Deadly Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Yeah.” She tossed him the check. “Here, pal, you can pay. After all, you’re about to be rich.”

  4

  SERGEANT TOMLINSON ENTERED THE briefing room and took his assigned seat on the end of the first row. All the other officers were already there, but Morelli wasn’t, thank God. The last thing he needed was for Morelli to have another excuse to chew him out in public.

  Tomlinson didn’t understand why, but ever since he requested a transfer to the Homicide Division, Lieutenant Morelli had been riding him, humiliating him in public, and taking every opportunity to make him look like an idiot. Maybe he wasn’t the brightest guy on the Tulsa police force. Maybe he hadn’t gone to college like Morelli and couldn’t quote Shakespeare at the drop of a pin. But he worked hard—harder than any of the other candidates. He did his homework and he never turned down an assignment. And once he took an assignment, he didn’t give up. So why was Morelli always ragging on him?

  Tomlinson supposed it was because he was married. Very married. And he and Karen had a six-year-old daughter, Kathleen, to boot. For some reason, that really seemed to jerk Morelli’s chain. Once, in a booming voice in front of all the other officers, Morelli asked if Tomlinson had been playing paper dolls during the briefing. On another occasion he suggested that Tomlinson join a stakeout—if he could get his wife’s permission to stay up late. Tomlinson had heard that Morelli himself was married a while back, but that it dissolved into a bitter divorce. Now he was apparently down on any police officers with families.

  Tomlinson thumbed through the briefing book that had been left on his chair. As he suspected, this meeting was about the mutilation-murders of the teenage girls. After three dismembered corpses, there seemed little doubt—they had a serial killer on their hands.

  Tomlinson pored over the materials, all of which he had seen before. He wanted badly to be assigned to this case, so he’d made a point of reviewing everything that came through the office on it. If he could track down this serial killer, he’d be transferred to Homicide for sure. Chief Blackwell would sign the transfer, even if Morelli wouldn’t. And who knows? Maybe Morelli would back off. At least for a day or two.

  As if on cue, Lieutenant Morelli came stomping into the room in that ridiculous tan overcoat he always wore. What a pretense. It wasn’t even cold outside. Morelli gripped the podium and began talking, without any introduction or greeting.

  “As you’ve probably figured out,” Morelli growled, “you’ve been selected to be part of a special task force to investigate—and solve—this recent chain of murders.”

  Tomlinson grinned. A special task force. That sounded cool, very elite. The boys down at the bowling alley would be impressed.

  “Don’t get excited,” Morelli said. He seemed to be looking directly at Tomlinson. “This is no great honor. You were chosen because…frankly, you’re all that’s available. We’ve got every able-bodied person on the force working this case, and that’s going to continue until it’s solved. Everyone’s in on this one—Homicide, Sex Crimes, the Special Investigations Unit—and just about anyone else we could round up. This could be the most grotesque crime spree Tulsa has seen since the race riot of the 1920s. I don’t have to tell you how we’ve been crucified in the press since the killings began. This bastard has killed three teenage girls—and I want him caught. Because if we don’t, he’ll kill again.

  “There’s something else,” Morelli added, “and this will really curdle your blood. If we don’t solve these crimes soon, the FBI will be butting in. So far we’ve been lucky; all three murders have occurred within Tulsa County. Unfortunately, it looks like we’ve got a serial killer, so it’s just a matter of time before those federal bozos descend with their profiles and high-tech geegaws. I don’t care for that a damn bit. I want this case solved before it happens.

  “Now open your books and follow along.”

  Tomlinson opened his briefing notebook to the front page.

  “You’ll find all the police reports, the medical examiner reports, and the forensic lab reports. Everything we’ve got is right in here.”

  Morelli’s subordinates flipped to the next page, a photo taken at one of the crime scenes.

  “As you probably remember, the first body was found on the morning of May second, the next was found on the fourth, and the third was found last night. In each case, the victims were teenage girls, found nude, with no identification”—he took a deep breath and stared down at his notes—“and with their heads and hands cut off.”

  Tomlinson saw several officers flipping ahead in their notebooks to the morgue photos. They must have stronger stomachs than he.

  “The bodies have been impossible to identify. No face, no fingerprints. We have yet to figure out who any of the victims are. If there is a connecting link among the three, we don’t know what it is.”

  Tomlinson raised his hand. “Sir, may I suggest that we make the identification of the victims our number one priority—even over identifying the killer? After all, if we can figure out the pattern, we may be able to save future lives.”

  “What a brilliant plan,” Morelli replied. “Are you sure you aren’t a lieutenant? Or maybe even a captain?” A mild tittering filtered through the room. “Or did you steal that idea from your wife?”

  Tomlinson ground his teeth together. When would he ever learn?

  Morelli resumed his briefing. “All the bodies have been found within a twenty-mile radius in an unpopulated area in the western part of Tulsa County. Everything has been neat and tidy; the killer hasn’t left us a clue to work with. Even the amputations have been effected with almost surgical precision.”

  He looked up from his notebook and stared out into the sea of uniforms. “The bottom line is this: we’re in the dark. We have a major crime, no leads, and no likelihood of preventing repeat offenses. We’re looking for ideas, people. Any suggestions will be considered, and anyone who suggests something that helps will find some extra change in his or her pay envelope—and maybe another stripe on his or her shoulder. Even you, Tomlinson.”

  Another mild chuckle from the crowd. Tomlinson realized the insidious reason he must’ve been invited to this briefing: so he could be the butt of Morelli’s jokes.

  “On the next page of the notebook,” Morelli continued, “you’ll find an action plan I’ve devised in coordination with Chief Blackwell. Item one, as you can see, is to identify the victims. We’ll call that the Tomlinson Plan.”

  Laughter again, even more unrestrained than before. What did the man want—his resignation?

  “Other action items involve creating a useful profile of the killer, defining his working environment, and setting a trap. But we’ll talk about those when the time comes.” He flipped to the back of his notebook. “On the last page, you’ll find orders informing you of your work assignment on the task force. A lot of thought has gone into these assignments, so I don’t want to hear any bitching about them. We’ve tried to distribute the work so as to make maximum use of our available talent. We expect each of you to perform your assigned tasks to the best of your abilities.”

  Tomlinson turned to the back of his notebook and read the order sheet. Under his name, the assignment name read: SWITCHBOARD/RADIO DUTY.

  Switchboard/radio? Tulsa was facing the most heinous crime wave in its history—and he was going to be the frigging telephone operator? Tomlinson slammed the notebook shut.

  Morelli heard the noise, but didn’t comment. He told everyone to “get their butts in gear” and dismissed the meeting.

  Tomlinson followed the crowd out of the room, then started down the hallway to—he could barely even think about it—the switchboard room. He wasn’t going to take this lying down. If Morelli didn’t have any faith in him—fine. He’d prove himself without Morelli’s help, and with any luck, he’d make Morelli look like a fool in the process.

  He checked the duty roster. He would be off the switchboard by midnight. No problem—he’d start then.

  Someone
was going to have to make the first breakthrough. This time, it was going to be him.

  5

  BEN SCANNED THE OUTER offices of the Apollo Consortium headquarters. The architecture was elegant and expensive—the general design was of spiraling glass columns and gold-plated panels. The glass glistened; the gold panels were polished and gleaming. The building was less than a year old; Apollo was probably the only business entity in all of Oklahoma that was ostentatiously spending money during the recession that had paralyzed so much of the Southwest.

  Howard Hamel stepped out of the elevator after Ben had waited less than a minute. I don’t get service this prompt when I visit my mother, Ben thought.

  “Ben! Great to see you again,” Hamel said, his hand extended. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you accepted our offer.”

  “Well, it was a difficult offer to refuse.”

  “Good. It was intended that way. In case you haven’t gotten the message yet, the Apollo Consortium wants you bad.”

  “I suppose I’ll need to fill out some forms. Insurance, direct deposit…”

  “Sure, sure, but later. Let me take you on a tour of the complex. Our first stop is at the top—Robert Crichton’s office.”

  “He’s the head of the legal department, right?”

  “Right. In fact, he’s general counsel for the entire Apollo Consortium.”

  “And he wants to see me?”

  “Damn straight. He told me to show you in the moment you arrived.”

  Hamel ushered Ben into a glass elevator that rose up the south side of the office building. Ben watched south Tulsa recede as the elevator rose toward the penthouse floor.

  “Great view, huh?” Hamel said. “Strictly speaking, these exposed elevators are illegal here, but we managed to pull a few strings with the city counsel and get a variance.” He winked. “Called in a few vouchers.”

  “I’ll bet.” Ben gazed out through the elevator glass. He could spot Southern Hills, the Sheraton Kensington, and the Oral Roberts campus, with its shimmering towers like something out of a Fifties science fiction movie. He felt a sudden clutching in his chest; Ben was not handy with heights. He turned away. “The view must be terrific at night.”

  “It is. But don’t take my word for it. Come up some night and see for yourself.”

  The elevator bell dinged, and they stepped off. They passed through an elegant private dining room staffed with waiters in formal attire, and a large health spa.

  “Is this open to the public?” Ben asked.

  “You must be kidding. We have over three thousand employees in this building. If the spa and restaurant were open to everyone, no one would be able to get a toe in edgewise. No, this whole floor is strictly for the top executives.”

  “Oh. Pity.”

  “Fret not, Ben. If you want in, we’ll get you in.”

  They approached two huge wooden doors with ornate burnished paneling. A secretary sat at a desk outside.

  “Janice, I have Mr. Kincaid.”

  She pointed toward the doors. “Mr. Crichton said you were to bring him in immediately.”

  “Right-o.” Hamel pushed the heavy doors open. Ben followed. The outer office was large and luxurious. No surprise. The glass and gold design of the front lobby was repeated, although one wall was white stucco. A painted mural stretched from one end to the other. It was an N. C. Wyeth mural, if Ben wasn’t mistaken. Could it possibly be an original?

  They stepped quietly into the inner office. A man in his mid-forties was seated behind a desk, while a much younger woman slumped down in the chair opposite him.

  “Look,” the man said, “I’m not saying you should put your job ahead of your baby, but—” Mid-sentence, he noticed his two visitors. “Hamel, what’s the meaning of this?”

  Hamel stiffened ever so slightly. “I’ve brought Ben Kincaid to see you, Mr. Crichton.”

  Crichton’s expression and manner changed the instant he heard the name. He rose to his feet. “Ben Kincaid. A pleasure.” Ben stepped forward, and they shook hands. After a moment, Crichton looked back, almost regretfully, at the woman in the chair. “Shelly…why don’t we continue this later?”

  The woman in the chair was small, with a thin face and dishwater blond hair. She seemed to be pressed back as far as possible in the chair. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying or was likely to start at any moment. After Crichton dismissed her, she turned and rushed out without saying a word.

  “Thanks, Hamel,” Crichton said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Okay. Catch you later, Ben.” Hamel left the office.

  Ben took the chair the woman had vacated.

  “Sorry about that business with Shelly,” Crichton said. “Embarrassing to walk in on something like that, I know.” Crichton was an attractive man who wore his age well; the flecks of gray at his temples only accented his full black hair. He tossed himself into a chair and propped his feet up on the desk. “I hate it when a member of my staff isn’t performing up to snuff, but at the same time, I don’t believe in mollycoddling anybody. And it always seems to be the women.”

  “Excuse me?” Ben said.

  “Forget I spoke. I sometimes forget that I’m supposed to pretend that everyone is exactly the same these days. You don’t have a wife or kids, do you?”

  Ben shifted his weight uncomfortably. “No.”

  “Pity. I’m a big believer in families. My Emma is a saint; I don’t know how I’d get along without her. And my four kids are the most important parts of my life. Sure, I work hard and I’m not home a lot of the time, but everything I do, I do for them. They wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Ben wondered if they had been consulted for their opinion on this issue.

  “Has Hamel taken you through the paperwork yet?”

  “No. He said we’d do that later.”

  “Take my advice, Ben. Let your secretary do it.”

  “I wouldn’t want to take her away from important work for other lawyers.”

  “Other lawyers? What kind of fleabag outfit do you think this is? You’ve got a secretary of your own.”

  “My own? All my own?”

  “Of course. Some of the worker bees at the bottom of the hive share secretaries—but a lawyer of your caliber? No way.”

  “You know…” Ben said cautiously, “I don’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, but I can’t fathom why you’re so…interested in me.”

  Crichton spread his arms across his desk. “I can answer that question in three words, Ben. You’re a maverick.”

  “I am?’

  “You’re a maverick, and that’s just what this maverick corporation needs. I’ve been following your career for some time. I consider it part of my job—constantly scouting for talent that can serve the Apollo Consortium. I wanted a real honest-to-God litigator. Not just some flunky to make an occasional phone call while outside counsel does all the real work. Someone to take the bull by the horns! A maverick, goddamn it!”

  Ben was overwhelmed. “My preference would be to work in the litigation department. At least at first.”

  “Done. And I have the perfect case for you to start on immediately. Hamel may have mentioned it—a products liability problem turned into a wrongful death suit. Rob Fielder has been working it, but he won’t mind backing off in favor of someone with your experience.”

  “You know, sir, I’ve actually only been practicing for a few years—”

  “The hell with that, Ben. It’s not the number of years that matter. It’s what you’ve learned during those years. You’ve got the right stuff. I can feel it in my gut.” He picked up a file on his desk and tossed it into Ben’s lap. “Here’s the case. We’re barely into preliminary discovery. Documents are being produced tomorrow; plaintiffs’ depositions are being taken the day after. I want us to get out there and win it.” He laughed. “Hell, I’d like to see the look on those poor plaintiffs’ faces when Ben Kincaid comes in to depose them! They’ll wet their pan
ts!”

  Ben listened in stunned disbelief. Had he fallen down a rabbit hole, or what? “What’s the case about?”

  “Our transportation and automotive department designed a suspension system that our manufacturing department constructs and sells. They call it the XKL-1. Anyway, a local high school held a tractor pull after a football game—you know, sort of a hayride without the hay. Teenage boy fell off, got caught in the machinery, and was mangled to death. Horrible accident—but they want to blame it on us because we designed and supplied the suspension system used on the flatbed. It’s preposterous. How much do you know about cars?”

  “Not much.”

  “Well, here’s all you need to know. The axle is attached by U-bolts to the leaf spring, which in turn is attached to the frame of the flatbed. Subsequent examination revealed that the leaf spring—a half-moon-shaped contraption that runs the length of the flatbed—was broken. That caused the flatbed to dip to one side. The kid’s parents say our design was defective. We say they drove too fast on an uneven, bumpy dirt field.”

  “We deny any responsibility for what happened?”

  “Believe me, no one sympathizes with that poor kid’s parents more than me—I’ve got a boy about that age myself—but it’s just not Apollo’s fault. The parents’ lawyer went looking for a deep pocket to pick up the medical expenses, and Apollo was the only one he could find.”

  “If we’re really not culpable,” Ben said, “we should be able to get summary judgment granted after we’ve taken the parents’ depositions.”

  “That’s great! Brilliant!” Crichton rose to his feet. “My God, you’re winning cases for us already. I knew you were a champ.”

  Ben felt his face flushing bright red. He hadn’t heard such effusive praise since he memorized “A Visit from St. Nicholas” in the second grade. “Of course, the validity of the summary judgment motion will depend on what we learn during the depositions. If the parents have a valid claim, it would be wrong to try to cheat them out of it with legal maneuvering. I believe that as officers of the court we have an obligation to see justice done.”