Silent Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

  Halfway down the corridor, he stopped short when a silhouette appeared in the doorway. Something wasn’t right. A darkened figure stood straight, legs spread, arms out at the sides.

  His dimming eyes could make out something gripped in one fist—something like the shape of a knife, but smaller, and pointed, maybe a screwdriver.

  Raymond’s voice came out uneasily as he stood still, cautiously observing the intruder. “Who’re you? What do you want?”

  There was no answer. Instead the figure took a slow step, shoulders hunched forward.

  Raymond took a careful step backward, dragging the broom with him. Then another step as the figure came closer. He heard feet crunching on broken glass. The intruder stopped a moment, then moved forward again. Slowly.

  Raymond took one more step back, dropping the broom in his haste to get away. He was frightened now, determined not to stay there any longer.

  He spun around and stumbled in the darkness, falling heavily against the wall. He righted himself and looked over his shoulder. The intruder was still coming. Faster now.

  Raymond’s breath labored with the effort, his heart pounding against his ribs, his eyes straining as he staggered toward the door leading into the main area of the school.

  He knew of a place he might be able to hide, but first, he would have to get out of this corridor. He would have no chance of escape otherwise, with no chance of outrunning his stalker, and at his age, even less chance of overpowering anyone.

  Footsteps quickened behind him, the intruder’s breath almost in his ear.

  Raymond panted as he hurried along, but his pace had slowed, and the door seemed so far away.

  He would never make it.

  Running was futile and he took the only choice he had. He turned around and faced his would-be attacker.

  The unwelcome visitor stopped and Raymond’s eyes widened in the darkness. He instinctively raised his hands for protection as the prowler lifted his arm. Raymond’s terrified eyes saw the weapon clearly now. It was a screwdriver. Likely the one he would’ve used to fix the outer door.

  His own screwdriver was about to be used as a weapon against him by a sadistic fiend.

  Raymond’s tortured mind asked why. Why, why?

  The screwdriver descended, forcing its way into his chest. He gasped as the weapon was ripped free. His arms fell and he wavered, then he caught his balance, his eyes darkening.

  He felt the deadly tool strike again. Felt it enter his body. Felt himself slip to the floor. He lay still, aware of breathing—not his own—as the killer crouched beside him. Then a hand on his chin, another on his nose, his jaw forced down. Something soft lay on his tongue.

  Now fading footsteps, a door opened and closed, and he thought of Eunice, waiting for him at home. Dear, dear Eunice. The love of his life.

  His pierced heart broke for her. She needed him, but he would never be there for her again.

  Chapter 18

  DAY 3 - Wednesday, 8:25 a.m.

  ANNIE SAT HER coffee cup down, stood from the kitchen table, and answered a knock on the back door. It was Kyle, come to make his morning rendezvous with Matty before they headed off to school.

  Annie pushed the door open and looked down at the grinning face. “Hi, Kyle. Matty’s still upstairs.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Lincoln,” Kyle said, ducking under her arm and running toward the hallway.

  Annie sat back down and picked up her cup. The boys would soon be off to school, Jake was in the shower, cooling off from his morning workout, and she had things to do.

  The case had been on her mind throughout the night, and she had plans to visit Mabel Shorn later in the day. She knew the Thorburns’ neighbor didn’t work and Annie hoped to catch her at home. Ed Shorn worked evenings, but her main concern was an interview with Virginia Thorburn’s friend, Mabel.

  She finished her drink, rinsed out her cup, removed Matty’s lunch bag from the fridge, and leaned back against the counter. The boys laughed and giggled noisily as they clomped down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Matty said, grabbing the bag. He put it into his backpack, slung the pack over his shoulder, and kissed his mother as she leaned over, waiting.

  “Bye, Mrs. Lincoln,” Kyle said, following Matty from the room. She heard the murmur of Jake’s voice in the front hallway, talking to the boys. Then the door slammed and Jake came into the kitchen, heading for the coffeepot.

  Annie told him her plans as he fixed himself a drink and sat at the table. “I realize we’re treading over ground Hank already covered,” she said. “But we have no other leads. Besides, I like to hear things firsthand.”

  “I thought I might see if I can squeeze a few minutes from Adam Thorburn’s shrink,” Jake said. “He might know something he doesn’t know he knows.” He paused. “Besides, we have to earn our money.”

  Annie straightened her back. “I’ll be in the office if you need me. I have a few things to do.” She went to the office, sat down and pulled in her chair, booting up her iMac. She checked for phone messages while she waited. There were none.

  The splash screen appeared on her monitor—a shot of Jake and Matty wrestling on the living room floor. She checked the email account for Lincoln Investigations, filtered through the spam and was left with one email. It had a curious subject line that caught her attention, “Help for your investigation.”

  She opened the email and leaned in. “Lincoln Investigations,” it began. “If you want to know more about Adam Thorburn, come to Millfield Elementary School as soon as possible on Wednesday morning. Meet me inside the service door at the east side of the building. I’ll be waiting.”

  There was no signature, but it was sent from Millfield Elementary School’s main email address. Perhaps it was from one of the staff, or maybe even from a student. She checked the headers. Everything seemed normal as far as she could tell. She noted the email had been sent at 9:54 the previous evening. It wasn’t likely from a student at that time of the evening.

  It was a peculiar message and she wasn’t sure how to handle it. Why had the sender contacted them via email rather than call? Sure, it was more anonymous, but once they met, all anonymity would be gone.

  She looked at her watch. If they decided to go, they should go immediately.

  She printed the email, carried it to the kitchen, sat down, and slid it in front of Jake. “What do you make of that?” she asked.

  Jake set his coffee down, picked up the paper, and leaned back. He read the message, a frown growing on his face. When he was finished he looked up. “Could be something,” he said, laying the email on the table and looking at Annie. “We should check it out.”

  “Millfield Elementary School is close to the Thorburns’,” Annie said. “It’s the school Adam would have attended before high school.”

  Jake gulped the last of his coffee, stood, and put the cup in the sink. “Grab your bag of tricks,” he said. “We might as well go right away.”

  Annie got her handbag, folded the email in two, and tucked it inside. She followed Jake out the front door and they got in the Firebird. Jake started the car and pulled onto the street, then turned to Annie, nodding toward her bag. “You have your recorder in there?”

  “Always.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he turned the vehicle onto Mill Street and drove past the Thorburn house.

  “It looks like the police have stopped watching for Adam to return,” Annie said. “Their car’s gone.”

  “I guess they can’t sit there forever,” Jake said. “Besides, it’s doubtful Adam would come home. At least, not with a strange car sitting out front.”

  “They have a citywide lookout for him, anyway,” Annie said, then pointed through the windshield. “The school’s on the next street. Turn there.”

  Jake took a left turn, drove half a block, and turned into the school property. He drove through the parking lot toward the east side of the building and pulled into a slot beside a Volkswagen Beetle parked in f
ront of the service entrance.

  They got out, went around the Beetle, and approached the door. Jake pulled it open and peered into the dark corridor. Annie stepped around him and fumbled on the wall for a light switch. She found it and flicked it on, and the hallway flooded with light.

  Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. Someone lay on the floor, halfway down the corridor, and he wasn’t moving.

  She moved forward cautiously a few steps, her breath quickening. Something crunched under her feet. There was glass on the floor—glass from a fluorescent bulb—and a ladder stood to one side. She looked up. It appeared someone had been changing a light bulb, and it had slipped and shattered on the floor.

  Jake followed Annie as she skirted around the broken glass, stepped over a push broom lying on the floor, and stopped a few feet away from the unmoving body.

  It was a man, an older man, and he lay on his back. There was a dark red patch of blood on his shirt and more on the floor. There was no doubt about it, the man was dead.

  The eight-inch screwdriver protruding from his chest was the dead giveaway.

  She turned back to Jake. He stood with his arms crossed, a deep frown on his face, staring down at the body.

  “What did this guy do to deserve this?” he asked, giving a deep sigh.

  “Nobody deserves this,” Annie said.

  “We’d better not go any closer. We don’t want to disturb the evidence.”

  Annie turned her eyes back to the body. Was this the man who’d sent her an email claiming knowledge of Adam Thorburn? Or was the email sent by Adam, boasting to them about his latest victim?

  She took a short step forward, crouched down, and peered. Something stuck out of the victim’s mouth. It seemed to be a stem of a flower. Was it a rose? Was Adam taunting the police? Was he taunting them?

  “I think there’s a rose in his mouth,” she said to Jake.

  Jake’s face was grim as he leaned forward and squinted. “It sure looks like it.” He clenched his lips, his nostrils flared, and he shook his head slowly.

  Annie looked at her watch. It was already past nine o’clock. School had begun, and yet no one had discovered the body. Perhaps none of the staff came to this area. But who was the man?

  The email had been sent the previous evening, and by the look of the victim’s clothes, this could be the janitor. He would’ve been here to do the cleaning, and the Beetle outside the door might be his car.

  “I’ll call the police,” Jake said, pulling out his cell phone and moving toward the exit.

  Annie followed him outside as Jake dialed 9-1-1.

  Chapter 19

  Wednesday, 9:18 a.m.

  HANK PULLED into the parking lot at Millfield Elementary School, drove to the east side of the building, and stopped behind a police cruiser. The forensic van was parked nearby, investigators busy documenting the scene. An area outside the service entrance was taped off by the first responders, allowing CSI to do their work undisturbed.

  Jake’s Firebird was parked inside the secured area next to a Volkswagen Beetle. The Lincolns stood next to the vehicle, watching the proceedings. Uniformed officers held back the few onlookers who had discovered the situation and approached curiously.

  Detective King pulled up in his vehicle, parked beside Hank, and strolled over. Hank got out of his car and greeted King with a nod, and together they walked past a waiting ambulance, ducking under the tape. Jake glanced over as they approached the Firebird.

  “How on earth did you discover this one?” Hank asked, looking back and forth between Jake and Annie, a perplexed look on his face.

  Annie rummaged in her bag and handed a folded paper to Hank. “I got this in my email box this morning,” she said.

  Hank read the message, gave it to King, then turned to Annie. “What did you guys make of the email?”

  “I’m not sure if the victim sent it or the killer,” Annie said. “If it was the victim, the killer must’ve known about the rendezvous. But if it was the killer, I assume he was taunting us.”

  King folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Hank said, and turned to King. “We’d better take a look inside.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out two pairs of booties, and handed a pair to King. The detectives went to the entrance, stepped inside, and put the shoe coverings on.

  Hank glanced down the long, narrow hallway, now a hub of activity. A CSI photographer was crouched beside the body, halfway down the corridor, his camera flashing. Beyond him, a doorway at the end of the hall was open.

  Doorknobs and walls had been brushed for fingerprints, the floor tested for footprints.

  Hank moved toward the body, carefully avoiding glass shards littering an area a few feet inside the entrance. He stepped past an aluminum ladder that was pushed against the wall and approached lead investigator Rod Jameson.

  “Morning, Rod,” Hank said. “Do we know who the victim is yet?”

  “Hey, Hank,” Rod said, glancing at his clipboard. “The vic’s name is Raymond Ronson, according to his driver’s license. Sixty-eight years old.” He cocked a thumb toward the exit door. “That’s his Beetle outside. Registered in his name. According to one of the staff, he’s the janitor here.”

  “Anything else you can tell us?” King asked.

  “Not yet. A few prints. We’re still trying to figure out exactly what went on here.”

  “Anything inside the main school area?”

  “Not sure yet,” Rod said. “But we’ve secured the entire building. Evacuated all the staff and students.”

  “Thanks, Rod,” Hank said. He moved further down the hall, stopped in front of a broom laying haphazardly in the middle of the corridor, and pointed it out to King. “Looks like he was about to sweep up the glass.”

  Hank stepped over the broom and approached the body. He crouched down and gazed at the victim a moment. His blood boiled and he sighed deeply, remembering the victim had a name. It was Raymond Ronson, and he didn’t deserve this.

  He took a deep breath, pushed his feelings aside, and leaned in, peering closely at the screwdriver. It protruded from the dead man’s chest, the shirt surrounding the area soaked with crimson.

  King crouched beside Hank and pointed at the bloody shirt. “Looks like he was stabbed twice. The shirt is ripped here as well,” he said, indicating a blood-soaked area near the victim’s shoulder.

  “If my anatomy is correct, the second blow is right through the heart,” Hank said. “That’s the one that killed him.” He leaned in, squinted, then looked at King. “There’s something in his mouth. I’d say it’s a rosebud.”

  King looked closer. “That connects it to Adam Thorburn, no doubt.”

  “Morning, Hank, King.”

  Hank glanced toward the sound of the voice. It was Nancy Pietek. The medical examiner stepped gingerly over the broom and approached the body.

  “Morning, Nancy,” Hank said, moving back to give the ME some room to crouch down and do a preliminary inspection.

  Nancy glanced at the victim as she pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. She rolled the body slightly, lifted the victim’s shirt and peered at his back. She tested the joints, felt the skin, then looked at Hank and announced, “Time of death approximately twelve hours ago.”

  Hank glanced at his watch. “About nine o’clock last night.”

  “How accurate is that?” King asked.

  Nancy looked at King. “Pretty close. Perhaps a half hour either way.”

  King turned to Hank. “The timestamp on the email was nine fifty-four, so assuming Nancy is accurate on the time of death, it looks like the message was sent after the victim died.”

  “Which means the killer sent the email,” Hank said.

  Nancy leaned over the body. She worked the victim’s mouth open, reached in with two fingers, and removed a rosebud. She held it up for the detectives to see. “It appears to be the same as the last one.”

  Hank squinted at the rose. �
�Looks the same to me.”

  Nancy tucked it into an evidence bag. “I’ll get it checked out to be sure.”

  Hank stood and glanced down the hallway toward the exit. There was a door on one wall of the corridor. He moved down the hall, stepped over the glass, and opened the door. His eyes roved around a small supply room. Tools hung neatly on the walls, more on a workbench. A box of fluorescent bulbs leaned in a corner, a coil of electrical wire on the floor, a power saw resting on a sawhorse.

  His attention was caught by an empty spot on the wall where a screwdriver should be hanging along with the rest of the set. It had to be the murder weapon.

  He glanced around the room again, then moved back into the corridor and shut the door. King beckoned toward him from the end of the hallway.

  Hank went toward King and followed him past the body. King pointed at the floor. Hank crouched down and frowned at the spots of red, spaced at even intervals, leading from the body, through the door, and into the main area of the school. Hank followed the patches. They faded away after a few feet.

  Hank stood and looked at King. “The killer tracked through the blood, then went down this hallway.”

  “Probably to send the email,” King said.

  Jameson approached them. “We got some photos of that. It looks like we have clear footprints near the body, less clear as we move this way. Probably about a size eleven shoe.”

  “Size eleven,” Hank said, his brow wrinkled. “If I recall correctly, the report on the search of the Thorburn house noted Adam Thorburn’s shoes are a size eleven.”

  King dug the email from his pocket and handed it to Jameson. “See if you can find out what computer this was sent from.” He pointed at the return email address. “Likely from the main office.”

  Jameson took the email and browsed it. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “We’ll find the computer and check for prints.”

  Hank looked at King. “Are we done here? Can you think of anything else?”

  King shrugged. “I think we have it covered.”