Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  The execution of the rapist, the pornographer, and the cameraman again showed proficiency with guns, the tight, expert groupings drawing a connection with the pimp and driver double homicide. The added touch of hacking off their dicks and shoving them in their mouths seemed over the top. Maybe personal? A sister, girlfriend or wife who’d been raped? That’s a lot of anger.

  Then another rapist is killed, Burke Baldwin II. This case he knew about from Jenni Blighe. She was as mad as he’d ever seen her when she lost that case. Brad couldn’t imagine the trauma suffered by the victim not only with the rape, but then the humiliation in court. Burke’s friends pointed the finger at the dad, Al Turner. Brad would follow up with a few phone calls to Turner’s workmates to confirm his alibi for the night, but Brad’s gut said the dad was innocent.

  Brad’s rage wouldn’t be controlled if his daughter had suffered like that. Jeter Wolfe was already arrested when Brad had discovered what he’d done to Annie. Shooting Wolfe later was barely a consolation. Carving the word ‘rapist’ into the boy’s forehead seemed intended to send a message in the same way as the pornography case, with the castration and intentionally posed bodies. Though the methods of murder differed for some, every victim on the wall had a criminal history.

  Brad pulled a chair in front of the wall and flopped down. His head shook slowly, and he exhaled deeply. In the sniper case, it had helped to use the board to work out patterns. This time whenever he recognized a pattern, the next murder was different in some aspect.

  Maybe he was trying too hard to find a pattern. The first two drug dealer deaths had to be related with drug dealers as the common variable. The method was the same. The hit and run was an anomaly.

  The next seven murders were all related to sex crimes. The method varied, but in five of the seven, the killer used a gun with precision. They had to be connected.

  Was he faced with two killers? One taking out drug dealers? The second killer with a huge hate for the sex trade? Except that the same method of stabbing had shown up in the pornography case as the drug dealers. Maybe two killers working together?

  He flipped back through the files. Except for Burke Baldwin, the others all had long criminal records, and few had served any prison time. That brought his thoughts back to Jenni. If the court system was the link, who better to have inside information than a crown prosecutor. Still, as angry as she was, and even including the terror Jeter Wolfe had caused her, he didn’t see her as a vigilante. Or did he? She was taking self-defense classes and had asked Brad to teach her to shoot. He shook his head. No. She had learned to shoot quickly, and was accurate, but he hadn’t seen the precision the murders showed.

  He leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his head. He peered at the wall, reviewing each murder. Right to left, left to right. No one had stood out in the footage of the crime scenes that Sadie had let him watch, just a bunch of cops and gawkers. His mind connected common factors, and just like earlier, when he thought he had a pattern, he hit a dead end. He inhaled, slowly exhaled, then rubbed his eyes. It was there, somewhere—the answer, the link, the clue.

  There was a knock and the door opened. Griffin and Sturgeon stepped in and grabbed chairs. Griffin glanced at the wall. “I see you’re working on your homework collage. The teacher will love this. I see a gold star in your future.”

  Brad raised his middle finger.

  “While you were dreaming of whatever you dream about, they called us to an assault last night.”

  Brad frowned. “They called you out for an assault?”

  “It was a severe beating. Paramedics weren’t sure if the guy would live. Robson was there. He made a smart decision and had us paged just in case the guy didn’t make it.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Yeah,” Griffin said. “He’s in ICU. We just came from there. He’s got multiple skull fractures. They rushed him to surgery early this morning to relieve pressure on his brain. His nose, jaw and cheeks are broken. One eye is severely damaged, and he may be blind in that eye. The list goes on. Rib fractures, both legs broken in multiple places. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.”

  “He may wish he hadn’t made it,” Brad said.

  Griffin glanced at Sturgeon, who nodded.

  Brad glanced from one man to the other. “Is there something you’re not saying?”

  “The assault victim is Vinnie Bevan,” Griffin said.

  Brad’s eyebrows raised, his eyes widened. “Bevan? The asshat who beat his girlfriend. I was just in court on that. He hasn’t been sentenced yet.”

  “Someone got ahead of the court,” Sturgeon said. “Bevan’s a frickin’ mess.”

  “I love it when you use medical terms,” Brad said.

  “Add him to your wall of shame,” Griffin said.

  “I’m not sure he fits the pattern,” Brad said. “Besides, he’s not dead.”

  Griffin shrugged. “I’m not sure you have a pattern other than murders are coming fast and furious. It makes sense to think we have several killers.”

  Sturgeon headed to the door, then glanced back. “I need to get to the lab. A baseball bat was left on the scene, likely the weapon of choice. Might be the victim’s, but I hope the attacker left it.”

  Brad slowed to a walk as they reached the lane to his house. Their run had been both invigorating and cold. Lobo was glad the pace eased and was glued to Brad’s side. The yard light shone on a gray Honda Civic parked behind Brad’s car. Annie. Two years ago, Annie’s mother and her boyfriend were killed by Jeter Wolfe, the enforcer for the Gypsy Jokers Outlaw Motorcycle gang. Wolfe took Annie as his prize. Annie’s tenacity and cunning provided the opportunity for her and another teen, Sissy, to escape. Annie’s information on the gang was pivotal in Brad and TSU locating a meeting of rival bikers.

  Brad and Maggie unofficially adopted Annie and helped her deal with the horrors she’d experienced. Brad paid for her apartment and her college education. After Maggie’s death, Annie had returned the favor and cared for Brad.

  As he passed Annie’s car, he saw a glint of metal in the snow. He reached down and picked it up.

  “Shit.”

  It was his tactical knife. It must have fallen off his belt, and then either he or Annie had driven over it. He loved that knife. It had been a gift from his partner, Curtis Young. It held a lot of sentimental value. Maybe it could be fixed.

  Lobo sniffed the area, then bounded to the house. Annie opened the door and knelt. Lobo rewarded her with slobbery kisses.

  “He was happy to be with me until he saw you. What brings you out on a wintery night in shitty road conditions?”

  Annie tucked her blond hair behind her ear. “I was worried about you.”

  Having Annie in his life was a godsend. He wasn’t sure if he’d have survived Maggie’s murder without Annie. Annie had just turned eighteen and Brad was thirty-two, but they had a father-daughter relationship. Which pissed Annie off when Brad had opinions on her choice of boyfriends.

  Brad shrugged. “I’m great.”

  “I left a bunch of messages.”

  “I’ve been busy at work. I didn’t check the messages when I got home. We went for a jog right away.”

  Annie placed her hands on her slim hips. “Hm. Not checking messages again. Sounds familiar.”

  Brad held out his hands. “Whoa. I’m busy. The murders are stacking up.”

  “I heard.” Annie headed to the kitchen. “On a great day, you don’t eat well. I figured you were busy, so I bought groceries and made dinner. Fried chicken and fries.”

  “Not sure that counts as a healthy meal.”

  “It’s homemade. Better than your fast-food, ‘I’m busy’ diet.”

  Brad showered and changed into shorts and a tattered University of Calgary T-shirt, and when he stepped into the kitchen, he was overwhelmed by the aroma of fried chicken.

  “That smells great.”

  “It should,” Annie said. “It’s your recipe.”

  Brad hadn’t
realized how hungry he was, and he dove into the food. When his plate was close to empty, he paused and glanced up.

  Annie was staring at him, blue eyes wide. “We need to talk about your manners. Living alone has not improved dinner etiquette.”

  Brad shrugged. “Nasty habit. Eat and pee when you can.”

  “You’ve said that before.” Annie leaned back and crossed her arms. “You aren’t in a patrol car. You’re not on the tactical support unit. It’s okay to take your time with a meal.”

  Brad stabbed another piece of chicken. “How’s college?”

  Annie leaned back and shook her head. “You’re deflecting.”

  Brad grinned, then stuffed a chunk of chicken in his mouth.

  “College is fine. The first year was hard getting into a routine, and then there were the distractions in the spring. Second year is flying by. I won’t be ready to stop learning in the spring. I don’t know enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Brad asked.

  “That’s the problem.” Annie took a long drink of milk. “I don’t know what I want to do. But I know what I don’t want to do—corrections. You’d have to be insane to do that.” Annie stroked Lobo’s head.

  Brad set his fork down and sat back. He would let Annie work this out. This wasn’t the time to interrupt or give advice.

  “I guess I worry about what you’ll think,” she added.

  Brad cocked his head.

  “I see what you do, and all the different opportunities in the police service. That gets me excited. But I also see the toll it has taken on you. Then I lean toward law, but that didn’t work out for you. I wonder why not? You’ve never talked about it. But some of it I can guess. You can’t be a defense lawyer, that would make you crazy. However, the legal system isn’t set up for success for a crown prosecutor. Jenni Blighe is an excellent example. You’ve talked about her frustrations. I enjoy being on the side of the good guys, but I don’t know where I fit. That’s why I don’t want college to end.” Annie stood, went to the fridge, and brought back two beers. “You going to sit there and say nothing?”

  “Do you want advice, my thoughts?”

  Annie frowned. “No, I just talked for ten minutes because I enjoy talking.”

  “Another time we can talk about me and the law. Tonight, you’re missing a third option.”

  Annie’s eyebrows scrunched.

  “You need to talk to Sturgeon. There are some significant advances happening in crime scene analysis. The way we handle crime scenes is changing. The science behind analysis of evidence is at the edge of being revolutionary. I tune him out most of the time, but I know he’d love to talk about it. I can set that up if you’d like.”

  Annie sipped her beer. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She nodded. “Yeah. I could get into that.”

  Brad stood and collected the plates. “I’ll talk to Sturgeon. I’ll clean up and then I need a decent night’s sleep.”

  When Brad had finished cleaning, Annie was still at the table sipping her beer. He left her with her thoughts as he headed to bed.

  Chapter Thirty

  Most of the lights were out as Dice drove past the Town and Country Hotel and Bar. Built in the 50s, it had rapidly declined as owner after owner paid scarce attention to upkeep. The bar and restaurant occupied the main level, with three floors of rooms above. The enormous florescent streetlight was in darkness. A single motorcycle was parked by the side door. Dice continued a block farther, parked in an alley, popped the trunk, and pulled out a crowbar. Keeping to the shadows, the dark clothes and black balaclava blended into the night. Dice headed toward the side door.

  A quick check confirmed the door was locked. That was expected. Dice wedged the end of the crowbar between the door and the frame and pushed. The frame cracked, and the door popped open.

  On the far side of the bar a lone biker played pool, illuminated by the light over the table, with his back to Dice. Evidently, he had not heard the door crack.

  Dice snuck across the bar, grabbing a pool cue on the way. The biker sank a shot and stepped to the other side of the table.

  “What the fuck are you doing in here? Get out. We’re closed.”

  Dice pulled the balaclava down and leaned the pool cue against the table.

  The biker laughed. “Oh, woo. I’m terrified.” He headed around the table toward Dice, who didn’t move. He swung a meaty fist toward Dice’s head, which was easily deflected. The biker grunted. This time the fist came from the left. Dice deflected that blow, then fired a series of punches at the biker’s gut with a final fist to the biker’s nose. Cartilage cracked, blood spurted, and he stepped back, grasping at his face.

  Dice grabbed the pool cue and snapped it in two. Then Dice stepped toward the retreating biker and shoved the sharp, broken end deep into his gut and forced it up toward his heart.

  The man gasped. Blood flowed from his mouth. His eyes widened, and his legs collapsed. His knees hit the floor first. He teetered there for a moment and then fell onto his face, which forced the broken pool cue deeper. Blood pooled around the biker’s gut and seeped into the cracks in the floor.

  I hate bikers. Dice slipped out the side door.

  Brad parked near the street, far away from the dozen cruisers, and headed across the snow-covered parking lot to the front door of the Town and Country Bar. He ducked under the police line tape, identified himself to the cop shivering outside the door, and stepped inside.

  He’d been in this bar a few times. The memories weren’t all that pleasant. The odor of French fries, bacon, and beer mingled with a pine cleaning solution. Bar stools were in their place and chairs were positioned upside down on the wooden tables. All the lights were on, but the bar was vacant. Well, except for cops and the Crime Scene Unit techs.

  Brad unzipped his parka, spotted Griffin by a pool table and headed over. “I see you’ve finally come back to police work.”

  Griffin glanced over his shoulder. “Screw you and the horse you road in on.”

  Brad slapped Griffin on the back. “A pleasure to see you, as well.”

  Griffin stepped away from Brad. “I was looking forward to a weekend off. What the heck was I thinking?”

  Brad glanced past Griffin to the body on the floor. The handle of a pool cue stuck out of the dead man’s chest. His T-shirt and Hells Angels leather vest were blood soaked, as was the wood flooring.

  “Someone was a poor loser,” Brad said.

  “Seems so,” Griffin mumbled.

  Brad wandered around the perimeter of the body. “Who finds a dead body at four in the morning?”

  “District cops were driving by about three. They routinely check on him when they’re on patrol. This place closes at one and there’s a guy who cleans up, then shuts off the lights and locks up. But some lights were on. The cops stop, peer in the front door and windows, and see nothing. When they walk around the side of the building, they see a door that’s forced open. They call it in and when a couple of additional cruisers get here, they head in. That’s when they found the dead biker.”

  “Do they know who he is?”

  Griffin opened his notebook. “It’s the guy who closes up—Arnie Fletcher. He’s a Hells Angel and former member of the Satan’s Soldiers.

  Brad’s brown eyes widened. “Ah, shit.” Brad slid his hands through his hair. “I know this guy. Fletcher hung around with a biker named Lou LeBeau, who got himself blown up a few years ago. LeBeau and I had a confrontation here. Fletcher was one of his lackies.”

  “That when they beat the shit out of you?” Griffin asked.

  “I don’t remember it that way.”

  “Briscoe told me about it. You versus four bikers. Not betting odds.”

  Brad stared at Fletcher. “I got three of them.”

  “Close, but no cigar. You got other history with this guy?”

  Brad glanced at Griffin. “Nah. I haven’t seen him since that night.”

  “You’re sure on that?” Griffin’s icy stare was a shock.r />
  “What the—?” Brad asked. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Griffin held his hands out. “Okay. I’ve got this. Go home and go back to sleep. Nothing to do until the Crime Scene Unit finishes up. We’ll catch up in the morning.”

  “You sure?”

  Griffin nodded.

  “I can stay and keep you company,” Brad said.

  “I’m sure you could. No sense both of us stuck here.” Griffin spun away from Brad and strode toward the Crime Scene techs.

  Brad nodded and headed for the door. He stopped before he stepped outside and glanced back at the pool table. Something wasn’t right. Weird coincidence that of all the bikers, Arnie Fletcher gets killed. Brad didn’t believe in coincidences. The answers would come to him. He headed to his car.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  As Brad slid out of his car, the sun was fighting to break through the cloud cover. A good way to start the week. According to the weather report, it would be a brief reprieve and cold and snow would blow in later today. But a break in the awful weather had to be a good sign. With the sun shining, it would be a glorious day. He felt it in his gut. The break they needed would come today.

  That was enough to put a spring in his step as he crossed Sixth Avenue with fresh Gerry’s coffee. The sun was blocked by police headquarters as he headed down the alley. He was glad he had the coffees to keep his hands warm. An icy wind swept down the alley. Balancing the two coffees, he entered the back door and headed past the booking sergeant.

  “Good morning, Sarge.”

  The sergeant glanced up, then swung his back to his newspaper, mumbling something unintelligible.

  Holding the coffees in one hand, he fished out his wallet and swiped it over the door scanner. The lock clicked, and he pulled the door open with one hand, then held it open with his foot as he juggled the hot drinks.