They crouched on opposite sides of the rock and heaved. It budged but didn’t come loose. She took the trowel, dug deeper below the base of the rock, and signaled for him to try again. This time, it gave way, rolling onto the lawn. They collapsed, out of breath, and rested for a minute, sharing their triumph. She stood and invited him into the house for a beer. He objected that he was too young to drink. She dismissed his protests. He had done a man’s work; he deserved a man’s reward. Conscious of his eyes feasting on her body, she smiled. He’d done a man’s work. He’d receive a man’s reward.
Three down.
Sherry Galina’s mission was complete. She had reached her goal and had done so with gusto. This morning, her husband, Tony, had lingered, the mailman had responded with passion, the beggar had been tender, and the boy was now inventing moves of his own. She stretched out on her bed, naked, waiting for Tony to return. Bookends to a perfect day. She caressed her body and allowed herself to feel contempt for the loathsome fools who would soon pay for the fraud they had visited on her cause. The mail slug, the derelict, the punk. All would suffer the wrath they deserved. And she had found out who they were. She had revealed them. Pride was forbidden, an indulgence of the unfit. But she had earned it. This was her first assignment. She had proven herself worthy of the trust she had been given.
Life, she reflected, doesn’t get any better than this.
She was right.
The 9-1-1 call came in at about 6:30. The police found her, prone on her bed, and even in death, the source of fantasies. She had been smothered.
It took the police investigation less than two days to identify Jake Handley as a person of interest. It took just half an hour of interrogation before he sneered out a confession. It took fifteen minutes for the prosecution to present arguments that Handley should be sentenced as an adult. And it took five minutes for the judge to agree and to remand Jake Handley to adult court where he received a sentence of life in prison without parole for fifteen years.
No sooner had the Sherry Galina case file been opened than it was closed.
.
3
Travathan dropped the file on Kagan’s desk and said, “Max, you’re slipping. You’re thinking of taking this on?”
“Okay. What’s the biggest problem with it?”
“The biggest problem is that this kid confessed. Seems to me there’s not much doubt as to his guilt.”
“Yeah, but the evidence against him is vapor. It looks as if he confessed, and the cops said that’s a wrap. Let’s go for a beer. There was nothing I’d call an investigation.”
Travathan sighed. “Max, Jake Handley identified the murder weapon, the cause of death, and the disposition of the body. The police didn’t reveal any of these details. Only the killer could have known them. This confession was credible. Frankly, whenever I got a confession like this, I closed the case and went for a beer.”
“Look, I know you laugh at my intuition, but there’s something here that bothers me. I can’t just let it go.”
Travathan nodded, not because he agreed with Kagan, but because he knew that whenever his friend adopted a case, there was no deterring him. “Okay, so bring together a few of your volunteers to do some digging. If you find something, go for it. If not, toss it in your reject basket.”
“Would you sit in?”
“No. I have to get pictures of my cheating spouse, and I’m not going to be in town long enough for you to buy the burgers to pay me.” He cursed himself for the offer he was about to make. “But if you like, I can meet with”—he consulted the file—“Doris MacIlhenny. It might be interesting to hear if the lead detective on the case has some concerns about this guy’s confession.”
Doris MacIlhenny studied Gord Travathan across a table in a coffee shop. She was about his age and like him, wore the fitness of an active life. She said, “You told me you wanted some background on the Galina case. What are you looking for?”
“Detective, do you personally believe Jake Handley killed Sherry Galina?”
MacIlhenny glanced around the coffee shop. “Don’t you?”
“We’re investigating. We haven’t reached a conclusion. But I’d like to find out if the lead detective in the case believes justice was carried out or whether you have some concerns.”
“Look, I’m a cop. I arrest them. Somebody else jumps through the hoops of convicting them. Who am I to second-guess a jury? Or, for that matter, a confession.”
“Yeah, but when I was a cop there were times I wasn’t comfortable when someone I arrested was convicted. There are always loose ends. Sometimes there are too many.”
MacIlhenny sighed. “Loose ends. Yeah, there were a few. For one, we could never find a motive, at least not one that made sense. And I had to question the ability of the Handley kid to overpower Galina. The kid was big for his age, but the coroner commented on Galina’s fitness and muscle tone. I doubt Handley was strong enough to smother her without leaving signs of a struggle.”
“Those are valid concerns.”
“That’s not all. We ran a standard background check on the victim and drew a blank. Based on the records we dug up, she might just as well have popped into existence. And that was less than a year before she was murdered.”
“There were no records of her past?”
“That’s what I said. We couldn’t find school records, medical records, nothing about her parents, even when and where she was born.”
“Did you make your concerns known?”
“Sure I did, but when the kid confessed and we got hit by two more homicides the next day, that case dropped to the bottom of my priority list.”
“What did the prosecutor say about your concerns?”
“Once he had his confession, I don’t think he even read them. I guess they’re in a file somewhere.”
“Detective, if you were going to re-open this case, where would you start?”
MacIlhenny thought for a minute. “That’s a tough call. Handley’s parents are dead, killed in a car accident. The kid isn’t cooperative. I’d probably try to dig deeper into Galina’s past. See what I could dig up.”
“What about the victim’s husband?”
“Yeah, I’d talk to him. Something about him bothered me, but I couldn’t figure it out.”
“Was he ever a suspect?”
“Of course. The spouse of a murder victim is always on the top of the list, but he had an alibi. He was in a meeting with a guy from a hotel chain. Something to do with the software he was selling. He was in the meeting until after six. Got home around half past six and found his wife dead. The medical examiner determined she had been killed between four and six that afternoon.”
“And you confirmed the husband’s meeting with this guy from the hotel chain?”
“No. I took everything on faith. I’m a lazy cop.”
“Sorry. No offense intended. Do you have the name of the person who gave him his alibi?”
“I can email it to you.”
Travathan handed over a business card. “Thanks. If you think of anything else, please call me.”
“No problem.” She stood up. Travathan was frowning. “Something bothering you?”
“Detective, you said there were two more homicides the next day. Isn’t that unusual?”
“We average a little more than one a month. You could call three in two days unusual.”
“What were the other two?”
“One was a hit-and-run. Based on witness statements, it seemed to have been targeted, but the car had been stolen, and we never found the driver. The other was a drug overdose. Happened right there, across the parking lot. We classified it as a homicide because the victim had none of the pathologies of an addict. Someone shot him up.”
“Must have kept you busy. Who were the victims?”
“The hit-and-run was a letter carrier. The overdose was a guy who begged for change at the supermarket.”
4
Ten years earlier, Gord Travathan’s
career as a police officer had been given a boost at about the same time it slammed into a wall. He had just been promoted to detective, a move he hadn’t expected so soon. Some cops waited years for such a chance. For him to receive it this early was a vote of confidence he swore he would uphold. The pay that came with it also allowed him to upgrade his apartment, which is where he sat in the darkness, agonizing over his commitment to police work, leading him to question, for the first time since he had been a recruit, if this job was right for him.
He recalled why he had become a cop. He was sixteen years old, long past childhood and games of cops and robbers played out with toy pistols and having to be dead only until you could count to fifty. Sometimes he thought it might be a fun job, being a cop. Cops protected people, stood up for them, and, part of the job that excited his boyhood fantasies, got to carry guns. But to his parents, policing wasn’t a job suitable for their son.
All that changed with Connie, his sister. She was fifteen and preoccupied with dating, makeup, and giggles with her friends speculating about the romance she was sure would be part of her first time.
One evening, she had returned home late and rushed to her room, ignoring her parents when they asked her where she had been. Gord, sensing something was wrong, passed by her closed door and listened. He heard sobbing. He knocked once and pushed the door open before she could yell at him to go away.
“Go away,” she cried.
He stared at her. Her blouse was ripped. A large welt filled the side of her face.
“What happened to you? Can’t handle high heels? You really are a klutz.”
“It’s none of your damn business. Get out of my room.” Her voice was more pleading than defiant.
He paused. Whatever this was, it was more than clumsiness. “Connie, what happened?”
“Get out of my room.” Her voice was trembling, as if she couldn’t muster the strength to yell. He closed the door behind him and strode across the room. “What the hell happened?”
“Please. Just leave me alone.”
“No. I won’t. Not until you tell me what happened to you.”
“I’ll call Mom and Dad.”
Something in her voice told him the last people she wanted to talk to were her parents. He stepped back and opened the door. “Go ahead. They’ll just ask the same question.”
Tears in her eyes, she said, “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Because I’m a pest, remember?” Pest was her nickname for him. He saw the shadow of a smile flicker across her face and vanish. He closed the door.
She took a deep breath. “Promise you won’t tell anyone else.”
“Not even Mom and Dad?”
“No,” she cried. “Especially them.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“You won’t tell anyone?”
“Cross my heart and spit to die.” He mimicked spitting on the floor. Her slump eased.
She sobbed. “I was raped.”
Raped? Connie? “What? Who did this?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She winced.
“Look, you’ve been hurt. You need to see a doctor.”
She sobbed. “I just need you to leave me alone. Please.”
Forcing calm into his voice, he said, “Connie, you need help. Let me help you.”
She shook her head. “You want to help? Go away. I just need time. I’ll be okay.”
“You’re not okay. You need to see a doctor, and you need to report this to the police.”
She sobbed. “Please, just go away.”
How would a cop handle this? No cop would ignore it. Neither could he. Push her. That was his only choice. “Connie, why are you protecting this bastard? He hurt you. You should be outraged. He doesn’t deserve your support.”
“Support? Do you think I’m supporting this . . . this monster?”
“By keeping it to yourself, yeah, you are. And do you think you’re the last one he’s going to attack? If you don’t tell who did it, you’re putting other girls at risk. Sarah. Louise. Janice. All your friends.”
“Stop it. I just want to forget about it. To forget about him.”
“And you think keeping quiet will do that? If you don’t say anything, this jerk may even think you enjoyed it and come back for more.”
“I . . . I didn’t think of that.”
“And what about Mom and Dad. They love you. Don’t you think they’d be hurt if you didn’t tell them what happened? Connie, tell me. Who did it?”
“Please. Just go away.”
He’d seen the cop shows. He was old enough to know they weren’t reality. But he also suspected there was some truth in the tactics they portrayed. People break. Keep pushing. He forced his voice deeper and said, “Connie. Who did this?”
She stared at a spot on the floor. “Bobby Charlton.”
“Charlton?” He knew Charlton. Everyone did. Eighteen, a basketball star, his own Mustang convertible, an entourage of buddies and groupies and acclaim. “Bobby Charlton did this?”
She was crying. “And Pete McWilliam and Joe Christianson and Brent Seckord. They took turns. I tried to fight them off, but there wasn’t anything I could do. They just kept—”
Gord slammed his fist into a wall. “I’m gonna kill them.”
She shook her head, sobbing. “No. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone with them. I thought we were going to a party, and everyone would be jealous when I came in with Bobby Charlton. It was my fault. I was stupid. I should have known better.”
“You are stupid if you think this was your fault. It was their fault. They did this to you and so help me God, I’ll make them pay.”
She looked at him with an expression he had never seen before. Fear mixed with awe. A protector. An avenger. “Please, just sit down. Just be here for me.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand, but his mind was on retribution. He would comfort her first, help her make up some story for their parents, but this was just the beginning.
Over the next few days, he learned what rage meant. His desire for vengeance became an obsession. His father had a gun, a rifle he had taught Gord how to use despite his mother’s objections. Gord knew where the gun was stored, where the ammunition was kept. It would be easy to take it, track these thugs, and end this. One night, when his parents were out, he retrieved the key to the gun locker from his father’s sock drawer and fondled the gun. This would be easy. Find Charlton and his buddies and use this weapon for something other than target practice.
Connie came into the room, sat down beside him, and said, “Gord, this isn’t you. You’ll never get away with it. You don’t know how to outwit the police. And even if you did, this isn’t you. I won’t let you ruin your life for me.”
“This isn’t up to you. They’re going to pay.”
She pointed at the rifle. “That won’t do it.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Killing these guys won’t make them pay. They’ll be dead. They won’t be able to suffer. If you want to make them pay, figure out some way to make them suffer. But don’t just shoot them. That’s not you.” She eased the rifle from his hands and returned it to the gun locker.
She was right. He had let his rage overpower his reason. These thugs had to suffer. But how? He was still just a kid, two years younger and twenty pounds lighter than any of the monsters who had violated his sister. Getting physical wouldn’t work. He would have to find another way. Connie seemed to be taking this better than he was. He wondered if she had told her friends.
Her friends. Connie was probably not their first victim and wouldn’t be their last. If he could catch them assaulting someone else, maybe get some pictures, he could let the legal system take his revenge for him. All he had to do was catch them with another victim.
When he was younger, one of his passions had been electronics. He rigged up a transmitter and attached it to the underside of Bobby Charlton’s Mustang, then he pestered his mother to borrow her car on
Friday evenings. About two weeks later, he watched Charlton and his buddies pile into the Mustang and entice a girl from Connie’s class, Ellen Samson, to come with them. Samson wasn’t the object of teen fantasies. If she had a date for the high school prom, it would only be with someone who couldn’t get a date with anyone else. So the promise of walking into a party on the arm of the dashing Bobby Charlton lit up her face as she climbed into his car. Gord Travathan followed the signal of the transmitter along a back road until it pulled into a clearing. He parked the car and moved forward in the dusk, carrying a camera he had loaded with high-speed film.
They had pulled Ellen Samson from the car, ripped her clothes off, and slapped a strip of tape over her mouth. Her struggles were futile against Charlton’s buddies who were laughing and forcing her down while he climbed on top of her. Travathan snapped a round of pictures, intending to slip away when he had taken enough, but the tape broke loose from Samson’s mouth. Her scream sliced through his resolve that he was an observer, his purpose only to gather evidence. He turned back, stung by the realization that if he didn’t help her, he was just an opportunist, no better than her attackers. He couldn’t fight them, but neither could he just walk away. He slid down into the bushes beside the road, attached a flash unit to his camera, and snapped a picture.
The flash froze the four men. They shouted and charged toward the bush. Travathan rolled down an embankment and scurried deeper into the trees. The men, lacking flashlights and starting to panic, realized they’d never find anything in that blackness. One of them said, “Turn the car around. Shine the lights into the bush.” Charlton yelled, “Are you nuts. We’ll never find anything. Let’s get the hell out of here.” The men piled into the car and drove off with a squeal of tires.
Travathan emerged from the bush. Ellen Samson let him lead her back to the car and rode home with him. The only thing she said was, “Please don’t tell anyone about this.” The next day, he posted large pictures of the attack onto billboards around the school. He had obscured Samson’s face, but across the pictures, he had written “rapists” in red ink.
A Vicious Balance: A Mystery Thriller Page 2