Without Due Process

by J. A. Jance

  I was just crossing the threshold into Ben and Shiree’s demolished bedroom when the clock radio beside the bed came on automatically at four-thirty. The soft, mournful wail of a country and western lady singer stopped me in my tracks. The familiar “he done me wrong” lyrics left me with an eerie sense of loss, allowing the finality of what had happened in that house to seep into my consciousness once and for all.

  As the music went on and on, I realized how, the night before, Ben Weston had matter-of-factly set that alarm, expecting to get up early the next morning—this morning—and be about his business. Whatever he had planned to do had been important enough to be worth getting out of a warm bed three and a half full hours before he was due in at the department at eight.

  But morning had come without him. Ben Weston would never again charge out of bed. He would never again hear the mournful music that was now crooning softly in the background. He wouldn’t see Ben Junior play his first Little League game or graduate from high school. Gentle Ben Weston was, literally, history.

  I stood there listening, transfixed by the music, struck by the awful senselessness of it all, and then a funny thing happened. A new sense of resolve and purpose seemed to settle over me, washing away my all-nighter fatigue and filling my body with bone-hard determination. Captain Powell may have sidetracked me on to the Adam Jackson end of the investigation, but every one of us, even that worthless Kramer, were all working the same problem, searching for the same killer, and find him we would. I searched the room over but found nothing that would help locate Adam Jackson’s mother.

  Motivated, ready to do something else positive, I decided to check the place where Big Al had parked to see if, by some lucky chance, he had left the car there for me when he went home. I was almost at the front door when the doorbell rang. In the meantime, the patrol officer on the couch, a guy by the name of Simmons, mumbled something to me. I opened the door, but I leaned away long enough to ask him to repeat it.

  No doubt those mumbled words saved my life, because the .44 slug that crashed into the mirrored wall directly behind me shattered the glass right at chest height. Whoever fired it hadn’t expected to miss, and at that range, chances are my bulletproof vest wouldn’t have done much good. Like Ben Weston, I, too, would have been all through listening to country music.

  Stunned, I hit the floor, my ears ringing. Then, as fast as I could, I scrambled back to my feet and fumbled for my automatic while Simmons bounded over me. We both reached the door in time to see a car door open and close as someone leaped inside a waiting, dark-colored vehicle. Leaving behind a spray of gravel, the car, with headlights and taillights both doused, sped away down the still night-black street.

  Simmons’s partner, a guy named Gary Deddens, had been left to guard the back door. He sprinted up behind us. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

  The two of them must have arrived at the Weston house at about the same time I did, the second time around. Their car was parked a good block and a half away. While Simmons raced after it, his partner started up the street after the long-gone vehicle. I paused long enough to explain to an ashen-faced Janice what had happened, then I too darted up the sidewalk. We flagged down Simmons as he drove past. The wheels on his patrol car were back in motion before the doors closed.

  “You all right, Detective Beaumont?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. A little shaky, but fine.”

  “You handle the radio,” he said to Deddens. “Did either of you see what kind of car it was?”

  “No,” we both answered together.

  “Shit!” Simmons muttered. “Neither did I.”

  Within minutes of our call, all of Rainier Valley was crawling with a bunch of very spooked cops. Word was out that someone had declared open warfare on officers of the Seattle Police Department. With Ben Weston and his family dead, and after my narrow escape, we were all feeling mighty vulnerable. And mortal.

  Unfortunately, nothing Simmons, his partner, or I could tell our fellow searchers was of any help. In the next hour and a half, a careful dragnet of the neighborhood turned up a few moving violations, including one DWI, but there was no trace at all of our missing gunman and his getaway car.

  With Simmons still driving, we had searched as far as the western shore of Lake Washington when the sun came up over the still snowbound Cascades later on that morning. I don’t know if this happens in other parts of the world or not, but it was one of those special Washington mornings when, as the natives say, the mountains were out, their rugged profiles shining brilliantly in the early-morning sun without their usual cloak of cloud cover. It was the kind of morning when Seattle’s cross-bridge commuters get regular traffic advisories warning them to watch out for the unaccustomed glare of sun off Lake Washington. It was a morning when, shootings aside, Seattle really is one of the most livable cities on the face of the earth.

  Believe me. I was happy as hell to be alive to enjoy it.

  CHAPTER 6

  SIMMONS AND DEDDENS OFFERED TO GIVE me a lift back downtown to the Public Safety Building, and I would have been more than happy to accept, but Watty sent a message through Dispatch that I was to return to the Weston house for a debriefing. When I got there, Detective Kramer was sitting on the front porch waiting for me, notebook in hand. He was not a happy camper.

  “I was just crawling into bed for a nap when Watty called and told me to come back here and take your statement. I feel like so much dogshit.”

  “Well pardon me all to hell for getting shot at,” I returned. “Remind me to schedule the next one at a more convenient time, would you, Kramer? I hate to think that I’m causing you to miss your little nappy.”

  “Cut the crap, will you, Beaumont? Just tell me what happened so we can both get out of here.”

  So I told him, as briefly as possible, while he took notes. No doubt I’d have to do some paper on the assault, but it seemed fair enough that someone else should have to do so as well. After all, I’m a taxpayer too, I thought, remembering, for the first time since writing it, the sizable check to the IRS that I had left in Ralph Ames’s charge.

  “The crux of the question, then, is did someone plan to hit Ben Weston, or were you the target this time?” Kramer asked finally.

  “I have to assume the bullet was meant for me. Why kill a dead man?”

  “Maybe they didn’t know he was already dead. Who all knew you were here tonight? Anyone at home?”

  “No, I have company from out of town, but at the time the call came in and I left the house, Big Al and I had no idea where we were going or when we’d be back.”

  “Anybody follow you?”

  “Are you kidding? Even if they were, who would notice? Do you watch the rearview mirror when you’re on your way to a crime scene?”

  “Hardly ever.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Have you been in any kind of a beef with someone here at the department?”

  I hesitated for a fraction of a second before I answered, remembering Janice Morraine’s blurted theory that a fellow cop might have killed Ben Weston. But I couldn’t think of anyone at Seattle PD who would be that happy if J. P. Beaumont was no more.

  “You mean other than you?” I returned.

  Kramer glared at me. “Yeah. Who else other than me? I’d already gone home, remember?”

  “I don’t know of anyone.”

  “The place was crawling with reporters. I know you don’t like them. Is the feeling mutual?”

  “Most likely, but I can’t think of any of them who’d have balls enough to take a shot at someone they didn’t like. Besides, the ones I know are mostly opposed to guns as a matter of principle.”

  Kramer made another note. “Who all was still here when this happened?”

  “Janice Morraine and the rest of her crew from the Crime Lab. And there were two officers from Patrol who were left on duty guarding the front and back doors. They’re the ones who brought me back here, Officers Simmons and Deddens.”<
br />
  “And nobody got a good look at the car?”

  “No. It was dark—maroon or black maybe, but I can’t be sure. It was too far away to get even a glimpse of the license.”

  It was morning now. People leaving their houses on their way to school and work slowed and stared openly at the two men sitting on the steps of Ben Weston’s house—at the two men and also at the grim-looking yellow tape that had been wrapped around the outside of the yard.

  Kramer got up stiffly and stretched. “I’m going to go take a look at that hole in the wall. Is the slug still in it?”

  “No, Janice Morraine had one of her guys dig it out. They’re gone now, but they said they’d have it whenever anybody needed it.”

  I let Kramer go by himself to examine the bullet hole. He certainly didn’t need me holding his hand while he looked at the shattered mirror and the crater in the wallboard. I was waiting for him to come back out on the porch when a beater of a BMW stopped in the street, and a tall black man got out. He started toward the gate. He stopped at the barrier created by a strand of yellow crime scene tape.

  “You can’t come in here,” I called. “It’s off limits.”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m a police officer.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Good. You’re just who I’m looking for.” With that he ignored what I had said, stepped easily over the tape, and came on into the yard anyway.

  Knees creaking, heels yelping in pain, I got up and limped forward to head him off. “I tell you, you can’t come in here. Who are you?”

  When he stopped next to me, I realized he dwarfed me. He held out his hand. “Johnson,” he said. “Carl Johnson. I’m the principal of McClure Middle School.”

  If I hadn’t been two thirds brain-dead, I would have made the connection without him having to draw me a picture, but I was too slow on the uptake.

  “Douglas Weston attends my school,” he explained. “One of my parents called me at home and told me something had happened, that police cars had been here during the night. I’m always concerned about anything that affects one of my children, so I came by to see if I could be of any help. What’s going on?”

  For a moment, I didn’t know whether to hug the man or what. His appearance was an answer to a prayer. “Do you happen to know how to get hold of Adam Jackson’s mother?”

  “Adam? He’s here too?”

  I nodded. Carl Johnson frowned. “I don’t know her number right off the bat, but I’m sure I could get it for you from the office. If Adam spent the night here, it probably means she’s on call.”

  “On call?”

  “Emma Jackson is doing her residency with University Hospital. She told me about it at the beginning of the year. She has trouble getting a sitter for those thirty-six-hour shifts, so Adam often spends the night with the Westons. You still haven’t told me what’s going on.”

  I reached in my pocket and pulled out a card. He read it, then met my eyes over the top of the card. “This says Homicide.” I nodded. “Has someone been killed?”

  “Several people,” I answered quietly. “Maybe you’d better have a seat here on the porch so I can tell you about what happened.”

  Carl Johnson shed real tears when I told him, but he jumped up as soon as I finished. “I’d better get back to school,” he said urgently. “I need to alert the faculty and the counselors. The district has a team of people who come in to help in situations like this, but I’d better hurry. I want to be there when word gets out.”

  He started away, then stopped and turned back. “Where will you be?” he asked. “I’ll call you with Emma Jackson’s phone number as soon as I get back to my office.”

  I gave him my home number. “I’m going to race home, take a shower, and change clothes. It’ll only take a few minutes. If there’s no answer, leave the number on my machine, but please don’t make any effort to contact Emma until after I do.”

  “Of course,” Carl Johnson agreed. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you’d hold off making any kind of official announcement, again at least until after I get in touch with her.”

  “You’ll let me know?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Go ahead and start gathering up the people you need. Just don’t give out any names until you get an official go-ahead.”

  “Right,” he said. “I understand.”

  Carl Johnson strode away from me, his broad shoulders straight, his chin set. Again he stepped over the yellow tape. His ancient Beamer sputtered and backfired before he was able to start it on the third try.

  Educators like him seem to be rare these days—old-time teachers who put kids first and everything else second. From the looks of the car he drove, making money sure as hell wasn’t Carl Johnson’s first priority. No matter what the salary schedule, we’ll never be able to pay the Carl Johnsons of this world a fraction of what they’re worth.

  Janice Morraine came out on the porch just as Carl was driving away, his car coughing and choking. “Who was that?” she asked.

  “His name’s Carl Johnson,” I told her, “and he’s a national treasure.”

  She leveled a hard stare at me, as though I were some kind of raving maniac. “You don’t seem to have a car here. Would you like a ride back downtown?” Detective Kramer had taken off while I was dealing with Carl Johnson, and only now did it occur to me that I was totally without transportation.

  Considering my previous behavior, I was a little surprised Janice Morraine made the offer. Maybe the fact that someone almost killed me had softened her bony little heart. “I’d appreciate it,” I said, meaning every word. “So would my bone spurs.”

  “It won’t take much longer,” she said. “I’ve got one more load of gear to take out to the van.”

  She turned down my offer of help with the loading. While waiting for her to finish stowing equipment in her state-owned Aerostar, I stood off to one side and thought about Paul Kramer’s questions. It seemed unlikely to me that anyone so apparently inoffensive as Gentle Ben Weston would have two entirely different sets of enemies out to kill him, both on the same night. I suffer from the homicide detective’s natural aversion to coincidences, and two entirely separate murder plots at once was a bit of a stretch. That being the case, then the second scenario was far more likely—a vicious murderer was out to do in any number of Seattle’s finest and their families as well.

  Which brought me abruptly to the question of why me? Out of the fifteen hundred or so police officers in the city of Seattle, why had the gunman shot at me? It seemed likely that fate alone had cast me as a potential victim since Simmons, the officer left guarding the front door, would have been far more likely to open it.

  I remembered how we had sprinted down the sidewalk after the gunman’s car disappearing in the early-morning darkness. Almost all the law enforcement vehicles in the neighborhood had been gone by then, and the crime scene tape had not yet been strung across the gate. If it had been, Simmons, Deddens, or I would have stumbled over it in our race to the car. With that in mind, it was conceivable, then, that whoever did the shooting still believed that Ben Weston was the only possible person who would open his own door at that ungodly hour of the morning.

  Which brought me full circle and right back to Ben being the target of two totally separate murder plots at the same time—unless, as Janice Morraine had suggested, the killer really was a cop who knew full well that Ben Weston was already dead, who understood exactly what was going on, who had an accurate count of who was still inside the house, and who could make a pretty good guess which of those was most likely to open the door.

  Around and around I went, my thoughts chasing themselves like so many stupid dogs, endlessly pursuing their own tails.

  Janice Morraine climbed into the van and started the engine while I jolted myself out of my reverie and settled into the rider’s seat. “Where to?” she asked. “The department?”

  “Sure. That’s fine. I need to pic
k up a car.”

  We drove in silence for a few blocks. “Sorry about tonight,” I said. “I was out of line.”

  “We were all tired,” she returned. “When people are running on nerves like that, you can’t expect everyone to be on their very best behavior.”

  “You may be right,” I said quietly. “Not about Big Al, but about the murderer being a cop out to kill other cops.”

  “Forget it,” she said. “I’ve changed my mind about that, too.”

  “You have?”

  “We found six Flex-cufs in Ben Weston’s nightstand drawer and two in the kitchen. Maybe he was collecting them. God knows how many others he had stashed here and there around the house, but a cop wouldn’t have made all the mistakes.”

  “What mistakes?”

  “The footprints, for one thing. If we once find that pair of shoes, believe me, we won’t have any trouble matching them up. And the hair for another.”

  “The hair stuck between Shiree Western’s fingers?”

  She nodded. “That’s right. Any cop in his right mind would have noticed and had brains enough to get rid of those.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  Janice shrugged. “Naturally, we found those all over the house, but until we have a record of all the family members’ prints, there’s no way to tell which ones, if any, are strays.”

  By then we were pulling into the garage at the Public Safety Building. “Thanks for the ride,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  “And no matter what I may have said before, for a criminalist, you’re not bad.”

  She grinned back at me, and I knew I’d been forgiven. “You’re not bad either,” she returned lightly, “for a boy.”

  Touché.

  I went upstairs long enough to pick up my messages and to receive a hug from Margie, my clerk, who seemed delighted that I hadn’t been shot to pieces. Then I hurried back down to the garage, checked out a car, and went home.