Chapter 14: After Dark

The clock on the bullpen wall hit 6:47 p.m. Most of KCPD was packing up for the night. Detectives Dan Whitaker and Ray Mendez were not most of KCPD.

Detective Dan Whitaker rubbed his temples at his cluttered desk, a half-drunk cup of coffee going cold beside him. Mendez stood near the evidence board, staring at the crime scene photos like they might suddenly confess.

“So,” Mendez said, tapping the photo of the burned warehouse. “We’ve got a dead body that wasn’t killed by the fire. Skull hit hard enough to crack bone. No soot in the lungs. Means whoever he is—he was dead before the place went up.”

Whitaker nodded. “And now we know Alicia Wilson’s prints were on that keycard. Along with Martin Geary’s.”

Mendez crossed his arms. “Which means we need to talk to Martin’s parole officer. If he skipped the halfway house, maybe someone knows who he was spending time with.”

Whitaker took a slow breath. “Or who was spending time with him?”

They exchanged a look.
Not good.
Not random.

Mendez rifles through some papers on the desk, “The parole officer is Mark Rausch. He’s all of 24, so this will be great.” Mendez grabbed his jacket. “I’ll set up the appointment.”

Whitaker stood. “Alright. Let’s go. We will start fresh in the morning. Every road keeps pointing back to the same damned people.”

Mendez points out, “Doesn’t that mean they are the guilty party?”

Whitaker lets out a big sigh, “I am not quite sure anymore, but I can tell you probably does.” He points to Jaxson Lee on their board.

The Smoking Gun 7:11 p.m. — Before Opening

The Smoking Gun sat on Choteau Trafficway like a broken neon promise—pink lights flickering, windows tinted dark, an old marquee that hadn’t worked right since the 80s.

Inside smelled of perfume, cheap beer, sweat, and glitter that never fully left the carpet. Two dancers sat in the dressing room with Marla Simmons, both halfway through changing for their shifts—eyelashes on, heels strapped, robes hanging off shoulders.

One was Linda Rae, short, blonde, tattoos along her spine.
The other, Tammy Lynn, tall, brunette, chewing gum like it was keeping her alive.

Marla held her notebook steady.
“You both worked with Melissa Stockman?”

Linda Rae nodded. “Five years. She was fun. Left her shit all over the place, but fun.”

Tammy snorted. “She always thought she was gonna be discovered.”

Marla leaned in. “Did she have someone… serious? A boyfriend? Someone new?”

Linda Rae hesitated, thinking. “She talked a lot about some guy. Like… a fairy tale. Said he was rich. Said he’d get her out of this place.”

“Rich how?” Marla asked. “Businessman? Local?”

Tammy shrugged. “Don’t know. She said she met him online. AOL chat room. Some Prince Charming with a bank account.”

“AOL?” Marla repeated. “Not exactly known for fairy-tale endings.”

Linda nodded. “Oh, she wouldn’t shut up about it. ‘He loves me,’ ‘he’s different,’ ‘he’s taking me away.’ We told her to be careful.”

Marla wrote quickly. “Did she ever mention a name?”

Linda Rae shook her head. “No. But she said he wanted to take her out of Kansas City. Give her a new life.”

Tammy leaned back. “Look, this job breaks you. If someone tells you you’re special, you want to believe it. Even if it’s bullshit.”

Marla closed her notebook gently. “Thank you. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The dancers nodded as she stood.

She headed out to the front of the club, where Chuck Gordon stood at the bar—skinny, slick-haired, late twenties, wearing a cheap suit that tried too hard. Behind him, towering at nearly six-foot-seven, was Chico Brown, former NFL tackle, who turned immovable bodyguard. His arms were the size of tree trunks, and his eyes followed Marla but never blinked.

“Detective Simmons,” Chuck said, giving a polite but rehearsed smile. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Marla didn’t sit. “I’m asking about Melissa Stockman.”

Chuck’s smile thinned. “Terrible thing. We all miss her.”

“Your dancers said she believed she met a wealthy man online. Someone promising to take her away.”

Chuck shrugged. “Girls here fall in love every week. Usually with someone who can’t spell their own name. Melissa got hopeful. That’s all.”

“Did anyone stand out? Anyone pay her extra attention?”

Chuck’s jaw tightened. “A lot of men paid her attention. That’s the business. That’s what they’re here for.”

Marla stepped closer. “I’m not here to bust your club. I’m trying to keep someone else from ending up in a morgue.”

Chico shifted his weight. Just a reminder: they were watching her.

Marla waited.

Chuck sighed and poured himself a whiskey. “People with money come here because it’s discreet. You want me to name names? Senators? Business owners? Married men with reputations?”

“Yes,” Marla said plainly.

Chuck smirked. “Not happening. Bad for business.”

“So is murder,” she snapped. “Another dead dancer isn’t good for business either.”

Chuck’s eyes flickered—just a trace of fear—but he swallowed it.

He leaned in, voice low, private.

“A word of advice, Detective? Stop looking in my club. Start looking in your own house.”

Marla froze. “Meaning?”

Chuck downed his drink. “Cops, politicians, church folks—they all use services here. They all have secrets. And those secrets ruin lives.”

Chico placed a massive hand on Chuck’s shoulder—a silent cue.

Interview over.

Marla left through the side door, pulse beating in her ears.

Her own house.

That was a threat.

Or a clue.

LIBERTY MEMORIAL – 7:56 PM

Twilight hit the city, turning sky and stone the color of bruises. The memorial towered above, illuminated in a dull gold glow. At night, it became a different kingdom—quiet during the day, predatory after dark.

Detective Rory Wallace parked under a flickering lamp and approached a cluster of young men leaning against a stone ledge.

The three who stepped forward were veterans of the night:

• Greg Moore — short, sharp-eyed, street smart.
• Jimmy Scruballi — Italian-American, sarcastic, fast thinker.
• Evan Landon — athletic, handsome, eyes tired beyond his years.

Rory lifted both palms, non-threatening. “I’m not here to haul anyone in. I’m trying to find out what happened to Brody Miller and Patrick Sheehan.”

The boys exchanged a look—the kind only people who’d seen too much could share.

Greg spoke first. “They didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” Jimmy added, voice low. “They were idiots sometimes, but… they were ours.”

Rory nodded. “Did either of them go with clients you avoid?”

The boys laughed bitterly.

Greg: “More than a few.”

Jimmy ticked them off with his fingers. “There’s Dr. Shock. Brings electricity into the bedroom. You don’t take that job unless you’re desperate.”

Evan swallowed hard. “Then there’s the guy on the Plaza. Foreign. Coke everywhere. Likes pain. Toys. Leaves marks.”

Rory raised an eyebrow. “Marks?”

Evan pulled his waistband down one inch—just enough.

Burned into his skin: FG.

Rory’s stomach turned. “He branded you.”

Evan nodded without shame. “Said it meant ‘For Granted.’ Like we should be thankful.”

Silence.

Rory’s voice softened. “Did Brody or Patrick go with him?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Sometimes. The money’s good. And the drugs flow.”

Rory closed his notebook. “You three watch out for each other?”

Greg nodded. “We try. Jaxson Lee taught us the buddy system. If one of us takes a client, another stays close. License plates. Room number. Exit door. Everything.”

Rory froze. “Jaxson taught you that?”

Jimmy snorted. “Yeah. He ain’t like us, but he looks after us.”

Evan added, “Gets us food. Pays for a motel. Saved a couple lives.”

Rory let that hang in the night air, the weight of it heavy.

“Did he know Brody and Patrick?”

Greg nodded. “Of course he did. He knows most of us.”

Rory took a breath. “Can you tell me anything else?”

Jimmy wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah. If you find whoever did this to them? Don’t arrest him.”

Greg finished the thought: “Bury him.”

Rory walked back to his car with a pit in his stomach.

Because the streets didn’t fear the killer—they wanted him dead.

And somewhere in the middle of all this—every trail pointed toward Jaxson Lee.

© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.