Cape May

“Houston, we have a problem.”

William smiled at Stacy as he watched her splash around while directing her float over to the dock. It was good to see her smile, even in response to his lame comment. He handed her a plastic cup of wine.

"Did you know that Captain Kidd pillaged these very waters in the late 17^th century?" William asked, as he watched her lounge. She wore a big floppy hat and sunscreen on her nose.

She nodded back and smiled. "Well, you look like a pirate. Birds of a feather . . ."

William Bern had met Stacy Mills at the home of a mutual friend. At first, the friend warned him away from her. She had lost her husband to cancer the previous year, 2011. It was too soon, the friend said, but William and Stacy hit it off. That was a month ago. Now, they were vacationing on Lake Lily at Cape May, New Jersey.  

He walked back towards the cabin. It was about 3 p.m. He planned to barbecue that night—steak, veggies, bread—just put it all on the grill. They would be good and hungry in a few hours.

He was amazed Stacy agreed to visit the lake with him. They had seen each other 10 times since meeting and were still just friends, sharing the rent of a cabin with two bedrooms. William didn’t want to rush things. Stacy needed some space, but he convinced her that it would be good to get away from her home, her job, and familiar surroundings in New York.

She seemed so happy at the lake, where you can sit and watch the birds and hear nature rather than constant traffic. William smiled. The weather that weekend was perfect, unseasonably warm. 

He had almost made it back to the cabin when he heard the scream.

The woman's body was under the dock, entwined in some netting. William helped the hysterical Stacy out of the water and called 911. 

The local police were used to these calls. The woman was likely a flood victim from Hurricane Sandy the previous October. More than 140 Americans died in the storm; bodies were still being recovered.

The coroner's van arrived at the lake. William and Stacy decided to pack and drive back to New York. This vacation was ruined, a small concern when they thought of the poor woman under the dock. The police took their contact information if they needed to reach them later.

The dead woman was identified as Marty Jennings. She had lived all of her 25 years in the small town of West Cape May. While the coroner concluded that she was a hurricane victim, he noted that she had a blow to the head and only a small amount of water in her lungs. Perhaps flying debris had killed her before the water carried her away.

Another hurricane victim was found a week later in Raritan Bay. Barbara Nickols was a low-level aide in the home office of U.S. Senator Ryson Clay. The 29-year-old had moved from Vermont just two years before, in search of her dream job in the New York-New Jersey area.

Barbara Nickols' parents were understandably distraught but relieved that their daughter's remains were recovered. They traveled to New Jersey to bring their youngest child home.

"We've made arrangements for the coroner to release Barbara's body this afternoon." Steve Simon, deputy chief of staff to Sen. Clay, sat behind his desk as he gave an update to Gwen and Owen Nickols. 

"I can't imagine what you and your family have been going through," Steve continued. "Unfortunately, the senator is speaking at a conference at Harvard and couldn't be here today.

In reality, the senator was rarely in his home office. If he wasn’t in DC, he was on the road. It was no secret he would be running in the upcoming presidential election.

“Senator Clay wanted me to let you know that the funeral costs will be covered. Anything you need, please, just call the office."

During the next half hour, Barbara's coworkers approached her parents to offer their condolences for their daughter, taken way too young. 

"You missed Barbara's parents, Jenny."

Jenny Hoover sat down at her desk and gazed at her coworker, Fran. "I'm sorry I wasn't here.

That doctor's appointment had been scheduled for weeks."

Jenny also found a good excuse not to attend Barbara's funeral. She couldn't go. She wondered if anyone on the senator's staff suspected that Barbara confided in her before she disappeared in October. 

That lunch with Barbara still kept Jenny awake at night. Barbara told her that she found an envelope taped to her desk. It was from Walter Hennings, a meeting scheduler for Sen. Clay. Walter had died in a one-car accident just days before.

"Jenny, I didn't see the envelope at first. It was under some papers. The envelope contained a key to Walter's locker at his gym." 

Barbara told Jenny that when she checked the locker, she found an envelope of papers. Walter left a note saying that if anything happened to him, it was no accident.

"Have you told anyone else?" Jenny asked, all the while wishing she wasn't Barbara's confidant.

"No, no one else. I'm sorry to burden you, but I had to tell someone. The papers are some sort of evidence that the senator is involved in a dirty land deal. I don't know what to do."

"Barbara, please, don't do anything. Destroy those papers. Don't do anything else. You don't want to end up like Walter, do you?"

Jenny convinced Barbara to keep up a somewhat stoic workplace demeanor over the following weeks. And then the hurricane hit, and Barbara was gone.

"So, you can't make it to the funeral, Hoover?" 

Jenny realized that Steve Simon was standing in front of her desk. She tried to remain calm. "No, sorry--family stuff--we've planned it for months."

Steve gave her a small smile. "Well, I'm sure Barbara would understand."

Jenny did her best to act natural as he walked away. She felt her insides shifting. Did Steve suspect that she knew something about Walter's death? Was Barbara's death also a murder? She suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Her friend was dead. Barbara was courageous; she wasn't. 

Jenny told herself that she had been acting in Barbara's best interest by encouraging her to destroy Walter's evidence. But did Barbara destroy it? Did she share the evidence with someone else? Did that get her killed?

A week before her death, Barbara made a fire in her fireplace--with plans to burn Walter's papers. At the last second, she pulled them out of the fire. Her conscience couldn't allow it. Walter trusted her when he left the envelope on her desk. She had to do something.

Armand Dunn was a reporter who had just been hired by the New York Times. Barbara had been introduced to him at a wedding; it took two days for her to gather the courage to contact him. She called from a pay phone a mile from her apartment. He was definitely interested in her information.

Armand and Barbara decided to meet at a bowling alley in the town of Erma—very out of the way. But, as fate would have it, Armand would see someone from his past. 

Marty Jennings worked in the bowling alley cafe. As she approached the table, Armand recognized her as an old high school classmate. They briefly exchanged pleasantries. Marty had read a few of his Times articles. Armand introduced Barbara, and Marty took their order of coffee and pie. Armand and Barbara were finally alone.

“Just looking over these papers, it looks like our fine senator exchanged top political posts for 50,000 acres of valuable property.”

Seeing the fear in Barbara’s eyes made him fearful, too. “I’m afraid if you report on this, they’ll know it was me,” she said.

“Well, maybe Walter picked you because he figured no one would suspect you. For all they know, Walter already talked to me. He’s gone. You’re doing the right thing; it’ll be OK.”

Barbara tried to calm down and focus on friends, her cats, and the approaching holidays. Then, a week later, Hurricane Sandy hit.

“Chief, do you remember that Sandy victim at Lake Lily, the girl who washed up by the dock?” 

Detective Chuck Engling was peering into Ray Andrew’s office, interrupting a meeting that the police chief was having with his forensics team.

“Chuck, this really isn’t a good time.”

“We just had a guy come in with some information. He’s got quite a story to tell.”

Chief Andrew’s meeting was postponed. The two men gathered in a room with a nervous young man. 

Detective Engling began. 

 “Mr. Johns, good afternoon. Your first name is Matt? What do you have to share with us?” 

“Yes, sir, Matt Johns. I’m really not sure what I have. I knew Marty Jennings; she died in the storm.

“You saw something odd involving Ms. Jennings?” asked Chief Andrew.

“It is quite odd, with what I learned recently,” Matt said. “One night last October, I was bowling. I go bowling a lot, and I knew Marty. She worked at the bowling alley café. Well, I looked over and saw Marty talking with this couple. They didn’t speak long, but it was obvious she knew the man. She told me later that his last name was Dunn and that he worked for the New York Times.”

“OK, so why did you find it odd?”

“Well, Marty told me the woman at the table was named Barbara,” Matt continued. “I read recently that she also died in Sandy; they just found her body.”

“Maybe it was a different Barbara,” said Chief Andrew.

“Well, I remember her face. She was blond, very pretty—I recognized her photo. That wasn’t a face I would forget.”

Matt’s voice got low. “I would have thought it was weird—to have both Marty and Barbara die in the storm, but then I read that the reporter was found dead.”

“Yes, Dunn, Times,” said Engling, looking at his computer. “He was found hanging in his apartment, no suicide note.”

“Isn’t that beyond strange? All three dead within weeks?” asked Matt.

Engling observed the young man. “Do you know any more? Did Ms. Jennings tell you anything else?”

“No. I just wanted you to know that I saw the three of them together, in case there’s some connection to what happened. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Well, there may be a connection,” said Andrew. “Thank you for coming in. Make sure we have your phone number and other information in case we need to talk later.”

After Matt left, Engling looked at the chief. “This is going to be very interesting to the police in Trenton. They finally found the reporter’s notes, you know. They weren’t in his apartment. They were in a safe at the Times.

“Do you think someone followed Barbara Nickols that night? Do you think the women and the reporter were really murdered?” asked Andrew. “There was no sign of foul play with Barbara.”

“She supposedly drowned, but just like Marty, there was little water in her lungs,” said Engling. “Maybe they used succinylcholine on her; there would be no trace of it. It looks like Marty was blunt force trauma.”

“When they found Armand Dunn, it appeared to be autoerotic asphyxiation, an accidental death,” added Andrew.

“Maybe it was his final humiliation,” said Engling. “It wasn’t enough just to kill him; they had to make the public think he was into kinky sex. I bet Senator Clay isn’t the only politician who would like to see this done to a reporter.”

Andrew shrugged. “Well, if all these loose ends add up, the senator and his handlers are going to have a lot to answer for, indeed.”

The Times story hit on a slow news day. The reality that a top politician would trade political posts for property wasn’t all that shocking in the current political climate, but the senator had plans to run for president. The preface to the story mentioned Armand Dunn’s recent death.

During a press conference, New Jersey senior Senator Greg McDonald was asked about the growing scandal. Sen. McDonald expressed shock over the unfolding story. “Senator Clay owes the American people the complete truth. I understand that he has met with New Jersey authorities. As this is an ongoing investigation, I can provide no additional comments at this time.”

In response to a reporter’s shouted question, Sen. McDonald said he was dismayed over the scandal surrounding a member of his own political party.

Jenny Hoover cried every day before going to her office. She hated going in, but she knew that resigning now would just draw more attention to herself. She had been close to one of the dead staffers, which already brought her under the radar of Steve Simon, Clay’s top guy.

Jenny didn’t know if she should contact the FBI or the police. If she did, would she suddenly be put in a witness protection program, cut off from her normal life and family? She had an acquaintance at Sen. McDonald’s office, so she reached out to him.

Tim Bonner agreed to meet Jenny in a parking garage three blocks from her office. She couldn’t bring herself to go to work that day, so she called in sick and spent the day in bed.

As Jenny drove up to the 8^th floor, she noticed the lack of cars. It was 7 p.m. on a Friday and most of the office workers who used the garage were long gone.

She stood nervously by her car for five minutes and then walked to a concrete column, where she had a better view. She had about given up on Tim when she saw a figure approach. It wasn’t Tim; it was Sen. McDonald.

“Hello—ah, Jenny, is it?”

“Yes, senator.” She was shocked to see him. “I’m waiting to meet a member of your staff.”

“Yes, well, I thought you and I would have a chat instead. This is a big deal, what your boss is involved in.”

Jenny wasn’t sure what to say or how to react. A very important senator was standing three feet from her, and she had information on another senator. The fear spread over her.

“Sir, I don’t think I have information that would interest you.”

“Oh, I think you do. I think you have an idea of what happened to your two coworkers, for example.”

Jenny lost all her nerve. “I really don’t have any information. I was meeting with Tim to find out what your office knows.”

“Tim is a loyal guy. I admire loyalty. I’ve learned that you can’t really buy loyalty, but you certainly can rent it for awhile. Your boss, the senator, was never loyal. He and I had an arrangement. I was going to be president, not him. I helped him get elected to the Senate.”

Jenny stood frozen. Why was McDonald telling her all this?

“Sometimes you have to do—let’s say, unconventional things to get what you want. Steve Simon in your office understands this. He has been loyal and helped me learn the bitter truth about your boss—or at least the truth as we see it. The chaos of a hurricane aided our plans. Steve Simon will be rewarded. Clay will never be president. He’ll likely go to prison. Of course, I don’t know what details you know.

Jenny took two tentative steps back towards her car. McDonald advanced.

“Steve was going to visit you tonight, but I really enjoy doing these things myself. Fewer people involved, you know. Too bad you got involved; you’re a nice girl.

Jenny saw him pull a syringe from his pocket and advance towards her. “A dirty land deal wasn’t enough—not sexy. You’ve got to add suspicion of homicide to really ruin a political career. The bodies are stacking up. Don’t worry; your death will be painless.

Jenny’s reacted automatically, using training from a high school karate class. She kicked and knocked the syringe out of his hand. Screaming, she ran to her car. In one fluid motion, she opened the door and put the key in the ignition. McDonald grabbed the door, and Jenny hit the panic button on her key fob. Adrenaline flowed through her. She closed the door on his hand; he yowled in pain.

As McDonald moved back from the car, clutching his hand, Jenny started the ignition and pulled away. She felt for her phone in the passenger seat. She drove two blocks and then dialed 911.

Three days later, there was no other story on the news.

Breaking News: “Sen. Greg McDonald and Steve Simon of Sen. Ryson Clay’s office have been formally charged with the recent murders of four individuals—two in Clay’s office. In addition, McDonald was charged in the attempted murder of a staff member in Clay’s office. McDonald and Simon also have been charged with attempting to frame Senator Clay in a scheme of exchanging land for political posts. Charges for other individuals may be forthcoming. As we report tonight, the waves of trouble for Sen. McDonald and his associates go far and wide. We will have more after the break.”