Nedra, is devastated."
"So, who do you think killed him, Mr. Pearce?"
"Clayton. My name's Pearce Clayton. I don't know who killed the wanna-be African warrior, but it wasn't Shannon or myself," he replied.
"I am an employee of the Internal Revenue Service and am required to abide by the law," Ms. Heard stated. I chose not to comment on her statement and instead asked, "Why do you refer to him as an African warrior?"
Ms. Heard explained, "He is originally from Senegal and had been living in Memphis for about six years when I met him. Joshua Bendele had almost no accent, so I didn't know he was from Africa until I heard him speaking with his sister on the phone. I was surprised, but I didn't want him to think that it mattered whether he was African or African American. It didn't at the time, but later on, I realized he was different from any guy I had ever been with."
"In what way?" I inquired.
"In the bedroom," she whispered, causing Mr. Clayton to roll his eyes. "He didn't know how to use the equipment that God had blessed him with," Mr. Clayton added, eliciting a giggle from Ms. Heard.
"Alright, tell me what happened, Ms. Heard. “Why do the police think you killed Mr. Bendele?" I asked.
“Well, I sleep very lightly. Every little sound, that’s outside of the norm, wakes me up. So a couple of weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night because I heard people talking outside in front of my house. Then I noticed that they all were gesturing towards a long bundle of something lying at the curb. Within seconds the police came to investigate.
My neighbors talked to the police for a few minutes, and just when I had made up my mind to go outside and see what was happening, the police noticed me standing in the window. They shined that annoyingly bright light in my face and motioned for me to come outside. When I opened the front door the officer was already standing on my porch talking into his walkie-talkie thing. I guess he was calling for backup. I unlocked the security door and stepped out on the porch.”
“Why didn’t you invite the officer in?”
“He had on a uniform but he hadn’t shown me his badge. For all I knew he could have been a police officer impersonator.”
“Come on, Ms. Heard, if you thought that, you wouldn’t have opened the door let alone gone outside to talk to him.”
“Well…I didn’t invite him in because the house was dirty.”
“What do you mean dirty? Like drugs or something?”
“No nothing like that, I mean messy. My housekeeper only comes once a week and in between times, my house looks a mess. I don’t like people to come over when it’s not tidy. Not even Pearce,” she pats his hand and he whispers that he understands, but I ask the question that I’m sure he’s asked or at least wanted to.
“Why don’t you ‘tidy’ it yourself?”
“It’s not that simple. I work a full-time job, I go to school twice a week, I have to run errands, and I have to tend to Nedra. She’s four and she is a handful. It’s just so hard to find the time or the energy to keep the house clean. I hate doing dishes and folding laundry. I can cook more often since I have someone else to clean my kitchen. Kadijah does everything I hate doing when she comes on Thursdays. I love her. She never complains, at least not where I can hear,” Ms. Heard giggles.
This woman was accused of murder and she was laughing. Boy, and this was the type of person that demands that I file and pay my taxes every year. No wonder the government is screwed up. “So, Ms. Heard, can I assume that Mr. Bendele’s body was in this big bag that was at the curb in front of your house?”
“Yes, someone put the bastard, sorry, I mean Joshua in my father’s old military bag. I could see HEARD stitched on the side despite all of the…blood…stains,” and then she started crying again.
I felt sorry for that lady. She was kind of slow mentally, but I thought that she was innocent. I just had to figure out who set her up. I gave Ms. Heard the contract to fill out. As she and Mr. Clayton read the contract together, I wondered what his story was. Does he love this woman enough to kill for her? Or is he just a good guy trying to help his woman through a bad situation? I was going to find out.
“Ms. Heard, please be sure to fill out the section where it asks for the names and contact information of the people closest to you. I will need to interview them individually to get their take on the situation.”
“Okay, Ms. Johnson.”
“You both can call me Sassy. I think we are going to be communicating a lot with each other so just think of me as a good friend.”
“Thanks, Sassy. How would you like your retainer to be cash all right?” Mr. Clayton asked.
“Cash is great. Let me write you a receipt.” I counted out the thousand dollars, keyed the amount into my computer. I printed a receipt with all of our names, the amount paid, and the date. I handed it to Mr. Clayton who in turn handed it to Ms. Heard. I shuddered to think that she was the brains behind the operation.
“You can call us Shannon and Pearce. I appreciate you helping me.”
“I haven’t done anything yet,” I said, as we all stood up.
“But I know you’ll find the real murderer. You can tell that you have a discerning spirit. You can see if someone is good or bad.” Then she did something a client of mine had never done, she hugged me. My waterworks almost got started but I held them back. When Shannon finally let me go, Pearce shook my hand and then they were gone.
I guess I had warmed up while they were there but a chill came over me after they left. Wow! I had a lot of work ahead of me.