Confirmation

Confirmation

by Kenneth Kerns

Copyright Information

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or (in the case of the University of Florida’s main campus) are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real events, individuals or organizations, is purely coincidental and unintentional.

Copyright © 2009, 2013 by Kenneth Kerns

All rights reserved. This book or portions herein may not be reproduced without permission from the author.

Follow the author on Twitter @kenkerns

First Edition, Trade Paperback: April 2009

Second Edition, Mass Market Paperback: July 2013

Smashwords edition, eBook: August 2013

ISBN: 978-1301674626

Dedication

I hereby dedicate this book to my dear friends in the Vision Party, to the impressively victorious Access Party of 2004, and to the generations of independents that have come before us and those that will surely follow in our traditions at the University of Florida.

Timeline note

The events of this book take place in the year following the events of The Proxy Senator, and approximately four years after the events of Reunion at University Avenue. This book involves many of the same principal characters as those two novels.

When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.

~ Edmund Burke, Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents (1770)

PROLOGUE

HE WAS ABOUT to jump to his death. This one way ride was all part of the plan, a ritual to promote trust. Trust in himself, in his own future, and in others. At least, that was the pitch being made by the older guy standing up at the front of the line.

It was a bit hard to hear the elder, however. The two of them, as well as nine others, were on the roof of the oldest building on campus. They found themselves there in the dark of night, trying not to disturb the other students even as ten initiates prepared to leap to their deaths.

They all were dressed in black, to make it a little easier to move about the campus without being noticed by the stray passerby. The attire certainly made it easier to be ignored now that they were on the roof.

You have to be prepared to die tonight, to leave behind your former selves and finally walk among those who truly understand the meaning and purpose of power. Die tonight, and you will be reborn tomorrow as part of the real elite. Are you ready? the elder concluded in a whisper, and the initiates responded with a thumbs-up sign.

However, not all of them were so sure. One in particular asked, Are you really sure we have to do this?

The elder made his way to where this hesitant initiate stood. In this process of rebirth, you are affiliating yourself and your family with the generations that have gone before you and will follow you. And you will literally become part of a campus legend. Generations of leaders have done this, year after year. It is one of our most honored traditions, and rightly so.

I’m ready! exclaimed someone from the front at a volume that was a little too loud. His muscular frame showed through his black shirt, and the elder reminded himself that the eager one was the quarterback of the football team. Surely he was used to this kind of team-building exercise.

The elder smiled and offered, Then go right ahead.

The quarterback jumped to his death.

Three stories below, a group of twelve, arranged in a circular fashion, caught the quarterback in a tautly held tarp which just for good measure was held just above a cushion not unlike those used by firemen.

The quarterback rolled off the tarp with a big grin on his face. He had survived. The lack of any screaming or hard thud reassured his fellow initiates on the roof, who were unable to see through the darkness what had happened below.

Several more of the initiates followed, each jumping to their deaths only to survive the fall with expressions of glee on their faces.

The reluctant one took in a deep breath. Knowing that many generations of student leaders had done this before hardly made him more comfortable with the death-defying jump. The elder ushered the remaining initiates on their way, but saw that he had not yet closed the deal.

He pulled off his mask, revealing a face nearly old enough to be the initiate’s father.

Look, it’s pretty simple. Some of our members become Student Body Presidents with our blessing. Once in a while a member wins despite our negative endorsement. But the inexorable fact remains: every Student Body President since our organization was founded has been a member.

He leaned in more closely now, as he slowly pulled the initiate closer to the edge. We know you want to do better than your father did here. You do want to be Student Body President one day, don’t you?

The initiate nodded, as he wiped the nervous sweat off the palms of his hands and onto his black denim.

Then take the leap of faith, Master Simon.

With another gulp of cold night air, the reluctant initiate leapt into the air. When his feet finally touched the ground once more, his life leading up to that moment was over.

Jeff Simon would now and forever be inside The Circle.

CHAPTER ONE

EVEN BEFORE AIMEE Jackson entered the apartment, she knew that Larry Jenkins was dead.

As a crime scene consultant and freelance detective for the Brevard County police department, it was her business to know such things. Of course, such things were only the beginning of a case, especially the unusual cases that were Aimee’s specialty. For her, knowing the identity of the victim and what kind of scene waited inside rarely told her enough to know what to expect.

With the same sharp intake of breath she had made at her first crime scene twenty years ago, Aimee pushed open the door to the apartment.

ALLEN J. BROWNING, JR. was anything but a junior. Allen was almost enrolled in Medicare, yet still acted like the suffix to his name - by acting at least twenty years younger than he really was. His coworkers gave him a nickname, Junior, that found its way into their official business on more than one occasion. Unfortunately, this neverland of perpetual youth was becoming a problem. The public greeted his ravenous appetite for sex as a terrible scandal.

After all, he was an associate justice of the Supreme Court of the United States.

BRENDA FREDDIES WAS late for work, and she was not happy about it. Not that any of her employers would mind, as they slept in all the time. College students were like that, after all.

Her commute was further stalled during the ride along Newberry Road, heading east toward campus, by the splatter of rain drops against her windshield. Panicking against the rain, the drivers next to her had all slowed down.

Going against the crowd, she sped up when the light turned green. She did not notice the rain had stopped, only to be replaced by hail. She did notice, however, the flash of light and the pounding thunder that crossed her path and knocked a tree over.

The driver in front of her slammed on his brakes, but she couldn’t react in time to stop a collision. The force of impact and the inertia of her accelerations sent Brenda’s vehicle spinning out of control, into the on-coming traffic in the next lane.

She blacked out before anyone could call for an ambulance.

AIMEE STEPPED INSIDE, allowing the door to swing open slowly and quietly. The home office was still humming with active equipment, and with the occasional click and flash of police cameras at work. There was a stench in the air, and a reddened lamp was heating whatever it was that had colored it so.

Aimee cleared the lump in her throat before registering the scene as it was left by the police that had come before her: An older man was hunched over his desk, with his fingers stretched out over the keyboard, apparently in mid-sentence.

No, that was not right. The hands were left between the keyboard and the monitor, as if the victim was doing something other than typing at the time of his death. A pistol rested in the left hand, the smoke of the gunfire long since dissipated.

The man shot himself! A young police officer appeared at Aimee’s side, after saying the obvious conclusion out loud. Aimee nodded in agreement; it sure looked that way.

ALLEN WAS FIDDLING with his tie in front of a mirror when his clerk came in to ask if he were ready.

It’s time now, sir. They are all waiting outside.

Are they now? Allen glanced at his watch and peered outside his window, despite knowing he couldn’t see the crowd from the vantage point of his office window. Still, he knew the kid was right.

With the calm demeanor of a man his age, and quite uncharacteristic of his usual self, Allen moved out of the office, bypassing boxes, stacks of legal books, and briefs from long-since ruled upon cases. Even with all the clutter, the office seemed emptier now to Allen than it had in years, and he let the void show in his face as he stepped over the last stack of papers and passed through the doorway.

Wesley Whitman, the clerk, was not any happier for the situation at hand. Clerking for the Supreme Court is a prestigious position, and one that he had only had for six months. He hardly expected his tenure to be filled completely with whispers and rumors about his boss’s sexual peccadilloes.

Yet, for all their wants and desires, the outcome of today’s events was already pre-determined by a clever detective down in Florida. The pleasant atmosphere of springtime in Washington would soon be replaced. The day was going to be an awful one and everyone knew it.

THE YOUTHFUL BRUNETTE anchor greeted television viewers with a breezy explanation: Hello, I’m Robin Hart, for TV20 News. For late-breaking weather developments, here’s Jim Thomas.

Rachel, who was about to leave her dormitory to meet her boyfriend before class, turned back around to watch the news for a minute. The screen switched over to an over-weight, middle-aged bald man that Robin called Jim. His stern look resembled a cross between that of a college professor and a worried parent. Clearly, the breaking news was not good.

The arctic cold front that has brought seasonally low temperatures for north central Florida is mixing today with a thunderstorm from the Gulf. Our weather forecasts are now predicting possible tornadoes for southwest Gainesville and the outlining towns of Archer and Newberry. As a precaution, the National Weather Service has issued a tornado watch for the entire county.

Rachel finally left the dorms. The University’s campus did not appear to be near the immediate danger zone, so she was not worried beyond getting wet from her ineffective umbrella.

AIMEE STEPPED BACK from the immediacy of the suicide, and looked around. The modest furniture managed to fill the apartment. It took her a moment to notice the number of clocks. None of them were digital, but the similarities ended there. From the grandfather clock in the corner directly behind the dead lawyer to the alarm clock on the desk and the time pieces used as bookends on the shelf near the small television screen, it was clear that Larry Jenkins was a collector of clocks. Otherwise, the apartment did not look like a home.

This is not his principal residence? Aimee asked the policeman who made the earlier observation.

No, Miss Jackson. He and his wife live in Ocala. He maintains a law office here in Brevard County. I imagine he’s rented this space to avoid the 90-mile commute on late nights, Nathan Sanders responded.

Nathan was still fighting back bile in his throat, but was able to respond to the detective clearly enough. New to the police, Nathan was the unfortunate patrolman that responded to the call about a gunshot coming from Larry’s apartment.

Witnesses? Aimee began pacing the apartment, as other policemen continued cataloging items as possible evidence. Leaving items exactly as they were left by the victim – magazines and legal briefs cluttering the main living space, storage boxes left half-opened, clothes discarded everywhere in the bedroom – was to leave a bit of chaos in Aimee’s wake as she toured the apartment with Nathan in tow.

Two old ladies heard the gun shot as they began a morning walk. They did not witness anything else of note, as they were on the second floor of the building when it happened. Nathan had spent half an hour with the ladies, as they gossiped about the neighborhood. He had an obligation to listen, on the off chance that some small detail could prove useful.

Seems like a pretty ordinary suicide, doesn’t it? Aimee asked out loud as she passed through the kitchen area, noting the pile of dirty dishes left in the sink, soaking in their own filth. She returned to the main work area of the apartment.

I have one question, though, Nathan said as a growing commotion was heard outside. More police had arrived, but so had the press. The press has wanted Brevard County’s star detective to take a break and talk to them. Nathan and Aimee ignored the audible arguments for a few moments longer.

Nathan continued, Why kill yourself at the computer?

FOR ALLEN’S PRESS conference, the sky was mostly clear over D.C.. It was the perfect time for an event on the steps of the Supreme Court building. The ambience cast a lighter-than-expected mood over the attendants.

Wesley could hear them even before he made the first tentative move down the steps. His appearance from within, followed shortly thereafter by the associate justice, sparked excitement from the assembled press corps. He did his best to ignore them as he brought the once-respected legal mind down to the podium.

The relatively youthful judge stepped directly behind the microphone and tapped it. After a moment, Allen waved his hand to clue the reporters that he was about to speak. A few photographs were taken. Then, with a deep, full-throated breath, the judge dived into the heart of the matter.

As you now, the good Browning name has been soiled recently by rumors and innuendo in a town overrun by excesses of both, he began. He fiddled with his notes, and pulled out a tan sheet of paper with dark, type-written lettering on it. Wesley thought nothing of it, as his boss frequently wrote on a type-writer – it helped him think more clearly than any damned computer or legal pad ever could. For this speech, Allen had to be perfect, so he relied on notes in public for the first time in quite a while.

RACHEL WAITED OUTSIDE the History department building for her boyfriend Theodore. She did this three times a week, just as his first class of the day ended. The weather had turned for the worse in her walk over from the dormitory – rain drops had given way to what Rachel had thought was snow but quickly realized was really hail. Now, the wind was dry and the clouds overhead were dirty and ominous.

Rachel inched deeper under the awning, toward the entrance to the building. Some part of her warned that this was only the calm before the storm. She sighed. She was relieved to see Theodore running toward her from behind the glass double-doors of the entryway.

Theodore was skinny, but his short frame made his thin body look attractive to Rachel. Wearing Banana Republic, Old Navy, or even cheap generics, she thought it all worked. But she appreciated what physique he had as she embraced him in the windowless hallway just inside the History building.

A professor stepped into the hallway and gestured that the two of them and several other bystanders follow him. They walked calmly and quickly as the group headed for the basement.

The quiet of their steady march ended the moment the sirens sounded. The sirens scared her, as she recalled what her parents had repeatedly told her. Sirens were a warning of an emergency. And sure enough, the sirens were quickly replaced by the sound of a freight train. And as they always told her, tornadoes sound most trains as they barreled down on you…

THE DESK AND surrounding area were no better organized than the rest of the apartment. Aimee was uncertain whether the victim was naturally lazy, or was so engrossed in an important case that he disregarded domestic chores carelessly. Aimee examined the desk, poking items with the tip of her pen. She had seen plenty of deaths in her line of work, but very few had the victim sitting up right as his desk, with a still-functioning computer.

See if you can’t get those reporters to leave, Aimee asked Nathan, who obliged.

She then leaned in to get a better look, and found the monitor drenched in blood, suggesting the victim had smeared its screen after having shot himself but before dying. In between the streaks of blood, Aimee could see that Microsoft Word was open. She checked with a forensics deputy to be sure it was safe to wipe some of the blood away. Afterwards, she was able to see what he had typed. It was not a typical suicide note, but did speak to his horology hobby. Larry had written a single line:

The clock has decided to take time into its own hands.

It would seem that