Killing Justice

by Allison Brennan

  It was no longer raining, but the air was heavy with moisture and I suspected by sundown the downpour would resume.

  Sampson was “patrolling” near the Attorney General’s office. He wasn’t on duty until four, but had been happy to watch Keller for a few hours off the clock. Most cops were like me, they didn’t like assholes like Keller acting like they were above reproach.

  “Anything?” I asked Sampson when I approached.

  “Quiet. I got here at one, he entered the building with a group of people at one-thirty, I assume returning from lunch. I haven’t seen him exit.”

  I slipped him a Starbucks card. “I’ll keep an eye on him for a while.”

  “Get him.”

  I found a clandestine bench shielded by bushes near the entrance, where he wouldn’t be able to easily spot me. While Keller was unpredictable after dark, during the day he had a regular pattern. I’d pulled in favors to have uniformed cops tail him during his daily coffee break. Between four and four-thirty every afternoon, Keller left the AG’s office by the side door and walked two blocks to a local coffee joint. There, he ordered a large coffee, poured in extra cream, and often met with a reporter. Then he’d walk back to his office and not leave until after six p.m.

  All I needed was that coffee cup. If he tossed it in a public bin, I could grab it and get his DNA. It was 50/50 that he would throw it away on his way back to the AG’s office, but I’d trail him every day this week. One day he’d dump it, and I’d be there, ready to collect.

  Being a plainclothes detective was a positive; the fact that Keller knew who I was, a big fat negative. I’d gotten in his face after Maggie Van Allen’s rape—where he’d cut her face so deeply even the most brilliant plastic surgeon couldn’t fix the nerve and muscle damage. He’d been so calm, gloating, taunting me.

  I stormed out of the courthouse that day, furious with the judge who’d denied the search warrant. The DA himself had argued for it, but the judge wouldn’t budge—he claimed the victim’s ID of the suspect had been given under extreme duress because not only had I only showed her Keller’s photo, it was while she was still in shock and being treated by the paramedics.

  DA Elliott had precedents, but the judge said they weren’t valid, and unless I had another witness, or physical evidence tying Keller to the crime scene, the warrant was denied.

  I stood next to the fountain on 8th Street, my back to the courthouse. Justice had been denied. I’d almost gotten another contempt charge—third? Fourth?—when I questioned the judge under my breath. I didn’t know he had such good hearing. Warrants were given liberally, and they should be—they were specific and focused. I only wanted to search his car and house for the knife that had been used to cut open Maggie Van Allen’s face, and take the clothes he’d been wearing that night.

  “Bad day?”

  I jerked my head up. Keller stood only feet from me. I hadn’t heard or seen him approach, my anger the only sense I had anymore.

  “Get out of my face,” I said. I had a niggling sense that something was wrong.

  He smiled. “You have the wrong idea about me. Let’s go get some coffee.”

  I stared at him, not knowing how to respond. Then that sense of wrong hit me:

  There was no reason he should be here. Minutes after the judge tossed my warrant request.

  “You knew.”

  “I’m smarter than you.”

  “I’ll stop you.”

  He leaned in. “You fuck with me, you’ll be sorry.”

  He walked away, leaving me stunned. And committed to putting him in prison.

  If I were to be honest with myself, last fall after the first two rapes I’d let the case slide. No real evidence, no match on the DNA, no witnesses, only vague descriptions. I’d always suspected that the rapist cut his victim’s faces because he had contact with them at least on a periodic basis. Seeing the scar would give him another surge of power and lust, he’d consider them his chattel, his secret.

  It wasn’t until after the third victim that I put the connection together about the political and charity events. But by the time I had the few common names, he’d struck again.

  Luck had it that when I responded to Maggie Van Allen’s crime scene, I had photos of three men. They weren’t in a line-up, which was the judge’s complaint, and Greg Keller had been on top. She positively ID’d him. I had no doubt.

  And everything he’d said and done since confirmed I was right.

  Another suspect, a more lenient judge, I would have gotten the search warrant off Maggie’s ID. I had surveillance footage, could ask for the clothes he was seen in, search his car based on the fact that he most likely drove from the crime scene and there could be a knife or blood in the car. All I needed was evidence that tied him and the victim together. A strand of hair. Her blood on his sleeves. And then I’d get the DNA warrant and nail him—because he had the rapist’s DNA.

  But Keller knew we had his DNA, and still he continued preying on young women, scarring them for life, marking his victims so he could relive his crime every time he saw them. They ran in the same circles. That was part of the thrill for him. To talk to his victims after the attack, to see their faces, to watch their eyes dart about in fear. He was brazen and bold; he wasn’t going to stop until I put him in jail. He wasn’t scared of me or the Sacramento police department. And that cockiness would be his undoing.

  At 4:07 p.m., Greg Keller left the Attorney General’s office and walked down 9th Street toward a small, but popular coffee and teahouse near J Street. I noticed how young women followed him; more, I noticed that he noticed them. He loved the attention.

  He’d have plenty of attention when he was a criminal defendant.

  I didn’t follow too close because I didn’t want him to notice me. For the last month, I had wanted him to see me all the time, thinking the pressure would make him cave or slip up. But instead, he seemed to thrive on it.

  Now, I wanted to blend.

  I waited on the corner of K and 9th, loitering with the homeless, my eye on the shop halfway down the street. Rain that had drizzled all morning now came down in erratic, fat droplets. My umbrella offered a shield from the rain and if held at an angle, obscured my face. I stayed flush against a closed business front and pretended to talk on my cell phone while waiting for Keller to emerge. Seventeen minutes later, Keller walked out with a guy I recognized, a reporter for the last remaining local newspaper. They shook hands and went in opposite directions, Keller heading back to the AG’s office.

  Now I had to risk getting closer, but the umbrellas made it difficult to keep my eye on Keller. The lighter morning foot traffic also made it more likely he’d spot me.

  At the light across from the AG’s office, he stopped and looked right at me, twenty feet away. He smiled broadly, licked the cup lid, and held it over the trashcan. Then he shook his head and sipped again. The light turned green and he crossed the street.

  I don’t know when he spotted me, but he was enjoying the game. I wonder if he even knew about Ashley Young. If he knew what he would be facing now that one of his victims was dead. Maybe I could push him into unwittingly giving me a clue to follow up, another path to travel. Make him angry enough to screw up.

  I ran after him. “Congratulations, Keller, you’ve graduated.”

  He turned and looked at me with a smirk, fearless. “Thank you.”

  “You’ve officially qualified for special circumstances.”

  The smile disappeared. He glared at me and I saw the anger that fueled his attacks on women. Now I had his attention.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Detective.”

  “Your last victim died on the operating table after you stabbed her.”

  I spoke loudly; several people heard my comment. I tossed my damp hair out of my face and smiled. “I will bury you,” I said quietly.

  His hands clenched. I hoped he hit me. I’d have cuffs on him so fast he’d have to drop the cup. I practically felt the evidence bag burning in my bac
k pocket.

  I pushed. “Why blondes? What do you have against us? Some smart girl dump you because she found out you were a monster behind that pretty face? Or do you have mommy issues? Oh, no, that’s right—you had a nanny. I looked her up. She was blond, too. Maybe I’ll give her a call and find out just what kind of little boy you were.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he smiled. “You should think twice about harassing me, Detective Black. You forget, sweetheart, I have access to files. All criminal files. Even reports made twelve years ago to campus police.”

  My blood turned to ice as I realized he’d researched me.

  “Admit it, Selena,” he whispered, drawing out my name like a snake. “You’re just like every woman out there. You play the game, pretend you don’t want it, but secretly you crave being treated like a bitch in heat. Hot and horny. You wanted to fuck that poor dufus as much as he wanted to screw you. Then the next morning you wonder, what would people think if they knew you were a slut? So you cry rape, boo-hoo.” He smiled again, but his eyes were cold and I knew he’d kill me if he could. “Watch yourself. Sacramento is a dangerous town, especially for blondes.”

  Then he disappeared into the Attorney General’s Office.

  With his coffee cup.

  VII.

  I had screwed myself by following Keller. Not only had I put my career at risk, I’d put this case at risk.

  The bastard was guilty and I had nothing but an inadmissible statement. He’d played me well—in front of my partner, no less, making me look like a lunatic cop.

  I needed his DNA to compare. Patience would give it to me—there was no doubt in my mind that Keller would attack another woman. But that was the Catch-22 … how many women would be raped—how many would die—before I could stop him?

  By the time I arrived back at the station, I’d already ignored calls from Joe and Ramirez. I thought my sergeant was calling me because he was turning the case to Homicide, and this afternoon was soon enough.

  Joe intercepted me before I was ten feet inside. “Don’t you ever answer your phone anymore?”

  “I’m off-duty,” I said.

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Ramirez wants your head.”

  Before I could probe Joe for more answers, Ramirez spotted me. “Black! My office.”

  Joe squeezed my hand in support, but I went into Ramirez’s office alone.

  “Sir?”

  “Greg Keller’s attorney has filed a restraining order against you, and is threatening a lawsuit against this department.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Did you follow him this afternoon?”

  “Very briefly, it was—”

  “And confront him in front the Attorney General’s office?”

  “He threatened me, sir.”

  “If he didn’t draw a weapon, I don’t want to hear about it. I thought you were a grown-up, Black. One of my best detectives. Tempestuous at times, but sharp and dedicated. And you screw with the wrong guy.”

  “He’s guilty!”

  “And that’s your problem. From the beginning of the year, you’ve been focused on Keller. How many cases have you passed off to your team? I’ve looked—you’ve taken twelve percent fewer cases than anyone else. Is that fair to them?

  “I want to catch this guy just as much as you and Joe and every other cop in this department. But I will not jeopardize the integrity of my team. The police chief and mayor are both up in arms over this.”

  “He’s trying to—”

  “Maybe. Maybe he is. Or maybe you stepped over the line.”

  “I did not.” I cleared my throat. “You’re right about me passing off cases, and I’m sorry. I’ll apologize to my team. Today—I thought I could get him to slip up. You know how close we are, if we can get his DNA we have him.” I paused. “You heard Maggie Van Allen. She was a reliable witness. It wasn’t fair that her ID was tossed out.”

  The air was let out of Ramirez and he sank into his chair, his broad shoulders seeming to deflate. He rubbed a hand over his weathered face and said, “Our job isn’t always easy, Selena,” he said. “We face criminals every day, people we know are guilty, and we can’t always stop them. Early in my career, barely out of rookie status, I responded to a domestic violence call. A woman had burned her three-year-old daughter’s arm on the stove. She claimed it was an accident, but I saw that little girl’s eyes and I took her away, to the hospital, and told the doctors that I thought the mother was lying. They came back with inconclusive on abuse and passed it over to social services. But the crux of the problem was that while the bureaucrats were trying to follow all the laws and protect the rights of the mother, the little girl was put back in the home with weekly social worker visits.” Ramirez stared me in the eyes. “The little girl was named Regina. I was at her funeral six months later. The mother pled to involuntary manslaughter and got ten years. Regina deserved to live, deserved a mother who hugged her, not hit her. I know it wasn’t fair then, and what happened to Keller’s five victims wasn’t fair to them, or that Keller has friends in high places that are making our job impossible. But our hands are tied—we can’t touch him right now.”

  Ramirez straightened his spine and started moving files off his desk. “The case is at homicide now.”

  “I’d like to assist—”

  He put up his hand. “Don’t. You’re on administrative leave as of today. You can come back after you talk to the police psychologist.”

  “You want me to talk to the shrink? But you just said—”

  “It’s not what you’re doing, Detective. It’s how it’s affecting you. Joe told me what happened in the courthouse today.”

  My partner hadn’t believed me, but worse, he’d repeated his misperception. I was empty.

  I pulled my badge from my pocket and put it on Ramirez’s desk. I removed my gun from its holster and put it on top of the badge. My boss just watched me, and maybe if I cared I’d have noticed then that he looked as depressed as I felt.

  I walked out. Right into the middle of another downpour.

  I didn’t notice the passage of time, didn’t much think about anything except searching my soul for answers that couldn’t be found.

  Could I stay on the job with people who didn’t trust me? Did I even want to? Had I crossed the line? If so, how? How many women were going to be hurt because Keller was well connected?

  I found myself at Gabriel’s loft well after dark, rubbing the key between my fingers, not knowing what I should do. If I should even be here. But I knocked on his door. Quietly. Maybe thinking he wouldn’t hear me. Or that he wasn’t home. I hoped he wasn’t home. I hoped he was.

  Greg Keller knew everything about me. All the secrets I’d kept from everyone—my brother, my partner, the police department—and he knew.

  He’d emotionally raped me. I felt as raw as I’d had twelve years ago when I’d trusted the wrong guy and he drugged me.

  The door opened. Gabriel stood there wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, a glass of red wine in his hand. And for a moment, I thought he had company.

  “I’m disturbing you.”

  “I was expecting you.” He took my arm and pulled me inside. “You’re drenched.”

  I had forgotten. Dinner, eight. “I—”

  “Shh.” He hugged me though I was dripping onto his beautiful hardwood floor. I’d barely noticed while I walked across town that the rain had soaked through all layers of my clothing, but now I began to shake, as much from the cold as anguish, and relief. Relief to be here, with Gabriel.

  He steered me into his living room. “Wait.” He left the room and returned with a towel and bathrobe. I took both. The bathrobe smelled like Gabriel.

  “Thank you.” I went into the bathroom and stripped. Even my panties and bra were soaked from the rain. How long had I wandered? I’d parked at my apartment, but hadn’t wanted to go inside, too depressed, too lonely, so I walked aiml
essly, lost in miserable thoughts—until I ended up here.

  Maybe my subconscious knew this was where I needed to be.

  I returned to the living room and Gabriel had food on the table. “It’s lasagna. I was keeping it warm.”

  “Homemade?” I asked.

  He feigned shock that I had even asked. “Of course. My mother’s Italian. She’d skin me alive if I bought pre-made anything. She’d even frown on the pre-made noodles.”

  “Your mom makes her own pasta?”

  Gabriel nodded and pulled out a chair for me. I felt oddly ladylike, even in the bathrobe.

  “I don’t know if I can eat,” I said. I picked up the wine glass and sipped.

  “You will eat. You need energy.”

  I ate, because Gabriel wanted me to. By the third bite, I was crying.

  He took my hand and led me over to the couch, putting my head on his shoulder. “Shh,” he said. “Lena, I’m here.”

  “I screwed up,” I said, trying to make the tears stop, but they refused. “I wanted his coffee cup. Courts have upheld time and again DNA collected from items that are thrown away or left in a public place. I knew his schedule, followed him, watched him, and then—he looked at me. And he knew what I wanted. He taunted me!

  “And still, I pushed him. Wanting him to slip up, but he’s been playing me all along.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I had never told anyone what happened twelve years ago. No one—not even the Sacramento Police Department when they hired me. I’d lied on my questionnaire. Maybe I had been in denial, or maybe I just didn’t want to answer any questions about that day.

  “Twelve years ago, I was a freshman at San Diego State. Pre-law. My dad was a cop, my brother was a cop, I didn’t want to be one, but I wanted to be a D.A. Nailing the coffin tight on the scum who people like my dad and brother arrested.

  “It was a gorgeous spring day. I went to the beach after my classes. I used to love the ocean.” Except now it reminded me of pain and humiliation.

  “The T.A. in my favorite class invited me out. He’d been flirting with me all semester. I wasn’t used to the attention—I was tall and homely and awkward, especially back then.”