Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  For two days, they met outside intensive care and watched Brad until Annie or Briscoe or someone else came.

  Physically, the last hours of pursuing Toscana hadn’t been that difficult. Heck, they trained harder most days. But emotionally, it was draining. It was always that way at the end of a challenging incident. Just that this one had gone on for days. Overall, it had been successful—if killing Toscana meant success. The entire department was reeling from her betrayal. Processing the shock, Toscana was a murderer. Someone they’d worked with, trusted as a partner, respected colleague, who was dead.

  This was the second time he’d been in the hospital waiting for Brad to recover. For Steele, it was the third. He wondered what they needed to do differently. Maybe latch on to Brad with short ropes. Once he was out of their sight, they could reel him back.

  On his own, Brad got into trouble, significant trouble, and it typically ended with Brad in the hospital, then taking time to rehabilitate. Sleep had been difficult to get the past two nights.

  Steele was just as exhausted. He could barely keep his eyes open, and his head bobbed. They passed a box of chocolates meant for Brad back and forth between them.

  “I like the fancy locally made ones,” Steele said.

  “La-de-da,” Zerr said. “Aren’t you the chocolate snob.”

  Jackson wandered in with a booming, “Morning, boys.”

  Steele rubbed his eyes and straightened. “Why are you so cheery?”

  Jackson took the third chair, sat back and worked a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Blighe and I interviewed Michael Trant last night.”

  “Do tell.” Zerr rolled his head and his neck cracked.

  “It took the nurses two days to get him down off all the heroin Toscana injected. He’ll be in hospital for another month while they deal with the addiction.” Jackson spun the toothpick end-over-end in his mouth. “Trant may have overdosed from the heroin, but amazingly he remembered at lot of what Toscana said to Brad.”

  “Did he hear why Toscana was killing?” Zerr asked.

  “Yup. Her sister was abducted, raped and killed twenty-some years ago. The killer wasn’t caught until a third kidnapping but was released on bail. Then abducted another girl and was killed by cops.”

  “Was she telling the truth?” Steele asked.

  Jackson stared at the remains of his toothpick, tossed it in the garbage and pulled out a fresh one. “I checked, and her story is accurate.”

  “On one hand, I get that,” Zerr said. “But on the other hand, it’s a tad extreme.”

  Jackson stared at Brad for a moment. “Toscana felt she was denied revenge and that the court system sucked. I’m sure we’ll find she wasn’t the person she presented.”

  “What did she want with the heroin?” Steele asked.

  “Trant thought she only wanted to ensure it never hit the street and would have used some of it on him, and possibly Brad. But I think it was a red herring. She tried to point us in the direction of the drug gangs. She might have hoped we’d start a war against the Hells Angels and the Russian mob. They’d kill each other, we’d shoot a few, arrest others. We’d be doing her dirty work for her.”

  “Dang,” Steele said. “That might have worked.” He glanced at Zerr. “We were planning to pay a visit to the Hells Angels President Jeromy Pickens. It’s something he’d mastermind.”

  “What does Blighe think?” Zerr asked. “Is she taking the word of a junkie? Michael Trant isn’t a reliable witness.”

  “Blighe is waiting to hear Brad’s side of things,” Jackson said. “But that’s not going to be an issue. Sturgeon has his team sifting through everything in Toscana’s apartment. She has a wall covered in pictures and information on all the victims, including Brad. Vinnie Bevan died. So even in death Toscana adds to her total.”

  “Un-fucking believable.” Steele sat back in his chair, yawned, and stretched his legs. “I’ll feel better when the evidence against Toscana is added up.”

  “Legally, Brad will be cleared,” Jackson said.

  Zerr’s head swung to Jackson. “What does that mean?”

  Jackson gnawed on his toothpick before he answered. “He’s innocent and won’t be charged with a darn thing. He still must deal with Deputy Chief Archer. I’m not sure how he will handle Brad disappearing. Then there’re our guys.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Steele asked.

  “There are going to be cops who will believe Brad is capable of being a vigilante.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Steele shouted.

  Jackson held up a hand. “Keep it down. I’m not saying this is right, but there’s already been chatter. This last year, he’s been through a lot. He’s seen as a renegade. He plays by his own rules. Old-school cops don’t like that.”

  “He gets results the gray-haired cops don’t,” Zerr said.

  Jackson sighed. “You don’t have to convince me. When he comes back to work, he’s going to be on his own. I don’t think Archer could even order anyone to work with him.”

  “Screw it,” Steele said. “Promote me. I’d work with him in a heartbeat.”

  “Ditto,” Zerr said.

  Jackson laughed and choked on a piece of a toothpick. “Be careful what you ask for, boys.”

  Zerr admired how Jackson stuck by Brad despite the overwhelming evidence. His last comment had Zerr thinking about life after TSU. Maybe it was time to think of another career path. TSU was great, but not suitable for family life.

  He grinned. He and Annie hadn’t even discussed this, yet he knew that was where they were heading. They should do it now, while Brad was incapacitated. The thought brought a smile. He knew Brad would give him a hard time, but he also knew Brad was all for them.

  Getting something past Brad was difficult, but this would be fun.

  Brad made some rasping sounds. He’d been doing that regularly since they took the tube out of his throat last night. The nurses had been keeping him sedated though, and the closest to words was the rasping. Then words formed. “Wa … ta. Wa … ta.”

  Jackson bounced out of his seat and over to Brad’s side. He grabbed the remote and raised the head of the bed. Brad leaned toward Jackson. “Wa … ta.”

  “Yup. Got it.” Jackson took the Styrofoam cup off the night table and slid the straw into the side of Brad’s mouth. Despite the severe beating, an orthodontist had been able to repair Brad’s jaw without needing to wire it shut. However, movement was minimal.

  Water dribbled out of the corner of his mouth and onto his gown. Brad didn’t care. He drank thirstily.

  Jackson pulled the cup away. “That’s enough for now. Let’s see if the water bubbles come out of the new holes in your body.”

  Brad growled. “A … ss … hat.”

  Brad woke with a start. His eyes darted around the strange room. The ugly paint wasn’t from his house. His face throbbed, and each breath brought the odor of plastic. He tried to sit up but was too weak. At the end of the bed, Zerr and Steele slept in chairs. The third chair was vacant.

  A tray sat on the portable table. Chicken noodle soup mixed with the plastic odor from the oxygen mask. The combination churned his stomach.

  Bits and pieces of conversation came back. Jackson talking about Michael giving a statement. He was alive. Thank God. Toscana had been injecting heroin into Michael with abandon. Either Michael had a high tolerance, or the stuff wasn’t that pure. Either way, he’d made it. He didn’t know what was real and what he’d dreamed. He knew there had been nightmares. Real or from his subconscious, he wasn’t sure. He tried to move his jaw but couldn’t. His face felt frozen. The hits and kicks from Toscana exploded into his consciousness. He winced and tried to cry out. A squeak escaped his lips. Not enough to bring Zerr and Steele out of their snooze.

  The quiet was okay and he closed his eyes. Emotionally, his tank was empty—from the soaring high of the investigation to the low of another near-death experience.

  It pissed him off that people
he worked with and trusted had been so quick to believe he was the killer. You’d think they’d understand he got results, if, maybe, unorthodox. He knew his closest friends had stuck by him. Still, he felt alone, and a heaviness settled over him.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Brad was in a sitting position, still unable to talk, but the fog of two days was lifting. His eyes followed Archer and Griffin into the room. Jackson stood and offered his chair to Archer.

  Steele and Zerr jumped up. “They can have ours,” Steele said. “We were just leaving. Enjoy your hospital dinner.” Steele glared at Griffin as he passed. Zerr dropped his shoulder and bumped into Griffin on his way out.

  “They’re pissed,” Jackson said. “Can’t say as I blame them.” Jackson glanced at Brad. “He doesn’t talk much. Enjoy it while it lasts.” Jackson squeezed Brad’s shoulder and left.

  Archer stepped to the bed and shook his head. “I don’t know anyone tougher than you. I don’t always agree with your methods, but I can’t argue with the results.” Archer stared at the vital-sign monitors. “As deputy, I have to play by the book. But I stuck too close to protocol.”

  Brad and Archer locked eyes. Brad read sincerity in the gray eyes, and maybe concern. Brad nodded. “Tha … nks.”

  Archer nodded. “No need to talk. We’ll have plenty of time for that.”

  Brad wasn’t so sure about Archer and wasn’t looking forward to another trip to the principal’s office.

  Griffin pushed away from the door and stepped to the bed. “I don’t think there’s anything I can say to repair our relationship—partnership. To me, your actions were those of a guilty person. I let IA get in my head. For what it’s worth, you’re a damn fine cop. Speedy recovery.” Griffin nodded and left.

  That’s it, Griffin? “I know you hate taking time off,” Archer said. “But you don’t have a choice. Enjoy Christmas with family. Go somewhere warm in January. I hear Hawaii is beautiful. Come back when the doctors say you can. Know that I will double, and triple check documents saying you are ready for work.”

  Archer read some of the cards scattered around the room, then held up one. From the mayor. “Kearse invited you for drinks at the St. Louis.”

  “Make … me … buy.”

  Archer laughed. “No doubt. Don’t be surprised if he stops by. Heck, he might even bring the beer.”

  The nurse brought in dinner, all liquid. Archer glanced at the tray and grimaced. “Perhaps that food is punishment enough.” He started for the door, then turned. “Excellent work.”

  Brad stared at the door for a moment, not sure how he felt about Archer and Griffin. Archer had been in a tough position, and Brad hoped he’d never have to make that type of decision. Brad knew he wasn’t making it easy for Archer either. From forging back-to-work documents, then two months later accused of multiple murders. No doubt there was a huge lack of trust between them.

  Archer was the sort of guy you admired and wanted to have a beer with but scared the heck out of you at the same time. There would be consequences, but the quick talk gave Brad hope he still had a job. Although it might be writing parking tickets.

  Griffin’s actions hurt, though. They hadn’t been partners long, but you get to know each other well. Brad had enjoyed working with Griffin and they were a sound team. Their personalities were different, but that’s what made them successful. Apparently, he didn’t know Griffin as well as he thought. Even Griffin’s apology felt hollow. Not an apology, rationalizing his actions. Perhaps it was guilt on Griffin’s part, but Brad’s gut said Griffin still thought Brad was guilty. Is this what Jackson had been talking about to Zerr and Steele?

  It’s important for a cop to know that his partner, and other cops, have his back. If Jackson was correct, suspicion would be all around. How could Brad count on any partner to back him up?

  Potential partners he trusted with his life were down to three—Steele, Zerr and Briscoe. Well, four. Lobo was a loyal partner.

  It wasn’t like Brad could go to Archer and say, “Hey, Chief. I need a favor. I’ll only work with Steele, Zerr or Briscoe. Is that okay with you?”

  Then a thought hit him. He tried to grin, but pain shot up his jaw. Any of those three writing parking tickets with him was funny.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  The nurse was taking away the dinner tray when Brad heard a loud commotion down the hall and Briscoe’s voice in an argument. The nurse hurried out the door. Brad saw other nurses go by his door, jogging toward the noise. Then Annie scurried into the room, Lobo on a leash beside her. Once Lobo saw Brad, there was no way Annie could control him. He leaped for the bed, jerking the leash out of Annie’s hand. He scrambled up the bed until he was over Brad. Lobo’s wet tongue slashed over Brad’s face and neck. Brad reached up in vain to stop the slobbery assault.

  Finally, Lobo was content lying beside Brad on the narrow bed, wiggling until he was comfortable, and Brad was teetering on the edge of the bed.

  “Hel … lo,” Brad rasped.

  “Hello yourself. You don’t need to talk. Just enjoy Lobo. He’s been driving me crazy. He whines all day and carries your boots around. Oh, and you may need to buy some new socks. He chewed a few. Having a break from him even for a few minutes is worth it.”

  Brad scratched behind Lobo’s ears. He made a low rumbling sound, then rewarded Brad with another slobbery kiss.

  “How was dinner?”

  Brad made a face.

  Annie laughed. “I had salmon and rice.”

  Brad gave her the finger. “Milk … sha … ke.”

  Annie grinned. “Tomorrow. Smuggling Lobo in was enough for one day.”

  There was a knock at the door. Briscoe strode in and glanced at Brad.

  “You look like shit.”

  “Briscoe,” Annie said.

  Briscoe shrugged. “He does.” He grabbed a chair and picked up the TV remote.

  “Really?” Annie asked.

  “Not like we will have a conversation with him.” He clicked through the channels, found the one he wanted and sat back. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a beer. “You can’t have one. Doctor’s orders.”

  Brad’s eyes were wide, and he flipped the bird.

  Briscoe took a gulp of the beer. “Ah, that hits the spot.”

  The theme music for the evening news came on. Briscoe increased the volume.

  “CFCN Evening News with Sadie Andrus.”

  The screen switched from the station logo to Sadie.

  “Good evening, and welcome to the evening news. I’m Sadie Andrus. Today, Calgary Police held a news conference and provided further details on the kidnapping of the mayor’s nephew, Michael Trant, and his rescue by Detective Brad Coulter. We’ll take you to a portion of the news conference with Deputy Chief Archer.”

  The screen changed to Archer at a podium with the Calgary Police flag in the background.

  “Two days ago, Detective Bradley Coulter was taken hostage by a killer. While being held, Coulter was severely assaulted, including the repeated use of a cattle prod. Despite injuries from the shocks, a broken nose and jaw, Coulter freed himself from the rope that held him to a chair. In the ensuing fight, Coulter recovered a gun the suspect had dropped. As the suspect fired on Coulter, he shot back, striking the suspect three times. The suspect died at the scene. The heroic efforts of Coulter saved the life of Michael Trant. The suspect was also responsible for the string of murders over the past few weeks. Coulter is recovering in the hospital.”

  Archer paused and shuffled his notes.

  “The suspect died on scene,” Archer continued. “We regret to say that the suspect was Calgary Police Sergeant, Caterina Toscana. Detectives are still working to piece together the events that led Sergeant Toscana to commit the murders.”

  The screen changed to a video of the Foothills Hospital and a stretcher being rushed down the hall through a sea of blue. A framed picture in the corner showed Sadie.

  “The video shows a severely injured Detecti
ve Coulter as he was rushed to the trauma room,” Sadie said. “Deputy Chief Archer may be understating the lengths Detective Coulter went to rescue Michael Trant. He nearly gave his life in the rescue. If it hadn’t been for the timely intervention of paramedics, Coulter would have died.”

  The screen switched back to a full image of Andrus. “Police are unwilling to discuss their previous manhunt for Coulter, although it is clear he had nothing to do with the string of murders. Considering Coulter’s role in concluding these murders, perhaps he is owed an apology by the Deputy Chief. We certainly need a detailed account of the events.”

  The screen returned to Andrus.

  “With the biting cold and snow, streets were a mess with the city seemingly unaware there’d be snow again this winter. Efforts to clear the roads started too late and were insufficient. City police reported over one hundred and fifty accidents during rush hour this morning. So far tonight, there have been over one hundred during the afternoon rush hour.”

  Briscoe decreased the volume.

  “Brad deserves an apology,” Briscoe mimicked with a high, squeaky voice. “For doing his fucking job. I need another beer.”

  Just after seven, Sturgeon stepped into the room and glared at Briscoe. “What the heck. I got frisked before I came in and played twenty questions on why I was here, and you’re drinking beer. Even when I showed my gold badge, the constable wasn’t impressed.”

  Briscoe grinned and waved his beer. “That’s because your gold badge doesn’t carry as much weight as mine. Besides, he works for me.”

  “Why the security? Hero boy isn’t in any danger.”

  “Just from the nurses.”

  Lobo popped up his head.

  Sturgeon nodded. “I get it now.” He set a large container on the night table.

  Brad cocked his head.

  “Extra-large chocolate milkshake from Peters’ Drive-In.”