The two weeks since Howard returned from his earlier trip to Missouri seemed but a painful blur. Nothing had changed since Whitney’s funeral regarding the deep sense of personal loss he felt. At times, he imagined not being able to go on another hour—not another half hour—not another minute. The pain tore at his heart. Yet, each time he came close to giving up, he recalled Richard’s treachery. When that happened, he experienced the single emotion that came closest to duplicating the intensity of pure unconditional love—hate. Not the everyday kind of hate, but the kind of hate that sucks the breath from your chest and refuses to be forgotten until avenged.
Now two weeks later, in his car heading back to southern Missouri under the guise of needing to check on a potential real estate investment in northeast Oklahoma, he reviewed in his mind the next steps in his plan to inflict nothing less than total annihilation upon his boss, Richard Whiting. These final conclusive steps would not be put into motion until Howard learned the exact whereabouts of his son. For that reason alone, Richard remained alive today. “But not for long,” whispered Howard to the surrounding emptiness. “Not for long.”
Far off in the distance, the muted red glare of the setting sun hovered right above the seemingly interminable miles of interstate stretching out before him. Another six hours of driving remained before he reached his destination, the city of Springfield, Missouri. Once there, he would embark upon the next stage of his hurriedly organized, but never-the-less, completely plausible plan to exact personal justice. He completed the first stage during the earlier trip when he discovered the burial site of young Joseph David Right. From there, he went to Springfield, the largest city in the area, where he rented a small trailer house on the outskirts of town for six months—cash paid up front. The new name on the mailbox slot installed by him the following day read, Joseph D. Right. Now on his second trip, he hoped to finalize the process of establishing a new identity.
Howard innocently learned about the process of stealing the identification of a dead child sometime before and thought at the time it seemed a simple procedure to accomplish. He never imagined the need to do the same thing someday. If successful, and he would know that as soon as he opened the mailbox upon arriving in Springfield, the next step required him to proceed with establishing the background of his new alias. Everything began with finding the right deceased child’s grave. The child needed to have been born around the same time as the person doing the stealing. Plus, this child’s death needed to have occurred before he ever got a driver’s license, a Social Security number, a job or went to high school, played sports or got his name in the paper. Essentially, before the child had an opportunity to do anything he might be remembered for later. The fact that the parents were deceased and buried in a cemetery out in the country with their gravesites showing no indication of having been visited recently helped also.
The information on the headstone provided everything required for creating an entirely new identification. You have the name, date of birth, and most importantly, the mother’s maiden name—all on the tombstone. This information can be used to request a copy of the deceased child’s birth certificate. With the birth certificate, a driver’s license, Social Security number, passport, library card, and bank account can be obtained. All the essential forms of identification associated with a living person can be acquired this way. If his scheme went as planned, the resurrected Joseph D. Right would have all of these, and more.
The anticipation of looking inside the mailbox and finding a certified copy of the young boy’s birth certificate caused Howard to keep his foot firmly on the gas pedal. Another two hundred fifty miles and he would know. Until then, he was alone with his thoughts that vacillated from hatred to sorrow. When not thinking about the many details of his unfolding plan, he thought only of his love for and his loss of Whitney, finding his son, and killing Richard—nothing else, because nothing else mattered.
With a feeling of relief, Howard pulled his car into the small trailer park outside of Springfield, Missouri, several hours later and came to a stop along side the small trailer. He rented the trailer for the sole purpose of having a street address where all of the documents he proposed to secure for the new Joseph D. Right could be delivered. Quietly, he exited his vehicle and approached the door to the trailer. Right in front of him at eye level, he caught sight of the all important mail slot through which the postman hopefully deposited his, or more correctly, Joseph Right’s mail. He unlocked the trailer door allowing it to swing outward towards him. Without ascending the steps to gain entrance into the trailer, Howard leaned forward from the waist to get a better look at the carpeted floor inside the door. Did the essential document necessary for him to complete his plan arrive? Only the dim glare of a streetlight half a block away attempted to provide him with any assistance. He leaned farther into the doorway searching. A large envelope lay on the floor. Did it come from the State of Missouri Vital Records? Emboldened, Howard reached forward, grabbed the large envelope, tore off the flap, and retrieved the single document inside—a certified copy of Joseph David Right’s original birth certificate.
He stared at the document as if he doubted its existence. Right then, his resolve to complete his mission became even stronger. “Okay Richard,” he whispered, “now I’m coming after you.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN