Detective Jack: S2-05: It’s a Circle
“Cecilia Redder.”
I had him. I knew a songbird from a mile away, and I was staring at one.
“But…why would she kill Donald?”
“Let me show you something.”
The doctor, who I was beginning to doubt had an actual medical license, stood up and shimmied over to his kitchen.
He walked back and shoved something in my face.
“Do you know what this is, detective?”
I stared at this odd man. “It’s a donut.”
“NO. It’s a CIRCLE.”
“Well technical…oh, fu…”
A sharp ring ricocheted in my ears. Probably some subconscious attempt to cram these memories back down. The Circle was the alien-obsessed former sex cult (it’s a long story) that I had faced last year. The same cult that led to the massive firing of LAPD officers.
We had arrested Thomas Chester, a member of the inner circle, but hadn’t captured their leader. Not yet. But we also hadn’t heard from them in months. I had hoped they had shrunk back to alien hell.
“Detective…it’s a CIRCLE,” he repeated as he shoved the colorful calorie bomb in my face with his creepy long fingers.
“I get it, I get it. So let me put this together. Cecilia and Donny were members of The Circle?”
“Well, yes, but Donny left when all the alien mumbo-jumbo started. He was there for the free love.” A glint of knowingness came across the doctor’s eyes.
“Ah, and that’s how you met the Redders. And when the cult splintered, they got a divorce. But Cecilia...was a romantic and still loved him.”
The doctor—I need to stop calling him that—gave me a wide-eyed nod.
I continued, mostly to myself, “And, of course, eventually, Donny needed to die. He knew too much. The Circle wouldn’t allow it.”
Dr. Hemingford pointed again to the donut, affirming.
“But then, who killed Cecilia?”
My new hippie friend’s face froze.
“You didn’t know? I got the call on the way over. Cecilia was found dead too. Poisoned.”
“Detective, that would not have been a murder. She had a visit with The Circle’s favorite backup plan….arsenic. It must have been suicide.”
I leaned back. A cult-inspired murder suicide. Damn.
“Mr. Hemingford,” I’ve given up on calling him doctor, “you are under arrest for accessory to murder.”
