Exacting Justice

by TG Wolff

  “How long have you and the nurse been at it?”

  “Almost a year. Her mother wants grandchildren. Seems to like I should be the sperm donor.”

  “What do you and Erin think?”

  “I bought a ring.”

  “No shit. You give it to her?”

  “Not yet. I was thinking on Tuesday at Becky’s. All our friends will be there and, yeah, I thought she’d like that.”

  “Well, congratulations, my man.”

  “Thanks.” The sigh that followed weighed a ton. “You’re going to be there, right? I need someone on my side. Just in case.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, but there’s no in case. You got this.”

  “Yeah. I got this,” Matt said, soft and low. When he spoke again, Detective Yablonski was back. “Sun is setting. You think it’s going to be tonight?”

  “The other heads were found near holidays—Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter. He leaves them at the corporate limit posts on the interstates. Four-eighty and Ninety are the last two interstate highways into the city. If it’s not tonight, it’ll be soon. And it’ll be here.”

  “Do you think he’s going to do all four?”

  “All together? It would take time. The more time, the better the chances of being seen. Spreading them out would be safer. We know he’s patient. He had Mathias Martinez for nearly two weeks before dumping his head. Uncle and Bobby Mayes he had a few days. Bear was the same day. One tonight. That’s what a smart man would do.”

  “What about an audacious, smart man?”

  “Audacious? Is that another word-of-the-day?”

  216-555-0403/St. Artemis Catholic Church 13MAY2018 20:30 STATUS:OK

  I stand before the people as an instrument of justice.

  Dispensing the evil ones from our home.

  But where one head is cut off the serpent, two grow back.

  The time has come for the righteous to come forward.

  Protect the weak among us. Stand with those who cannot stand alone.

  Send Satan on his way.

  Be not afraid.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Evening, Sunday, May 13

  Dispatch broke through their chatter, spiking Cruz’s adrenalin. “Reports of a head on Inner Drive.”

  Cruz hit the lights and siren, racing to the next exit. “Inner Drive? Where the hell is that?”

  “Cleveland Hopkins Airport. Access road to State Route 237, I-71, and I-480.”

  The road rose up to SR 237 where a sharp turn to the north began the on-ramp connecting the airport to I-71, and I-480. There, cars from Cleveland police and NTS funneled the airport traffic down to a single lane, securing a perimeter around the head.

  Cruz parked on the shoulder and walked up the sloping road to the tent. He nodded to the uniforms and entered the secured area. The neatly mowed grass retained no impressions for him to use. Unsurprised, he stepped up to the head. Impaled on a generic post, the face welcomed visitors and residents alike.

  Not welcomed. Dared. Threatened.

  Yablonski stormed up the road, his game face in place. “Who is it?”

  “Drew Martin. The suspect most likely parked here,” he said as he pointed to the general area in front of the guard rail. “This is a one-way street. He wouldn’t be seen by on-coming traffic. There are no street lights on this section of the road. The nearest one is up past the bridge at the intersection. The site was chosen carefully.”

  Yablonski flashed a light around. “It’s not at the corporate limit. It’s a deviation in his MO.”

  “We’ll check a map. I have a feeling we aren’t far from it.”

  “I’m going to talk to NTS. If the suspect parked here, like you said, he had to drive through the airport.”

  “All right. Let’s get to it.” The work followed procedures but was anything but routine.

  “Detective.” One of the uniformed officers waved Cruz over.

  Cruz recognized the face but couldn’t find the name. “I know you,” he said.

  “Buettner. I was on the scene back in November. You need to hear this. Dispatch, repeat.”

  “A head has been reported inbound I-480 west between I-77 and I-176.”

  “Shit.” Cruz snatched the radio from the officer. “De La Cruz, responding. ETA fifteen.”

  It was Carson Tillman. His head hung from the Cleveland Corp Limit sign Cruz had driven past twenty times that evening. It wasn’t an especially well-lit area. The corporate limit sign sat half way between the two nearest street lamps. The shoulder was wide enough to park on, to screen traffic from the happenings beyond.

  The land rose sharply beyond the sign, thick brush and trees obscuring the top of the hill. A nest of shadows, anyone within it would disappear.

  “Any idea what’s up there,” Cruz asked a uniform from the local district.

  “It’s an industrial road. Warehousing. Shipping.”

  “Get a car up there. Now.”

  With Yablonski working the airport crime scene, Cruz had this one to himself. Another crime scene unit appeared. The area was flooded with light until there was nowhere to hide.

  Looking as hard as they did, there was little to find.

  The grass and assorted broad leaf weeds held no prints.

  The cargo bag holding the head was affixed to the sign with hardware store standard S hooks.

  The whole thing didn’t cost more than ten bucks.

  “Detective.” A uniform waved him over. “Dispatch.”

  Cruz frowned, his brows pressing low as he took the radio. “De La Cruz.”

  “Report of two heads, inbound I-90 east at the Cleveland/Lakewood border.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Cruz needed help. More help. “Who is on-call for homicide? I need him here.”

  Ricky Rinada and Melvin Banks.

  Everyone was accounted for.

  The border of I-90 east with the City of Lakewood was the most exposed of the three locations. A street light in the center median softly lit this stretch of road. There was a lot of land between the edge of the highway and the twenty-foot barrier built for sound, but which also held back trees and shrubs. There were no easy access points to the highway. Bridges crossed the interstate a half mile forward and back with no ramps to the roadway below.

  Some twenty feet off the edge of the road was a double sign reminding drivers they were on I-90 east and that hazardous cargo was prohibited. Another twenty feet past was the Cleveland Corp Limit sign. Between the two were the freshly planted stakes with the heads of Rinada and Banks.

  “The suspect had to park on the shoulder,” Cruz said, thinking out loud. “Access is too difficult any other way.” There was no guard rail or other barrier to prevent the suspect from pulling off the roadway and onto the shoulder. He inspected the ground, moving to the location where he would have parked if he were the suspect.

  The grass was flattened in two ruts, gradually coming off the highway and then more sharply returning. Maybe crime scene could get something here. Maybe.

  His cell rang. He answered Yablonski’s call.

  “We’re wrapping up here. I’m coming to you. Do you know how many times I drove by that sign tonight?”

  “The same number I drove past the one on Four-eighty. No point in coming here. It’ll do us more good if you get started updating the murder board. Finish pulling together the next of kin contact information. Hold on. I have another call coming in.” He switched between callers. “Detective De La Cruz.”

  “This is Frankie Pelletier.”

  “I’m a little busy, Miss Pelletier. Can I call you—”

  “He left another message for me.”

  “What?”

  “Have you found another head?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  “That means yes. The message said, ‘I stand before the people as an instrument of justice. Dispensing the evil ones from our home. But to cut one head of the asp has two growing back. The ti
me has come for the righteous to come forward. Protect the weak among us. Stand with those who cannot stand alone. Send Satan on his way. Be not afraid.’”

  “When did you get this? How?”

  “I came in about an hour ago, but it took some time to get to me. It was faxed. The stamp on the fax says St. Artemis Catholic Church. I can scan it and email it to you.”

  “Good, and I’ll need you to come into the station in the morning.”

  “I can do that.”

  Cruz expected the reporter to argue, was happy she didn’t.

  “In the interest of fair play, I’m writing a story for tomorrow’s paper.”

  “Shit.” So much for happy. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can talk you out of it.”

  “This is news, Detective. I will report it, but I’d rather do it fairly. Give me an interview.”

  Shit shit shit.

  “I’ll call you back at this number.”

  “My deadline is midnight.”

  Cruz called his commander. No way he was stepping a foot into the realm of public engagement unless his ass was well and thoroughly covered. Commander Montoya connected with Chief Ramsey and PIO Alison Hyatt, which meant Cruz found himself in the chief’s office while Yablonski finished working the third scene. He brought the senior officers up to date on the events of the day, beginning with the finding of Officer Kroc by Frankie Pelletier.

  “All four?” Alison Hyatt said. “All four inside of two hours.”

  “The suspect was well organized. This is my preliminary on his timetable.” He indicated a white board and his handwritten notes.

  7:35-7:40 PM airport: first report to 9-1-1 at 7:42 PM

  8:00-8:05 PM I-480: first report to 9-1-1 at 8:08 PM

  8:30 PM Fax sent from St. Artemis church to Beacon Journal

  8:50-8:55 PM I-90: first report to 9-1-1 at 9:00 PM

  “Detective Yablonski and I were patrolling Four-eighty and Ninety,” Cruz said. “It was reasonable to expect the suspect to act soon, giving the events of last Friday. I did not anticipate the deviation in the suspect’s protocol and intend to meet with Dr. Chen on the topic.”

  “Do you think the suspect knew we would heighten patrols on the city limits?” Ramsey asked.

  “We didn’t find out about Friday’s kidnappings until today. Not one of the victims was reported missing as of noon. Only one was a Cleveland resident. The others lived in the inner-ring suburbs. Calls to those departments found no missing person’s reports.”

  Ramsey rolled his eyes. “I expect these are men who frequently do not return home. How much does this reporter know?”

  “By now, I expect she’s read everything—real and imagined—about this case. When I spoke with her this afternoon, she did not know who Officer Nick Kroc was. I confirmed only he was not a drug dealer. She speculated the suspect did not kill Kroc because he was not affiliated with drugs. She seemed sympathetic to the suspect, an opinion I tried to dissuade.”

  Ramsey turned to his public information officer. “Your opinion, Alison?”

  “Take the lead. I’ll schedule a press conference for late tomorrow. She’ll get her exclusive and Monday morning headline. I suggest we draw up a statement confirming the recovery of four heads from various locations around the city. In order to avoid inciting a panic, I suggest we confirm the victims had some connection to illegal drugs and that Cleveland police does not believe there is a threat to the general public.”

  “Get on it, Alison. Montoya, De La Cruz is going to need more help. I want this reporter thoroughly investigated and all connections between the latest victims and past victims,” Win Ramsey said, his eagle eye stare bearing down on Cruz. “This is the last time I am clearing your caseload for this suspect. I want this closed, Detective. Do I make myself clear? Finish this or you’ll be finished.”

  Cruz’s heart pounded in his throat as he left the meeting. His career as a detective was on life support. He needed to play the same game as the killer—cool, calm, and heartless. First on his list: Frankie Pelletier.

  “Detective. Thanks for calling back. Does this mean I get my interview?”

  “No, but I have a statement for you. The Cleveland police confirm that four heads were found—”

  “Four? You said four.”

  “Four heads were found Sunday evening at various locations. This brings the number of heads found to eight since last November. All the victims are known to have some connection to illegal drugs. Currently, Cleveland police does not believe there is a threat to the general public. Anyone with information on these crimes should contact Cleveland police crime stoppers hotline.”

  “Have you recovered any of the bodies?”

  “No.”

  “The man I found. The one that was spared, Nicholas. You said he was not connected with drugs.”

  “I said he isn’t a drug dealer.”

  “So, he had a connection, but it wasn’t dealing.”

  “I also said this wasn’t an interview, Miss Pelletier. The chief will be holding a press conference at four tomorrow afternoon. He’ll answer any questions then.”

  Frankie snorted a laugh, then quickly squelched it. “Sorry. Detective, one last question.” Her tone changed, became softer, more personal. “Why did he contact me?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Pelletier, but it’s something we need to work on. Come to my office tomorrow.”

  May 11

  Yesterday was a long, hard day. I feel like I fell down a flight of stairs. My arms hurt. My feet ache. My hands throb. I stayed up cleaning until four in the morning. My eyes are burning.

  It was worth it. Francesca’s article was perfect. The radio and television stations broadcast the message. It went national. Every drug dealer will know the name Jesus De La Cruz. The demon seeds will retreat from the city limits and wither in the face of the justice.

  This is good.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday, May 11

  Cruz reached to touch the angel in front of him. “You are so beautiful.” He cupped her cheek, stroked her soft skin, ran his thumb over her down-turned lips. “Is everything okay?”

  “Why are you sleeping on the couch?” Green eyes searched his face.

  “I didn’t want to wake you. I just got in a few hours ago.” He pulled her down to him, but she resisted.

  “I don’t care what time you get home, you sleep in our bed. Period.”

  He stilled, alarmed by the tone in her voice. “I don’t want to wake you.”

  “I do want you to wake me. I want to know you are home. Safe and sound.”

  “I hear you, baby.” He pulled her down, and this time she came begrudgingly.

  “What kept you out all night?”

  He closed his eyes, simply holding her close. “Bad people doing bad things.”

  “You can talk to me, you know.”

  “Hmm. Don’t want to think about it. Home with you is the one place my work can’t touch me.”

  She snorted. “Unless it’s calling you out of bed. What time to you have to get up?”

  “Now.” He let her go and, grunting, sat up. He ran his hand over day old whiskers. “I’m going to hit the shower.”

  “Are you going to be late tonight?”

  “Probably.” He caressed her lower lip again.

  She sucked his thumb into her mouth, nipping as he withdrew it. “Call me once a day. Whenever you can, call me. Just let me know you are alive and well and thinking of me.”

  “I’m thinking of you right now,” Cruz said, pressing her hand to his hard-on.

  Aurora squeezed him and then, laughing, pulled away. “Good.”

  The long shower and hot coffee had him feeling human again. Aurora had left him a toasted breakfast sandwich, which plugged the hole in his stomach. He parked in the garage, then walked to his desk, sorting through and ordering his day.

  “Detective. Detective De La Cruz.”

  Cruz stopped the noise in his head, and he looked to the voice
that called him. “Miss Pelletier. You didn’t have to come in this early.”

  “Couldn’t sleep. Brought you something, a copy of my story.”

  He led her into an interview room, leaving the door open. “Have a seat. Do you agree you probably have a connection to the suspect?”

  She took a deep breath. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. There’s a chance he picked me at random, but it doesn’t fit with the little I know. He’s all about stopping the drug trade in the city of Cleveland. Not Greater Cleveland. Certainly not Akron. So why me? I’m telling you the truth, Detective, when I say I don’t know.”

  “Let’s run through your history. You’ve worked for the Beacon Journal for six months.”

  “Closer to nine. I started last summer.”

  For the first months, she lived with her parents to save money. She went out with friends and volunteered at Rainbows Babies and Children’s Hospital. She moved closer to Akron after the New Year and was slowly moving her life there.

  She had no association with the underground drug culture. There had been some mild, recreational use in high school at parties. Same at college. Drugs were not a part of what she termed her adult life. She didn’t know any of the victims and had no recognition of Christopher or Hayley Parker’s names. She wasn’t affiliated with St. Artemis.

  He went out on a limb and asked her about the five profiled suspects he’d interviewed. The names didn’t ring any bells. When he was out of ideas, he walked her out of the station, a measure of both respect and gratitude. “You’ll call me if he contacts you again?”

  “Absolutely. In the interest of fair play, you should know I’m going to stay with this one.”

  “Just remember you’re also a witness. That changes the rules.”

  Frankie cocked her head. “Maybe that’s the point,” she said, pulling up the hood on her jacket. “It’s pouring out there. I’ll see you at the press conference.”