Free The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel by Stephen Wilson Page A

using his right hand to explore a nice-sized bump on the back of his head.
    When he entered the news office, his reception was not what he expected. Instead of rising up with panicked recriminations concerning the missed story deadline, Mrs. Welsh slouched low in her chair, an unfamiliar pose for a woman who favored starched white blouses for their professional decorum. She stared despondently at her computer screen, her face a sickly pale.
    He walked around the sales counter and approached her with caution. Was this a diabolical guilt-trap?
    Mrs. Welsh was the first to speak. “You didn’t say the student was A-mir.” Her voice broke on his name.
    Hubbard crouched down beside her, surprised by the rare show of sentiment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you knew him.”
    “He worked on a project for Mrs. Andrews as a photographer. He would come by and wait for his late afternoon meetings with Mrs. Andrews, and then they’d leave to work on their project. She was always late, so we’d talk about photography, flowers, everything. He was a sweet boy, very charming. Always on time . Who could do such a thing to him?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “We can’t run these photos of him. They’re all too coarse. He deserves better.”
    “I understand. I didn’t think you would . . . Did he do anything for the paper? I don’t remember seeing his name on a photo credit.”
    “We never used him here at the Union Democrat . I think he worked on a brochure for the college or other things. “
    “Did Tony know him?”
    “Yes, of course. I told you—he did his work for the Andrewses. He was a very talented.”
    “Yes, he was.”
    Mrs. Welsh turned to him. “You’re familiar with his work?”
    “I think I saw some of his photos on the walls of his apartment.” Hubbard explained.
    Her eyes widened. “You went in?”
    “Yes . . . the door was open . . .sort of.”
    “Did he live with anyone? His girlfriend? He said he found someone, but he couldn’t talk about it.”
    “He may have had one, but I think he lived alone.”
    Mrs. Welsh turned suddenly toward the wall clock. “Oh, my goodness. The time. The deadline. You’ll never make it.”
    “I write fast.”
    “No one can write that fast.”
    “Call your young men in India and tell them we’ll be just a little late.”
    “I simply can’t do that. In the ten years I’ve done this, I’ve never missed a deadline.”
    “That’s why they’ll have no problems waiting for you. It’s the first time in ten years.”
    Mrs. Welsh’s shoulders drooped. “Can you get it done by 12:30?”
    “12:45.”
    Mrs. Welsh nodded, spiritless. “Amir was so young . . . Well, you have your pick.” She indicated the three desks reserved for freelance staff.
    Hubbard rose and turned toward the nearest desk.
    “My God! What happened?” Mrs. Welsh cried out, rising to her feet.
    Hubbard spun back to her. “What?”
    “Your head!”
    Startled, Hubbard brought both hands up to his face. “What’s it doing?”
    She spun him around to examine him. “No goose! Your head is bleeding.”
    “Oh, that . . . I . . . I ran into a door.”
    “Backward?” Mrs. Welsh raised an eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. “Were you fighting again? One day your anger will kill you”
    “I’m not that person anymore. I’ve been peaceful . . . and sober for two years.”
    “So how did this happen, young man? Something about your uncle again? That’s only hateful gossip. Your mother was a fine woman. And your uncle . . . has lots of friends. Pay no mind to small minds.”
    “It wasn’t about my mother, father, or uncle. It was nothing like that.”
    “Well, what was it then? I want the truth.”
    Hubbard sighed. He gave Mrs. Welsh a quick summary of what happened at the apartment trying to downplay the drama, which proved to be impossible. As she listened, Mrs. Welsh’s facial expression degraded from concerned to terrified as she listened to him summarize events at