Terminal Justice: Mystery and Suspense Crime Thriller

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Terminal Justice: Mystery and Suspense Crime Thriller Page 27

by Lyle Howard


  “Believe it,” Gabe nodded. “Thankfully, we’re both living proof that it exists.”

  “But why would they target me?”

  “Because you were acquitted,” Chase interrupted from across the room.

  Gabe waggled his finger in the air. “You know? That’s what I thought at first, Bennett, but the more I think about it…”

  Waxman stiffened up defiantly. “Well, I can tell you one thing … if this Bock joker had bothered to do his research, he would have discovered that I never killed my wife.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Gabe said, tapping his finger on the table. “I got the impression that August Bock was a very meticulous person. I mean, every detail of his plan to kill you had been precisely worked out. No,” he said, a concerned look on his face, “I’ve got a feeling that there’s something else going on here, and for some reason, everything keeps coming back to your wife.”

  “My wife?” Waxman said, suspiciously.

  Gabe’s face was twisted in thought as he stood up from the table. “Just hear me out…”

  Chase stepped out of Gabe’s way as he began to weave around the small kitchen.

  “Your wife was a seasoned politician too, right?”

  Waxman took another sip of his soda. “She was a state senator … but she wasn’t even running for another term,” Waxman added.

  Gabe toyed with his inflamed lips as he paced. “This is the part that bothers me: if Bock wanted you dead, why was your wife killed first? That’s not the way he works. He’s not in the business of framing people.”

  “I don’t understand the point you’re trying to make.”

  Gabe tugged on his lips again. “Follow me on this … if Bock wanted you dead, he could have just sent me, or someone like me, to kill you right from the beginning. That’s the way he works. Why did your wife have to die?”

  No matter how much Nathan Waxman tried to erase the vision of finding his wife’s body nearly torn in half from a shotgun blast, he still shivered at the thought of it. “So you’re saying you believe someone else killed my wife?”

  Gabe nodded his head. “That’s what I’m beginning to think. I think someone needed both of you out of the way.”

  Chase stepped forward. “I think I see where you’re going with this, Gabe. Someone wanted the senator dead, and the mayor out of the way too, so they framed him for her murder. And when the jury didn’t come through for them…”

  Gabe looked across the room at Waxman. “August Bock was brought in.”

  “This is all too incomprehensible for me,” Waxman moaned. “Why would anyone want to kill my Anna?”

  “It’s a sad fact of life, but politicians are gunned down all the time,” Gabe frowned.

  Waxman lowered his head and began to rack his brain. “This makes absolutely no sense. Anna didn’t have an enemy in the world. If anything, people thought more of her than they did me. She was the rock. I was her husband. She could have held any office she aspired to, but she had decided to chuck it all and become a full-time mother to our daughter at the end of this term.” There was a whimper in his voice. “Why?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out,” Gabe said confidently. “But I need you to promise me that you’ll stay put here until I can dig up some answers.”

  “My daughter,” Waxman suddenly realized. “What about my daughter? My God, I’ve got to speak with her … got to see her … she thinks I’m dead!”

  Gabe walked over and put his hands firmly on Waxman’s shoulders, holding him down in his chair. “I know what you’re going through. I’ve got a son that’s her age too. You’ve just got to give me just a little time. I’ve got to stop Bock before he kills anyone else.”

  Waxman swatted away Gabe’s hand. “Not seeing your son might be fine for you, Mr. Mitchell, but I’m not going to let your investigation run roughshod over my little girl’s well-being. She has to know that her daddy’s still alive.”

  Gabe shook his head, never trying to disguise his incredulity with Waxman’s callousness. “Don’t you understand the situation we’re in here? If August Bock finds out you’re alive, he’ll assume I am too,” Gabe said, swatting a dishtowel on the counter. “He’s already threatened my son’s life to get me to participate in his scheme, so what makes you think he wouldn’t go after your daughter to keep you quiet? Let me make you a simple guarantee: if you come out of hiding, your daughter and my son are as good as dead.”

  Waxman frowned. “Your scare tactics don’t frighten me, Mr. Mitchell. Throwing my daughter’s life in my face is no way to ensure my cooperation.”

  Gabe looked over at Chase who just shrugged. “Then think about this, sir: I saved your life. Don’t you think you owe me something for that?”

  Waxman stared down at his hands and then up to the man whose face looked like 40 miles of bad road. His daughter’s life was well worth the gamble. “Well, never let it be said that Nathan Waxman wasn’t a fair man. You’ve got 24 hours.”

  “Forty-eight,” Gabe begged. “I still have to go to the hospital later tonight to get more medicine, or I won’t be able to function. These next few hours until night falls are a waste for me.”

  “Thirty-six hours,” Waxman comprised, “and then I call my daughter.”

  Gabe reached out his hand, and the two men shook on their pact.

  “Maybe I can see that these next few hours aren’t wasted,” Chase interjected.

  “How’s that?” Gabe asked.

  Chase spread his hands in front of him. “Greetings from the Internet genie. Your wish is my command. Perhaps I can interest you both in some information…”

  “You mean over the computer?” Gabe asked.

  “Well, despite what you probably think of me, my computer isn’t just for downloading porn, my boy. Maybe we can scrounge something up on Mr. August Bock,” Chase said disgustedly as he pronounced the name.

  “Well, it’s better than just sitting around and watching the grass grow,” Waxman conceded.

  39

  All three of them huddled around the computer in the guest room like witches around a cauldron. Chase sat in the squeaking swivel chair with Gabe looking over his shoulder and Waxman a step behind him.

  “’Flyboy029?” Gabe asked, pointing to the screen.

  “You got a problem with it?” Chase snapped sarcastically.

  Gabe pursed his lips. “None whatsoever.”

  “Where to first?” the old man asked.

  “Just look up August Bock by name,” Waxman suggested.

  Chase typed in the name into the browser. Almost instantaneously, the search engine reported no listings for an August Bock. It came back with an August Brothers, a bread bakery, and an August Max, a restaurant in Broward County, plus even more obscure partial matches.

  “Well, that’s a big goose egg,” Chase said. “What now?”

  Gabe turned to Waxman for advice. “You seem to know your way around cyberspace; what do you think?”

  “Try the news groups,” Waxman said, pointing at the screen. “If there’s been something in the newspapers about him, or an article written anywhere, you might track it down there.”

  Chase shrugged. “Okay, it’s worth a shot.”

  They all stared at the screen like it was an oracle.

  Three hits.

  “There’s three old articles from the Baltimore Sun listing an August Bock. They’re consecutively listed by date.”

  “Baltimore?” Gabe said, sounding surprised.

  “You want me to pull up the first one?”

  “Sure,” Gabe said, “how many August Bocks can there possibly be?”

  Chase highlighted the first listing and double clicked on his mouse.

  “This might take a second; she’s old, but she’s reliable.”

  Now all three men were gathered around the screen, holding their collective breaths in anticipation.

  “Uh, here we go,” Gabe announced as the first newspaper article from the Baltimore Sun scrolled
onto the screen. It was dated some years earlier. Gabe and Chase begin to read it silently to themselves until Waxman wedged himself between them and began reading aloud the tragic headline. “Baltimore Prosecutor and Wife Gunned Down.”

  “It seems,” Gabe began paraphrasing as he scanned down the article, “that Bock was a successful Federal Prosecutor at one time. On this night he’s eating dinner with his wife at some swank harbor side restaurant and, next time he’s seen again, his car has been riddled with holes in a deserted warehouse district of the city. When the paramedics arrive, he’s barely breathing and his wife is dead.”

  “How the heck does that happen?” Chase asked.

  Gabe shook his head. “Pull up the next one. Maybe it’ll tell us more.”

  The next clipping appeared to be a follow-up. “Here we go,” Gabe continued. “According to Bock himself, when he first regained consciousness in the hospital, he pinned the ambush on a repeat felon he failed to convict named Earl Keely.”

  Waxman shook his head in disgust. “And I thought our local problems were bad. I’m telling you, all of our cities are going to hell on the express train.”

  Gabe gave a quick biting glance over at Waxman. “You can quit your campaigning, Mr. Mayor. No one here voted for you.”

  Waxman cleared his throat as Gabe continued to summarize the article aloud. “It says here that Earl Keely was one of those renegade biker types. He was known for his tattoos and disregard for anyone but his fellow gang members and his motorcycle. According to the court records, he’d been tied to over ten rapes and robberies in less a than two year period.”

  “Sounds like the kind of guy only a mother could love,” Chase said under his breath.

  “Yeah, a real prince,” Waxman added.

  Gabe put his finger on the screen and traced it back and forth as he spoke. “Bock tried repeatedly to convict the guy, but Keely kept getting off on technicalities.”

  “Damned lawyers,” Chase grumbled.

  “Hey,” Waxman said, defensively. “Come on now. We’re not all shysters.”

  “The jury’s still out,” Chase said, with a wink at Gabe.

  “It seems that Bock and Keely had quite a little ground war going on,” Gabe said as he read the last paragraph.

  “But Keely fired the last shot,” Chase sadly surmised.

  “This just doesn’t sound like the same guy I met on the island,” Gabe said as he motioned for Chase to pull up the next article. “I almost feel bad for this guy.”

  “Keely Still At Large,” Waxman read the new headline.

  “They never found him,” Gabe remarked. “This article is dated a few weeks later and he’s still on the loose. One sources speculated that he was heading for Alaska.”

  “Why Alaska?” Waxman asked.

  “Who knows?” Gabe said, jotting the exact spelling of Earl Keely’s name on a nearby note pad. “So, at the time of this article, Bock is recovering in the hospital, but he’s taken a bullet in the spine, which accounts for the wheelchair, and glass from his car’s windshield has irreparably damaged one of his eyes. I can tell you firsthand: his face is still a mangled mess, so he’s probably not too keen on plastic surgery.”

  “Or,” Waxman speculated, “perhaps he chose to keep those scars so he wouldn’t forget.”

  Gabe nodded. “That’s a possibility too, but do you really think the loss of his wife is enough to send him off on this crazed campaign of his?”

  Waxman chuckles.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Don’t you see?” Waxman said, motioning his hand in a circle. “We’re three peas in a pod. Bock, you, and me. All three of us have lost our wives, and we’re all tortured souls.”

  Gabe stood up rigidly. “Don’t you dare compare me to August Bock.”

  “No, no, no,” Waxman said apologetically, “while I certainly don’t condone his methods, believe it or not, I think I almost admire the man for his passion and dedication. Don’t you? If you could avenge your wife’s death, wouldn’t you go to the ends of the earth to do it? We all would, but in his own twisted way, August Bock is actually doing something about it. Plain and simple: he’s killing everyone he believes has gotten away with murder!”

  Gabe thought he understood what the ex-mayor was feeling, but could only think of how many people had died, justly or not, because of Bock’s perverse passion and dedication.

  Gabe asked Chase to clear the screen again, and this time asked him to log onto the actual Baltimore Sun newspaper website and had him search their archives under the heading Keely, Earl. One small article appeared, dated two years later than the previous ones. “Assailant’s Mutilated Body Found,” Gabe read aloud. “Point Barrow, Alaska. The mutilated body of Earl Keely, the biker thought to be responsible for the shotgun ambush of Federal Prosecutor August Bock and his wife, was found in an abandoned fishery by a state trooper. His throat was slit, but this wasn’t the most disturbing aspect of his death. There was a 12-inch patch of Keely’s chest missing, where police said he sported a large tattoo of a Nazi skull.” Gabe read the next line twice to make sure he was correct, as the two other men cringed at the graphic description, “It appeared to have been carved or torn from his chest and was never recovered.”

  “Revenge is mine saith the Lord,” Chase said, humbly.

  But Gabe knew better. “Not unless the Lord is sporting red hair nowadays and speaking with an Irish accent,” he said sarcastically. “Well, at least that answers one question for us.”

  “What’s that?” Chase asked, as he powered down the computer.

  “It means August Bock was never hired by anyone to have you assassinated. If what we’re postulating is the truth, and Bock is staying true to form, he, like so many others who watched the reports of your trial, thought you had really gotten away with murdering your wife. It must have hit a nerve.”

  The ex-mayor looked deep in thought. “So you’re saying he just came after me on his own?”

  Gabe nodded. “Exactly! That’s what he does. Bottom line is: I don’t think your wife’s death and August Bock are even related. And I’m sure whoever killed her, and tried to frame you for the murder, is eternally grateful for his help!”

  Bennett Chase swiveled around in his chair and rested his arms on his stomach. “So, we’re still minus one mystery guest in this whole mess. Got any, pardon the pun, candidates?”

  “No,” Gabe said with a renewed sense of determination, “but I intend to find out.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” Waxman asked.

  “Well, Your Honor,” Gabe said, as he lead both men out of the darkened bedroom, “I think it’s time for us dead guys to kick some ass.”

  40

  The hours that followed were filled with solemn introspection, sound bites from the local news channels, Quarter Pounders from McDonalds, and, for Gabe, shivers and night sweats. His system was beginning to shut down, and the cover of darkness couldn’t have come too soon. His eyes were sunken and surrounded with pale red rings, and his skin had taken on a bluish-ashen shade that foreshadowed future circulation problems.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Chase asked, dangling his key ring on the end of his finger. “You don’t look so hot.”

  “Multiply that times a hundred, and that’s how I feel,” Gabe said, snatching the keys. “I think you should stay here with the mayor and wait for me.”

  Chase took a sip from his soda and covered his mouth to stifle a burp. “You’re just going to get the medication and then come right back, right?”

  “That’s the plan,” Gabe insisted. “I called Sanborn’s office at the hospital and he’s working late tonight. He just has to write me a prescription, and then I’m heading back. Believe me: I don’t want to be there any longer than I have to. I’ve had my fill of hospitals.”

  “Amen to that,” the old man concurred.

  In front of the television set, Nathan Waxman took the last bite of his hamburger. “I wish you two would stop add
ressing me as ‘Mayor.’ I don’t hold that office anymore, and hearing you call me that makes me feel very pretentious. Call me Nathan or even Nate, but please, no more Mayor, or Mr. Mayor, or even Your Honor. Suddenly it feels dirty.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” Chase admitted. “I always thought it was kind of pompous, myself.”

  Gabe didn’t say anything as he examined the keys on the ring until he found the ignition key. He would have a tough time referring to Nathan Waxman by anything other than his official title. It was something to be proud of—a sign of respect. “Time for me to go.”

  The old man ushered Gabe back through the kitchen to a door which led into the garage. Opening the door and reaching around the wall, he tugged on a chain that illuminated a single yellow light bulb. Immediately, the odor accosted Gabe’s nose. The garage smelled from old oil and musty blankets. “She’s been around the block a few times,” Chase said like a loving parent as he pointed to the rust-pitted body of the 1984 Chrysler, “but it’s what’s in her heart that counts.”

  Gabe shuddered. “Do I need to get shots before I climb in there?”

  “Make all the jokes you want, but she’ll get you there and back in one piece. And, take my word as an old fighter pilot: that’s all that ever matters.”

  Gabe walked around to the far side of the car and unlocked the door. He pulled on the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge.

  “Sometimes she sticks,” Chase called from the opened doorway. “Just give her a little elbow grease and she’ll pop right open.”

  Gabe propped his right foot up against the car’s molding and yanked. The door squealed open.

  “There you go.”

  Gabe shot his friend a skeptical glance before climbing inside.

  “The garage door opener is on the visor,” Chase called out.

  “You’ve been through too much to die in this bucket of bolts,” Gabe mumbled to himself as he crossed his fingers and slipped the key into the ignition.

  The old Chrysler coughed to life, with the radio blasting out “Flight of the Valkyries” from the cassette deck, an inspirational tape Chase always listened to while either behind the wheel or in the cockpit. Gabe fumbled with the radio to squelch the music and then reached up and pressed the button that raised the garage door. As the old Chrysler pulled out into the brisk South Florida night, Bennett Chase flashed Gabe a ‘thumbs up’—his way of wishing good fortune.

 

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