[Lady Justice 10] - Lady Justice and the Book Club Murders

by Robert Thornhill

  I have hunted and dressed rabbits for the table and cleaned fish, and I worked as butcher’s helper one summer as a youth, so I’m not exactly squeamish about seeing the inner plumbing of creatures bound for the table.

  From as early as I can remember, I have seen frogs eating bugs, big fish eating smaller fish and watched movies of lions chasing zebras. It’s called the food chain and Homo sapiens just happen to hold the top spot.

  Having experienced all of this in my life, I was still totally unprepared for what I saw at the Dyson plant.

  Buster McElroy met us at the front entrance and gave us a quick tour.

  I had tried my hand at turkey hunting on several occasions and always come up empty. Wild turkeys are clever, cautious and fast --- they can fly over fifty miles an hour.

  Corporate raised turkeys, on the other hand, are pumped full of growth hormones so their breasts grow quickly to about twice the size of wild turkeys, rendering them unable to fly and on some occasions, even to walk.

  The birds arriving at the plant are grabbed by the workers and hung by their feet upside down on a revolving rack

  The rack takes the flopping birds to a chute that channels their heads to a revolving knife that slits their throats.

  The birds bleed out while the rack takes them to a scalding bath after which they are plucked and dressed.

  Buster told us that over two hundred and fifty million turkeys were processed in the U.S. Each year, about forty-five million just for Thanksgiving alone.

  That’s a lot of giblets.

  After the tour, we were introduced to Roger Peavey who was to give us our assignments.

  We were given head nets, aprons, gloves and rubber boots.

  We were assigned to the area where the turkeys are unloaded from the trucks and hung on the racks.

  It was exhausting work.

  The birds weighed twenty to thirty pounds each and understandably, weren’t happy about being hung upside down by their feet.

  They beat us with their huge wings and pecked at us with beaks that had been clipped so they couldn’t hurt their fellow turkeys.

  Thankfully, we had started near the end of a shift. I seriously doubted that I could endure this for a full eight-hour day.

  As tired as I was, I found it difficult to sleep that night.

  Images of hundreds of turkeys wildly flapping their wings as they were carried to the revolving knife that would slit their throat filled my mind.

  I thought of the final product, the frozen bird we select from the supermarket, and wondered how many people actually know how it got there.

  I could certainly sympathize with the animal rights groups that cry for more humane treatment and I can certainly understand why some folks are vegetarians.

  Unfortunately, I was caught somewhere in the middle. I had tried tofu turkey once and I must admit that I’m a carnivore. I enjoy crispy fried chicken as much as the next guy, but a bigger problem exists; how can a quarter of a billion turkeys be humanely processed in a year to meet the overwhelming demand?

  It took three cups of Nell’s black coffee to get me awake enough to go to work the next morning.

  We found ourselves working beside a huge fellow who was introduced to us as Leroy.

  He had been with the plant several years and was very adept at grabbing the turkeys and hanging them in one smooth motion.

  We learned after a while that some of the birds were more spirited than others.

  Leroy had just grabbed such a bird and the creature reared up and pecked him in the face drawing blood.

  The big man let out a bellow of rage and swung the turkey like a baseball bat, striking the turkey’s head against the cage.

  As the bird lay flopping on the ground, Leroy stomped it with his boot until it lay motionless.

  Leroy had kicked the dead bird aside and was about to grab the next one when a man grabbed him from behind, swung him around and planted a fist in his solar plexus.

  As the two men wrestled on the ground, I turned to Ox, “Do you think maybe we’ve found the computer chip guy?”

  We separated the two combatants and escorted Warren Whipple to Buster’s office.

  It turned out that Warren was indeed the whistleblower.

  He told Buster that he had documented dozens of inhumane acts, such as the one we had just witnessed, on video, and that he had a list of names of the offenders.

  I figured that at the least, Warren would be fired and maybe even sued.

  To my surprise, Buster offered him a position as quality control officer and his main responsibility would be to insure the humane treatment of the animals and to root out the worst offenders like Leroy.

  Buster acknowledged that the process was far from ideal, but that he was determined to do the best he could within the system, as it existed.

  He thanked us profusely for our help and asked if there was anything he could do to repay the favor.

  As we drove back to Kansas City, I felt some satisfaction knowing that conditions at the Dyson plant might be improved and was thrilled that Buster had agreed to supply the turkeys for the Salvation Army Thanksgiving dinner at no cost.

  The job does have its rewards.

  CHAPTER 4

  Oscar Roach looked at his watch as he stood in the shadows of the alley between the two apartment buildings.

  It had been a quarter past midnight when Ed Weems had dropped him off a block away.

  Oscar had been watching the apartment of the old woman for fifteen minutes. It was totally dark inside and not a soul was stirring on the deserted street.

  After a final look up and down the block, he pulled on his gloves, walked to the old woman’s dinged-up Chevy and popped the door open with a slim-jim.

  He reached under the dash and pulled out the ignition wires. After a few adjustments, he touched the wires together and the old engine sputtered to life.

  He took another look around, and seeing no one, put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

  He knew that the old woman rarely drove the car. It might be days before she even realized that it was missing.

  Taking back streets to avoid the traffic cameras, he made his way to the alley behind Northeast Liquors.

  The other storefronts on the block had been closed for hours.

  A bare bulb illuminated the back door to the liquor store and the owner’s car.

  He slipped the ski mask over his face, quietly exited the old Chevy and unscrewed the bulb, leaving the alley in complete darkness except for the ambient light from Independence Avenue.

  He glanced at his watch --- five minutes to one. The old man should be coming out soon.

  He crouched behind the store’s dumpster.

  Soon, he heard the rattle of a dead bolt being thrown open and the creak of rusty hinges.

  There was a pause and then he heard the old man mutter, “Damn light bulb. Gotta remember to replace it in the morning.”

  When he heard the door close and latch, Oscar stepped from behind the dumpster.

  The old man heard his footsteps and turned.

  As soon as he saw the bank bag under the man’s arm, Oscar raised his pistol and fired.

  The old man dropped the bag, grabbed his chest and slumped to the ground.

  Oscar fired another round just to make sure. The old man’s leg twitched and he lay perfectly still.

  Oscar picked up the bank bag, stuffed the small .38 caliber revolver inside and headed to the old Chevy.

  Again, taking the back streets as much as possible, he drove to the pre-determined rendezvous where Ed and Larry were waiting.

  “So how did it go?” Ed asked, nervously pacing back and forth.

  “Piece of cake!” Oscar replied, holding up the bank bag.

  “Details! Details! We want to hear the whole story,” Larry gushed.

  “Not now --- later. We’ve got to get out of here. Let’s stick to the plan. I’ll change clothes and Larry can dump everything in the river. You did bring
the sack with the rocks, didn’t you?”

  “Of course,” Larry replied.

  Oscar stripped and changed into a fresh set of clothes that he had stashed in Ed’s car.

  When he had finished, he stuffed the clothing and ski mask into the bag. Then he held up a plastic gun for the other two to see. “Better get rid of this too.”

  “So the old guy thought it was real?” Ed asked.

  “Absolutely! It was dark and he was scared shitless. He just handed over the bag and I was out of there.”

  “Did he see your car?” Larry wondered.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s stolen and they may not find it here for days. Besides, there’s not a thing in the world to tie us to this car. Let’s get out of here.

  “Larry, when you’ve dumped the bag, meet back at my place and we’ll divide the loot.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Larry agreed.

  Before they split up, Oscar put his arm around both of them.

  “So how does it feel to commit the perfect crime?”

  “Awesome!” they both said at once.

  As they drove away, Oscar wondered how they would feel when they knew the truth.

  Ox and I were on our regular Midtown patrol when the radio squawked, “All available units proceed to Northeast Liquors at Independence and Montgall.”

  I keyed the mike, “Car 54 responding.”

  When we arrived, two officers from another black & white were stringing up crime scene tape.

  We parked and proceeded to the alley where Detective Derek Blaylock from Homicide was watching the Medical Examiner who had just taken the liver temp of an old man who was obviously the victim.

  “Looks like he died sometime between midnight and two this morning,” the M.E. said, wiping the thermometer with a cloth.

  Blaylock saw us approaching.

  “Walt, Ox, glad you’re here. I need some help canvassing the crime scene.”

  “What are we looking for?” Ox asked.

  “The old guy is the owner of the liquor store. Looks like he took one in the chest and then the perp put another one in the back of his head to finish the job. The M.E. thinks that it might be a .38, but he can’t be sure until he pulls the slugs.”

  “Robbery?” Ox ventured.

  “Probably,” Blaylock replied, “but the guy still has his wallet and watch. He might have been carrying the day’s receipts, but we have no way of knowing that at this point.

  “I want you two to check out this alley. Look in every dumpster and nook and cranny. We might get lucky and find the murder weapon or ---- well, anything tied to this thing. We don’t have much to go on.”

  We started with the dumpster behind the liquor store. Nothing there but cardboard boxes and everyday trash.

  We moved on down the alley and were rummaging around in the next dumpster when an old guy came out the back door.

  “It’s Morey, isn’t it?” he asked. “I knew this would happen sooner or later. I kept telling him, ‘Morey, if you keep doin’ this, some punk is gonna rip you off’. Well, I guess it’s finally happened.”

  “Doing what?” I asked.

  “Morey worked alone and didn’t want to close the store to go to the bank, so he took his money with him in a bank bag when he closed and then would make his deposit the next morning before he opened. Now Morey’s dead. I told him this would happen!”

  We ushered the distraught old man back into the store and continued down the alley.

  I never fancied myself as a dumpster diver, but at 145 pounds compared to Ox’s 230 pounds, I was the logical choice to be hoisted into the smelly things.

  In one of the dumpsters, I found myself knee deep in soiled Kleenex tissues.

  “Geez, Louise,” I said, “somebody must have had a really bad head cold.”

  I heard Ox snicker as he pointed to the sign over the back door.

  “Northeast XXX - Private video rooms for your viewing pleasure”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” I shrieked. “Get me out of here!”

  We searched the entire block but came up empty.

  On the way back to the crime scene, I noticed a fresh puddle of oil.

  “Looks like somebody has parked an old clunker here recently,” Ox said. “Maybe this oil is from the perp’s getaway car.”

  We reported the oil spot and what we had learned from the old man next door to Blaylock.

  He was disappointed that no hard evidence had turned up, but was grateful for what we had found.

  He was about to leave when he turned and winked at Ox, “By the way, Walt, did you know that you smell really bad?”

  I guess when you see dead bodies every day, it helps to have a sense of humor.

  CHAPTER 5

  Monthly meeting of the Midtown Book Club at the home of Larry Dunlop

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” Larry shouted. “You lied to us!”

  “How could you do this?” Ed asked, holding up the morning’s Kansas City Star.

  The headline read, “Liquor Store Owner Found Shot To Death.”

  The article went on to say that robbery was most likely the motive in the city’s most recent homicide, that the police had no suspects, and that anyone with information should call the TIPS Hotline.

  “Last night you guys were toked that we had committed the perfect crime. What’s different today?”

  “What’s different?” Ed exclaimed. “What’s different is that yesterday we thought is was a simple heist. Today we find out that it’s murder! MURDER!”

  “Hey,” Oscar replied, “a crime is a crime and if no one can ever prove that we did it, is it still a crime? It’s kind of like the old question, ‘If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there, does it make a sound?’”

  Ed and Larry couldn’t believe what they were hearing.

  “Oscar, you’re just crazy, man,” Larry said. “Listen to yourself. You’ve just killed someone and you’re standing there making jokes about it.”

  “Correction, Larry --- we’ve just killed someone --- all three of us. You might not have pulled the trigger, but in the eyes of the law you’re just as guilty as me. Ironic, isn’t it? You pulled off the perfect murder and you didn’t even know you were doing it.”

  Larry and Ed were wringing their hands.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to live with this,” Ed moaned.

  “Me either,” Larry said. “None of us have police records --- at least I don’t --- maybe if we went to the cops and came clean, we could get a break.”

  Suddenly, Oscar’s demeanor changed.

  “I figured this might be the case,” he said, “so I’m afraid I’m going to have to adjourn this meeting of the Midtown Book Club.”

  Without another word, he pulled the snub-nosed .38 from his pocket, placed it against Ed Weem’s temple and pulled the trigger.

  In the next instant, he turned the gun on Larry Dunlap who stood frozen as he watched his friend slump to the floor.

  Oscar fired again and watched Larry’s horror-stricken face as he felt the impact of the slug.

  Quickly, Oscar pulled latex gloves and sanitary wipes from his pocket and began wiping his prints off of the .38.

  When he had finished, he put the gun in Ed’s right hand because he knew that his friend was right handed and fired another round into the body of Larry Dunlap.

  The police would find Ed’s prints on the gun and gun shot residue on his hand --- the same gun that just the night before had taken the life of the liquor store owner.

  He carefully wiped his prints off of the bank bag, curled Larry’s hand around it, and placed it where the cops were sure to find it.

  He went through the house, being careful to wipe anything that he might have touched.

  When he was through, he added the final touch that would convince the police that Ed Weems had killed Larry Dunlap and then turned the gun on himself.

  He carefully placed a copy of Chris Bohjalian’s novel, Secrets of Eden, on the floor betwee
n the bodies.

  He smiled as he surveyed the scene.

  A perfect ending to the sorry Midtown Book Club.

  “Now,” he told himself, “I have committed the perfect crime!”

  CHAPTER 6

  At squad meeting the next morning, Captain Short brought us up to date on the liquor store murder.

  “The slug that killed the store owner was from a .38, but, as yet, we have not found the murder weapon.

  “We have pieced together a chain of events that may give us a clue. A woman reported a ‘96 Chevy stolen from in front of her apartment building on the night of the murder. The car was found in a downtown parking garage. The officer on the scene noticed a puddle of oil where the car had been sitting and he remembered reading in the case file that Ox and Walt had found a similar puddle in the alley behind the liquor store. Our lab boys have determined that the oil was from the same car, which was probably the shooter’s getaway vehicle. Unfortunately, the car was clean --- not a fingerprint other than from the woman that reported it stolen.

  “So far we have no solid leads in the case.

  “Your assignments are on the board. Be careful out there.”

  Ox and I were on our regular Midtown Patrol when the radio came to life.

  “Car 54, we have received a call from a woman in the 3600 block of Baltimore. She requests an officer on the scene. Please respond.”

  I keyed the mike, “Car 54 en route.”

  We pulled up in front of the old three-story Victorian home that had, at some time in the past, been converted to apartments.

  Four mailboxes were mounted on the front porch.

  A woman in her late fifties, still in her robe with curlers in her hair met us on the front porch.

  “How can we help you, ma’am?” I asked.

  “It’s Larry --- Larry Dunlap, one of my tenants. I think something might be wrong.”

  “Why do you say that?” Ox asked.

  The woman pointed to a cardboard box under the mailboxes.

  “Larry hasn’t picked up his mail or his delivery. I knocked on his door, but there was no answer.”