Joe Victim: A Thriller

Only a few people know what Schroder really did. Theodore Tate. A few other cops. And Caleb Cole, because Cole is the person who made him shoot that woman. There are two things Schroder is counting on. First, nobody would believe Cole if he told them what really happened. Second, Cole agreed to keep his mouth shut in order to stay out of general population. Cole had spent fifteen years in general population and it had not gone well for him. He would do anything to stop going back. Plus Cole has a somewhat fucked-up moral system, a real sense of what’s right and wrong. Making Schroder kill that old woman was right. Talking about it was wrong. Cole had wanted that woman to pay, and Schroder had made that happen. So Cole was indebted to him. In some weird way.

Schroder stands while he waits. He’s tired. His baby boy woke up every two hours, and his daughter crept down into their room around three a.m. for cuddles. Before he had kids, he never thought it possible to like them. Sometimes, like last night, he sees he was right in thinking that.

Joe is finally brought in. He doesn’t look healthy. Not many people in jail do. He can still remember last year when the Carver investigation was wrapping up. He was also dealing with another case that involved Theodore Tate and a bunch of corpses found in a lake at the cemetery, and he was dealing with being a dad. When the pieces all fell together at the end in the Carver case, he simply couldn’t believe it. He felt sick. Betrayed. For a few minutes he refused what the evidence was telling him. They all did. Joe Middleton wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t be. There was a mistake. Only there was no mistake. Not only could Joe Middleton be their guy, he was their guy.

Joe sits down in the chair and is handcuffed to it. Schroder doesn’t see any point in pleasantries. He’ll save small talk for the innocent.

“Okay, Joe. What’s your answer? I have other places to be, so don’t jerk me around.”

Joe holds his hand up. “Slow down, cowboy,” he says. “We’re still waiting for my lawyer.”

He wasn’t expecting to hear the L word. “What?”

“If we’re going to agree to anything, I want my lawyer to be here. I think you’d want that for me, to make sure my rights aren’t being tackled over.”

“It’s trampled over.”

“What is?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Schroder says. He had seen Joe’s lawyer out in the waiting area. A guy by the name of Kevin Wellington. He had just assumed Wellington was waiting to speak to another of his clients—why he assumed that he doesn’t know. Just bad detective work, he guesses. One more reason to suggest his firing wasn’t such a bad thing. Well, at least he doesn’t have rainwater dripping off his clothes today.

It takes another minute, but then Wellington walks into the room and sits in a spare chair next to Schroder. He’s wearing a cologne that for a few seconds tickles the back of Schroder’s nose. They don’t shake hands.

“Why am I here, Joe?” Wellington asks, and it’s not hard hearing the contempt in his voice. He wonders if it’s that contempt which has kept Wellington alive. Joe’s first two lawyers were full of bravado, they were keen to make names for themselves and it didn’t end well for them. The body of the first lawyer still hasn’t been found.

“Because Schroder has a deal for us, don’t you Schroder?”

“What kind of deal?” the lawyer asks, sounding interested, but only barely. Schroder is starting to warm up to the guy.

“First of all, let me start out by saying I don’t remember killing anybody,” Joe says, and Schroder glances at the lawyer and the lawyer has the same look Schroder must have on his own face, and he bets Joe hates being the subject of that look. Is it possible that Joe, somehow, can really believe people are going to buy his story? If so, then perhaps he really is insane.

“Come on, Joe,” Schroder says, “don’t waste our time.”

“What kind of deal are you offering?” the lawyer asks. “No, wait, are you still even a cop?”

“Not anymore,” Joe says. “He was fired. Why don’t you tell us why, Carl?”

“I’m not here in the interests of the prosecution,” Schroder says. “I’m here with a private deal from Jonas Jones.”

For the first time Wellington looks genuinely interested. He puts his elbows on the table and shifts his weight forward. “The psychic? I don’t—” he says, but Joe interrupts him before he can add see where this is going.

“He wants me to help him find one of the bodies,” Joe says.

“He what?”

“In return for fifty thousand dollars,” Schroder says.

The lawyer tilts his head and frowns. Then his elbows come off the table and his weight shifts in the back of the chair. This is about to get difficult, Schroder is sure of it.

“I hope you haven’t agreed to this,” the lawyer says.

“Not yet.”

The lawyer turns to Schroder. “I get it,” he says. “You want my client to give you the location of one of the bodies for Jones to find—and you want this done quietly, for which my client will be rewarded—and Jonas wants to take credit for it. That’s it, isn’t it? Jones wants to show the world he’s a true psychic.”

Schroder is shocked at how quickly the lawyer figured that out. And perturbed. If the lawyer is that good, then that could be a problem. Nobody wants to see Joe be given a good defense. “Something like that,” he says.

“Something? Or exactly like that?”