Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  The medical examiner was recording his findings. Again, nothing Brad didn’t know. The bullet had entered the left side of the head and exited the right, the explosion blasting the back of the skull across the wall. The bullet was through and through and into the wall—the first bullet Sturgeon found.

  Brad remained seated while the next two autopsies were conducted. The bullet that struck suspect two entered at the left corner of his mouth and exited behind his ear—the second bullet found. That side of his face was missing.

  The suspect, likely the cameraman, took two bullets to the chest. Both bullets entered the heart and then lodged by the spine. They were in relatively decent shape. Sturgeon slid them into evidence bags.

  It was well after noon when Brad and Sturgeon exited the autopsy room.

  “How about I buy you lunch?” Sturgeon asked.

  Brad glared. “You ask because you know I’ll pass. And don’t tell me you’re going to eat. This bugs you as much as me.”

  Sturgeon grinned. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Brad exited the Medical Examiner’s Office and stepped out into the sunlight—no snow in the forecast for today. He pulled his sunglasses out of his parka pocket. Before he put on the glasses, he noticed Sadie leaning against a CFCN News van parked behind his car.

  She wore a long dark-blue snow parka that came to her knees, boots that covered her feet to her knees, dark gloves, and sunglasses. Her auburn hair glimmered in the sunlight and hung loose on her shoulders.

  They’d positioned the van so it blocked Brad’s escape. He headed to his car.

  “I didn’t see you at breakfast this morning,” Sadie said.

  Brad unlocked his car. “I tend not to eat before autopsies.”

  “That’s probably best.” Sadie leaned against his car and crossed her arms. “Wouldn’t want to vomit on your leather jacket.”

  “Or my hiking boots.” Brad glanced at the driver-cameraman still in the van. “What, no bright lights today?”

  Sadie slid her sunglasses down her nose. “Seems bright enough out here. Should we do the interview?”

  Brad crossed his arms. “There will not be an interview.”

  Sadie pouted her lips. “We don’t have to do it here.”

  “No.”

  “No, not here? Yes to lunch?”

  Brad reached out, slid her sunglasses off, and leaned close. “Read my lips. No interview.”

  “You could use some lip gloss.” She reached into her pocket. “Want some?”

  Brad opened the car door. “You are exasperating.”

  “No interview? No lip gloss? We’re back to lunch, then.”

  “Sadie, please move your van.” Brad slid into his car. “I have work to do.”

  “Dinner? About eight?”

  Brad closed the door and started the car.

  Brad sat in another claustrophobic room, this time in the Crime Scene Unit area. There must be some rule that video viewing rooms had to be tiny. A generic metal desk, office chair of undetermined age with minimal padding, and a video monitor and player on the desk. He had the lights off as he watched the video for the second time—this time watching the tattoo parlor, rape and murders. The first twenty minutes were hard to watch. He winced and looked away a few times as the girl was repeatedly raped.

  They’d package it as porn, but it was vicious. Yet again, he was reminded what Annie had endured when she was held captive by Jeter Wolfe. He wanted to barf. Even his coffee didn’t interest him. Between the autopsies and this, he might not eat for a month.

  The rape was interrupted when the attacker’s head exploded in a mist of blood, brain, and bone. Right after the gunshot, the girl’s screams burst from the speakers. The victim frantically scratched and clawed at her dead attacker. Finally, she pushed him to the floor, rolled off the bed, and dashed past the camera.

  A second shot rang out, then the camera wobbled and fell on its side. Two additional shots sounded. There were screams from several girls.

  A muffled voice said, “Get cleaned, get changed and get out of here.” A pause. “Say nothing to anyone. But if the police stop you …” He couldn’t hear the rest.

  It was hard to make out the voice. Maybe it could be enhanced. He’d ask Sturgeon. No identifying factors. It could be male or female—deep, but unnatural, and an attempt to disguise the voice.

  The shots were seconds apart. It would take a skilled marksman to hit the head on the first shot, turn right, hit the head a second time, and then two shots to the chest of the third suspect.

  Shooting like that was something the tactical support unit or special forces practiced. It was not something you typically learned at a gun range.

  He scrolled through the tape in slow motion. The four shots took three and a half seconds. He wasn’t sure he could do that.

  After the fourth shot, the girls were told to leave, and then the video ended. Seconds later, the video started and panned the room. The rapist on the bed and the other two men shot and positioned on the other side of the room. He fast-forwarded until Zerr entered onscreen. Steele moved to his side. “Sweet baby Jesus.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dice watched the six o’clock evening news while working out. It was a recorded segment, shot late last night well after the murders. The tattoo parlor was in the background and cops wandered around the scene. The segment switched to an interview at the scene—a closeup of Detective Coulter. Dice stopped barbell curls and increased the volume.

  “Detective Coulter, with you on the scene, I gather it is a murder investigation.”

  “It is an investigation of multiple suspicious deaths.”

  “For my viewers, a few years ago, the Gypsy Jokers Motorcycle Club owned this tattoo parlor—”

  “Gang.”

  “What?”

  “They’re not a club. They are organized crime.”

  “Right. But the bikers don’t own this place anymore. Do you think the Hells Angels want it back? Is this the start of another biker … gang war?”

  Dice increased the weights and listened as the interview continued—what a waste of time.

  “Is this an attack on the sex trade? With the murder of a pimp—”

  “Thank you, Ms. Andrus.”

  “As you heard, we are not getting a lot of information from the police. As we learn about this incident, we will update you. Sadie Andrus, CFCN News.”

  Dice set the weights aside and mopped the sweat with a towel. Generally, murder would get assigned to different detectives, unless they were connected. So far, there wasn’t anything to connect them, but with Coulter on both cases, he might find the one thing that linked the deaths. He was getting too close.

  This confirmed Dice’s previous suspicion. There were two options. First, make Coulter the next victim. Second, get him off the case. The first option wasn’t great. The death of any cop, but especially Coulter, would bring the wrath of the police service on Dice. Coulter had friends in high places. A distressed cop, mourning the loss of his fiancée and child, and eating his gun was a possibility.

  Then it clicked in. There was one way that ensured Coulter would be removed from the homicides.

  Dice grinned and started working out again. Tonight, another victim would make headlines.

  Dice had parked in the back corner of the high school parking lot. A crowd was exiting the school into the cold, snowy night after having watched the junior and senior boys’ basketball games. It was the last match before the city-wide Christmas Tournament this coming weekend. They scraped windows of frost, and snow was cleared from the hoods, roofs and trunks. The cars formed a mini rush hour as they exited. After ten minutes, the last of the spectators pulled out and the parking lot was quiet. Dice waited. The players would take time to shower, then head home. Dice was parked next to a 1979 Toyota Celica two-door hatchback. The Toyota was one of many new and sporty cars in the lot. Sixteenth birthday presents from parents with money to burn on ki
ds with a powerful sense of privilege—which described half of this high school.

  The back doors opened, and players trickled out. There were, give or take, ten players and three or four coaches left in the school. The coaches came out first and rushed to their cars, giving a quick sweep of the snow from their vehicles, and then raced out of the lot. A few players came out, started their cars, and burned donuts in the parking lot to the cheers of other players. Then the group broke up and headed to their own cars. A teen, being cool, wearing a school hoodie against the icy wind and snow, trudged toward his car—the car next to Dice.

  Dice slid out of the car and popped the hood. As the teen approached, Dice said, “Can you give me a boost?”

  The kid stopped and glanced over. “Uh, I don’t have cables.”

  “No problem,” Dice said. “I have some in the trunk.”

  There were several toots of horns as the other players headed home. Dice and the player were the last ones in the lot. Dice opened the trunk and pointed at the vinyl bag that held the jumper cables. “Grab those, please.”

  As the teen leaned into the trunk, Dice wrapped an arm around his neck and used the other arm to apply pressure. In wrestling, they called it the sleeper hold. In policing, it was a neck restraint. No matter the name, the result was the same, unconsciousness. Dice bound the player’s wrists, then stuffed a rag in his mouth and secured it in place with a long strip of cloth. Dice slammed the trunk shut, slid back into the car, then drove out of the school parking lot. What needed to happen next couldn’t be done here.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jay Robson and his partner Maura Rossi pulled out of the strip mall, each with a coffee. They’d been partners for close to a year. Robson’s sandy-colored hair was a sharp contrast to Rossi’s black hair, pulled back in a tight bun low enough that she could still wear her black beanie. Where Robson was fair skinned, Rossi’s Mexican heritage showed in her complexion. Opposites in appearance and temperament, Robson was calm, methodical, and Rossi was quick-tempered and impulsive. They’d formed a tight bond.

  When they’d come on shift at seven this morning, they’d been assigned a missing person file. A seventeen-year-old teen named Burke Bailey Baldwin II had not returned home after his basketball game the previous night. He was last seen by other players after ten walking to the Lord Beaverbrook High School parking lot.

  “How many times did you sneak into and out of your house when you were a teen?” Rossi asked.

  “More times than my parents knew about,” Robson replied. “You?”

  “A couple of times. My older sister moved back in with us when I was in grade eleven and she brought her yappy dog with her. The dog busted me a few times.”

  They had stopped to talk to the basketball coach, but he wasn’t in yet. The first rays of sunshine were just peeking over the horizon as they drove around to the dark parking lot at the back of the school. Barely seven-thirty, there weren’t many cars.

  One car was parked in the back corner. It was parked with the nose into the hedge that surrounded the parking lot, covered with snow. They figured it hadn’t been moved since the day before.

  Rossi checked the license plate and got a match to the missing student. They slid out of the cruiser and zipped their parkas. Rossi wandered to the passenger’s side, and Robson checked the driver’s side.

  Robson was first to the front of the car. “Oh, shit. We’ve got a problem.”

  By the time Brad arrived, police tape surrounded the entire Lord Beaverbrook High School parking lot, and officers were keeping the students well back. Briscoe wandered over to Brad, and they headed to the back corner of the parking lot.

  “They reported the kid missing early this morning,” Briscoe said. “He didn’t come home from a basketball game last night. Parents didn’t realize until they woke up this morning. Robson and Rossi got the call and came to the school.” Briscoe led Brad to the front of the car.

  Brad’s eyes widened. “What the heck?”

  A naked, frozen body was draped across the windshield and hood. The arms were tied to the side mirrors, his legs attached by rope to the bumper. Despite the snow overnight, the word ‘Rapist’ could be clearly seen carved into his forehead.

  “Who is this kid?” Brad asked.

  Briscoe blew on his hands and then rubbed them rapidly. “He’s Burke Bailey Baldwin II.”

  “That’s quite the handle,” Brad said. “It sounds familiar.” Brad snapped his fingers. “Jenni Blighe was telling me about him. He raped—”

  “Allegedly,” Briscoe said.

  Brad frowned, and his eyebrows rose. “He raped a sixteen-year-old at a school party last fall—repeatedly. But the defense counsel Harry Townsend twisted it into a trial of the young teen, Laura Turner. Blighe said Townsend destroyed her on the stand, and then the judge acquitted Baldwin II.”

  “The family paid a lot to hire Townsend,” Briscoe said.

  Brad clenched his jaw. “Acquittal bought and paid for.”

  “Now he’s the one who bought it,” Briscoe said.

  Brad glanced at Briscoe. “Callous, even for you.”

  Briscoe shrugged. “I believe in karma.”

  Brad stepped closer to the car.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Briscoe said. “You already got in trouble for screwing up a crime scene.”

  “Whatever.” Brad peered at the rope around the wrist. “See the chaffing. Even frozen, there are rope burns on his wrists. He was alive—long enough to fight against the ropes. There’s one additional thing.”

  “What’s that?” Briscoe asked.

  “There’s no way this kid was captured, stripped and tied to the car here. Not if he was alive. Heck, even if he were dead. Have you ever tried to take clothes off an unconscious or dead person?”

  “Can’t say I have.” Briscoe lifted an eyebrow. “But I’d love to know how you know that detail.”

  “Oh, shit, Briscoe. Just ask any medical examiner or mortician. EMS doesn’t even bother trying to take off clothes. That’s why when we get the clothes as evidence, they’re cut to pieces. Trust me. This kid was stripped somewhere else.”

  Brad sat in an empty classroom and stared at the posters on the walls—periodic table, rocket launches, world map, and mobile of the solar system. The door swung open, and Griffin marched in, followed by Jackson dressed in uniform. Jackson tossed his issue dark blue parka on a chair.

  “Good morning,” Brad said.

  “Miserable frickin’ day.” Griffin slid off his parka and shook snow onto the floor.

  Jackson flopped into a chair next to Brad. “Thought you two might need some help.”

  “You bet. All the students are jammed in the gymnasium. Briscoe has his street cops talking to every kid who was here last night. The rest are being sent home. The principal is rounding up the basketball players, their coaches, and the cheerleaders for us to interview.”

  “I’ll take the coaches.” Jackson left the room.

  “I’ve got the players,” Brad said.

  Griffin frowned. “Come on guys, not the cheerleaders.”

  “Have fun with that.” Brad smirked.

  There was a knock. The door opened. The principal stuck his head in.

  “I’ve got the coaches and cheerleaders in the next two rooms. Do you want the players here?”

  “Sounds good.” Brad stood. “One at a time. I want to talk to the guys who were closest to Burke.”

  “Sure,” the principal said. “I’ll bring the players in.”

  Brad grabbed two chairs and set them facing each other. He directed the first player to have a seat—tall and gangly with red hair and pimples.

  “I’m Detective Coulter. What’s your name?”

  “Ben.” He stared at his hands.

  “Ben, do you understand why we are here?”

  “Yeah, Burke is dead.” Ben stared at his hands as he cracked his knuckles.

  Brad leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Were you two frien
ds?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For how long?”

  “We’ve been friends since grade seven.”

  “Tell me about the rape.”

  Ben’s head popped up. “There wasn’t any rape. Laura Turner made it up.”

  Brad stretched his upper body to within inches of Ben’s face. “Were you there that night?”

  “Sure, we all were.” Ben shrugged. “We’d won the city championship the night before, and it was a celebration party.”

  Brad sat back in the chair. “Tell me what happened.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. We were having a party.”

  “There was alcohol?” Brad cocked his head.

  “Shit, are you a prude?” Bens slid his chair back. “Of course, there was alcohol. Our parents bought it for us. That was the deal. We all stayed at the party, and then they’d pick us up, so no one was driving.”

  Brad pursed his lips and nodded. “Tell me about Burke and Laura Turner.”

  “She’d been hot for him all fall. Laura went to all our football games and waited for him outside the locker room.”

  “Were they dating?”

  Ben scowled. “No way. Burke wouldn’t pick one girl. He could have any girls he wanted, and plenty wanted him. He was our best player, football and basketball.”

  Brad crossed his arms and stared. “That night at the party?”

  “We were all drinking and having fun. Laura practically threw herself at him. Everywhere he went, she was right there, clinging to him. It was clear what she wanted. Next thing I know, I can’t find them.”

  “Where did they go?”

  Ben’s eyes darted around the room. “Uh, I’ve said all I’m going to say. Maybe my dad should be here.”

  Brad held up a hand. “That’s fine. What I need to know is do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Burke?”

  “Burke was a school hero. Everyone liked him.”