SILENT JUSTICE (Det. Jason Strong (CLEAN SUSPENSE Book 4)

by John C. Dalglish

  He hadn’t been able to get much information on the killings done by ‘The Hunter.’ The police didn’t like naming killers, they thought it fed the ego of the murderers, but his boss loved them. Named killers sold newspapers.

  As a result, his sources were more tight-lipped than usual. He pulled up a screen with his notes and went over what he knew.

  Two dead, both with arrows. No immediate connection between the two, other than the manner of death itself.

  They didn’t have age, family, or schooling in common. If there was something else, which of course he knew there had to be, he hadn’t found it yet.

  The possibility existed the killings were random. Such an idea was capable of starting a near-panic in the city, and the reporter didn’t buy it. There’s something connecting these two, he just had to find it.

  With his sources at the police department not providing much about the case, it looked like he’d have to find the connection some other way.

  He tried computer searches by name, address, job, and anything else he could think of, to try and uncover a link between the two cases. After a couple hours of research, he wasn’t any closer. He needed coffee.

  As he walked toward the elevator, he decided going to the cafeteria for both coffee and a donut was better than grabbing a paper cup of the old coffee sitting in the newsroom. He pushed the main floor elevator button, and just as the door started to close, he heard a voice.

  “Hold the door!”

  Devin stuck his hand between the doors, stopping the elevator. A young man, probably thirty years his junior, got on.

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  He was taller than Devin, and thin as a rail. This guy clearly wasn’t going for coffee like Devin, at least the reporter hoped not. He didn’t stop moving the whole time the elevator traveled down.

  The young man ran his hands through long, black hair, brushed his pants free of something only he could see, fixed his tie, looked at the lights of floors as they passed, and pushed the main floor button at least three times.

  Suddenly, he stopped fidgeting. He looked directly at the senior reporter and broke into a wide smile.

  “You’re Devin James!”

  “Yes, and you are?”

  “Chris, Chris Brown.”

  The young man grabbed and pumped Devin’s hand.

  “I’m a big fan. I love the name you came up with for the arrow killings. ‘The Hunter,’ it’s a classic.”

  The young man continued pumping the reporter’s hand.

  “Thank you, Chris. What brings you to the paper today?”

  “I’m new here. They hired me last week and today’s my first day.”

  Devin finally retrieved his hand.

  “What department?”

  “Rural news, stuff outside the city. I got my start with a small paper in rural Missouri, perhaps you’ve heard of it, the Monett Times?”

  “No, I can’t say I have.”

  “No, of course not. Anyway, it’s exciting to meet you.”

  The elevator ride was mercifully coming to an end.

  “Very nice to meet you too, Chris.”

  As they stepped off together, Devin turned to go to the cafeteria, but Chris wasn’t done talking.

  “I guess arrows are the weapon of choice these days.”

  Devin stopped.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, you’ve got The Hunter, and I’m going out to Hondo to check out a report of a horse shot with an arrow. My editor gave me the story this morning.”

  Devin made the connection the younger reporter had clearly not.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Ten days ago, I think.”

  “You have an address or a name?”

  Chris stopped and pulled out a notebook.

  “The owner’s name is Brad Winston.”

  “Chris, would you mind if I followed up on that story instead?”

  The young reporter finally caught on.

  “You think they’re connected, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know, but I would like to check it out.”

  Although Devin didn’t think it possible, Chris Brown got even more pumped up.

  “Can I go with you?”

  “I prefer to work alone.”

  The young man appeared crestfallen.

  “Okay. I’ll have to ask my editor.”

  “Who’s your editor?”

  Chris told him; Devin was familiar with the man.

  “Tell you what; I’ll give your boss a call to clear it with him. Then, if I find something of interest, I’ll name you as a contributing writer.”

  Chris Brown gave the note with the name and address to the senior reporter.

  “That’s a deal. I can’t tell you how much it would mean to have my name next to yours.”

  Devin smiled and accepted the note. Suddenly he no longer felt the need for coffee; adrenaline was giving him the jump-start he needed.

  *******

  Devin James pulled off Highway 90 onto County Road 424. The bright afternoon sun was beginning to set as he came to a stop in front of a mailbox. The address matched his note and he was able to make out the faded name. Brad Winston.

  A driveway led away to the west, beginning at a cattle gate with large posts on either side. Tacked to each post was a rectangular sign, black with orange letters.

  NO TRESPASSING.

  Underneath both signs were the hand written words ‘This means you!’

  Devin put the car in drive and headed across the cattle gate. The entire length of the gravel drive had deep ruts, and the road beat the snot out of his little Subaru. Split-rail fences ran along both sides of the drive and there wasn’t a tree to be seen until he neared the house.

  It was a typical, two-story, West Texas ranch home. The white building was really more of a washed-out gray; it was in desperate need of a coat of paint. The green-shingled roof had clearly been just as ignored, with patches of black tar paper visible where there were missing shingles.

  The porch, which ran across the front and down one side of the house, was littered with junk as if a yard sale was canceled ten years before and nothing taken back inside. The steps off the far end were missing.

  A tattered screen door swung open, and a man in his thirties stepped out. Worn overalls hung by a single buckle over one shoulder, and the only other clothing he wore was a greasy ball cap.

  “Can’t read?”

  Devin leaned out his window.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?” He’d heard the man perfectly well.

  “What’s the matter, can’t read?”

  “Oh, the signs. Actually, my name is Devin James, and I’m from the San Antonio News. I was hoping to ask a few questions about what happened to that horse?”

  “That horse you refer to was named Southern Dancer. He was my prize breeding stud.”

  Devin quickly realized he had crossed into sensitive territory.

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect. I heard he was shot with an arrow.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, especially to a reporter.”

  “Do you have any idea who may have done it?”

  The man, who Devin assumed was Brad Winston, reached behind him and picked up a shotgun, casually resting it on his hip and aiming it at the car.

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Devin tried to stay calm.

  “Do you mind if I leave you my card?”

  The answer came with the sound of a shotgun blast.

  James sat stunned for a minute, surprised how quickly the gun had been fired and how loud the shot was. It took a few seconds to realize he wasn’t hit, and that the blast had been aimed at the sky—a warning shot.

  The reporter snapped alert, pulled his head back in the car, and raised both hands toward the windshield.

  “Okay, okay!”

  He put his car in reverse, backed away, turned around, and sped out the way he came.
>
  *******

  Jason was sitting at his desk when his phone rang.

  “This is Strong.”

  “Jason, this is Devin James.”

  The detective’s eyes met Vanessa’s. Not long ago, Jason would have been tempted to hang up on the reporter, but James had earned the detective’s respect with the help he’d provided in his last case.

  “James, what can I do for you?”

  “Can I get you to come down to the parking lot?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. I’m parked over by your car.”

  “What’s this all about, Devin?”

  “I have some information for you that may prove to be very interesting.”

  Jason hesitated; he had work to do. But finally he agreed.

  “Alright, be down in a few.”

  Jason hung up and looked at his partner.

  “Devin James says he has information for me. Be back in a minute.”

  Jason bypassed the elevator and took the stairs down, going two at a time. He came out into the late-day heat, and spotted the reporter’s blue Subaru at the far end of the lot.

  Devin James got out as Jason approached. He handed the detective a piece of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a piece of paper with a name and address.”

  Jason smiled, but Devin’s expression remained flat, and Jason noticed the reporter looked a little shaken.

  “Okay. Why do I want this?”

  “I believe the death of this man’s horse may be tied to The Hunter.”

  Jason rolled his eyes. “Thanks for that, by the way, names make my job so much more fun.”

  The reporter shrugged. “You know how it is. Sells papers.”

  “What makes you think this guy’s horse is tied to the killings?”

  “It was shot with an arrow.”

  Jason glanced up at the reporter and back down at the note.

  “Really? That is interesting. How’d you find out?”

  “A new reporter told me about it and I decided to check it out. I went out there, but the guy was less than pleased to see me.”

  “He wouldn’t talk to you?”

  “Actually, he fired a shotgun at me.”

  “What?” Jason looked around the reporter at his car. “Obviously, he missed.”

  “Well, not ‘at me,’ but over me. Naturally, I beat a path out of there.”

  “I bet. This is near Hondo. Did you report it?”

  “No. I came directly here.”

  “Okay, I’ll check it out and let you know what I find, fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.”

  Jason turned to walk back to the station, but stopped and looked at the reporter.

  “You okay, Devin?”

  “I’ll be alright. I might take the rest of the night off, though.”

  They shared a laugh, and Jason continued toward the station. Brad Winston was not a name he’d heard before, but right now, any lead was welcome.

  Chapter 7

  The next morning, when Jason got to his desk, he noticed the door to Lieutenant Patton’s office was closed again. This time, when it opened, Captain Jesse Garza came out.

  Garza was once John Patton’s lieutenant and Jason knew they were still close. The look on the captain’s face told Jason this visit was not to catch up on old times.

  As the captain passed by his desk, Jason nodded.

  “Good morning, Detective Strong.”

  That was about as much as the captain ever said.

  “Morning, Captain.”

  Jason didn’t know him well and rarely saw him. Usually, Lieutenant Patton would go to the captain’s office when they needed to talk.

  Jason saw the lieutenant motioning him toward his office, so he got up and went in.

  “Good morning, Jason. Sit down for a minute. Where’s Layne?”

  Jason shut the door and took a seat.

  “Haven’t seen her yet.”

  “What have we got on the arrow killings?”

  “Not a lot. We’re still trying to make the connection between the two victims.”

  “You think it could be random?”

  “Sure, could be. It doesn’t feel that way to me, though.”

  Patton leaned back in his chair.

  “That’s why the captain was here. People are starting to get scared, thinking anyone could be next. We need to know if the shootings are connected or not. If they’re random, the captain wants to warn the public.”

  The door to the office opened and Vanessa came in.

  “Sorry I’m late, Lieutenant.”

  John Patton waved his hand as if to brush away her apology. He continued.

  “How can we answer the question of whether the killings are random or not?”

  Jason took out the note Devin James had given him the day before.

  “I was given a lead on a possible arrow killing near Hondo. Problem is the victim.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The victim’s a horse.”

  The lieutenant’s eyebrows went up.

  “A horse?”

  “That’s right, but it was an arrow, and that kind of shooting is rare enough that I thought we should check it out. It happened about ten days ago.”

  “Where did you get the info?”

  “Devin James.”

  The lieutenant groaned.

  “Great. Who owned the horse?”

  Jason glanced again at the note.

  “Brad Winston.”

  John Patton sat up in his chair, something gnawing at his memory.

  “That name is familiar… Winston?”

  “Yes, Brad Winston.”

  The lieutenant snapped his fingers.

  “Brad Winston! He served as an officer with SAPD. It was probably seven or eight years ago, at least.”

  Jason was up and out the door in an instant. If the dead horse belonged to a former SAPD officer, they may have found their connection.

  He sat down at his computer, opened a department search, and typed in the name Brad Winston.

  In no time, the search turned up the name along with the time spent at SAPD. He’d left the department eight years ago, just like the lieutenant thought. The address in the file was in East San Antonio though, not Hondo.

  Jason printed the info, picked up the sheet of paper, and went back into the lieutenant’s office.

  “You were right. He left SAPD eight years ago. I can’t get into his personnel file, but I have an address. It’s here in the city, but it’s probably old.”

  Vanessa took the sheet Jason handed her and looked it over.

  The lieutenant sat forward.

  “Let’s follow the Hondo lead and worry about this address later. If this is the same guy, going to the old address is a waste of time.”

  Jason had something else to tell the lieutenant.

  “There’s more. James said the guy wouldn’t talk to him, and even pulled a shotgun on him, firing a warning shot when he didn’t leave fast enough.”

  John Patton got to his feet. “I think I’ll go with you. If it is the former officer, maybe he’ll remember me and talk to us. Is Dan Carpenter still with Hondo PD?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay. Vanessa, you try to get hold of him, maybe go out to the station and see what he’s got on the shooting. Jason and I will go talk to our Mr. Winston.”

  Ten minutes later, Jason and Patton were in the lieutenant’s car, driving west on Highway 90 toward Hondo.

  Vanessa followed behind for the thirty-five minutes or so it took to get to the city limits of Hondo. She exited on Y Avenue as Jason and the lieutenant continued west.

  *******

  Hondo’s police station was located downtown, across from the Medina County Courthouse, a three-story, sand-colored building that had aged surprisingly well in the Texas heat.

  The police station was a much newer structure, also sand colored, but with a more modern feel.

  Vane
ssa parked on 16th Street and darted through the traffic to reach the front doors. She’d talked with Detective Dan Carpenter before leaving, and he’d invited her to come out and see what they had in the way of evidence on the horse killing.

  Coming in out of the heat, she removed her sunglasses and stopped at the front desk.

  “Detective Carpenter, please.”

  The mid-fifties female desk sergeant gave Vanessa a warm smile.

  “Can I tell him who’s here?”

  “Detective Vanessa Layne, SAPD.”

  The desk sergeant dialed the number and spoke briefly with Carpenter. She hung up the phone, and before she could say ‘he’ll be right out,’ the door opened.

  “Vanessa, come on in.”

  Dan Carpenter was slender and tall, better than six-four, with black hair, and the easy smile of a detective in a small town. He was clearly happy to see an old friend.

  “Layne, how are you? Still partnered with Strong?”

  “Good, Dan. Yeah, I’m still keeping JD from hurting himself.”

  They laughed.

  “You’re looking fit. This small-town detective gig must agree with you,” Vanessa said.

  “Thanks. Yeah, this ‘small-town gig,’ as you put it, is pretty nice.”

  He led her down a short hallway, and turned right into a glass-enclosed conference room. Vanessa pulled out a chair and sat down at the long wooden table. Dan laid the file he was carrying on the table.

  “You want something to drink?”

  “That would be great. Diet Dr. Pepper?”

  “Be right back. Go ahead and look at the file while I’m gone.”

  He left, closing the door behind him, and Vanessa slid the file over in front of her.

  When she opened it, she was met with a photo of a large, chestnut-colored horse lying on its side. Blood ran from a wound just behind the shoulder, an arrow protruding from the nasty gash. Two more pictures showed the same details from different angles.

  Vanessa had seen hundreds of pictures of dead people, every one of them shocking in their own way, but a majestic animal like this was disturbing in a different, unsettling way.

  She pulled the typewritten report out and scanned it. The owner, Brad Winston, had reported the shooting after finding the horse in his pasture. The animal didn’t come to his call and, when Winston went looking for him, this was what he found.