The press conference was all George, Sable, and Stephen hoped it would be and more. The reporters were like starving ravishing wolves, and the meal of the day was the Chadwicks.
Several months ago two bodies were found in the city garbage dump. Their pictures ran in the paper asking readers for any information on the two victims. It was later discovered that the two were reported missing by family members and friends.
Later, it was also discovered that they both worked with Flesh Films, a subsidiary of Mons Pubis magazine owned by the Chadwicks.
Further investigations led to the arrest and conviction of Rorlo, real name Fred Dutmery, who in order to save his own skin, sang like a canary and told all that he knew to include whom he worked for, took orders from and reported to—Brad Chadwick.
Rorlo, Fred Dutmery, was sitting in a state prison for two counts of murder and numerous other charges, was spared the death sentence. He would have gotten it, if he hadn’t given Lt. Brown information on the Chadwicks.
Joseph Chadwick answered questions about everything from the death of George’s mother, the two bodies found (Amber and Ray), and to just how he came up with the idea that made him millions.
By the time it was over, public opinion about Joseph Chadwick had changed drastically. Looking at George Van Cleef with pure hatred shining in his eyes, Mr. Chadwick gave all reporters present the photo shoot of a lifetime, and the media loved it. Joseph now knew who George really was, the skinny little kid who once worked for him so many years ago.
Turning away from the flashing bulbs of cameras being shoved in his face, and the frenzy of questions he was not about to answer, especially to a bunch of bloodthirsty reporters, Joseph briefly stumbled on the podium steps, stopping cold in his tracks. He thought surely that he was seeing a ghost. A young woman, walking up to George, hugged him and then called him Daddy; she looked like she could be his dead daughter, Jennie.
When she turned, and fully faced him with cold angry eyes, he knew in an instant the child that he was told had died the night of his daughter’s death lived. The child was George’s daughter, his granddaughter, whom he had never laid eyes on until now.
Stunned tremendously, Joseph stood staring at Sable, unable to move, ignoring his driver frantically pulling on his arms trying to get him to follow him to the car.
The last thing Joseph Chadwick saw before getting into his limousine were the furiously angry eyes of his granddaughter, haunting him with the face of his dead daughter, whom he had killed in a fit of rage.
Rage. Rage he had regretted and lived in torment with every day of his life since the night of Jennie’s death. He had been unable to forget that dark chilly night no matter how hard he tried. Painful regret. No matter how hard he tried, he knew in his rage he had killed his own daughter.
Jennie. He had not said her name out loud since that fateful night. “Jennie,” he finally whispered through trembling lips, as Sable’s face with Jennie’s haunting eyes shimmered through his tormented mind. His only daughter, whom he had loved and cherished, he thought in anguish, always greeted him every day of her life with hugs and kisses. Dead.
In the back of the dark limousine, no one saw Joseph Chadwick’s tears of grief, as they slid down his twisted anguished face, falling silently, staining his five hundred dollar tie.