14 Inches: Jillian's Story - Chapter 3 (Patreon)

Bryan was an asshole… but it was still hard to believe that he had put some sort of hit out on my dad. But now that the curiosity had entered my head… I had to consider it. 

The police had never done an investigation, because they had said there was ‘no evidence’ that my father’s death could have been a homicide. But now… maybe I could find some evidence. I didn’t have to prove that it was Bryan—but maybe I could just find some shred of evidence that would get the police to look into it.

I knew a police investigation wasn’t going to bring my daddy back—but if there was even a small chance that the person responsible could face some sort of consequence, then it was worth trying. 

I didn’t know anything about investigating. I wasn’t even into those kinds of movies, so I really had no idea where to start. But I did know where they found my dad: in the woods behind the old Bakersfield farm west of town. 

It wasn’t technically a crime scene, but I didn’t want to ‘taint’ it, so I put on some plastic gloves and plastic shoe coverings. I put a plastic hair covering on, and a plastic rain poncho that was fresh out of the dollar store bag it came in. I probably looked like an idiot, trudging into the woods dressed like that, but if there ended up being an investigation, I didn’t want it to end as quickly as it started because I had ruined some evidence. 

I had a camera out the whole time, documenting every step, so that every one of my footprints in the ground could be ruled out in the case of a thorough investigation.

I reached the spot where they had supposedly found him. My heart clenched and I felt ill, suddenly overwhelmed with emotions. It was a dreadful spot: cold and overgrown. Why would a person pick this spot for a suicide? It just made no sense…

I carefully did a check around the area, walking in small circles and moving outwards, making my circular pattern bigger and bigger. I was looking for anything—even a footprint that wasn’t mine. I was trudging through that muddy forest for hours—which was probably a lot longer than the cops bothered to look around. 

And I actually found something. It wasn’t a lot… but it was a clue: a footprint, which was just barely visible after eighteen months of changing seasons. I found another about five yards away—both feet pointed towards the ‘crime scene’. I managed to find a third, and then a fourth. I marked them with little Canadian flags that I bought at the dollar store (it was a week after Canada Day and the flags were on sale). I took photos of each print. And then, I managed to figure out the exact direction that the prints were headed—which led about half a mile through the woods to an old logging road that hadn’t been touched in years—except for the fading tire treads of some sort of truck… and those treads were about as worn as the footprints.

I documented everything carefully. 

The next day, I took my footprint photos to the mall and had every shoe store employee make their best guess. After an hour or two, we found a pair of men’s shoes that perfectly matched the pattern I had found—and we were able to figure that they were a size eleven based on my measurements. 

Then, I went to a few tire stores and was able to get a savvy employee to identify the exact brand of tire. “It would have been on an F-150,” he said. “In the 2012-2015 range. All-seasons. Good tires.” He did his best to explain to me how he could tell, and I did my best to document what he had to say. I even got him to sign a promise, saying he would explain the same thing to the police. 

Then, I spent days going around town, stopping every time I saw an F150 from that year range. I would stand around and wait for the owner to return to the vehicle, and I would eye his shoes, as if he would be wearing the same shoes that he wore in those woods. It was a long shot… but it was the best lead I had with the experience I had. 

Then I remembered that those men had gone to my mom’s house in a truck, and their tire tracks were probably still visible on the driveway, so I went to my mom’s house while she was out at work. I spent a good two hours on my hands and knees, going up and down that long driveway—until I found tire treads that matched perfectly.

I heard myself gasp. 

And that night, after coming back to the motel from doing a bit of grocery shopping, I saw the F150 in the motel parking lot. I saw two men sitting in it, slouched down. I knew that they were waiting for me. 

And were they really the same men who dealt with my dad in the woods? Had Bryan hired them to kill my dad? Were they going to kill me? 

They couldn’t see me. I snuck up behind their truck. I took a knife out from my little purse and, with a grunt, I pushed the tip into the tire. I heard it fizzling, so I crept back. I had a small bag of sugar for coffee, so I emptied it out around the tire, spreading it around as much as possible. Then, I snuck away. I watched as the tire slowly deflated; it took about twenty minutes before the rim was touching the ground.

Finally, the men decided to take off for the night, but as soon as they started the truck up, they noticed the flat. The men got out to look at it. They walked around, throwing up their hands, and then they spent twenty minutes putting on the spare before taking off.

I went up and inspected the sugar on the ground—now complete with boot prints.

And one of them matched.

I documented it carefully. I even had plate numbers now—and pictures of the men. 

I spent the whole night researching the best practises for submitting evidence for police reports. It was tedious and it took hours—but I submitted everything. And just twenty-four hours later, one man was arrested. I’m sure that they were both guilty—as well as Bryan.

The police did go and question Bryan. I don’t know what he said to them, but no charges ended up being pressed against him… and sadly, it wasn’t even enough for my mom to leave him. But his crony did end up going to jail, which seemed better than nothing. Police thought that I had enough evidence to launch an investigation, and it only took their forensic team a few hours to find his DNA at the crime scene. 

And when I saw his face on the news, I realized that I had probably saved not only myself, but probably at least someone else from being killed. Who knows how many people he would have killed had he not been arrested? He was a hired murderer. They ended up linking him to a couple of additional crimes. 

I’d proved that my father was murdered… and I managed to get a bad guy removed from society. It was, quite possibly, the most positive thing that I’d ever contributed to the world… and it felt good. 

Okay, I will confess that the police almost didn’t accept my evidence. I kind of did gloss over one little part of the story, and maybe I should rewind and explain what I did to get the police to look into my evidence.

I knew a few cops, because they were always coming to my motel room after getting calls from, presumably, Bryan. They came over often enough that they would say things like, “Hey, Jillian.” 

One younger officer was by the motel one evening. “We got a call that you have someone here paying for your services,” he said. The tone of his voice insinuated that he already knew the visit would lead to nothing. After checking my room, he was about to leave, and then I said, “I have to show you something.” 

He sauntered over and I explained the case of my father, which he was familiar with, even though he started the job after the death of my dad. Everyone in that town knew about my dad’s mysterious death—and sadly, most people assumed it was a suicide. 

“I don’t really have time for this—and I’m not really in a position to open up old cases.” 

“But I know that you can,” I said—because I’d looked into it, and I’d learned that the suspicion of any officer was grounds for investigation. 

He wavered. “I should be going,” he said.

“Please,” I said. “Just look at what I have. It’s serious.” 

He wavered again, looking towards the door. His radio chirped. He sighed. “Sorry, Jill. I really have to go.” 

I don’t know what came over me, but I rushed up to him and pressed my hands against his chest, staring right into his eyes. “Please,” I said.

Then, I saw his cheeks turning dark red. It wasn’t a sexual advance, moving in on him like that, but I’d seen faces like that before; I knew what was going through his head. I knew that he had naughty thoughts seeping into his mind. 

It was a dangerous impulse, but I was desperate—so I acted on the impulse, batting my lashes. “If you would just take a look… I would make it worth your while.” 

His face turned an even darker shade of red. “That sounds like a bribe,” he said. 

“How’s about this…” I said, puckering my lips before smiling. “You can just do whatever you want—and afterwards, you can choose to do whatever you’d like with the evidence that I have. There’s no pressure one way or another. I’ll just be over here… on my bed…” I stepped over to my bed and I slipped out from my dress, letting it fall to the ground. I was wearing a black one-piece underneath, made of leather, which helped to support my cock during the day. I reached back with both hands, grabbing my butt cheeks, and I spread them wide, pulling the leather strip aside so he could see my asshole.

I assumed that he wasn’t interested in my cock… but I assumed wrong. He stepped closer and said, “I’ve heard you have something… special,” he said, voice trembling.

I looked back at him. I batted my lashes. “You want that instead?” I asked. So I rolled over and I fished it out, pulling it onto my tummy where he could see it in all of its glory. His eyes widened. His cheeks reached their darkest shade of red.

“C—Can I?” he asked, nervously eyeing the door again.

So I let him. He was curious. I turns out… lots of guys are curious. I let him suck me. I let him ride me. He bounced on me, bottomless, but still wearing his police shirt—radio and all. I was impressed that he was able to get most of it inside of him. He kept putting his hand on his stomach, to feel the tip of my shaft pushing against his stomach. I have to admit that he was cute. I could feel his tight butthole clenching over and over and over, which felt nice. 

He moaned and his cock gushed pearly white cum onto my one-piece. Then, I filled his tight hole with my own heavy load. 

He left with a copy of all my evidence. So, I should say—that’s how I submitted the evidence, and that ass-fucking was part of the reason there was some justice in the case of my father’s murder.