Matthew Livingston and the Politics of Death

by Marco Conelli

Overview

When Serling High School reporter Dennis Sommers is assigned to cover the speech of a local politician, he witnesses a sniper's bullet cutting the candidate's campaign short. In response, he pulls Matthew Livingston into the mix. Matthew is a prodigy of deduction-a Sherlock Holmes of the here and now, with a keen understanding of truth and lies ... often keener than his local police department. But does Matthew have a nose for politics?

In book three of the Matthew Livingston Mystery Series, Matthew, Dennis, and the multi-talented Sandra Small embark on a quest to expose an extremist who plays upon public fear-an extremist who is willing to kill to cover his tracks. As panic fills their small town, the brave trio must dodge the pestering of the police while using tech-savvy tricks and mind-bending logic to catch a killer.

As the mystery unfolds, Matthew feels his opponent watching his every move. Only Matthew's intellect can protect him and his friends. Will he corner the killer in time, or will the assassin strike again?

Praise for the Matthew Livingston Mystery Series:

"Highly recommended reading for young adults, a well-crafted and original work of mystery and suspense."
-Midwest Book Review

"A modern successor to the Baker Street Irregulars, the youthful sidekicks of Sherlock Holmes."
-EJ Wagner, Edgar Award-Winning Author of The Science of Sherlock Holmes

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781450266284
Publisher:	iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date:	10/22/2010
Pages:	116
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.24(d)

Read an Excerpt

Matthew Livingston and the Politics of Death

Matthew Livingston Mystery Series #3

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By Marco Conelli

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Marco Conelli
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-6628-4

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Chapter One

Miserable!

That was my initial reaction. In fact, I didn't think there were enough adjectives in my school's English curriculum to describe how bad this assignment was going to be. As an aspiring journalist, I could not think of a more suitable word.

It was that bad!

Believe me; optimism was fueling my fire this particular morning when I arrived at school. Every other Monday I report to Mr. C's classroom on the first floor. This is where I discover what my latest writing stint will be. For some reason I felt that I would be asked to cover something decent. When I approached the front bulletin board where the assignment sheets are posted, that fire I spoke of quickly extinguished. Stephen Ross heads the Serling High School Newspaper, The Serling Sentinel. He is the senior editor and a year older than me. That has always guaranteed him the choice stories, as well as the benefits that went along with them. He was getting an exclusive with the Extreme Titans Wrestling Network that was holding a long-anticipated event at our school this weekend. That included celebrity interviews and all the backstage access.

Shelly Coverdale was the alternate senior editor, also a year older than me. She was tasked with reporting on the sudden rash of stolen cars parked within the vicinity of school property.

Yes People, yours truly, Dennis Sommers was assigned to cover the campaign speech of Benjamin Caxton. Good ol' Ben, a household name, was running for the position of State Senator in our district. The excitement could kill me.

My journey for this story took me to Singleton Baseball Field where patriotism was in full affect, full display, and flapping in a full breeze. A small stage was positioned across one of the playing diamonds with a red white and blue fringe dangling off the edge of it. The breeze was brushing said fringe against the tired green grass below. Miniature American flags were affixed to the stage front, meticulously spaced approximately two feet apart. There was a podium in the center of the stage. A poster adorned the facing of the podium that read Elect Benjamin Caxton. The colorful lettering was in red, white, and blue. On top of the podium was a microphone held in place by a serpentine metal coil. Looking to the left and right I noticed public address speakers facing the audience. For the record, they were not colored red, white, or blue, just black.

A sizeable crowd had assembled. Men and women, mostly adults were mingling on the grassy area in front of the stage. A few of them were clutching the hands of small children or had a stroller parked in front of them. A number of them held homemade signs that read Bean Counter Ben. Huh? I don't think Ben Caxton worked at the Bean Counter Coffee Shop in town. Perhaps I was missing something. Anyway, a mixture of discussion about the upcoming election filled the air. Many of the conversations began with, "Did you know," or "I heard," or "So and so told me." This was just where I wanted to be today.

As if Mr. Caxton had not drilled his good name into my head already, a giant banner bearing it covered the outfield fence. I stared at it with mixed feelings. Playing the mind association game, I was stuck on the fact that I had participated in two years of Little League and had never hit a baseball near that fence. Recognizing better talents in writing and computers, we can just fast forward to today. Anyhow, my point is Benjamin Caxton had enough campaign promotion to choke a horse.

Getting back to the situation at hand, not only did I have to report on the campaign speech, I was asked to take pictures as well. I am an aspiring journalist, not a photographer. As far as I know they never asked any of the other reporters to take pictures, so why me? I think the junior reporter is expected to do many unprecedented things.

Since my last assignment, I had become better equipped. I had upgraded a number of computers for some customers during the week and had made a decent commission. With that commission, I purchased a portable digital voice recorder. With its 512 Megabyte built-in flash memory, I intended to use it today to capture Caxton's speech and dissect it later for my story.

Having used a few digital cameras before I cannot decide which one I prefer, but the school's camera wasn't bad. I removed it from the case and checked out the zoom while keeping my eye on the viewfinder. A group of small children, oblivious to their parents, collectively stuck their tongues at me. That was pleasing. I decided to view find somewhere else. I zoomed on the stage when a voice behind me called out, "No paparazzi allowed!"

I turned suddenly and my eyes lit up at the sight of a face I knew well. Sandra Small. Her auburn hair was illuminating in the afternoon sun. Meanwhile, her green eyes beamed behind the wire-rimmed spectacles that graced a smooth complexion.

"What brings you here," I asked snapping a picture of her.

Cocking an eyebrow at me she replied, "Let's just say I'm taking an interest in the future of our town. I want to hear what this Caxton guy has to say."

I didn't really acknowledge what she said because she was positively glowing in a beige sweater and bright blue jeans. Her eyes seemed to be examining me.

"This is new for you," she said pointing at the camera in my hand and the recorder hanging from a strap around my neck.

I tried to strike a serious pose.

"All in the name of journalism, you know ... the quest for the truth."

She shot a vacant stare at me for a moment, then burst out laughing. Composing herself, she affectionately brushed her hand across my hair. The hair only had a modest amount of gel in it today. The laws of gravity were in firm place because it was doing anything but spiking upward, a look I was desperately trying to achieve. Not cool.

In an attempt to draw attention off my unruly hair, I quickly changed the conversation. I got back to the subject at hand.

"Hey, you work at the Bean Counter. Does Ben Caxton own it or something? I see all these signs around here."

She started to crack up.

My confused look prompted her to say, "He's fiscally sound. He knows how to watch the dollar and save money."

"Got it," I replied grinding my teeth.

"I'm going to get a closer look," she said walking toward the front of the stage. "Check you out later."

The event was about to start and I was glad that my embarrassing question was now behind me.

A lanky man that I pegged for about forty-five years old approached the podium. A creaking noise amplified over the speakers as he bent the threaded mount that was holding the microphone to his level.

"Ladies and gentleman, it is my pleasure to introduce the next Senator of the 11th district, the future of this town. Let's hear it for Benjamin Caxton!"

Applause filled the baseball field as people raised their signs and Caxton shook hands with the announcer. He stepped up to the podium, smiles galore. He looked in good shape for his age, which the biography on his website listed as fifty. He was neat in his appearance. A hint of gray in his hair was hardly noticeable and gave him a wiser looking image.

I engaged the voice recorder to capture Mr. Caxton as he said, "Good afternoon." His arms spread outward as the crowd collectively returned his greeting. His introduction went on for a few minutes and then he segued into a new topic. "I now want to focus on the importance of protecting our environmental resources and how in doing so, we can ensure a better today and a brighter tomorrow." This drew some more applause as his arms again spread outward.

Tilting the recorder upward, I looked at the facing to see the time counter passing nine minutes. Funny, it seemed to me like I was standing here for an hour. When he broke into commentary on health care for senior citizens, I began to look for something to hold my interest.

He started to talk about his opponent. I'm certain the current Senator, Senator Hildebrand, wasn't something you'd find in a salad, pretty sure he wasn't a vegetable. Either way before I wrote my article I would be sure to look up the definition of the word incumbent, because it sounded an awful lot like cucumber. Coffee beans, cucumbers, politics is a strange field.

Next was a brief bit on learning resources. Learning usually means work, so I tuned out for a minute. Nevertheless, I perked up when Caxton mentioned channeling additional funds for computers already available at the public library.

I decided to mess around with the digital camera. Discovering the toggle switch that activated the zoom, I started working it. I was zooming in and out and all around, invading people's space without them even knowing it. Very cool! Then that nasty Mrs. Floyd grossed me out by picking her nose just as I zoomed in her direction. Ewww!! I think she was eating the findings. Quick I thought, zoom somewhere else. The podium seemed like a safe place. Caxton was talking about renovating the town parks. Again, his arms extended outward ... and remained outward. I zoomed in closer. He was in mid-sentence when I wondered if I was the only one who noticed a patch of red dripping from behind his left ear.

The collective scream of the people was haunting as Benjamin Caxton toppled off the stage taking the whole podium with him. As if a giant bus was grinding its brakes, a screeching noise filled the air. Caxton's body was sprawled across the microphone, causing a horrendous feedback that was rattling the speakers. I was familiar with that sound having seen my friend Theo Russell's hard rock band play a few times. It was a lot to take in at once, but the realization finally hit me,

Benjamin Caxton was shot!

I was about forty feet away from him, standing on legs that I swear were not mine. Doing the only thing I could think to do, I took pictures. I snapped away. Morbid? Not really. I couldn't get close enough to help and a number of people were on cell phones presumably calling 911. Parents with young children were rushing back toward the street. Other folks seemed frozen with their hands covering gaping mouths.

It was my story and it ended up being the scene of a shooting. One problem, I saw no shooter! Looking in the field area behind the stage, I saw nothing. Looking through the viewfinder I used the zoom to see further away. Still no one! I continued taking pictures anyway.

Looking down, I remembered the recorder around my neck. Sirens were filling the air as I turned it off. Looking back up, I saw several uniformed police officers storming the field in the company of a few Emergency Medical Technicians.

The lead officer was crouching next to the medic that was examining the body of Benjamin Caxton, while others were a flurry of motion on the field. Some were securing a perimeter around the body while others were questioning witnesses for any immediate information.

A stretcher appeared from somewhere and Caxton's shuddering body was being placed upon it. I noticed the man who introduced him next to the medics trying to hold Caxton in place. A police officer was hollering something into a radio clutched in his left hand. An ambulance was pulling onto the field. I found myself staring as the body shook violently.

The cops on the scene remained poised, heads turning from side-to-side as if they were expecting something. Oh ..., I know what they were expecting. Walking onto the field was a headstrong twosome I had the displeasure of meeting recently. Detectives Withers and Riley. Again, they were wearing identical suits. I'm telling you they must buy them at a two-for-one store and split the cost of the one.

I looked around and it did not seem like many people had left. The crowd looked bigger with the added police presence. I couldn't find Sandra as I saw yellow crime scene tape being taken out by one of the boys in blue.

I decided to leave, but emergency personnel gummed up the entrance to the ball field. I wanted out of this place with a little less resistance. I walked in the opposite direction staying far to the right of the stage. I kept going around the outfield fence where the baseball grounds gave way to an undeveloped, heavily wooded area. I knew it eventually let out onto one of the neighborhood cross streets.

I was walking on eggshells, totally expecting to hear someone shout out, "Stop that guy!" Luckily, that did not happen.

The confusion was clouding my judgment. As I got closer to the trees and high grass, I wondered if I should have stayed. Avoiding wild shrubbery and displaced nature, I realized there was nothing I could do. I was also well aware that the Serling High editorial head assigned me the Benjamin Caxton speech prior to these developments. It was my story!

Maybe if I had hung around I might have heard some important information. Then again, the police might start detaining witnesses and I only saw what everyone else saw. I needed to regroup, to get my facts straight, and to pick someone's brain. First, I decided the regrouping would be done on Baskerville Street. Second, the brain belonged to Matthew Livingston. The third thing was getting my facts. I was clueless. I picked up my pace.

Chapter Two

I always found it a bit spooky. I was referring to the detached garage next to the home of Matthew Livingston. I entered it via the side door and made my way up the staircase to the loft.

As my sneakers reached the top step, I could see my friend tending to some of the much-used glassware in his makeshift laboratory. He was the only seventeen year old I knew who had an avid interest in chemistry, a subject most of us in school dreaded. Not him; he spent hours upon hours studying it. Recently he had used some of that knowledge of chemistry to expose a black market weapons' builder and solve an almost overlooked homicide of a philanthropist. It was an account I jotted down in my journal and cleverly, by my own standards, titled The Millionaire Murder.

My sneakers squeaked on the wood floor of the loft. Matthew must have heard them because he looked up suddenly in my direction. He was wearing his white overcoat. His hands, covered in brown work gloves, clutched a glass beaker high in the air as his narrow eyes coolly stared over it. The eyes were framed by slightly long dark hair that dangled from the sides of his head. The intensity of his look was accompanied by a pronounced exhale.

"What did you do now?"

I stepped lightly toward the large wooden wheel top that sat in the middle of the loft. On one side of this rough and ready table was a tattered yellow sofa. On the other side was a pair of metal folding chairs. Recently, Matthew, Sandra, and I had logged in quite a bit of time in this place, using it as a staging area during our last escapade. I sat in one of the chairs with the wheel top behind me, facing him as he arranged items on an old metal shelving unit in the rear of the loft.

I started my story from the beginning when I received my journalism assignment at school. He started positioning different sized glasses on one of the shelves. As I explained the set up down at Singleton Baseball Field, he continued messing with the glasses. I gave him the background about being asked to take pictures and doing so. When I got to the part where Caxton took the stage, he interrupted me.

"Do you know what the word vex means?"

His question caught me off guard. My shoulders raised slightly on their own, supporting the blank look on my face.

"No, I don't know what the word vex....."

My eyes squinted somewhat and then got large. That was when I made out the thick, flat black object that was sailing towards my head. It was the last second, but I managed to duck in time. Behind me, a loud thud rang out. I turned around and in the middle of the wheel top was a dictionary. Okay, I understood what this meant so I grasped it in my hands and flipped and flipped. His back was to me when I found the section for the letter V. He made a spinning motion with his right hand that I interpreted as his request for me to either hurry up or read aloud.

"Vex," I said in a clear voice, "to irritate, to annoy, to...."

"Exactly what you do every time you come here!"

Wow, I thought still holding the dictionary. He certainly was a loner. He really didn't desire the company of others. Still I needed to finish my story in a way I hoped would capture his attention.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Matthew Livingston and the Politics of Death by Marco Conelli Copyright © 2010 by Marco Conelli. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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