Based on a true story

Last week, I remembered a legal case study we studied for fun in one of my college courses on ethics and law. A story of the events started forming in my mind. Over dinner with friends on Wednesday, I related the details of the true story, and everyone, much as I was when I first read it, was amazed.

What you are about to read is historical fiction. This actually happened. I've just added the dialogue I imagine took place.

Based on a True Story


Bradley "Bud" Johnson sat quietly at his desk sipping his coffee and completing the paperwork for his caseload. More accustomed to reviewing information and interviewing leads than he was to completing paperwork, he had to break every fifteen minutes to stay awake or shake the stiffness from his hands. His third cup of coffee was not helping his fatigue. It was from boredom, not from lack of rest. It was only 7:30 AM Monday. He had a full week of this to look forward to.

Three short months ago he had informed his superiors, per union policy, of his intention to retire this coming Friday. Two weeks ago, they stopped giving him new cases so he could focus on closing out, updating and transferring those currently assigned to him. Had he known how boring this would be, he would have held off his wife's nagging pleas for at least two more years.

Bud leaned back in his chair, stretching loudly, cracking the knuckles on his large, weathered hands. He felt there was still energy left in his sixty year-old body and knew he was still smarter than any criminal out there. His hair was graying, and receding, but he still had a full head. His eyes were still clear enough to notice even the most obscure of clues, and his mind sharp enough to link the clues together. He still wanted to work.

His wife, ultimately, tipped the scales for him. Retirement is what you work your whole life for, she always reminded him. She wanted to move down to Georgia to live with her sister. The last winter in Grand Rapids was hard on her and her rheumatism. He knew, ultimately, retirement to a golf course outside Atlanta was for the best.

"Bud, am I interrupting something", Janet said, stopping by his desk.

"Not at all", Bud replied, smiling up at the young, attractive new recruit. She had transferred from the small town of Lowell, and still had some of her small-town mannerisms - politeness, being one of the finer qualities she retained.

"Normally, I wouldn't bother you with this, you know, with your retirement and all", she began, handing him a piece of paper, "but there's no one else here and the desk Sergeant said it would be okay if you handled this one."

Bud took the slip of paper from her hand and reviewed it. It was an alert notice from the non-emergency hotline. A friend of one Michael Thomason called to report she had received an eerie email from him and was concerned for his safety. A twenty year veteran of the homicide task force, Bud had not responded to a "wellness check" in nearly forty years. Happy for the diversion, he asked Janet if she wanted to accompany him, and they left for the listed address.

He pulled up to the complex in his city-issued sedan and stopped in the parking space marked "Police Only". Dispatch radioed as he was exiting the car.

"5230, are you there? Bud?", they called.

"Hey, Jones, this is Bud, go ahead", Bud replied.

"Were you heading out to the VanVos Apartments", Jones asked.

"I'm here, actually", Bud replied. "What's up?"

"Construction crews just arrived at rear of building, reported finding a body or something. Mind checking it out while we track down someone to help out?"

Bud shot Janet a knowing look and shrugged. They had a guess who the body might be. Together they walked around the weathered concrete building. A recent revitalization project selected by the Chamber of Commerce and funded by a grant from the President's Economic Stimulus plan had resurfaced the front of the previously run down building. Today, they were preparing to start in the rear of the building, the side overlooking the river.

Bud and Janet flashed their badges at the private security guard standing at the gated entrance to the construction activity. He waved them through after remarking how quickly they had arrived seeing as he had just called them fifteen minutes ago. They walked a short distance to where a crowd of men in hard hats stood chatting about the loss of the only professional football team in the state worth watching - the Arena League’s Rampage.

"Where's the body?", Bud asked them. They pointed up and he followed their fingers to a safety net between the third and fourth floors. A twenty-something man lay face down, propped against the building, with dried blood on his face.

"The way I figure it", one of them said, pointing at a broken window on the seventh floor, "The guy jumped from the roof not knowing we had put up the net, dies when he hits his head on that broken window, and lands like that in our net."

"You're probably right", Bud replied, as the man's crew slapped the back of the man they would now call ‘CSI’. "I think I'll let the Medical Examiner give me a cause of death before I write this off as a suicide, though."

Bud and Janet spent the next thirty minutes interviewing the crew while waiting for the crime scene investigators to arrive. They learned the project team put the net up late afternoon the prior day. They were all gone for the day by six PM, and the security guard was the first to arrive at six this morning. The first to notice the body was the foreman, the man who had offered his thoughts on what had happened to the deceased. He called 911 to report what he found, and then kept anyone from disturbing the scene until the police arrived. He now wanted to know how long it would be until he could start his day.

"Hey Bud, how did you get this assignment?", Ben Miller asked as he approached his old friend. "I thought they didn't give these assignments to people on their way out."

"Long story", Bud replied, shaking Ben's hand. He introduced Janet and then filled him in on the details of their morning.

"Well, I'd appreciate whatever help you can provide", Ben said, "that is, if you don't have anything better to do. Golf outing maybe?"

Bud laughed sarcastically and offered to help. Even documenting the typically mundane details of a suicide was better than sitting idly at his desk.

A few hours after Bud had arrived, the crime scene crew had the pictures they needed and lowered the body from the netting to the street below in a body bag. Janet cautiously took a peek at the body. This was her first time seeing a dead person. She hadn't even been to a funeral.

"What's that on his forehead?", she asked, pointing at a circular red spot. Bud and Ben stopped their conversation and took a closer look. They had already decided the foreman's theory was the most probable and that they would just wait for the ME to confirm the theory before closing the case.

"That looks like a GSW", Bud said, concerned. Gun Shot Wound. That was definitely an unexpected twist and changed the whole theory on the cause of death. He asked the M.E. to turn him over and, sure enough, there was a rather large exit wound in the back. He was betting the M.E. would say the bullet, not the fall, was the cause of death. Like it or not, Bud was now the first responder to a murder investigation.

"Any ID on the victim?", Ben asked, moving into investigation mode.

"Michael Thomason", the M.E. replied, showing him the wallet they had removed from the man's pants. "Twenty-six. Lives in this building, apartment 8G."

"Sounds like it's time to start asking more questions", Bud said. He walked to the front of the building followed closely by Janet and Ben. "Did anyone contact the property manager?"

"I'm who you're looking for", a short, fat man dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve workshirt replied. He was walking towards the building from his work truck. He stopped and handed them each a business card. "John Mitchell. I'm the property manager and maintenance man for this and three other buildings. I'm here to repair a busted window on the seventh floor. Tenants called it in late last night to our messaging service. How can I help you?"

"We're investigating a death that happened on premises last night", Ben explained. "Michael Thomason. You know him?"

"Yeah, young guy, lived in 8G", John replied, saddened. "Messed up kid. Major family issues."

"You know all your tenants this well", Bud asked.

"No. Mike was a special case. He was always asking for an extension on paying his rent", John said derisively, then quickly followed up with: "but he always did eventually pay."

"He had money troubles? Know if he was into anyone for some big debts?", Ben asked.

"That would surprise me. They guy lived like a pauper. Starving artist is more likely than anything with gambling", John said.

"Know of anyone who would be looking to hurt him?", Bud said.

"He was a good guy. Never heard him say a bad word about anyone. Except his mother", John said. "He couldn't stand her. She was always riding him about something."

"Anyone report anything out of the ordinary last night?", Ben asked.

"Nah. Except for the broken window, it was the usual complaints", John replied. "Loud music, fighting neighbors, gun shots."

"Gun shots?", Bud asked.

"Yeah, we get a few of those reported every week", John explained. "Pretty common for this neighborhood, unfortunately. This facelift we're doing is supposed to allow us to increase the rent and improve the area. More like putting lipstick on a pig if you ask me."

"What time did that call come in?", Bud followed up.

"Our messaging service - we call it that, but it's just a machine - it doesn't have a timestamp on the call. It's one of those older models. Still uses tape. Lawyer told us to use one of those and never erase the messages in case we get sued. We keep putting in new tapes", John replied.

"So no idea what time the call came in?", Ben said.

"Our office hours on Sundays are from one to four. No one called then, so it was after that. The call about the broken window was the next call on the machine. They told us the time of their call was a little after ten-thirty. So, the call from the tenant venting about shots fired in the building must have been between four and ten-thirty", John said.

"Mind letting us in to 8G?", Bud asked.

"Don't you need a warrant for that?", John asked.

"If you want us to get one, we can", Ben said leaning closely. "I'd just ask you to come down to the station so we can ask you what you were doing yesterday between four and ten-thirty and why you were so interested in preserving the entry rights of a dead man."

"No, no need for that", John stammered. "I'll be happy to take you up."

They crammed into the small elevator and emerged a few moments later on the eighth floor. Bud was beginning to agree with John's 'lipstick on a pig' comment. The hallway had tattered, fleur-de-leaf carpeting that was probably once brightly colored but now was a dingy, dark blue. The walls were stained with urine or beer, Bud couldn't decide. The smell could have been from either.

John led them to the end of the hall where they stopped at a door with an 8 and an upside-down G hanging loosely. Per company policy, John knocked several times and waited for a reply before finding the correct key in his enormous collection and letting them in.

Bud, Janet and Ben entered the small studio apartment behind John. Built in the early 1920's, when Grand Rapids' furniture industry drew job seekers from around the country, the architect of VanVos Apartments – originally named the Riverside Tenements - had one thing in mind: squeeze as many people on each floor as possible. Overzealous in his goal, the studio apartment was less than one hundred square feet in total and consisted of two rooms. The bathroom, no larger than the bathroom of the interior cabin Bud and his wife shared on their anniversary cruise five years ago, was off to the right. The remaining space combined kitchen, living room and bedroom all in one, cramped area.

With the exception of easels, paint, a blackberry cell phone and a dirty mattress on the floor in the corner, the room was empty. The only light they had to see by came from the window looking over the river at the Gerald R Ford Presidential Museum. Bud flipped the light switch. Nothing.

"We often receive notices from the electric company that Michael wasn't paying his bills and they were cutting him off", John offered.

Ben removed a flashlight from his jacket pocket and scanned the room. "No sign of blood or a struggle", he said and walked over to the window. "Window is locked from the inside, too. He definitely wasn't shot here."

"Is there roof access?", Bud asked John, then seeing some photographs, walked over to the refrigerator. The fridge was covered in them. Michael with friends, standing by the lighthouse in Grand Haven, receiving a check for one of his paintings. He grabbed a pack and handed them to Janet. "See if you can get the identity of anyone in these pictures, will you?"

"Do you want to go up on the roof?", John asked, heading for the door.

"What's that on the fridge", Janet asked, pointing. Underneath the section of pictures Bud removed was a note-sized piece of paper with erratic scribbles on it.

"Looks like a suicide note", Bud said, reading it to the group. "'This life sucks. See you in the next. Sorry for what I've done. Maybe my paintings will be worth something now'".

"I wonder what he meant by 'Sorry for what I've done'", Ben said.

"Could that GSW been self-inflicted", Janet asked.

Ben shook his head. "Not likely. Suicides using guns go under the chin, in the mouth, or at the temple. It's very awkward to hold a gun at the middle of your forehead. Plus, unless I'm mistaken, and the M.E. will confirm, his wound was caused by a .22 caliber round. It's impossible to hold a rifle steady enough to shoot yourself in the forehead. This guy was murdered."

"Guys, I really need to go and repair that window. Do you want up on the roof or not?", John broke in, pale in the face. Hearing the details of a murder did not sit well with his breakfast. He didn’t even like watching movies with gore.

Bud nodded and they followed John up to the roof. He told them he'd be down in 7G and left them to their own devices. Bud walked toward the river and looked over the edge of the building. He lined himself up with the net and turned around, looking down at the ground.

"To land in that net, he would have to go over the edge here", Bud said, pointing to the ledge just above the net. " I don't see blood anywhere."

"You're right", Ben said, looking around. "Not a drop. No sign of dragging feet, or a body, either."

"If he had been shot up here, there would be blood. If he had been carried up here from somewhere else, there would be a trail of blood", Bud said, processing the information as he spoke it.

"What if they wrapped him in a tarp and carried him up here?", Janet asked.

"Why do that", Ben interjected. "I mean, why would someone kill a guy and then drag him all they way up on the roof just to throw him over it? They can't be dumb enough to think we wouldn't find a bullet hole and consider the death a suicide."

"What are you thinking?", Bud asked.

"I think they bring him to the roof and toss him. They look over the edge to make sure he's dead and see him struggling in the ropes. Needing to finish their job, they rush downstairs and shoot him", Ben offered.

"I could see it", Bud said. "Let's head down and see if Crime Scene has anything of interest and then we'll wait for the M.E.'s time of death. I have another question for Mr. Mitchell, too."

"Shouldn't you be packing up at the office", Ben said, jabbing Bud playfully in the ribs.

"Yes", Bud smiled. "But let's humor a retiring old man and swing by 7G to ask Mr. Mitchell a few more questions. I'd like to know who reported the shots fired."

Ben radioed down to the crime scene team and asked them to send a few up to the roof to look around. Maybe they could find something. He caught up to Bud and Janet as they exited the stairwell on the seventh floor. They turned toward the river and walked down the hall to 7G. They knocked and a weary looking elderly man opened the door.

"Can I help you", he asked, cautiously looking at the three of them.

"Is Mr. Mitchell in there with you?", Bud asked, showing his badge. "We have a few more questions for him."

"It's alright, Jerry", John called back to him. Jerry opened the door allowing the three of them to pass. John set his tools down and walked over to them. "Find what you were looking for?"

"Not yet", Bud replied, "I was wondering if you knew who called in the report about gunshots fired in the building?"

"Sorry, that's my fault", Jerry jumped in, sheepishly.

"What do you mean?", Bud said, suddenly very interested in Jerry.

"That's how my window got busted", Jerry explained. "Shot right through it."

Jerry went on to explain that yesterday evening, he and his wife got into another one of their arguments. "Rows", he called them. She had been nagging him about spending too much money bowling and drinking with his buddies and not spending enough time with her. As was typical for their arguments, he eventually went to the hall closet and pulled out his gun, threatening her with it.

"I've done that dozens of times over the last five years, and I've never had a scare like that", Jerry said. "I nearly killed her. Made me realize how much I do love her, nearly losing her like that. Gonna cost me a hundred bucks for that window, but it was worth it to me to receive the wake up call."

"Me too", his wife smiled, walking over and encircling his waist with her arm.

"Where is the gun now", Bud asked.

"Back in the closet", Jerry said, pointing. "Scared me near to death. I couldn't bear to touch the thing anymore so I put it away and haven't been near it since."

"Mind if I look at it?", Ben asked, opening the closet. Jerry shook his head and Ben, putting on latex gloves, took the gun out of the closet and sniffed the barrel. Still smelled like gun powder residue.

"This is a nice .22", Ben said, giving Bud a quick look. "What time did you say this happend?"

"I think it was around nine or nine-thirty", Jerry replied. "Took me about an hour or so to calm down enough to call in the broken window, which I know I did at ten-thirty because I told them that on my message."

Bud was processing this new information quickly and quietly. When he arrived, he thought he just had to verify the well-being of a troubled soul. Ten minutes later he's looking at a suicide. Twenty minutes after that, he was looking at a murder-one homicide. Now he didn't know what to think. There was no way Jerry could have killed Michael, then carried him to the roof and thrown him over. Not even with his wife's help.

A light went on in Bud's head. Could it be possible? The chances were so improbably low. He followed the train of thought. Michael is suicidal. He goes on the roof and jumps. As he's falling, he sees he's going to land in the net. He's either cursing his bad luck that he'll have to build up the courage to jump again, or thanking Fate for giving him another chance. As he passes the seventh floor, in the blink of an eye, a bullet flies out the window and kills him. His luck changed.


Unfortunately for Jerry, so does his. Intentional or not, Jerry just killed someone who would not have otherwise died. It isn't murder, but it is at least manslaughter. Bud looks over at Jerry smiling down at his wife with his new perspective. Be a shame to send an old man with a new look on life to jail for the next five years. He was glad he wouldn't have to make that call, a jury would. His job was to investigate and provide facts to the prosecuting attorney.

"Mind if I take your gun down to ballistics?", Bud asked casually, not wanting to scare the old man. It didn't work.

"Am I in some kind of trouble?", Jerry asked, hesitantly.

"We have reason to believe the bullet fired from your gun may have killed someone", Bud explained. "I'd like to take it down to see if the ballistics match. Maybe they will, maybe they won't."

"I don't know how", Jerry said, "I mean, I'm on the seventh floor and the river is out there. Unless I hit someone fishing late at night. Is that what happened?"

"I'm afraid I can't go into specifics", Bud replied. "Do you mind if I take it in, or do you want me to get a warrant?"

"Take it", Jerry said, mystified. Slowly, he sat down on the couch next to his shaking wife. He tried to comfort her, but he was as shaken as she so was little help.


"What gets me most", Jerry continued, "is how that gun was loaded."

"What do you mean", Bud asked.

"I mean, I clean that gun every Saturday. First thing in the AM. It's my ritual. Done the same thing every Saturday for the last twenty years. My father gave me that gun right before he died. It's my last connection with him", Jerry explained. "It wasn't loaded then. I've never even bought bullets for it. I honestly think it was God's way of telling me to be nicer to my wife. That's why I don't believe I killed anyone. He wouldn't have taught me a lesson like that by killing someone else."

Bud and Ben looked at each other in disbelief. The guy seemed credible. More credible than Bud's theory about shooting a man accidentally as he passed by your window while you're arguing with your wife and threatening her with a gun.


"Then I'm sure you have nothing to worry about", Bud answered. "We'll know tomorrow morning. Janet here is going to get your information so I can reach you if I need to. I'm also going to ask you to not leave town for the next few days. Can you manage that?"

"I got nowhere to go", Jerry replied, pointing at his impoverished conditions. "Not like I have a cottage in the country to visit if I'm living here."

Bud arrived the next morning to a manila folder waiting on his desk. He opened it, read through the contents, and cursed under his breath. The file contained a report from the M.E. listing cause of death as homicide with a .22 caliber round, fired from the front, at a near distance. The ballistics report said the bullet that killed Michael Thomason matched Jerry's gun. Bud had to go back and arrest Jerry for homicide.

"Here's the case file", Janet said, returning from the copy room and seeing Bud at his desk. "I was able to get a copy of the email Michael sent to his friend. This case just gets more weird by the minute."

Bud opened the file and took out the email.

'Allison - I hate my mother, always have, but I never wanted to kill her. I think I just did something that will. I can no longer control my emotions or impulses. I hope you understand. Mike'

"Have you contacted his mother or next of kin?", Bud asked when he had finished reading.

"The contact information on file with Motor Vehicle Department was invalid", Janet explained. "Disconnected."

"What did it list?"

Janet flipped through pages in the case file. "Janice Thomason, mother", she replied, pointing when she found it.

"See what you can do. Try calling the person who reported the email", Bud said.

"Already called. Waiting a call back", Janet said. Bud smiled at her. She was sharp. She was going to be a good cop.

"What do the ballistics say?", Ben said, roaring into the room and sitting on the desk with one leg.

"It's a match", Bud replied, solemnly.

"Poor guy", Ben said, "Some guys have the worst luck. What are you going to do?"

"Let's check out his story", Bud said. "Find out who could have loaded the gun. Maybe his wife had enemies?"

Ben nodded and they pulled up Jerry's contact information. Bud punched the speakerphone button and dialed Jerry's number. It rang twice before Jerry picked up.

"Hello?", Jerry said.

"Jerry, it's Detective Bud Johnson. We spoke yesterday."

"I remember. I couldn't sleep last night waiting for this call."

"I understand", Bud replied. "Listen, I'm here with Ben and Janet, the two officers with me yesterday. We were just going over your statement. How you never loaded the gun. I have a few questions for you. Do you have time?"

"Like I said, Detective, I got nowhere else to go", Jerry replied, fatigued.

"Was anyone in your apartment on Saturday or Sunday?", Bud asked.

"Just my wife and I", Jerry replied.

"Were you home all weekend?"

"Yeah - well, except when I went down to the sports bar to watch the Michigan game and she went grocery shopping", Jerry said.

"Any sign of a break-in while you were out", Bud continued.

"No."

"Anyone else have keys to your apartment?"

"The building management", Jerry replied. "I think my wife's son has one, too."

"Her son?", Bud asked.

"Yeah. I think she gave it to him when we first moved in. They were trying to reconcile after years of fighting. It was her olive branch, so to speak", Jerry explained. "Peace didn't last very long."

"Does he know you like to threaten her with your gun?", Bud asked.


"Well, yeah. Hell, everyone does. They can all tell you she knows it isn't loaded...", Jerry stopped mid-sentence. "You don't think that little piece... I mean, they fight.... I'll kill him!"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that", Bud said. He was feeling better about this case. He would have hated bringing Jerry down to the precinct in cuffs. Jerry was a little crazy, but he didn't deserve jail. The son, on the other hand, if he loaded the gun, he had intent to kill. He loaded a gun he knew Jerry often pointed at his mother. Probably knew they fought a lot and wouldn't have to wait very long for her to be shot. He was back at a muder case, and an
interesting one at that. At least I'll go out on a high note, Bud thought to himself.

"Where can I find your son?", Bud asked.


"Her son", Jerry correct. "Janice had a son before we got married. He lives upstairs in 8G. Michael Thomason."

Time stopped. Janet, Bud and Ben all stared at the phone in disbelief. Did they really just hear that? It had to be a different Michael Thomason. The name was common enough. But he had also said he lived in 8G. Where the deceased had lived.

"Detective?", Jerry said after a long moment of silence.

"Just making notes", Bud managed to blurt out. "We'll be in touch."

Bud quickly hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. A theory formed in his mind. Michael Thomason lives above his mother, whom he hates. He hears them leave for the day, goes down and enters the apartment using a key they had long forgotten he had. Removing bullets from his pocket, he loads the gun, chambers one, and puts it back where he found it. Then waits. The next night, he hears them arguing and remembers the gun. Now he has regrets. He can't stop it, he's too much of a coward. He quickly sends an email to his friend, scribbles a note that he magnets to his fridge underneath a bunch of pictures and rushes to the top of his building. He jumps, not knowing construction erected a safety net earlier that morning. As he passes his mother's apartment, the gun goes off, killing him with the bullets he had intended for her.

"What do we do now", Janet asked, breaking the continued silence.

Bud flipped through the case file and found the M.E.'s report. He scanned down to cause of death: Homicide. Picking up a pen, he scratches out the M.E.'s determination, writes in his own and initials it. He then put the file back together and handed it to Janet.

"I don't know what you two are going to do, but I'm going to finish packing and go home early", Bud said, standing up. "First, I'm getting some coffee. Anyone want any?"

They shook their heads and Bud headed off to the breakroom. Janet, still stunned, opened the case file and looked at what Bud had written. She smiled and shook her head, then handed the file to Ben. He took it and glanced at Bud's comment.

"Smart man", he said. "Suicide. I couldn't agree more. Case closed."