JUSTICE REBORN (A Charlie Taylor Novel Book 1)

by Ivan Bering

  My other concern is: when individuals remember and review past events, they may be modulating memory as it’s being perceived. Why? Again, I don’t know. Maybe this is where our emotions override. Do we selectively block out actions that are too painful? Do we turn ourselves into heroes?

  The fact is there are multiple streams of some events in a person’s memory banks. And unless we understand and can deal with them, it is impossible to keep our scanning under the 45-minute barrier. In conclusion, I repeat: all the recordings from White Rock are on the way to our Combination Room.”

  “Does anyone have any questions?”

  “Alright let me summarize. There are three fundamental questions which must be answered and I’m afraid Dr. Kate…… you and Emma will have to provide the answers:

  First, the obvious: are these true duplicates or different versions of the same event?

  Next, if they are true duplicates, how will the process be changed so as not to confuse the Medical Techs or the Watchers and keep us under 45 minutes?

  Last, why was this situation not uncovered in the early work? The pioneering work was extensive with many top scientists taking part, and our current legislation is based on their results. What happened between this early work and our current situation? Was something overlooked in the original studies?

  I’m not concerned about discovering who is culpable. At the moment, all that is secondary to knowing what is going on with a process which was to be our foundation.

  Kate, I’m going to ask you to restrict the research team to yourself and Emma; Dr. Max is not to be contacted. I’m not trying to make this difficult, but there are other developments which can’t be revealed today; they make it impossible to utilized Dr. Max.

  I’m going to adjourn. And, let me repeat the obvious: you all know the nature of this discussion and the consequences of any leakage outside this room. Please be careful and I will see you all very shortly, hopefully with many answers.”

  The recording ended. The schemer sat rigid in his chair stunned with the news and realized the entire system was in jeopardy. Different versions of the same event: what a mess. The question was how could he take advantage of the situation and be part of any changes which may have to come?

  The stark image of Dr. Kate persisted. During her presentation, she appeared confused and frightened, trembling hands and her eyes flitting from one corner of the room to the other. Was the Judge’s confidence misplaced? Throw in the Dr. Max’s situation, another anomaly. Our best scientist barred from participating. What the hell was that all about?

  He vigorously shook his drink causing the ice cubes to rattle against the glass. The ricocheting ice cubes were the only sound in the room.

  .

  cHAPTER 19: Charlie’s Log: At the Abbey

  The session halted with the Historian’s conclusion unresolved: one of our own the killer.

  It was a helluva of a time to stop the brainstorming session, but everyone had other commitments, including me. I’m driving to the Abbey where Monk is helping with an upcoming charity concert; he says it’s critical to meet. The sun is burning and the sky cloudless.

  As I drive to the monastery, my mind wanders as much as the road. And yes, I am thinking about the Chinese supper and Emma Collins. What a bitch, she has a lot of gray in her life; isn’t that nice. She wouldn’t survive one shift out on the street. I’ve better things to do than debate with her.

  The Abbey is a good 90-minute drive on a winding road which climbs out of the valley to the top of our highest hills, almost mountains. The Abbey is a seventeenth-century edifice built by a sect of monks whose origin I can never remember. It’s a series of interconnected buildings of various sizes and shapes. Since the buildings and the grounds are diligently maintained, the result is a magnificent piece of architecture and a perfect setting for someone seeking peace or just a quiet environment to walk and reflect. The path from the parking lot is constructed of old bricks and weaves its way through shrubs and large trees which are getting the full attention of some of the junior members of the Abbey. No doubt our early spring is ready to depart and make way for another searing hot summer.

  It’s been a few days since I’ve seen the Monk. Today he wears the collar of a Roman Catholic priest, Father Ed; nevertheless, it’s always a relaxing time when we’re together. After many years, there is not much we don’t know about each other. Monk was a great friend of my wife Nancy and I think loved young Linda, my daughter, as much as I did. He arranged to have them buried in a plot outside the east wall of the Abbey, looking over the valley with the city on the distant horizon, a fabulous view.

  “Charlie, Sam tells me you’re still getting yourself into various layers of deep shit.”

  “Oh, you know Sam. He is always letting these little incidents get him upset.”

  Monk nods his agreement, looking very much like an understanding priest. I never discovered what made him take the vows, but his commitment was evident throughout his life.

  “I know you you’ve all sorts of dragons prepared to burn your ass, but I want to tell you a story and need your opinion.”

  I stare at Monk and wonder what the hell is this all about; the guy is always straightforward, and now he appears to be dancing and uncomfortable. “My friend, the coffee is hot. The view is excellent. Fire away.”

  Monk’s preparation is solid and the story flows. “Once upon a time in the far south a young athlete, who was being raised by his grandmother, became difficult to handle and started to hang with the wrong crowd. He maintained good grades, in fact, maybe things were too easy for him, both in the classroom and on the hardwood. Once all the teen hormones kicked in, he kept looking for more and more excitement.

  His frantic grandmother begged him to stay away from two high school drop outs who had earned enough money to acquire a car and raise hell most nights. One night, grandma’s begging failed. Our young teenager jumped into the car with the two jerks, booze, and pills the diet for the evening. They cruised around whistling at girls, yelling, drinking, and getting high. Later that night they picked up Gail who was known as a fun girl, an easy lay; she started drinking with the boys but had a way to go before she matched their condition.

  They drove to a secluded part of a municipal park, and they all got out to rest in the grass. The guys tried talking Gail into taking her clothes off or to a do strip tease; our young athlete was not a good drinker and passed out.

  When he woke, the two jerks were swinging thick tree branches at Gail, who was on the ground trying to defend herself. It seems they both had sex with her, and then for some reason they decided to tease her with their knives. She started screaming and the bigger guy, in a fit of anger, grabbed a fallen branch and began beating her. The other idiot decided it was fun and decided to help his friend.

  Our athlete, a recovering drunk, tried to stop the beating, but they just brushed him aside. It didn’t take long. The screaming stopped, and it was all over. All three finally silent, the only noise their heavy breathing and the odd car roaring past on other side of the park. After 15 minutes of accusations and curses, they decided to escape and leave the dead body in the park.

  They drove out of the park and back onto the main strip where all the action rolled on, fast and loud. Our athlete couldn’t stop crying and the other two were sick of him. They literally threw him out of the car, with a warning: shut your mouth.

  He was not far from home and started staggering to his house. He didn’t get far when headlights of a patrol car found him. There was only one officer in the car. This sympathetic man saw the teenager was harmless. He barked: go home. The other occupant of the police car stayed rooted to his seat.

  Just as everyone prepared to separate, a loud crashing sound filled the night, and the patrol car tore off with the siren blaring. It turned out our two heroes decided they needed more booze. When the owner refused, they threw a rock through the vendor’s plate glass and tore off down the road.

  The cruiser accelera
ted, on their tail, and the chase was brief. They two jerks were in no condition to drive, let alone proceed at high speeds. At about 110 mph they slammed into the concrete abutment; various auto and body parts flew around the highway. After their DNA matched the semen found in the girl, the cops wrapped up the case. Our athlete escaped, in one sense, but in reality never recovered.

  He graduated from high school. But his sensitive nature never allowed him to forget that one night. The dead girl became a set of recurring nightmares and daytime flashbacks. Booze and drugs didn’t help. One incident followed another, mostly penny ante stuff, and some minor jail sentences to provide him a warm winter residence, a chance to dry up between events.”

  Monk stops and starts drinking his brandy laced coffee. I’m trying to figure out where this is going because I sense he is waiting for me to respond. “Would this happen to have anything to do with your visit to Fort Green Prison the other day?”

  He doesn’t even bother to ask how I know about his visit. “You always were a smart bastard.”

  “I also have an excellent memory. Let me fill in the rest of the story, which I am sure you know. When in grade 12, I wanted to be a cop and had a cousin in a small southern community. Because the police force had a rather laid-back attitude, my cousin, Mark, was able to get permission for me to ride in his patrol car. The ride was restricted to some quiet periods when his unit wasn’t a first responder, more like a roving paddy wagon. I never left the car unless he signaled it was ok.

  And, I remember your athlete, never knew his name; he was a sorry looking mess staggering down the road. My cousin thought he was an accident victim. But once he talked to him, Mark understood what he was dealing with and told the kid to go straight home. I just stared through the window and watched as the boy tried to put one foot in front of the other.

  When the crap hit the fan, my cousin yelled: get that belt on. And we went flying down the road. I could see them ahead of us. The weaving car tottered from one side of the highway to the other. Within minutes, they smashed into the abutment. The mangled mess was too much for me; my stomach heaved and I splattered the side of the police car.”

  Monk grunts; he can roar but today it is more of a soft rumble, and I can see he’s very subdued and nervous, which is rather strange for him.

  “Charlie, I don’t know how to put this to you. It’s about a convict preparing for an S3 interrogation. He thinks if this incident surfaces during his memory scan, he could be in serious trouble. With Amendment 33-2 and all officials in a hurry to clean out death row, they could easily interpret this incident as his participation in the girl’s killing. The way they are processing convicts…….one quick decision and it would be over for him.”

  “I don’t know him or his record, but I agree it could happen, and I’m still waiting.”

  “From here on, I trust you to either accept or forget my proposition. Yes, I drove up to Fort Green Prison and spent time with Ronald Bowen.”

  “You mean Ron of the liquor store killing? He’s the kid I saw on the road 15 odd years ago?”

  “Yes, he’s the one. You’re the original lead at the liquor store robbery; you brought him in for questioning along with a few other characters. After you were reassigned to a task force Ron was arrested and found guilty. A large segment of the population believe your successor was too lazy and the DA in too much of a hurry. The guilty verdict shocked the public, even the press. The consensus: Ron had been railroaded and never did receive a fair trial.”

  “I know all that, and if he’s innocent, he’ll be released after the S3 interrogation. I really do feel sorry for him, but I can’t get involved in some plan to beat an S3 and that’s where I think this is heading. Right? ……. Best we leave it before it goes too far.”

  “I’m not asking you to help him beat the liquor store rap. The issue is this teenage party and the dead girl. If the wrong segment of this teenage drunk appears on a monitor, and if someone is trigger happy, he’ll be executed. Will you at least give this some thought and let me describe the plan?”

  I drain my coffee and stand up. “Monk, I’m going to walk in the gardens and visit the grave site, and I’ll forget our conversation; it’s a great spring day. I’ll see you on the way out.”

  I know he’s disappointed, but I have to be abrupt. Monk is too good at talking me into helping with one of his projects, and this is the last thing I need. I walk away and think about the dramatic change in Monk’s life. The training for priesthood is an eight-year affair after high school, four years of university and then four more at a seminary. But Monk was able to reduce the eight-year stipulation because he already had a degree, with biblical studies as his optional courses, whenever possible.

  Once he decided this was to be his life, it only took three years to be ordained. I am not sure how he reduce the time demands. They say maturity and years as an obvious believer were the main factors. I suspect the Church saw him as an excellent recruit, all-star pro football player, ready to work the streets as a priest; this is the stuff of movies. I’m sure the Church didn’t want any obstacles in his way.

  My goal is the grave site, but I do enjoy wandering around the Abbey, this religious labyrinth of buildings and greenery. Some monks from a monastery in Russia are here for the early summer benefits concert .They’re practicing, and their voices fill the halls. I walk outside and then under the shade of the some stone arches which border the east wall. These ancient walls and the melancholy chants of Russian monks really set the mood; it provides a medieval atmosphere, pensive, but relaxing.

  I’ve a few flowers and place them in the small vase I’d anchored to the burial plot headstone. The intense rays of the sun bounce off any reflective surface, but at this altitude the air still has some lingering winter crispness.

  I perch on the edge of the nearby bench. I never speak out loud to the two of them; the conversations are all in my head. I close my eyes. It’s time to relax with the voices of the singing monks as an embracing powerful spiritual force, like a hypnotic spell. The plaintive music funnels through the halls and seems to target the grave site. A melancholic mood. Relax, ease off.

  Before long, images are coming at me like an old fashion slide show, one grainy frame at a time. There are only a few of them, but they continue to repeat, play like a carousel, one after the other, taking turns filling my consciousness.

  The first image is the accident scene: bodies are sprawled at the side of the road and standing by the wrecked cars, the drunken driver with blood pouring down his face. Then images at the morgue surface: each body on a metal gurney, draped with a sheet. Last I see them leave the house that morning: they are waving and smiling, Linda giggling with excitement because of a day of shopping with mom.

  My eyes stay shut; this is an internal show. One frame after the other jerks its way to the front of my consciousness; it doesn’t stop. Finally, all the images morph into dancing lights, like a wild set of northern lights, violent exploding lights. They flare and die down. There is one last explosive flash and then nothing but darkness. The images are all gone. God, it’s true: they are gone; it’s over. I feel the emptiness; they’re gone and I know it; God, it’s over and I accept it. I’m surrounded by emptiness.

  The Russian monks are becoming louder, more emotional, and as they reach their climax, the singing overwhelms the entire yard. I don’t understand a word; the acoustics are such that the voices arrive from every direction; the damn music plunges straight to your soul, the anguish, grief, and despair all surface. I feel the tears pouring down my cheeks. I can’t stop them and the next thing I know: I’m sobbing, hard gut wrenching stuff which has me off the bench and on my knees. I really don’t know, and never asked, if I was screaming and shouting or for how long this lasted.

  It ends with Monk: he picks me off the ground, wipes my face and leads back to his office.

  “Charlie that should have happened two years ago. You had to let go sometime.” He doesn’t say anymore and hands me some b
randy. I’m completed wasted. I drain the brandy and stare at him, my best friend. I know it’s an exaggeration to say I went through a catharsis but certainly I’m not the same guy who walked into the Abbey a couple of hours ago.

  “OK, let me hear it.”

  The Monk smiles, not smug, just a grateful look on his face, and then he tells me how we are to save Ronald Bowen. Compassion rules my friend’s life.

  Jesus Christ, will I ever learn?

  CHAPTER 20: Forensic Division Problem

  The arrival of the weekend was of no consequence to the two women.

  At one end of the room, Dr. Kate slumped at the laboratory counter, struggling to maintain her focus, the workload, pressure, and late hours taking its toll. Her mind skipped from one vignette to the next; her mental drifting stopped at her one illicit love affair. It happened years ago when they both attended a Friday night campus beer-fest. Before the fest ended they left the building together, both well beyond their usual alcohol intake. When they found themselves alone in a friend’s apartment, primal lust destroyed any inhibitions. From there on it was a rocket launch, with each secret meeting escalating in passion and intensity. They became reckless, and a mutual friend warned them rumors had started.

  Once warned, each recognized the decision point. Fiercely ambitious, logical, and conservative by nature, knowing the impact a divorce would have on their careers, they walked away from the relationship. There was no looking back, no unwanted calls, no gut wrenching reconciliation attempts, all public contacts conducted with professional decorum.

  In her corner of the Combination Room, Emma continued to return to one question: why hadn’t the duplicates surfaced during the original work? Hours and hours of basic research by some of the top minds in the world developed the techniques and confirmed the safety of the interrogation.

  She studied all the research documentation, the published work, and even news articles; at the time, the original researchers became media stars and the press coverage had been extensive. An explosion of information existed, thousands of words, except for three: duplicate memory streams–– absent from every source.