Deadly Justice bk-3

by William Bernhardt

  “And if they are in their office?”

  “Make sure they aren’t.”

  “I dunno, Christina. Sounds dangerous.”

  “True, this is a risk. But Chief Blackwell is a certainty unless you come up with something in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Well, since you put it like that…let’s get to work on the calendar.”

  36

  BEN DECIDED TO START with Shelby’s office. His first choice had been Doug’s, but Doug was poised squarely behind his computer and appeared unlikely to move unless a power shortage blanketed Tulsa. Shelly was much easier—she was out of her office, and probably wouldn’t cause trouble in any event.

  Ben picked up a small framed photo on Shelly’s desk. The picture was of a cute, chubby-cheeked redheaded infant, perhaps three months old. Must be Shelly’s daughter, Angie. Ben could see the resemblance. Very cute. He scanned Shelly’s desktop calendar and saw the usual appointments and deadline ticklers. No references to a Kindergarten Club—not even a cryptic K.C. She did have an unusually high number of doctor’s appointments, but that could probably be explained by the fact that she had so recently given birth.

  He checked the hallway. Still no sign of Shelly. He opened her desk drawer. Pencils, pens, rubber bands, paper clips—so what? He closed the desk and opened the top drawer of her credenza. It was cluttered with files going two different directions; organization was obviously not Shelly’s strong point. He found a half-empty box of Snickers bars tucked away in one corner and more baby pictures in another. Ben thumbed through the baby pictures, and to his surprise, found a wallet-size photo of Howard Hamel.

  He held the Hamel photo next to one of Angie. Come to think of it, there was some resemblance there, too.

  He returned both photos and began rifling through her files. Nothing caught his eye—until he spotted one labeled Nelson. He pulled it out. Sure enough—it was the same Nelson case Ben had just managed to win.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?”

  Ben jumped a foot into the air. He slammed the drawer shut.

  Shelly was standing in the doorway.

  “I…er…I was just looking for…”

  “Yes?”

  “I just happened to notice that you had a file pertaining to the Nelson case. I’ve been trying to close out the case but I noticed some of the pleadings were missing. When I saw this file, I thought maybe you had them.”

  She relaxed a bit. “I was involved during the preliminary negotiations, before the lawsuit was filed. I don’t have any pleadings.”

  “So I see. Sorry about that.” Ben stepped away from her desk. “How did you get strong-armed into that case?”

  “I was just back from maternity leave. Crichton dumped the case in my lap the day I returned, then took it back the very next day. Apparently Chuck told him I didn’t have my head together yet.”

  “I thought Rob worked on that case before I came.”

  “Oh, Rob was only assigned to the case a day or two before you arrived. The case was originally assigned to Howard Hamel.”

  “Hamel?”

  “Yeah. Crichton added me when he saw how much work would be involved. Then Chuck got me kicked off the case, and when you were hired, Howard got kicked off me case. And you and Rob were put on.”

  “Huh.” Ben pointed to the picture on her desk. “By the way, adorable baby.”

  For the first time, Ben actually saw her smile. “Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” She picked up the photo.

  “Shelly! I thought I gave you something to do!”

  Chuck was hovering just outside the door.

  Shelly dropped the photo like a hot potato. “You did, Chuck. It was five minutes ago, remember?”

  “Yes, and I expected you to get to work, not to screw around with baby pictures.”

  “I was not—” She shifted from one foot to the other. “I was just helping Ben with his case.”

  “That’s not how it looked to me. Damn it, I don’t know why Crichton hires women on the mommy track who pretend to want to be attorneys.”

  “That’s not fair—”

  “Maybe we should all just throw away our cases and hold a great big baby shower!”

  “Chuck…” Ben said softly, “…I really think you should clam up.”

  “Butt out, Kincaid. This is none of your business.”

  “I disagree. I’m an attorney representing the Apollo Consortium, and I feel duty-bound to prevent you from engaging in any activities that could subject this corporation to liability.”

  “Shove off.”

  “You are engaging in classic Title VII sex discrimination and sexual harassment, federal offenses for which Apollo could be held liable for hundreds of thousands of dollars, especially if a pattern of discriminatory conduct is discovered. If that happens, you’ll be the biggest pariah in the company. Frankly, I think Shelly already has more than enough ammunition to file suit.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “Oh, but I do. I know the Supreme Court held back in 1986 that sexual harassment claims fall under Title VII of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. I’m familiar with the EEOC guidelines on sexual harassment and sex discrimination, and I’ve seen you violate about ninety percent of them!”

  Chuck fell silent.

  “I think it’s fair to say the only thing that’s keeping you in your job is Shelly’s patience and restraint,” Ben continued. “Of course, that could disappear at any moment.”

  Shelly and Chuck exchanged a pointed look.

  “If I were you,” Ben added, “I’d start behaving civilly to Shelly. If you like your job, anyway.”

  Chuck’s fists balled up. His face flushed red; he looked as if he might explode. He started to speak, then whirled around and stomped down the hallway.

  “Thanks,” Shelly said softly.

  “I’m not sure I did you much of a favor. Probably just infuriated him. I’d keep a close eye on him.”

  “I will. Still, thanks.”

  Ben left her office. He was glad he’d been able to help her out, however temporarily. And more importantly, he was glad he’d been able to get out without explaining what he was doing in her office.

  37

  BEN SPENT THE REST of the afternoon combing through offices. His encounter with Shelly inspired him to be more careful; he didn’t go in unless he knew the attorney was in a meeting that would ramble on for at least half an hour. By the end of the day, though, he’d managed to search every office.

  He’d searched every attorney on his level or lower—Herb, Candice, Chuck, Doug. He’d even searched Rob’s office, though he knew Rob had been with him the entire day Hamel was killed. During his search, he’d learned that Doug was a fan of The Executioner novels, which was a surprise, and that Herb kept a pack of condoms in his desk, which wasn’t. But he didn’t find anything that brought him closer to understanding who killed Howard Hamel, or why, or what the connection to the murdered teenage girls could be.

  Ben sat in his office, feet propped up on his desk, trying to solve the puzzle. Unfortunately, he couldn’t come up with anything. The solution seemed just as elusive as it had always been.

  He looked up from his desk blotter and was startled to see Crichton standing not two feet away.

  “Swamped, Kincaid?”

  Ben straightened up and put his feet on the floor. “I was just thinking something over…”

  “I can come back if you’re too busy.”

  “No. To be honest, I don’t have a thing to do. Ever since the Nelson case concluded, my assignments have dried up.”

  Crichton declined to comment. “Here’s a new case I want you to work on.” He tossed a file Ben’s way. It smacked heavily on his desk. “It’s extremely urgent. I want a thorough analysis and litigation strategy prepared in writing by tomorrow morning.”

  Tomorrow morning? “Uhh…what time will you be in tomorrow?”

  “I don’t want to know anything about it. Y
ou’ll report directly to Harry Carter.”

  Carter? The hatchet man Christina warned him about? “May I ask why?”

  “This is more his field of expertise than mine. And I’m too damn busy to get caught up in something like this.”

  “Sir, excuse me for asking, but shouldn’t you be at home resting?”

  Crichton released a short pfui sound. “That was much ado about nothing. Bunch of ball players acting like old women. Just a bump on the head. Nothing to get excited about.”

  “Sir…I heard you had a skull fracture.”

  “Very minor. Nothing that could take me out of commission. Work is really the best thing for it. You can’t let incidents like this slow you down. You’ve got to get right back on that horse again and ride.”

  Ben wondered if Crichton subscribed to some sort of cliché service. “Surely you should at least try not to move any more than necessary.…”

  “Can’t be helped. I’ve got work to do.” He pointed toward the imposing file on Ben’s desk. “And so do you.” He pivoted abruptly and left.

  Ben fingered the manila folder on his desk. For a new case, the quantity of paperwork was immense. He scanned a few of the documents. It was an antitrust case involving dozens of parties, price fixing, RICO, and restraint of trade. Ben was stunned—he didn’t know anything about antitrust litigation, an incredibly rarified, specialized field of practice. There were probably half a dozen people in Crichton’s department better qualified to handle this case. Why on earth would he give it to Ben?

  Before Ben had a chance to dwell on this new mystery, he saw a familiar figure in an unseasonably heavy overcoat step into his office.

  “Mike! Glad to see you. I tried to call you last night but—”

  Ben froze in mid-sentence. Chief Blackwell followed Mike into the office.

  “Greetings, Kincaid. I came to check on your progress.”

  Ben rose. “Now, wait a minute. You gave me a week. I still have another day.”

  “I know, I know. I just wanted to see if you were making progress. After all, if you haven’t gotten anywhere yet, what’s the point of waiting till the last moment?”

  “Especially when you’ve been unable to come up with a suspect on your own, right?”

  Blackwell made a snarling noise. “You’re treading on thin ice, Kincaid. I’ve already got more than enough to bring you in.”

  “I thought we had a deal.”

  “We did.” He strode forward. “I just want you to understand that I’m serious.”

  Mike edged in between them. “I got the message that you tried to call me, Ben. Why don’t you tell us what you’ve got?”

  Ben told them about the computer file Jones discovered. “I’ve made a copy for you.”

  Mike scanned the list. “And you and Christina haven’t found any connection linking the names on this list?”

  “Other than the fact that they’re all Apollo employees, no.”

  “Hmm,” Blackwell said. “Maybe we should interview these jerks.”

  “I think that’s a bad idea,” Ben said. “No one is going to tell you anything unless you have more ammunition to throw at them than we have at the moment. All you’ll do is raise their defenses.”

  Mike nodded. “I concur. I’m going to put a tail on each of them, though, if we can. spare the manpower. Maybe we can learn something from where they go, what they do. Maybe they’ll hold a meeting of this Kindergarten Club.”

  “That would be great,” Ben said.

  “I’m not convinced there’s any link between this so-called club and the murders,” Blackwell said gruffly, “and I’m not going to divert men from proven police procedures to chase some wild goose.”

  “I showed you the photo we found at Hamel’s home,” Mike said. “What more proof of a connection do you need? Surely we can spare a few men to follow up on this. We already have so many undercover officers planted in the red-light districts they’re picking up one another.”

  “Red-light districts?” Ben said. “What’s this about?”

  Mike eyed Blackwell. Blackwell hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  “This is top secret stuff,” Mike said. “It has not been released to the press yet.”

  “I can keep a secret,” Ben said. “Shoot.”

  “We’ve found the link between the victims. They were all teenage prostitutes.”

  Ben nodded appreciatively. “That should advance the investigation. How did you figure this out?”

  “Through one renegade sergeant who couldn’t follow orders,” Blackwell cut in gruffly.

  “That one renegade sergeant came up with more dope than the rest of us have in three weeks,” Mike said curtly. “Ben, have I ever introduced you to Sergeant Tomlinson?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Decent guy. Real straight-shooter. Very by-the-book. Lovely wife, cute daughter. I liked him.”

  “You had a funny way of showing it,” Blackwell said.

  Mike twisted his neck uncomfortably. “I was just giving him a bad time, trying to make him work harder. He’s dedicated, but a bit pedestrian. I was trying to make him stretch.”

  Blackwell smirked. “You were riding him like a saddle.”

  “He had applied for a transfer to Homicide,” Mike explained. “He was qualified, sure, but I didn’t want him to think it was easy. So I spun him around some. Just to push him.”

  “And now he’s in a hospital bed,” Blackwell said. “Practically dead.”

  “What!” Ben’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

  “We think he had a run-in with our killer,” Mike said. “Someone had him in a choke hold—plastic trash bag tied around his head with a silken cord. One of the residents of the building they were in—a lady of the evening—happened to walk in on them before Tomlinson was altogether dead. The killer had to flee. But before he did, he tossed Tomlinson down a flight of stairs, just for good measure.”

  “Oh, my God,” Ben said. “And he’s still alive?”

  “Just barely. The woman who walked in on them had the guts to call the police, even though she risked being picked up herself, and an ambulance took him to St. John’s. He’s still on a respirator and he hasn’t regained consciousness. There’s a chance he never will, or that when he does, he’ll have severe brain damage from oxygen deprivation.”

  “Jesus.” Ben steadied himself against his chair. “Do you have any idea what he was doing? How he tracked down the killer?”

  “He made some notes we found in his desk. They’re sketchy, but they’re better than nothing. Apparently Tomlinson recognized a tattoo on the second victim’s body and traced that back to a red-light district. We’re not sure which district, though Tomlinson used to work Eleventh Street, so I’d say that’s our best bet. Anyway, he started investigating and eventually deduced that all the victims were teenage prostitutes. He seemed to think there was a pattern to the killings, a connection other than the fact that the victims were hookers. Unfortunately, he doesn’t explain the connection in his notes. Like I said, they were very sketchy. All the last entry says is that he’s looking for someone named Trixie.”

  “So you have a name? Great! Then all you need to do is round up every teen prostitute in town named Trixie.”

  “Believe me, Ben, we’ve tried. We’ve systematically quizzed every streetwalker we could find. No one fesses up to being Trixie. In fact, no one will even admit to knowing someone named Trixie.”

  “She must be hiding. She may have left town.”

  “That’s possible, but I think it’s unlikely. We’ve been watching the traditional exits carefully, and besides, most teen hookers are on a very short leash. I think she’s still here. She’s just keeping a low profile.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Only speculation. It’s not all that unusual for a teen prostitute to keep her distance from the police.”

  “Good point.” But, Ben thought silently, it’s just possible someone not associated with
the police might have better luck. His eyes met Mike’s. He could tell he wasn’t the only one in the room having the thought.

  “Do we have a description of Trixie? Or the killer?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve been assuming the killer is a man—because the murders and mutilation required strength and because all the victims have been female prostitutes—but I could be wrong. And it could be a man working for someone else. Serial killers come in all shapes and sizes.”

  “Are you sure it’s a serial killer?”

  Mike hesitated for a moment, then cocked an eyebrow. “Funny you should ask that. Just between you and me?”

  “I’m not likely to report to The New York Times.”

  Mike glanced at Blackwell, then continued. “I’m certain all the murders were committed by the same person. The MOs are too similar; even an eyewitness couldn’t duplicate the crime with such perfection. The phrase serial killer suggests a loony tune—a psychotic, or sociopath, or sexual deviant. Someone who kills with no motive other than what his twisted mind may invent. But there’s something eminently…logical about this killer.”

  “You find something logical in the mutilation of four helpless prostitutes?”

  “That’s just it. Why the mutilation? It doesn’t seem to reflect gender hatred, or cannibalistic tendencies, or sexual obsessions, or any of the other traits you’ll find in the FBI profiles. And why no threats? Why no sexual assaults? Why no taunting letters to the police? It’s as if the killer is duplicating the eccentricities of a serial, killer, but lacks the core madness of a true psychotic.”

  “If that’s true, Mike, then we’re looking for someone with—God forbid—a logical reason for committing these murders.”

  Mike pursed his lips. “I’m aware of that. What’s more, I think Tomlinson was convinced of it.”

  “Well, pardon me if I’m not convinced. Anyone who would commit crimes like this is a nutcase in my book, per se. Surely you’ll catch him soon if you continue this all-force full-court press.”

  “I’d like to tell you we’re getting closer, Ben, but I’d be lying. This case is the living embodiment of the third law of thermodynamics: all things tend toward chaos. The harder we look, the less we find. The longer it takes, the more it gets away from us.”