Chapter 15: The Geary's and the Invite

 

KCPD – INTERVIEW ROOM, 9:14 AM

Parole Officer Mark Rausch looked too young to carry years of other people’s mistakes on his shoulders. Twenty-seven, clean-cut, slim build, short brown hair combed too neatly to be natural, a tie knotted tight enough to cut off circulation. His knee bounced from anxiety, not caffeine. Across from him, Detectives Dan Whitaker and Ray Mendez watched him unravel.

“I don’t know how this happened,” Mark said, voice trembling just enough to betray him. “Martin Geary was doing good. Really good.”

Whitaker leaned forward. “Start from the beginning, Mark. We need specifics.”

Mark swallowed. “He was working at the Silver Dollar Café. Washing dishes, busing tables—anything they asked. Manager loved him. Never late. No attitude. Just… quiet.” He paused like in thought then continued. “He volunteered at some area churches, especially those with youth programs, like St. James or the First Methodist.”                                                                                                                           

“Why youth programs?” Ray questioned.

“He liked kids and he lost his youngest several years ago.” Mark somberly replied.

Whitaker scribbled a note. “What about the halfway house? Conflicts? Drugs? Arguments?”

“No.” Mark shook his head firmly. “Nothing. I would’ve known.”

Ray raised a skeptical brow. “And then one night he just didn’t show up? He just disappeared.”

“That’s the weird part.” Mark leaned forward. “He did show up to work. For nearly two weeks. But he never came back to the halfway house. The Silver Dollar called asking if we transferred him.” Mark looked past the detectives. “I think I was a little too soft on him. I wanted to give him a chance to succeed.”

Whitaker and Mendez exchanged a look.

“So he wasn’t hiding,” Ray said slowly. “He was still pretending everything was normal.”

Mark lowered his head. “He was trying to be someone better than the man who went to prison.”

Whitaker’s voice softened. “Why try so hard?”

Mark hesitated. Then his eyes lifted. “Because of his son.”

“The one he lost?” Dan asked for clarification.

“Jack,” Mark said quietly. “Jack Geary. He was just a kid when Martin got arrested. And… Jack had it rough. Really rough.”

Whitaker asked, “How do you know?”

Mark exhaled a breath he’d been holding for years. “Because Jack and I were best friend.”

“So, you put your career on the line for this guy, and he disappears on you.” Ray shakes his head. Ray looked at Dan, and both knew that Mark was no longer just a parole officer, but a possible person of interest or witness.

“I thought I was helping him giving him a friendly face and helping hand. Someone he could be real with. Plus, I owed my best friend this.” Mark got quiet and before the detectives could needle him. “Jack was bullied by everybody in our small town of Maryville. He only found solace with his dad marginally and his best friends, myself and another kid named Julian.”

Dan looks at him with doubt, “Everyone?”

“Yes”, Mark emphatically replied, “Kids and Adults alike. Teachers who looked the other way. People pointed and laughed. Parents warned their kids about hanging with him. His life was pure hell. All because he was…different. Delicate, Quiet. The kind of kid small towns decide is a punching bag. In the end, I was no better than the rest of them.”

Ray frowned, “What about his mother? Was she in the picture?”

Mark laughed bitterly, “He probably would’ve done better if she wasn’t. His mother, Frances, hated him and she let the whole town know that she didn’t care about him. His older brother, Dustin, was no better.”

Dan matter of fact states, “So that just left Martin at home.”

Mark nods his head, “Then he was arrested. It broke him and it broke us. He stopped talking to me and Julian. He looked sad all the time and my mother said he must be in massive state of depression.” Mark fought back some tears. “He was twelve. No support. No protection. It was only a matter of time.”

“What do you mean?” Dan asks.

Mark’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Four years later, rumors started. People said Jack beat his stepfather almost to death. No one was surprised. The man beat Jack for years. And then Jack disappeared and his body was found in a field mangled by a tractor and barely recognizable, but he supposes they were able to because the mother confirmed it was him.”

Ray and Dan exchanged glances.

Mark hesitated. “I was at the funeral. Closed casket. Dustin said it was him. I didn’t know what to think. Maryville’s a place where truth dies fast and gossip lives forever.” He wiped his palms on his pants, realizing he’d said too much. “I know there’s excuse for my unprofessionalism, but I had good intentions. I truly did.”

Whitaker stood, voice steady. “Thank you, Mark. If you remember anything—call us.”

As Mark reached the door, he turned back. “For what it’s worth… Martin never stopped talking about Jack. He never forgave himself.”

Then he left, looking like a ghost who had finally told the truth.

BROWNHARDT APARTMENTS – 11:31 AM

Steam clung to the bathroom tiles as Jaxson Lee stepped out of the shower. His muscles were tense, his eyes distant. He dried himself slowly, methodically—like a man washing away not dirt, but memories. The mirror stared back at him.

Jaxson often wondered, who looked back in the mirror. Was it the strong confident man? Was it the lost teenager? Was it the frightened child? Some days he could tell and some days it was all three.

There were a few things that he had learned and held close as truth. First, you can’t get ahead in life without stacking the deck in your favor. Two, there are those that deserve the good things in life and there are those that do not. Three, you are in control of your destiny, and you can either let your world run over you or you run your world. Finally, that he will no longer be beaten, bullied, or ignored.

He remembered the final night at his home. Frances was drunk again. Her husband, Wade Hardy, was as well. There was a storm brewing and Mike Thompson on television was telling area to take cover. He had a cold pack of ice on his right thigh. The lightning and thunder quickly engulfed the scene. He couldn’t remember the exact word, but he knew he told them no more. Wade leaped across the room and Frances feigned concerned. Wade punched him in the chest, and he fell backwards losing the bag of ice that fell to the ground going all over the place.

That one punch was it and the sixteen-year-old blacked out. When he came to his senses, he was looming over Wade who was badly beaten and struggling to breathe. Frances kneeling beside him screaming words at him so foul they didn’t sound human.

Frances gathered Wade and took him them to their recently purchased gold Cadillac.

Jack hadn’t cried. He hadn’t begged.

He washed Wade’s blood off his face and hands, changed clothes, packed a backpack with whatever essentials he could grab, and stared at his own reflection for the last time in his bedroom mirror.

“Goodbye, Jack.”

He walked out into the storm—

—never looking back.

A knock shattered the silence.

Jaxson tied the robe around his waist, walked barefoot across the hardwood floors of his sleek apartment. He opened the door. Standing there was a man with the unmistakable Giannetti look: dark hair, sharp suit, sharp jaw, colder eyes, Thomas Giannetti.

“Get dressed,” Thomas said. “My father wants a meeting.”

Jaxson blinked with polite disinterest. “And does the prince escort me to the castle himself?”

Thomas pushed inside without asking. “I’m not a fool. And I’m not one of your… clients.”

Jaxson smirked. “Relax. You like women. Preferably dancers from The Smoking Gun. Cherry-lipped, long legs, fake names.”

Thomas stopped mid-step. “You keep tabs on us?”

“I keep tabs on everything.” Jaxson gestured toward the couch. “I’ll join you in a moment. Please sit. I won’t seduce you—I’m wearing a robe, not a cape.”

Thomas grunted but sat anyway.

Twenty minutes later, Jaxson emerged in a stunning charcoal Armani suit, tie a perfect Windsor knot, shoes shining like obsidian.

Thomas stared. “You got ready… that fast?”

Jaxson smiled warmly, but his eyes stayed cold. “When royalty calls, one should never be unprepared.”

Thomas stood, suddenly uneasy. “This wasn’t a request,” he warned.

Jaxson brushed a nonexistent wrinkle from his sleeve. “And yet I already agreed.”

They leave the apartment and walk to the elevator without saying a word. The elevator doors slid open. Jaxson stepped inside without waiting. Thomas followed.

Giannetti’s wanted answers and Jaxson — already had an agenda of his own.

© 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.