False Witness
By P S Syron-Jones
Copyright © P S Syron-Jones 2015
P S Syron-Jones has the right to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact,
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover art & interior design by IndieDesignz.com
To all the brave Men and Women
in Law enforcement and the Tri Services.
Who risk their lives for our way of life.
I thank you.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank My Amazing Wife Ani
for her constant support.
Also: Julia Gibbs my Proofreader.
Geoffrey West my Editor.
And IndieDesignz for the artwork and interior design.
Without these people this book would have never
have seen the light of day.
ONE
Black clouds loomed over the city like a warning of an incoming storm. A chill wind hurried down the streets, picking up bit of wastepaper or anything light enough to be swept away in its path. Steam rose up from the vents in the manhole covers which enveloped the passing cars as they drove over them.
The night was calm with not many people filling the streets. This was a quiet part of town, all the tourists and partygoers were blocks away, or they were tucked up at home avoiding the biting breeze.
But the still of the cold New York night air was broken by loud screams of an argument. The heated words between the husband and his wife were muffled by the restaurant’s red-brick walls and half frosted windows. However, the people inside got the full view of the fight.
As the restaurant’s door swung open a tall dark-haired woman stepped out onto the empty street. She stopped and bent slightly at the waist as she held her head in her hands and let out a small yell to vent her frustration.
The woman turned around and saw her husband arguing with the manager through the restaurant’s window. The other customers were watching, throwing meaningful glances at the commotion the man was making.
His words were distorted by the distance and the glass between them, but what he wanted was clear to the woman standing outside. He wanted to leave the place to check up on her, to apologise for being an ass.
She could see his face that was full of regret. But the look slowly changed the more the manager insisted that he had to pay their bill first. This would have seemed perfectly reasonable to rational people, but he was not being rational.
Julie Armstrong had come out for some fresh air and to put some distance between them. Her hope was that he would calm down enough for them to talk. However, the incident with the manager had just made things worse. She didn’t want to fight in the street, hell, that was the last thing she needed the press to pick up on.
She pictured the newspaper headline: Supreme Court Judge Battles with Husband in Street.
Such publicity would mean that she wouldn’t be able to preside over any cases concerning disputes between couples, that was for sure. The lawyers would have a field day saying she was not being objective in her decisions.
She knew she had to put some distance between them for a while. He had been drinking a lot of the wine. Mostly out of anger. Julie looked over the road and spied the perfect place to hide: an alleyway.
It looked safe enough but then she wasn’t going in that far, just enough so he couldn’t find her.
Her long hair was carried up by a sudden gust of a chilled breeze as she crossed to the other side of the street towards the mouth of the alley.
As she looked back on the fight she could see his point. He had accused her of cheating, seeing it now through his eyes she came to realise how he had come to the conclusion he had.
The long hours at work, the odd phone calls late at night. The odd look here and there from other men in her line of work. Sure, she was a Supreme Court judge who was close to becoming a Chief Justice of the United States.
She had thrown benefits and parties, anything to attract the right people. Julie had worked hard and rubbed shoulders with powerful and influential folk, hell, she was one step away from that Presidential seal of approval. But then her husband had also been working long hours at the school, where he taught. But his lengthy work hours were due to cutbacks and the shortage of teachers. He had left the Army and a damned good career so that he could spend more time with her, but that never worked out the way they had hoped.
Recently she had become secretive and distant and for him that meant only one thing. Julie Armstrong was in her mid-forties and a very attractive woman with a model’s figure that many men had stared at lasciviously.
She looked back with hazel brown eyes that were red with the sting of fresh tears, to see if he had followed her, but the dimly lit alley was empty behind her. Part of her hoped she would hear him call her name so she knew he still cared, but no sound came. A cold chill bit the air, causing her to push up the collar on her long coat and pull the waistband tighter.
The cool air had calmed her down. With an awkward smile Julie started to walk back towards the restaurant. She hoped her husband was still at the table waiting for her. She searched her purse for the car keys just in case he had gone: Julie had wisely taken the keys off of him just in case he decided to drive back. She had seen him down half the bottle of red wine at dinner, probably for Dutch courage.
A noise in front of her made her look up. Before her stood a shadowed silhouette of a man.
“I am glad you found me,” she said to the figure, assuming it was her husband. “Look we need to talk, just please let me explain—” Her words stopped abruptly as she felt the knife pierce her stomach, aware of a sudden pain as the large blade punctured her flesh.
Julie stumbled backwards and looked down at her blood-soaked hands, the shock of the situation still trying to compute in her brain. She wanted to scream but it was as though her vocal cords had been sliced. Her mouth moved in hope of some sound coming out, but nothing came. She had a look of confusion and fear on her face.
Why was this happening to her?
She stumbled backwards until she fell over a pile of abandoned cardboard boxes. Julie looked up from her position and an expression of terror came over her face as her assailant walked calmly forwards, gripping the blood-soaked knife tightly. As the dreadful reality of what was about to happen sunk in, she finally found her voice before the knife quickly silenced her with a slash to her throat.
*
After witness statements and forensic evidence the investigation had taken less than a week. For the detectives in charge of the case there was only one guilty man and they were coming for him.
The media frenzy was like nothing the small suburban community had ever seen. Cameras and news teams who had gathered outside the blue-and-white family home had turned the residents’ normal, tranquil lives upside down.
Reporters and camera teams lined the pavement outside Brian Armstrong’s house, all ready to get what they thought might be that ‘money shot’.
At first they stood poised awaiting any action, only the anchor crews stood in front of the cameras telling of the horrors that had befallen Brian’s wife. The press had already cast their dice to predict their verdict: he was guilty.
A slight easterly breeze cooled the warm midday sun and the odd bird darted playfully around in the pale blue yonder breaking up the cloudless sky. Two squad cars and a black unmarked Ford that was sandwiched between them came round the corner and down towards the expectant hordes.
Inside the Ford, Detectives Carter and Doyle just looked
out at the sea of hungry reporters as they turned their attention to the detectives.
“Okay, let’s do this,” Carter smiled as he spoke. Detective Alan Carter was tall with broad shoulders and a face that was chiselled and stern. He was a career cop, groomed by the powers that be, all he had to do was be that public figure. As they got out of the car, the crowds automatically headed for Carter, who nudged his way through towards the house.
Doyle held back slightly. He was Carter’s partner but only so far as work was concerned. Jack Doyle was a different kind of cop to his colleague; he was a good man and a damned good cop. Jack was shorter than his partner was, but only by a couple of inches, his brown hair was trimmed close and he wore jeans and a black leather three-quarter length jacket over a black T-shirt. He always thought of himself as a cop not a fashion model.
Moving through the procession of flashes from cameras and microphones, the two detectives proceeded towards the driveway, and four uniformed officers followed close behind to assist with the crowds.
Doyle looked up at his partner who swaggered as he strode along, thinking, what an asshole and shaking his head. The crowd loved the taller man, and he knew it and relished the attention.
Reaching the front porch Carter stood up tall and waited for a moment. Some might have thought it was so that Doyle and the others were in position just in case of trouble, but Doyle knew otherwise. Carter made a fist out of his small hand and held it poised, ready to slam against the glossy white door. He could feel the hundreds of faces craned in his direction, and he closed his eyes and wallowed in the moment. Soon the door would open and the imminent high-profile arrest would mean that his life would change forever.
In that split second he had recalled the trip over to the house from the precinct. How he had rehearsed what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. Everything had led to this moment. Hell, he had even broken into his savings and got a new suit especially for the occasion!
Sucking in a huge breath, Carter slammed his fist against the door, calling out, “Mr. Armstrong, this is NYPD. Open up and come out with your hands up.” Doyle just stood to the side of the door waiting, for they didn’t know what was on the other side of it.
Part of the jaded detective hoped that Armstrong had a 12-gauge in there and that he would shoot through the door and blow his schmuck partner away. Doyle looked back at the crowd to see the press silent and open-mouthed, as if they were an audience watching a trapeze act.
There was no answer to Carter’s knock, and the arrogant officer could feel his moment slipping away, but as he raised his fist once more the door slowly opened, and a little girl with brown hair in a pretty pink dress moved out shyly. Carter froze at the sight of the girl, who appeared to be no more than ten years old.
“My daddy said that he has to go away and that I have got to go and live with my aunty,” the child announced to him. “Why? Do you know where Daddy is going?”
Carter said nothing—he couldn’t. The puffed-up law man had everything arranged in his head and this had thrown him. He had lost his moment of glory, and he was angry.
Quickly, Doyle grabbed the little girl and picked her up before Carter almost trampled her into the hallway carpet.
“Hi there, young lady, what’s your name?” Doyle asked softly as he walked with the child towards a neighbour’s house.
“I am Megan Armstrong,” she told him. “Are you a policeman too?”
Doyle nodded and smiled. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the uniforms who happened to be a female officer, and beckoned her over.
“Yes I am. My name is Jack, and I’m pleased to meet you, Megan.”
The little girl smiled, and her blue eyes were large and inquisitive. As the officer approached, Doyle carefully put the ponytailed girl down and knelt in front of her to speak: “Megan This is Officer Morgan and she is going to take you to your neighbour’s house. you can wait for your aunt there, okay?”
Megan looked up at the blonde-haired female Officer Morgan, who was tall and had a nice smile.
“Hi there, Megan,” Officer Morgan said kindly. “You can call me Claire.”
The child took Officer Morgan’s hand and Doyle watched them walk slowly towards the old woman who was standing waiting nearby. He smiled at the sight, realising that Megan wouldn’t understand why these men were taking her daddy away. Doyle was also anxious that she wouldn’t have to remember her father being manhandled into a police car.
The explosion of noise made Detective Jack Doyle look back round at the Armstrong’s’ house. There was the victorious-looking Carter accompanied by a scared-looking Brian Armstrong.
Brian Armstrong was your average-looking forty-year-old man-next-door. He wore a grey cotton sweat suit and a black T-shirt, and his short brown hair was uncombed and full of sweat, as a result of his earlier jogging. Carter couldn’t have hoped for a better picture of the man if he had dressed him himself.
As the cameras flashed, Brian took no notice—all he could think of was his daughter. He didn’t care what the world thought of him, he was only concerned for her. His eyes scanned the crowd to see her, but he was glad when she wasn’t in sight.
Carter held their position long enough for the press to get their money’s worth before dragging the confused man down towards the car. Carter moved him slowly with a deliberate pace, and as they neared, Doyle opened the back door of the Ford so that Armstrong could get in. The arrested man was, however, still looking anxiously around to try to see his little girl. Doyle stopped him when he reached the car
“Don’t worry about your daughter. I sent her to the neighbour’s house, they will look after her until your sister gets here.”
Armstrong smiled his thanks and nodded once in appreciation and ducked down, feeling Carter’s hand on the back of his neck shoving him into the car.
Carter slid onto the seat beside him, aware that Armstrong’s look of concern had gone now he knew his daughter was safe.
“Wait until the uniforms are back at their vehicles until we take off,” Carter instructed from the back seat to Doyle, who was at the wheel.
The driver looked into the rear-view mirror to see Carter adjusting his tie and combing his fingers through his hair. Then his eyes caught the bright tail lights of the squad car in front of them and he smiled to himself.
Sorry, photo shoot is over, asshole, Doyle said to himself as he put the car into drive and trod on the gas pedal. The car sped away.
Armstrong closed his eyes. He knew that this would be the last time he would see his house, and the last time he would see his daughter. He closed his eyes tight as if to burn the images into his mind, for they were something to cling on to. Something to hope for .
TWO
Brian Armstrong opened his eyes to the sound of approaching work boots on the steel grated floor that sounded like a hammer on an anvil. His cell was dark apart from the light from the small window and the glow from the small television set that sat on a makeshift shelf in the corner.
He lived alone apart from his many books that he had collected over the ten long years he’d spent in jail, and he’d also earned the respect of the other inmates, who had named him, Teacher.
The sound of the night made him think back to that first evening in Riker’s. He had arrived straight from the courthouse, it was late in the day and the night shift was just about to start their handover/takeover.
Armstrong had been slapped in a cell with a small cockroach of a man named Gomez—some petty two-time loser who liked to rape old women, which pretty much put him on everyone’s shit list.
Brian got up on to the top bunk but made sure he was facing the door and his back was to the wall with the window.
He had closed his eyes only for a moment before the cell door opened and there stood three large black guys with sunglasses and sleeveless shirts. They were not particularly tall men—Armstrong would dwarf them at six foot one—but they had spent all their free time in the gym and it showed in the
massive size of their muscles. The centre man was larger than the others. He was obviously the ‘Alfa’ of the group.
“Now then what have we gotten here, boys,” the middle guy jeered. “Fresh ass, I do believe.” The others laughed but Armstrong didn’t, he just stayed on his bunk until he was called. Below him the rapist scurried across the room to the corner next to the stainless steel toilet and curled up like a frightened kitten.
“Don’t worry, Cockroach, we will get to you, but first we have to introduce ourselves to our new guest.” The insect in the corner giggled with excitement as Armstrong got off his bunk and stood with his back near the wall.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Brian Armstrong appealed to them, raising his hands with the palms flat upwards in a stop gesture, but the three men just laughed.
“It’s okay, you do what we tell you and there won’t be any problems. Now get your ass down and get on your knees, bitch.”
Brian shook his head and moved his right leg backwards slightly. “Sorry that’s not going to happen,” he told them.
The man to the boss’s left just sucked his teeth and walked forwards quickly. He went to grab Armstrong, but before he knew it the goon was thrown to the ground and Armstrong held the man in an armlock while his foot was on the back of the man’s neck.
“Okay, back off or this guy has to find someone else to cut his food,” Brian yelled at them.
The second goon rushed forwards to try and catch Armstrong off balance and save his friend.
Through the steel corridors screams of pain echoed through the many floors of the blockhouse, but the guards didn’t care if these men took each other apart, they were there to stop riots, and if the inmates wanted to take each other out that was fine by them. Hell, they were doing society and the taxpayers a favour by letting nature take its course.
False Witness (John Steel series Book 3) Page 1