Guilty

by

Association

Henry Wright Mystery

by

Albert Simon
Other books by Albert Simon

The Henry Wright Mystery Series:

For Sale in Palm Springs

Springtime in Sonora

Mystery on the Tramway

Drama in the Mother Lode

Coachella Valley Traffic Jam

 Guilty by Association

a Henry Wright Mystery

by

Albert Simon

ISBN 0-976200-31-7

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2009 by Albert Simon

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
This e-Book is licensed to the user that purchased it for reading on any
computer or PDA.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

For information, contact:

orders@desertdreaming.com

www.desertdreaming.com
For Laura who inspired this tale.
Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

Chapter 1

The desert retained the heat of the day and though the sun
had disappeared behind the San Jacinto peaks hours ago,
it was still hot out here. The man in the truck’s throat felt
dry and his lips were covered with desert dust as he licked
them. The old pickup rattled and complained as it made its
way along a barely visible track and climbed deeper into the
desert. The man inside the cab fought with the wheel as it
bumped and jerked along what must have been a road long
ago. Desert dust filled the cab since the windows were
rolled down and air conditioning obviously wasn’t thought
of as something to put in a truck when this thing was built.

The man driving took one hand off the steering wheel and
searched for the bottle of water that he had put on the
bench seat next to him when he set out. It had slid towards
the passenger door and he reached it as the truck jerked
the steering wheel out of his hand.

He abandoned the idea of the water bottle and put both

hands back on the large steering wheel. He wasn’t a weak
man by any means, but he felt the muscles in his forearms
tensing as he fought the truck’s tendency to follow the ruts.
It seemed like this old thing had a mind of its own and
didn’t really want to make this night trip deep into the
desert, preferring to stay in its normal parking space
outside its owner place of business. The old truck seemed
to prefer the regular task it was given, advertising with
garish signs on its wooden stake sides.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was really half
that, the truck stopped next to a small shed in the middle

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

of nowhere. The occupant got out, fished in his pockets for

a single key amongst his change and unlocked the old
padlock on the metal door. As he struggled in the faint light
of the old truck’s headlights to put the key in, he thought
why bother with a lock? Who would want to come way out
here anyway? And what are they protecting, there’s just a
bunch of electric motors and crap inside this old shed.

As he twisted the lock open, he smiled. This place was

actually perfect for his task. He’d have to hand it to the
boss, he’s always thinking. Like assigning him this little
errand instead of one of those other idiots that he worked
with that couldn’t even put a sentence together. He didn’t
think his boss knew about his previous experience, but he
had still picked him. Surely, it showed a level of trust didn’t
it? He’d probably get a little bonus for this, maybe even a
promotion.

The door creaked open and he looked inside, the equipment

hummed quietly and the digital displays glowed with a faint
green to show that everything was normal. He walked the
few steps back to the truck and worked the rusted chains
that held the tailgate on out of their places.

The package in the back was awkward and tied with heavy
nylon trucker’s rope. It had bounced towards the front of
the bed and he had to put his knee on the tailgate to reach
it and pull it out. He shoved one of the advertising stake
sides out of the way and grabbed the bundle by one of the
ends of the rope. Despite its weight and bulkiness he slung
it over his shoulder and carried it towards the open door of
the shed.

As he stepped in the doorway, he heard a sound and looked

over his shoulder. No one would be out here now would
they? Yet there it was again, it first it seemed like a car
thudding along the same set of tracks the he had just come
upon, but he held his breath, listened more intently and
thought he could identify the sound. He’d heard this years
ago in a different time in a different place.

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

He’d been out at night also at that time, but instead of

being selected he’d volunteered for the task. It certainly had
not been as hot there as here, but it was just as barren. He
remembered standing still then, waiting for the
approaching sound and the relief and help it would bring.
He shook the memory from his head and decided that if it
was the same sound, it would definitely not be a relief here.
No, not at all, in fact it was trouble if it was what he
thought.

He decided not to linger and dropped the bundle inside the

shed, closed the door and put the padlock back on. He
covered the short distance to the truck in three strides,
slammed the tailgate shut and started putting the chains
on.

Just then the sound reappeared and not a hundred feet

over his head, a helicopter with its unmistaken whoosh-
whoosh of large blades, blew right over him on its way to
somewhere beyond the next ridge. The man didn’t even
really see the chopper, all of it’s navigation lights were off
and it appeared as a darker spot against a dark night sky.

What kind of idiot was flying a chopper without lights in the

middle of the night in the desert? And where were they
going, he was miles away from the nearest town or
location? It had to be a stunt by the crazy pilots from the
Marine base at Twentynine Palms.

He remembered that worlds away the pilots were a little

crazy and enjoyed showing off their night gear and how
they could sneak up on a platoon on patrol in total
darkness and practically make them wet their pants.
Bastards, he thought. This isn’t a war zone; they’re just a
bunch of macho showoffs. At least it had kept going on its
own mission, it would not have been good for the man if the
chopped had hovered and checked on him.

As he opened the pickup door, he thought back again to his

other mission. There were a lot of similarities here in the

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

desert of California to the mountains of Afghanistan.

Barren, inhospitable, dangerous, except there it was always
cold at night while it was the exact opposite here. Shaking
off the memory, he climbed back into the pickup, found his
bottle of water and took a long drink before putting the
truck in gear to start the long bumpy ride back to the home
base.

Thirty minutes later he was back on the pavement where

the truck left gray dusty tracks as headed back. Another
twenty minutes and he parked the truck in its usual spot,
pulled the stake sides out of the bed and put them back. He
lifted up the driver’s side floormat and dropped the trucks
key onto the metal floorboard. He fished in his pocket for
the padlock’s key and dropped it next to it before dropping
the mat back into place.

He dusted his clothes off the best he could, it looked like

his sneakers were ruined, he probably should have worn
the surplus desert boots he kept in the entry closet. He
probably should have done a lot of things differently
tonight, he took a risk but it seemed to have paid off.

He walked over to his own car, started it up with a new

appreciation for its air conditioning, power steering and the
stereo he had just upgraded last year. He was back at his
apartment in another ten minutes and looked at the digital
clock that reminded him of the displays in the shed. It read
three fifteen, he was going to be late for work in the
morning but he knew the boss would understand.

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

Chapter 2

The digital watch started beeping and he didn’t reach

for it right away. It seemed to get more insistent the longer
he ignored it, but he knew that was impossible. When he
reached the wall at the end of the pool he stopped, put his
feet on the bottom of the pool, flipped his goggles on top of
his head, squinted in the bright sunlight, and pushed the
button on the watch which seemed happier now that it was
silent. He wiped the water off his face, blinked his eyes and
saw his fiancée Gloria, wearing nothing but a big fluffy
white towel around her shoulders sitting on a chaise lounge
next to the bougainvillea and a holding a steaming mug of
coffee.

He climbed out of the pool as Gloria stood up and

wrapped the towel around his waist.
“Good morning honey.” She said as she dried some
water droplets off his chest.
“Hmmmmm,” he answered as he took his first sip of
coffee. An hour before she had been asleep in their bed as
he kissed her hip before rolling out of bed and making
coffee in the kitchen. While it was brewing, he had grabbed
his watch, set the stopwatch for its usual forty-five minutes
and started swimming his morning laps.

They exchanged places and he sat down on the

chaise lounge sipping his morning coffee while watching
Gloria swimming more relaxed slow laps than his had been.
His eyes were now used to the bright sun that had been up
less than half an hour and he pulled the swim goggles from
the top of his head and put them on the small table next to
the chaise lounge. Taking his eyes off Gloria, he looked
around the garden oasis he had created.

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

He’d moved to Palm Springs after retiring as Chief of

Police from the small force in Eagle Lake, Wisconsin.
Shortly before he retired, his wife Irma unexpectedly died
while they were house hunting for a place they could live
the rest of their lives. They were in Las Vegas when Irma
suffered a stroke and collapsed in their hotel bathroom.
After that, the thought of living in Las Vegas repulsed him
and at the insistence of his old friend Wayne Johnson, he
bought a house here on Mel Avenue in old Palm Springs.

The home was older, what they called mid-century

here, meaning that it was built in the nineteen fifties, when
he was in grade school. The curb appeal wasn’t great, just a
flat low roofed façade, with a two car garage facing the quiet
street. Like most homes in Palm Springs, this house was
meant to have its owners live in the backyard.

The home was in the shape of a U, with a kitchen

and living room in the bottom of the U. A hallway ran down
either end of the house and each wing had two bedrooms.
All of the rooms had French doors that opened to the yard
and its large pool. He and now Gloria, lived in one of the
wings where in addition to their bedroom, Henry had a
modest office.

It needed work when he first moved in, something he

did with total focus. The home improvement project became
his therapy to work through the loss of Irma. He’d started
with the master bedroom and made that livable. Then,
before tackling the rest of the house he reworked the
backyard into the lush tropical garden that surrounded the
pool. There was so much about gardening in this climate
that he didn’t know then. The crew he hired to help him
showed him which plants were best for the desert climate
and though his Spanish was worse than their English,
Henry received a great education in tropical gardening in
the twelve months it took to transform the once dying,
barren yard into the tropical oasis that now surrounded
them.

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

As therapy it bloomed as well, as he planted new

plants and ran lines for his extensive drip irrigation system,
he felt that he was getting over the loss of Irma. He did
become a bit of a hermit while he was working on the
house, only going out to get more potting soil or groceries to
keep him going.

The home’s other wing was occupied by his

roommate, Charles Knightly III, a retired high school
history teacher from San Francisco. Wayne Johnson and
his wife, Elliot became concerned about him shutting
himself out from society, and suggested he visit the local
senior center to, as they said “just see what is going on in
your neighborhood.”

Henry met Charles in the game room where Charles

was the only one that could tie him, or sometimes beat him,
at a game of pool. Charles had been looking for a place that
would take his dog, and Henry offered his house for a few
months.

That was four years ago. When they became engaged,

Henry and Gloria came home from Jensen’s the local
grocery store one afternoon to find Charles sitting at the
breakfast counter scouring the local rental want ads trying
to find a new place. Gloria wouldn’t hear of it and begged
Charles to stay with her and Henry. After mildly protesting,
Charles agreed and now the three of them made an
uncommon family, but they all agreed that they were.

Henry was aware that he was daydreaming when he

saw Gloria, wearing what she was wearing when she was
born, step out of the pool walking towards him holding her
hand out for the folded towel that she set on the other
lounge. Henry got up and returned the favor, wrapping the
towel around her, drying some stray water drops. She let
him wrap his arms around her and he felt her shiver even
as the desert temperature started to climb in the early
morning.

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

“It’s Thursday” She finally said slipping out of his

arms and drying off her legs.
“Yep, we’re meeting at nine, and it sounds like he
wants some help this week.” Henry answered.
“I could tell from the tone of his voice when he called
last night.” Gloria answered looking up at Henry with
questions in her eyes. “Are we ready for another
adventure?”
“Adventure?” Henry responded with a laugh. “Shoot,
Wayne probably just wants to sell us some tickets to one or
the other police fund raiser.” He answered.
“Fund raiser?” Gloria responded. “Somehow I don’t
think so. I’ll bet he needs help with the Tramway Professor
case, or perhaps the Desert Mummy.”

“Here take this.” She said picking up a small white

tablet from the table.
“You know, I’m convinced I really don’t need this
medication.” Henry said, placing the tablet in his mouth
and taking a sip of coffee to swallow it.
“We go through this every morning, I know you
exercise, and you’re in great shape, but the doctor wants
you to take this for your blood pressure.” Gloria stroked his
arm. “Besides, now that I have you, I want to keep you
around for a long time.”
I know, I know.” Henry smiled down at her. It
probably really didn’t hurt, in fact he weighed only a few
pounds more than when he got out of the Marine Corps
forty years ago, and he swore that with his daily swimming
routine he was in as good a shape now as he was then.

“Besides, your health insurance covers it, this little

tablet costs you only pennies a day.” Gloria reminded him,
that his health insurance was covered through the State of
Wisconsin’s retirement program for public officials.
“It’s not the cost, it just makes me feel, well, sort of,
you know… old.” Henry said looking down in his coffee cup.

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

“Henry, I don’t want to hear that any more, you’re

only as old as you feel!” She said playfully pulling her towel
off her shoulders and playfully whipping him with it.
Henry jumped out of her way and sloshed a bit of
coffee out of his cup. “Well if I have to take these little white
pills to keep up with you, then I guess that’s what I will
have to do.” He laughed as she posed for him with the towel
around her shoulders.

“Come on, let’s get inside before Charles comes out

and catches us playing out here like a couple of teenagers.”
“Oh Charles has known for a long time that I don’t
wear anything when I’m out here swimming my laps – why
do you think he sleeps in?” Henry answered, tying the towel
around his waist again.
“You don’t think it bothers him do you?” Gloria
asked, concern for offending Charles showing on her face.
“Nah, Charles could care less, he just uses that as an
excuse to sleep a little longer in the mornings.” Henry
smiled. “Don’t worry about offending Charles, besides, I’m
not sure that is even possible.”

“Ok, I won’t. Come on, let’s head in, aren’t you

curious what Wayne wants to talk to you about? He sure
sounded concerned when he confirmed your breakfast
meeting last night. Usually he never calls the night before.
I’m sure that he’s setting us off on another adventure!”
Gloria tugged at his towel urging him to go in.

Wayne, in addition to being one of Henry’s oldest

friends, was a captain of detectives in the local police
department and had called on Henry in the past to help
him solve difficult cases. These were the adventures that
Gloria was referring to; she had started helping him with
investigating some of the murders that Wayne was
responsible for investigating.

Once Henry got started helping Wayne, like with the

odd case of the realtor found bludgeoned in the abandoned
home. He started getting calls from other old law

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

enforcement pals, something that he was sure Wayne

initiated. That was actually how he met Gloria, while
investigating another case that an old law enforcement
buddy, Bill Rustow, requested his help with. They hit it off
right away and when Henry was shot, it was Gloria that
nursed him back to health. They had been virtually
inseparable ever since and when they decided to get
married she sold her home in Sonora and moved to Palm
Springs.

Here he was at sixty-three, hopelessly in love and

about to get married for the second time in his life. Gloria
was just a few years younger, though you’d never know by
looking at her. She gave the women who sashayed down
Palm Canyon Drive at the Thursday night Street fair a run
for their money, even though she was old enough to be
their mother – sometimes even their grandmother.

He kept one arm around her while he with his towel

around his waist and she with it loosely draped hers
around her shoulders walked back to the open French
doors and their bedroom. Surely he had a few minutes to
spare before needing to shower and drive the few blocks to
Sherman’s to meet Wayne for their weekly breakfast?

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

Chapter 3

It was dark and chilly and the terrain was treacherous.

He’d already slipped once, his boot lost footing on a rock
that was more slippery than it looked. He hated these night
missions, yet he kept volunteering for them. Well, not quite
volunteering, he agreed to go when the Sarge asked him to.
After all, at this point he was one of the senior guys in the
platoon. Not in age, but in experience, and he was proud
that the Sarge always asked him first.

Tonight he was once again the point man. The others were
strung out behind him on what barely passed as a trail.
They were looking for combatants. A strange concept
actually, he was a soldier; he should have been fighting
other soldiers. But this was a different war and as a soldier
he didn’t like hunting combatants. Honestly, this wasn’t
even a war. Wars had armies fighting one another and
battle lines and all that stuff he’d heard about in history
class in high school. It must have been great to be a soldier
during the last World War, where soldiers fought battles
and killed enemy soldiers and saved the world for
democracy.

They had tried to convince he and his fellow recruits that

they were saving the world for democracy here on this
barren mountain ridge. He wasn’t sure. A week ago they
had isolated some combatants in a cave deep in the
mountains. They’d called for air support and waited until
the choppers came over the ridge, lights out, mobile dark
spots in a night sky. Suddenly the choppers roared to life

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

as they fired their missiles at the cave. He had to look

away, the flash of light of the rocket as its motor roared to
life as it left the helicopter robbed him of his night vision.

Half an hour after the choppers did their work, they went
into the cave to see what was left. The combatants they
eliminated that night turned out to be plentiful. There were
at least twenty of them and enough grenade launchers and
rifles to arm three platoons. As they looked at the bodies,
they were shocked to discover that the oldest among them
was about fifteen. His little brother would have been fifteen
now if he hadn’t been killed in the car accident. Fifteen! He
was shocked. Surely this didn’t happen during the great
wars of the previous century. Why was this happening
now?

He adjusted the straps of the pack on his back which was

getting heavier with each step. They were told that the
moon would be out tonight, and it would help them on
patrol. He didn’t think so. In the moonlight he and his
buddies would stand out against the sky as they walked
along these ridges. They were the perfect target for a
combatant. It would be just like shooting at the little metal
ducks in the carnival’s shooting gallery at home. He and his
buddies, they’d all fall over and then some fifteen year old
kid with an AK-47 would be given a teddy bear or whatever
prize they handed out here in the mountains.

A little farther and they would be on the back end of the

loop that took them back to camp. It was hard to think of
as home, he hadn’t known home for a few years now. He
knew that eventually he had to go back. Maybe it was
easier now that his mother was dead. He was glad it
happened while he was here. He probably would not have
volunteered for another tour of the forsaken place if she
was dead then. He would have just gone back. As it was, he
couldn’t leave for her funeral; he stayed here in the
mountains. It was just as well anyway, she embarrassed
him. It was her grief over her little brother that killed her.
Grief, and a little help from the .32 that she swallowed, of

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course. He guessed her worrying about him being over here

and getting shot at wasn’t enough to keep her alive. But
then she really didn’t worry about him did she. All she
cared about was his little brother. Hey, accidents happen.
People die. He saw it here all the time. He swore that more
of the guys here died or were injured from accidents than
from enemy combatants.

The camp was in sight, and without word the patrol

disbanded and headed for their tents. He swung the pack
off his shoulder and threw it into the tent he shared with
two other guys before heading back out to relieve himself.
He was supposed to go to the latrine, but he figured it was
dark and who really cared as he aimed for a rock.

When he crawled into his cot, he looked up at the ceiling for

a long time before falling asleep trying to make sense of the
camouflage pattern on the tent. He was told it was
computer generated and totally random and the latest in
high-tech stealth.

He woke up what seemed like moments later. He looked up

and the camouflage had changed into popcorn. The ceiling
fan spun lazily and off balance. He looked over at the night
stand where the green glow of his alarm said it was just
before eight. He’d gotten less five hours sleep but he felt
fine. As he swung his legs off the bed he realized he wasn’t
in Afghanistan anymore.

He was having a hard time discerning his dream from

reality. He had gone to Afghanistan; he had been part of
killing children the same age as his long dead brother. He
knew he had done all of that, the only thing hanging on the
wall in this room was the small frame with his Marine
Corps battle decorations. He wasn’t as sure about being in
the desert in the middle of the night, the chopper roaring
overhead, the bundle he’d dropped in the room with green
digital displays. He walked over to the bathroom to take a
shower and saw his dust covered sneakers by the closet.
Perhaps he had gone out last night.

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

Chapter 4

An hour after he went in to shower, Henry backed the little

Toyota hybrid car silently out of the garage and headed
down Mel Avenue. Sometimes he missed the big Mercury
Marquis that he had for years. It was the civilian version of
the police cruiser that he drove back in Eagle Lake. When
he retired, he bought it new because he couldn’t be
bothered with learning where the switches and buttons for
the lights and wipers were.

Gloria talked him into getting this car, and now that he was
driving it he had to admit that while he missed the Marquis
at times, he didn’t miss it much or all that often. He glided
silently across Via Miraleste and continued on Mel down to
the stop sign at Avenida Caballeros. He made a right and as
he accelerated in the forty mile an hour zone, he finally
heard the engine start.

He turned on Tahquitz Canyon and caught the light at

Encilia making a smooth left turn on battery power once
again and swung into a parking spot along the wall that
separated the lot from the sidewalk. Wayne’s plain
unmarked police car was already in the lot behind him even
though Henry was a few minutes early.

The little car gave a happy beep as he hit the button on the
fob and the doors locked. It had taken a while to get used to
not having a real key, but he liked how the fob felt in his
pocket – no metal. He walked into Sherman’s, waved at
Manny behind the counter and as he walked over to the
booth against the wall he knew that Wayne Johnson was
not about to sell him tickets to a police fund raiser.

Wayne was somberly stirring his coffee when Henry slid

into the booth across from him. Wayne Johnson was a

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captain of detectives in the Palm Springs police department.

The crime rate in Palm Springs was low with the occasional
fight at one of the dance clubs downtown, sometimes an
off-season burglary at a home only occupied during the
season by snowbirds, but overall, Palm Springs Police spent
most of their time with traffic issues as it seemed like
everyone drove too fast along the mostly residential streets.

Wayne had enough to do though; a resort area famous for

being the playground of the beautiful people draws the
underbelly of society as well. In the past year he’d arrested
a jealous husband who’d followed his wife from Santa
Monica to Palm Springs with her young lover. Both of them
had been shot in their suite at the Riviera. It didn’t take too
long to catch the murderer who was sitting calmly smoking
a cigar by the poolside bar waiting for the cops to arrest
him.

The Horse Strangler had taken a little bit longer. That’s

what the local papers called the case. A man in North Palm
Springs who owned on what might be called a horse ranch
had been found strangled to death in the barn. Wayne
worked on it for a week until he found that a ranch hand
was embezzling. The owner had confronted him in the barn
when a fight ensued and the owner lost.

It didn’t help that the ranch hand had disappeared and

Wayne had to go to Montana to track him down and bring
him back. But two murders in the past twelve months
wasn’t enough to have a Homicide division in the
department so Wayne and his detectives handles everything
from car theft investigations, drug sales, prostitution, and
murder.

Wayne and his wife Elliot lived in a large, beautiful house

overlooking a golf course in Indio. He would never have
been able to buy, or keep up, such a beautiful place if it
hadn’t been willed to Elliot by her dad. Dad was a developer
and built the tract, the golf course and the shopping center

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in Indio where they now lived. He kept one of the nicest

properties for himself and was prepared to retire there
when he suffered the heart attack that killed him. Elliot’s
mother had passed away of grief three months later and
neither of them had been able to enjoy the large house that
was now in Elliot’s name. They had moved in, and rented
out their small house in the Deepwell area of Palm Springs.

“So, I read about the Tramway Professor and I must

say it is very mysterious.” Henry said turning over the
empty coffee cup in front of him.

Wayne eyed him over the top of his reading glasses

and a small smile came to his face. “Yes, mathematics
professor, takes the tram to the top, hikes a little bit, goes
off the trail and is found dead a few days later.”
“And he works for the Defense Department in a think
tank. It sounds mysterious to me.”

“Agreed, it is very mysterious if all you do is read the

paper and watch the evening news.”
“What do you mean?”
“Henry, the man was a mathematics professor from
Colorado, yes he was out here at a conference with a
Defense Department think tank. Yes, he took the tram up
to the top of the mountain with some friends and went for a
hike. He felt ill, told his friends he would take a shortcut
back to the tram and went off the trail. Apparently, the
altitude, dehydration and a bad heart killed him.”

“Nothing sinister then?” Henry asked, the

disappointment showing in his voice.
“Nope, natural causes according to Doc Smedley at
the coroner’s office.
“And his friends?”
“Overcome with guilt. Raised the alarm as soon as
they got back to the tram station and he wasn’t there. They
helped Palm Springs Search and Rescue as much as they
-could but his body wasn’t found until twenty-four hours
after he disappeared.”

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“Did you check out the think tank?”

“Do you mean, like would someone involved with the
think tank want this guy dead?”
Henry just nodded.
Oh, I checked it out all right. This think tank is a
bunch of old professors with no real world experience trying
to figure out why the economy is in the shitter, and how it
impacts our national defenses. They meet twice a year in
places like Orlando, or Scottsdale, Arizona. They’d never get
together in Chicago in January.” Wayne said with disgust.
Henry knew that the city manager asked the police
department to make some cuts in staffing. “Whatever grant
or subsidy the Defense Department gave these guys, they
could have given to me so that I can stay fully staffed.”

Millie stopped by their table with a coffee pot to fill up

Henry’s cup and top off Wayne’s.
“The usual boys?” She said, not bothering to take her
pad out.

“I’ll have the usual.” Wayne said smiling up at Millie

who had been at Sherman’s as long as Sherman’s had been
here.
“I’ll have the corned beef hash, eggs scrambled,
wheat toast, and keep the coffee coming.” Henry said who
like to vary his order every once in a while.

“You got it.” Millie replied as she headed for the

kitchen with their order.
“So the Tramway Professor case isn’t a case at all and
there is no suspicious activity with someone trying to
influence the thinking of the think tank?” Henry wanted to
be sure that Wayne had covered all of the angles, this case
had sounded interesting to him when he first read about it
in the Desert Sun.
“Natural causes. Nothing sinister going on, just an
unfortunate accident, case closed.” Wayne sipped his
coffee. “But, I do need help with something else.”
“I could tell from the tone of your voice when you
called last night – there’s something going on.”

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“There is. We found a body out in the desert at a

remote pumping station wrapped up in a tarp. Beaten
beyond recognition, we’re trying to get a dental record
identification now.” Wayne explained.
“The Desert Mummy.” Henry said.
“Yeah, I read that’s what the paper started calling the
case.”
“So you don’t know who he is?”
“She.”
“A woman?”
“Yep, that was still recognizable.”
“Was she assaulted?”
“You mean sexually?”
“Yes, Wayne, I mean sexually. I know that if she was
beaten to death that she was assaulted. I meant was she
raped and beaten?”

“Sorry Henry, I know that is what you meant. It’s just

that no case has affected me like this one in a long time. I
saw the body and let me tell you that what was left of her
face didn’t even look human.”

“I understand. Was she raped?”

“Medical examiner says no.”
“OK, so this wasn’t about sexual battery.”
“No, in fact the doc says that he ran the rape kit and
she was a virgin.”
“Age?”
“Doc says she was between thirty and thirty-five.”

Millie came back with their plates and set down Henry’s
steaming corned beef hash and eggs and Wayne’s lox and
bagel.
“Anything else boys?” Millie asked knowing that the
answer was going to be no, or something related to keeping
the coffee flowing. “Coffee refills are on the way.” She added
cutting off any possible answer.

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Chapter 16

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Chapter 17

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Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

About the author:

Albert Simon is the pen name for Bert Simonis who has been writing
most of his life, creating and illustrating his first book in his native Dutch
at the age of seven. Since then he has written technical papers describing
the functions of disparate distributed databases and numerous fictional
short stories. While a number of his essays have been published in the
local newspaper, he finally found his voice in the Henry Wright Mystery
series that he is now producing. He is a member of the California Writers
Club and a frequent reader at Open Mic Night hosted by the Peninsula
Chapter. Bert and his wife, Berlynn, have four daughters and live in the
Sierra Nevada foothill town of Tuolumne when not vacationing in Palm
Springs.

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