Wrongful Dismissal

Chapter 1

Mason Adams walked around the poor soul that was found face down on his living room floor. Not one but two Japanese Shun chef's knives sticking straight out of the back of his skull.
"I am trying to determine the time of death." The coroner stated absentmindedly.
Mason flatly and quietly said, "He has been lying here since sometime on Friday evening."
The smell was revolting, flies swarmed by the thousands. Everyone but Mason covered their mouths from the smell. It didn't seem to bother him. The murdered soul had been cooking in one-hundred and twenty degrees for three full days.
"Get some of these windows opened. Open the front door. Don't let anyone in here." Shouted the Police Chief.
This was a high-profile case. The public even knew, because the Police Chief was there.
As they opened the front door the flies took to their escape. Thousands of them greeting the dozens of people standing outside waiting to hear what was going on inside. Everyone noticed the black cloud that exited the house.
The coroner just stared at Mason in disbelief of his talent, he knew when he got the body to the autopsy theater he would find out that Mason Adams was always right.
"The knives are not what killed him." Stated Mason, in a matter of fact way.
Still moving around the body. Bending at the knees to get closer to the back of the victim's head. The coroner just looked at him.
"How can you know that?"
"There is very little blood flowing from the puncture wounds that the knives made. You know Mr. Coroner that head injuries generally bleed profusely."
Mason Adams was amazing. He didn't mean to make people feel inept it just happened. They themselves walked straight into it every time and left him no recourse but to shame them by his knowledge and the lack of theirs.
Mason Adams was slick, brilliant and charming. A sleuth, a shamus. Not in the police business, not really.
They called him "Encyclopedia Adams" from the detective series in the 1960s called "Encyclopedia Brown". A young boy of maybe eleven or twelve years of age, whose last name was Brown, was exceptionally brilliant and figured out crimes that were taking place in his neighborhood.
A private detective with a sixth sense. When he walked into a crime scene it was as though he were completely alone, even though there might be many people at the scene.
He walked with dignity. A head-turner. Handsome.
Literally tall, dark and handsome. With mocha chocolate skin and short cropped hair, lean and tall, with an athletic build, narrow hips and broad shoulders.
Women loved him; he was so astute, sensitive to every nuance; listened to them well; and more than that, he understood them.
He didn't really care what people thought of him. He was genius; but didn't care about that either. There was so much work to be done, criminals to chase down, convict, imprison, crimes to solve, court cases to attend and testify at. No time for airs and graces.
He had no affectation of superiority. He wasn't interested in adulation, credit, limelight or money. He was famous and hated it. His office drawer was full to overflowing with uncashed checks. The secretary in his office, with frustration had stacks of phone messages unanswered.
Ian Boyne invited him to be on Jamaica's most prestigious television talk-show, Profile.
Clifford Hughes fought tooth and nail, fiercely to have Mason appear on the next most prestigious program, Impact.
Although the most prestigious programs on Jamaican television, Mason was too busy for what he thought to be 'frivolous time wasters', as he put it.
To be on a program with a famous television figure pumping questions and assumptions that required refuting, contradicting or defending was something that seemed ridiculous and redundant. What could possibly be the purpose? These programs and their promoters are always bias, politically or otherwise.
The Jamaican Chief of Police would call him in, when there were cases that stumped them. Which was often. They made their best and concerted effort which fell short of any real value-add in the community of finding the culprits especially under scrutiny. Anything high-profile such as this, Mason Adams was their top-man to be called on.
He was always able to solve the crimes when no one else could. Many times his life was in danger. He would stop at nothing to gain the truth of a matter. He despised injustice. But had mercy for those that died at the hands of evil people. Somewhat of a twisted humanitarian. Bring to justice some and comforting those that lost someone. He had heart but never allowed that to cloud his judgements or sway his position.
He appeared to be somewhat of a 'hard-nose'. That meant he was realistic and determined; tough-minded. Many thought he was arrogant and stubborn. Only to those that didn't know him well.
The detectives on the Jamaica Police Force had a love/hate relationship with Mason Adams. They hated that he was there, and was so good, shamed them, shining a light on their incompetency, at the same time they loved it that he solved the crimes that they were not capable of solving.
The world watches Jamaica too. This they always kept in the back of their minds. There is always a race of some sort. Country with the least crimes. Country with the least murders. Country with the most unsolved murders. Country with the most solved murders. Always a race of some kind.
Shameful.
Mason was very generous. He allowed the Police Chief to talk to the media. He allowed the police force to take the credit. Always.
The Chief called him regularly, but especially if the cases were high-profile and or particularly difficult. Forensics in Jamaica were at least nonexistent, certainly much to be desired. Juvenile a best.
Mason Adams was what most would call unorthodox. He 'felt' the crimes. He 'felt' the scene. He 'felt' what happened.
As though he had been there when it took place. The coroner, the police and detectives would stand and watch him move around the crime scene with precision. He was always right.
A modern-day-real-live-Sherlock-Holmes. A perceptive private detective is what he was, thus the nickname. Although that is where the comparison ended. He looked nothing like a Sherlock. He looked like a model. The good looks assisted him in his investigations. Especially women, wanted his attention and would quickly and easily answer all his questions. Men admired and respected him and were also forthcoming and willing.
Mason felt an instant sadness for the man that lay there, face down, in his own home. This was not gang related. Or a ghetto case. This was not a thug with knives protruding from the back of his head. This was not a deserving assassination. There were no drugs or prostitutes involved. This was a respectable someone.
"The house immaculate, he is immaculate." Talking to himself. "This was a crime of passion, jealousy, ruthlessness!" The men and women standing around fell into silence as Mason began.
"Kill-ers?" The chief detective asked. "You think there were more than one?"
Mason didn't answer. Kept moving around the body and then from room to room, taking his time but at the same time quickly and quietly assessing the situation.
With coroner's camera and police camera flashes flashing in each room, if a police or the coroner's photographer were in the room that Mason wanted to enter, the room was cleared immediately so that he could investigate alone. Think, observe, assess, in silence, in solitude. Everyone was well aware of his style and accommodated him.
Slowly, methodically opening and closing closets as he went. In the bedroom, noticing a dress shirt, the corner of each shoulder of the shirt put together precisely, folded, then laid across the back of the chair, with no possibility of the shirt being creased.
Then he moved into the hallway.
"He lived alone. Only men's clothing in the closet." Mason continued almost in a whisper, only lips and eyes moving rapidly. "He had no enemies but for a few." His body moved fluidly, cool and calm.
Moving to the hallway closet he found dozens of shoe boxes neatly stacked. Just as you would find in the inventory of a high-end shoe store. Opening a few of them he found only men's shoes. Laid in the box end to end, opposite of each other. Neat and polished. No residue from the street in the bottom of the boxes.
"He polished his shoes when he took them off, not when he put them on, ready for their next use."
He stopped when he passed the front door foyer again, "He knew his attackers. He was relaxed."
"How do you know that?" The Chief asked him while attempting to follow him around throughout the house.
Since he was near finished his period of scrutinizing the scene and situation he answered the Chief, "Dress shirt he was wearing during the day, he removed and laid it on the back of the chair in the bedroom. Now he only has his undershirt on. He was comfortable with these people. His shoes that he wore when he came in are placed neatly, undisturbed against the wall, at the door. He took his shoes off. But he was going to go out again that night. The person or persons that were with him knew he was accustom to do that. He was relaxed with them, he knew at least one of them very well. The killers were not random. They were not frantic. They too were relaxed even after the killing."
The police were always baffled at Mason Adam's ability to ascertain what the facts were, and very quickly.
"What would give you that impression?" The Chief jumped in again.
"In a frenzy his shoes would have been knocked or kicked around. But the killers moved around back and forth in and out more than twice and did not disturb his shoes. Also as they moved in and out of the house after the victim was dead. They were calm so as not to draw too much attention."
"What makes you think that he was going to go out again that evening?" The Chief asked more for added knowledge than to solve the crime.
"He always polished his shoes and put them away when he was in for the night."
Everyone was astounded and had more questions to ask him but stayed quiet.
Mason walked over to the body again. "He was relaxed when he fell. One person, a female was talking to him, distracting him, another person, male, came from behind and hit him with a heavy object, he free-fell onto his face. Like a tree when chopped down. Nothing broke his fall. Then the male, in mafia style execution, impaled him with one chef's knife, while the female watched. Then it was her turn."
All the police and the coroner looked one to the other shaking their heads in disbelief at what Mason could deduce.
"The man thought he was executing him with the knives, but he was dead before he hit the floor, fortunately for the poor soul." Mason continued. "Then the female stabbed him with the second knife." Stated matter-of-fact.
He moved to the kitchen and looked carefully at everything. The kitchen was immaculate. He could tell the victim loved to cook.....and was good at it. There were gourmet copper and stainless steel pots hanging from a pot rack suspended from the ceiling, Shun knives, two missing from the wooden block the set rested in. What seemed like an endless variety of spices and different flavored oils.
Mason took a handkerchief out of his pocket and opened the freezer compartment of the refrigerator with it. It was packed full of every cut of pork imaginable. He noticed a glass of water in the fridge and one empty glass in the sink.
"The killers were ruthless. They took time to drink a glass of water and leave one in the fridge."
"Oh, come on Adams, perhaps the victim drank the water and left the glass in the sink this morning when he left the house." The Chief said critically thinking that it was absurd that Adams would know all that. "Are you trying to tell me that the murderer drank a glass of water and put the glass in the sink?"
"This man left nothing out of place before he left home in the morning, every morning. He was fastidious, clean and organized. Had he used it he would have washed the glass, dried the glass with a tea towel, you see them hanging neatly on the rung, then he would have put the glass in it's place, in the cupboard, and the tea towel hung up again." Adams ignored the expression on the Chief's face and asked, "Where are we?"
"We are on the campus of the University of Jamaica in St. Thomas. Mr. Montcliffe is.....I mean.....was, a senior lecturer at the university."
Adams was from the parish of Manchester. He travelled over to St. Thomas to investigate this case. The parish of St. Thomas had one of the lowest crime rate in the entire country. Adams was very rarely in that parish.
He moved from the kitchen to the living room and noticed many framed certificates hanging on one of the walls. "Impressive." But didn't say anything about them.
"His mother is waiting outside. We should inform her that he has been found. He has missing for the better part of four days." One senior policeman spoke up.
The crowd had been gathering for a few hours now.
"Don't let her see her son in this condition." Mason said without emotion. The emotion was there but he didn't let anyone hear it in his voice. "Find someone else to identify the body."
"His brother is here. Matthew Montcliffe. He said he was willing to identify the body. In fact he is insisting he has to see him for his own peace of mind."
"Fine." Mason stated appearing absentminded, oblivious to the movement going on around him, he was fixated and concentrating as he continued looking through the house.
One junior policeman whispered to the Chief in a derogatory way, "He is in the bathroom looking at the toilet. Is he crazy?"
"Keep quiet Constable, he is nothing close to crazy, believe me."
Just then Mason could hear an animalistic wailing from the crowd that had gathered in front of the house when they heard that Ceyon Montcliffe was in the house and had been found dead.