You're Welcome

By G. G. Baker

A Thin Line Between Justice and The Law.
Watch out Mitch Rapp and Harry Bosch -there’s a new man in town: Detective Mike Ridgeland!

Mike Ridgeland is a decorated detective with the Denver PD and a former member of an elite United States Air Force Para-Rescue team. His uncanny ability to see beyond the obvious and into the inconceivable has led him to suspect that a series of accidental deaths are not simply accidental. His investigation becomes an ethical debate when he discovers that the victims of the murders are far from innocent.

“You’re Welcome: A Mike Ridgeland Murder Case File” written by G.G. Baker is a gripping novel about unsolved crimes and calculated revenge forces.

A riveting suspense novel that will have you caught between the desire for Detective Ridgeland to solve a string of murders and the true victims right to justice. His internal struggle is further complicated by the two people in his life that he respects the most. His girlfriend, Doctor Audrey Nichols and best friend, Professor Paul Hill....

This novel is utterly unputdownable, one that will make you ignore the attention of friends and loved ones, a very long to-do list, and your perfect bedtime companion. You simply can’t be away from You’re Welcome and its compelling characters and action for long.

An exciting book that will keep you guessing until the end. A lot of first reviewers have called it a potential killer blockbuster for the big screen in Hollywood!

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. G. Baker
• Release date: Jun 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463703595

G. G. Baker

G. G. Baker was born in Billings, Montana and grew up loving stories and storytelling. The author's earliest influence was the radio broadcasting icon Paul Harvey. Admiration for Paul Harvey's simple and eloquent style of telling a great story inspired G. G. Baker to become one of the contributing writers on Paul Harvey’s news and commentary. A twenty-five year career as a professional photographer gave G. G. Baker a unique perspective on looking at life through the lens of a camera. After all, photography is visual story telling. The lessons G. G. Baker learned from photography has applied to writing. "I have learned that paying close attention to the smallest details is what makes a great story, and a great photograph.”

Book preview

Dear Reader,

Prepare yourself. This book is utterly unputdownable, one that made me ignore the attention of friends and loved ones, a very long to-do list, and my usual bedtime. I simply could not be away from You’re Welcome and its compelling characters and action for long. Watch out Mitch Rapp and Harry Bosch -there’s a new man in town: Detective Mike Ridgeland!

My great uncle, Maurice Crain, a well-known literary agent back in the day (To Kill a Mockingbird, Old Yeller, Cheaper by the Dozen, among others) always said that an author must craft his story with a paintbrush, not a shovel; otherwise, the reader will lose interest. That came to mind as I was deep into GG Baker’s latest book. Not only was my interest piqued with the plot’s surprising twists and turns, but it made me examine within my own conscience the nuances of right and wrong. And in today’s climate of me too and times up this novel brings redemption and some closure to those women that have to live with abuse. That’s evidence of a paintbrush indeed.

I also must say that You’re Welcome played out in my head as a movie, where I could see every character and scene clearly. I hope, not only that Greg turns this story into a series, but that some Hollywood hotshot is smart enough to recognize its big screen potential. What a killer blockbuster it would make!

Please write more, GG

Kerry Whitaker-Townsend

Contributing editor:

CBS This Morning,

Family Circle Magazine,

TV Food Network,

Home Shopping Network,

Ford and Wilhelmina Modeling Agencies

INTRODUCTION

You’re Welcome is a novel about the razor thin line between justice and the law. This gripping novel about unsolved crimes and calculated revenge forces the reader to ask the question, ‘What is the right thing to do?’ Is our legal system an effective deterrent to crime or simply a criminal laden revolving door? Is the legal system stacked with self-serving attorneys, pretentious judges, and incompetent investigators that are only interested in preserving the judicial machine, or are the courts really interested in the real victims of crime. You’re Welcome goes beyond simply pitting the court system against an innocent victim of abuse, it involves one of its key defenders of the law having to decide what is right and what is legal.

Mike Ridgeland is a decorated detective with the Denver PD and a former member of the elite United States Air Force Para-Rescue team. His uncanny ability to see beyond the obvious and into the inconceivable has led him to suspect that a series of accidental deaths are not simply accidental. His investigation becomes an ethical debate when he discovers that the victims of the murders are far from innocent.

His internal struggle is further complicated by the two people in his life that he respects the most. His girlfriend, Doctor Audrey Nichols. And his best friend, Professor Paul Hill. Doctor Nichols is a beautiful and talented physician who operates a clinic in the heart of downtown Denver. She is dedicated to practicing medicine without regard for the guilt or innocence of her patients. Professor Hill mixes his extensive knowledge of the law with a fanatical belief of how the law should be applied. Hill’s intelligent and witty interpretation of the law challenges Detective Ridgeland to constantly question if his investigation is based on legal jurisprudence or moral clarity.

You’re Welcome will have you caught between the desire for Detective Ridgeland to solve a string of murders and the true victims right to justice.

PROLOGUE

About Thirty Years Ago

The suffocating misery that permeated every corner of the family’s depressed life could not be summed up by mere words. No amount of colorful description or vivid imagery revealed just how low a life could sink. The sounds and smells of despair could not be described. They must be felt. And the result was always the same, pain, both emotional and physical.

Broken whiskey bottles and crushed beer cans littered the roadside like the remnants of a drunken brawl. The narrow ruts carved through the weeds didn’t really qualify as a road. It consisted of two-wheel grooves running over jagged rocks and around muddy potholes. The road ran past a collection of abandoned farm equipment and scattered garbage tangled among the weeds. The rusted farm equipment sticking out of the weeds was beyond repair. The mangled scrap metal would have required a mechanical engineer to identify their original purpose.

The road opened into a clearing and came to a stop in front of a run-down old shack. The dilapidated structure looked like it would collapse under a strong gust of wind. The only thing keeping the shack from toppling was a stone fireplace at the north end of the structure. Every other support leaned and twisted like they had surrendered years ago. Loose boards and a sagging roof gave the shack a sad mournful look, like it was breathing its last breath as it cried out for help.

In front of the shabby little building, the shattered remains of an ornate bird bath lay in a broken heap in the middle of the gravel yard. It looked like a fallen sentry. At some point in the recent past, the woman that lived in the shack made a feeble attempt at giving the old place some dignity. She had bought the used bird bath at a garage sale for two dollars and placed it ceremoniously in the center of the drive. Any visitor would have to make a wide circle in front like they were driving up to a mansion for a Sunday visit.

Her meager attempt at dignity and pride was destroyed less than one week later when the woman's husband came home drunk. He crashed into the yard ornament without even slowing the old truck. To add insult to injury, he left his truck sitting atop the debris when it rolled to a stop.

The following day, the husband offered a feeble attempt at an apology, but she knew it was a lie. The night before when she heard the crash, she immediately jumped out of bed and peered out the ragged curtains. She watched as he fell out of the old truck and stumbled to his feet laughing and cursing. His spiteful words were still ringing in her ears. He screamed at the pile of rubble just before he stumbled up the front steps,

That will teach her to waste money on worthless junk.

The front of the shack was as dismal as the road leading up to it. Decaying boards and rotted plywood scarcely covered the front porch. The front door was a patchwork of secondhand plywood and peeled paint. It was held in place by a pair of rusty hinges and a latch that looked like it was about to fall off. There were two wooden chairs sitting on the front porch, held together by rusty nails and a twisted length of baling wire.

Inside the house, the only evidence that it was inhabited was a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. The pungent stench of burnt scraps and cigarettes seeped through the paper-thin walls and into the night air like fumes from a landfill.

There were only two rooms in the small shack, the main living area and a tiny bedroom, barely big enough for a queen-sized bed. The only heat came from an antique wood stove in the kitchen. The furniture looked like it should have been thrown away years ago, including a kitchen table that teetered on wobbly legs. The table was surrounded by three wooden chairs that didn't match. One of the chairs had a stack of old phone books piled up on the seat like a poor man’s high chair.

In the living room, there was a ragged recliner with an equal number of rips and cigarette burns across the lumpy cushion. The arm rests and seat cushions were covered with frayed towels and a threadbare old blanket.

A black and white television was perched on a stack of plastic milk crates. On top of the television were rabbit ear antennas covered with tin foil. There was a shrunken couch with more rips than the recliner. It sat flat on the floor and stank of rotted food and rat feces.

One piece of furniture however, looked strangely out of place in the dilapidated old house. It was an oak and glass coffee table placed directly in front of the tattered couch. The coffee table appeared to be worth more than everything else in the house combined, like a Picasso hanging in a root cellar.

The coffee table was acquired late one summer night at the pleading of the woman. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the pickup when she spotted the coffee table sitting alongside the road. There was a handmade sign leaning against the front legs of the piece of furniture, it read, FREE.

Her husband grumbled something about not needing that damned coffee table, but soon succumbed to the woman's pleading. This was partially due to the momentary expression of joy in her pale brown eyes, but mostly because he wasn't drunk yet. Besides, the price was right.

Shortly after the coffee table found its way into the shack, a dog-eared copy of Better Homes and Gardens found its way onto the polished oak and glass table. The magazine’s cover featured a glowing picture of a magnificent Colonial house surrounded by a white picket fence and exquisite flowers. A house that the woman prayed repeatedly that she would live in someday.

Despite her depressing surroundings, she clung to her dreams of having nice things and enough to eat. She dreamed about new furniture and nice clothes. She dreamed about a husband that treated her like she was somebody and a good education for her only child. She dreamed about friendly neighbors and fancy garden parties. But mostly, she dreamed about moving out of the dilapidated old shack and into that stunning Colonial house on the cover of the magazine.

That dream came crashing down one fateful night. The woman’s small, terrified child was curled up into a tight ball behind the tattered couch. Tiny hands were covering tiny ears. They were trying to block out the screaming and crying. The ear-piercing sounds were coming from the other side of the mangled piece of furniture. The violence and cursing crept around the edges of the couch and slipped between the tiny fingers.

Violent words and crying merged with the crash of a ceramic figurine shattering against the living room wall. The figurine struck the wall just above the hiding spot of the terrified child. Remnants of the figurine rained down on the child's head like a miniature glass snowstorm.

The woman’s husband stumbled home drunk, again. He was pissed off at his lousy job, his piece of shit truck, his stupid boss, and his miserable life. The woman was standing at the front door when the lights from his truck fell on the front of the house. The headlight beams slipped between the cracks in the walls like the twin beams of a Mack truck.

She stood stone-faced and unyielding in the doorway. This same scene had occurred dozens of times and she vowed to herself that this would never happen again. It turned out she was right, it never ever happened again.

Just when it seemed that the violence couldn’t get any worse, it did. There was a blood curdling scream and the sound of breaking glass. This was followed by a tremendous thud that the child felt vibrate across the floor boards. Then, there was nothing.

After a few moments, the child loosened the pressure against her tiny ears and listened very closely. What came next was a stumbling rush of footsteps across the living room floor, followed by the bang of a slamming door. The terrified stowaway knew he was gone. It was now safe to come out from behind the couch.

The first thing the frightened child saw was a broken body lying on her back in a pile of shattered glass and splintered wood. The pieces of broken glass looked like miniature ice cubes. They reflected rainbow colors onto the walls and across the ceiling. The broken glass and fragmented wood was almost unrecognizable. Mommy was lying in the remains of the only piece of furniture in the ram-shackled house of which she was proud.

She was staring up at the ceiling like she was looking at the colorful reflections. Her eyes were open, but the child knew she wasn’t really looking at the ceiling. There was a dark red puddle of something under her hair. It was the color of blackberry Kool-Aid. The child ran to the bathroom, maybe a Band-Aid would help.

One week later

A small group of grown-ups were standing on a grassy hillside in a misting rain. They were staring at the large pink box that was covered with flowers. All the grown-ups were dressed in black. Most of them were crying. Nobody would look at the small child. The child looked from face to face at the people standing around the pink box. The malicious man that caused his wife’s death was nowhere to be found. He had not been seen since the front door had slammed.

A lot had happened since the front door slammed shut. That night a big square truck with flashing lights took Mommy away. A very nice colored lady with a bright yellow dress took the child to a house where an older couple lived. There were other children that lived with the old couple.

The child never saw Mommy or Daddy ever again.

Part 1: RIDGE

Chapter 1

The detective stood at the edge of the train platform. He was staring at the remains of what used to be a human. As he looked down at the gruesome scene, he pulled a pack of gum from his suit pocket. He unwrapped two pieces of gum and popped them in his mouth. Without taking his eyes off the railroad tracks, he folded the wrappers into perfect squares and slipped them into his coat pocket. Without realizing it, this little routine was becoming a habit, a prelude to contemplation.

The detective's firm jaw slowly chewed the gum. His eyes narrowed and he studied every detail surrounding the scene. What he saw could barely be considered human. The remains were more like human shrapnel, bits and pieces of flesh, bone and blood. The human debris was splattered across the front of the train and down the tracks.

He was sure the remains were that of a man. There were a pair of men’s shoes laying near the edge of the tracks. The expensive loafers were side by side in the dirt and pointing directly at him. It was as if the man was lying on his back when the train hit. He was literally knocked out of his shoes. That was the first thing that struck the detective as odd. Why would someone be on their back if they had fallen off the train platform? Wouldn't he have landed face down on the tracks? Wouldn’t he have made some desperate attempt to scramble off the tracks? Why wouldn't he have made some attempt to save his own life? Was he frozen with fear, unable to move?

Poor bastard, he muttered out loud, looking down at the gore. He felt sorry for the guy; it seemed like a hell of a way to go. He also felt sorry for the coroner’s staff who would be responsible for cleaning up this mess. He was certain that the coroner would not ask family members to try and identify the body. Although they found the guy’s bloody wallet, they would need to confirm the victim’s identity. He would be forced to use fingerprints and dental records. That is, if they could find his teeth and his fingers weren’t too mangled.

It was a little out of the ordinary for a detective to show up at the scene of what seemed to be an obvious accident. But for the last six months, this detective had paid very close attention to the police radio. He was alert to calls that came in to police dispatch, especially calls that involved three specific details: a relatively obscure male, a victim dead at the scene, and a cause of death that was out of the ordinary. He paid little attention to natural causes of death like heart attack and stroke. He also dismissed car accidents and suicides as a cause of death. Some of the patrol officers were used to seeing Detective Mike Ridgeland poking around in places they didn’t typically see a detective. Detective Ridgeland would show up unannounced and quietly survey the scene. He might ask a question or two, or he would simply spend a few minutes looking around and leave without a word.

The older patrol officers would occasionally ask him what he was looking for. Detective Ridgeland would smile and give them the same response,

Just keeping my skills sharp, in case I get busted down.

The officers would just laugh. They were sure that Detective Mike Ridgeland would never see the inside of a patrol car ever again.

He had interviewed all the people standing on the train platform. Generally speaking, most of them provided the same story. One minute, the guy was standing on the train platform, and the next thing they knew, he was lying on the tracks. No one had really seen anything. A couple of the riders mentioned that the guy was reading the morning paper. It seemed to the detective that most of the potential witnesses were still in shock. He doubted that they would recall anything of importance. Train platforms were a lot like elevators. People in elevators worked very hard at not making eye contact with other riders.

The only witness that offered anything out of the ordinary was a twenty-something skateboarder with spiked hair and a couple dozen tattoos. He said that he didn’t see how it happened, but he had caught the eyes of the man just before the train hit him. The skater said he looked terrified.

Detective Ridgeland was rolling that idea over in his mind when he heard someone approach him from behind. He turned around to see a uniformed cop that looked like he was straight out of the police academy. The young officer was trying to keep his focus on anything but the bloody mess on the tracks below.

He did not recognize him; however, he did recognize the light tinge of green at the edges of the kid’s face. It was clear that he was not prepared for the grisly scene in front of him.

First crime scene? asked Ridgeland.

Yes sir.

Call me Ridge, he said with a relaxed smile.

Yes sir. The kid was still gulping nervously.

Yeah, it’s always a little disturbing when the chalk marks around a victim are in six different places, Ridge said.

Ridge smiled and leaned in real close like he was sharing a secret,

First time I ever walked up on a crime scene this bad I puked all over the Chief’s shoes. He has never let me forget it.

They both chuckled, which seemed to loosen the mood a little. Ridge stepped toward the rookie and placing his hand on the kid's shoulder, said,

Come on, let’s get out of the way so the coroner can do his job.

As they walked to the back of the platform, Ridge asked the rookie if he had gotten the names and addresses of all the witnesses.

Yes sir, I mean Detective Ridge.

Just Ridge, he reminded the younger man.

Ridge fished the pack of gum from his suit coat pocket, eased a stick out, and offered it to him. The gum served two purposes. First, it helped

Reviews for You're Welcome

[Judy Weerstra · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was a great book for so many reasons. First you could not put it down because you kept wanting to know what was going to happen. 2. good character development. You got a sense of who everyone was. 3. The banter between the characters was great.4. But the plot and subject matter was magnificent.

[Elizabeth Schneider · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excellent book! I loved it. It's been slim pickings on this site lately and I was grateful for a good one.

[Cindy Myers · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It seemed a little slow at times but the story was good and I liked the ending. Not sure it lives up to the hype but it was a very good read and I’d read it again or recommend it to others.

[John Leighton · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excellent story. In the current political environment (lack of accountability and true justice for victims of violent crimes), it was very interesting to read the debate between Ridge and Hill about the moral dilemma we sometimes face. G.G.Baker did an excellent job laying this out. ONe can't help but cheer Tina (Alex) getting away and somehow defending her mother in her own way. Some people are just evil and need to be locked up, but our current legal environment focuses too much on philosophical or ideology instead of practical solutions.