Murder on the Lunatic Fringe (Jubilant Falls Series Book 4) by Debra Gaskill Read Free Book Online Page B

off to boarding school and other things took precedence. After I’d started covering crime here in Jubilant Falls, I sure knew the meaning of hookers and junkie mothers.
    That face on the photo always denied he was my father, even though his name, Benjamin Thomas Kinnon, was listed on my birth certificate. By the time the court decided my mother wasn’t fit to keep me, finding who my daddy was didn’t seem to be a big concern. So Benny Kinnon vanished into the Indiana sunset, only to show up twenty years later, here in Jubilant Falls.
    “We weren’t sure if you were related to our suspect,” Assistant Chief McGinnis said. “But with the same last name, we had to ask. We believe he could be tied up with a group known as the Aryan Knights, an off-shoot group of the KKK.”
    “The Aryan Knights?” I asked. “I don’t know anything about them.”
    “They are primarily white supremacist, anti-African American, anti-Mexican, and very violent. They espouse strictly traditional male and female roles, which are often enforced through domestic violence. Not surprisingly, many of them are fundamentalist Christians with extremely right-wing views.” Chief G. took another sip from his coffee.
    “They recruit primarily via word of mouth and hold recruiting meetings in member’s homes, which make them difficult to track. We’d heard through some confidential informants that meetings have been held at Doyle McMaster’s place out in the county.”
    Doyle McMaster was a well-known thug and all-around asshole. If he punched Duncan, it would be a misdemeanor assault, another in a long list and wouldn’t amount to more than a short item in the police blotter.
    I intentionally hadn’t mentioned Benjamin to Addison when I’d heard her husband Duncan’s name come over the scanner Saturday. No sense adding fuel to the fire on that story.
    And, truth was, I didn’t think I wanted to answer any of her questions. Benjamin Kinnon wasn’t anybody’s business but mine.
    I left the photo on the table and went into the bedroom. I got down on my knees and pulled out a small battered shoebox, the one containing all my worldly goods while I was in foster care.
    Mother asked that it be thrown out soon after I came home from court with her. I begged our maid to let me keep the little box, which held yellowing photos of Mother holding me as an infant on her lap, a small metal toy truck with chipped red paint, a bright blue rabbit’s foot charm and a small teddy bear with an arm nearly ripped off, the stuffing falling out like so much white, puffy muscle. The box’s corners were duct-taped together and at one point, someone strapped clear packing tape around the box to keep the lid on. At the bottom of the box, I found what I was searching for: my kindergarten photo, the only professional photo I would have taken until I came out of foster care.
    I was wearing a striped navy and green shirt that day. My hair was tousled and I had a bewildered look on my face, like the picture had been snapped before I knew what was going on. I walked back to the table and laid the picture next to Benjamin’s.
    I shivered at the resemblance: We were both tall and lanky, our faces were thin, and we shared prominent cheekbones and Adam’s apples. No doubt, I was Benjamin Kinnon’s son.
    Across the room, the police scanner crackled to life:
    “Engine 26, Medic 26, Rescue 26, Technical Rescue Team—report of a hiker falling off the path at Canal Lock Park and into the gorge. Victim is located about four hundred feed off main path on a rock ledge. Victim is a 21-year-old male, possible broken leg. He is conscious and in contact with friends at the top of the gorge by cell phone.”
    Sounds like a story to me.
    I grabbed a napkin, scribbling notes on it as the fire chief requested the medical helicopter from the trauma center in Collitstown be put on standby.
    Canal Lock Park was the historic reminder of Jubilant Fall’s founder McGregor Shanahan, who tried