Justice for Hire

by Rayven T. Hill

  “Yes, she certainly is.”

  “I must make a note to go around to see her. She’s going to need some help and encouragement. And of course, Pastor Jackson will go and visit her as well.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that,” Annie said.

  Jake spoke, “I know someone else who could use a little encouragement right now.” He told her briefly about Cheryl Waters and her parents. He ended with, “I know you’re busy, but perhaps someone . . .”

  Mrs. Pew interrupted, “I’m never too busy for someone in need.”

  “I’m sure they would appreciate it,” Annie added.

  Mrs. Pew continued, “And we have a prison ministry as well. I’ll make a note of Cheryl Waters’ name, and she’ll be sure to get a visit.”

  Jake allowed a moment to pass, and then cleared his throat and asked, “Perhaps you can direct us to where we can find Pastor Jackson?”

  Mrs. Pew twisted in her chair, waving over her shoulder in the direction of the far corner of the main room. “He’ll either be in the chapel, or in the youth center.”

  “How’ll we know him?”

  Mrs. Pew chuckled. “He’s big, and black. You can’t miss him.” She laughed again.

  Jake smiled and dug a business card from his shirt pocket. “Please call us if you think of anything else that may be important.”

  Mrs. Pew took the card, glanced at it briefly and tucked it into her apron pocket.

  Jake turned to Annie. “If there’s nothing else you can think of . . .”

  Annie shook her head and they stood. Mrs. Pew motioned toward the door, and followed them out.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pew,” Annie said.

  Jake bowed slightly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  They watched as the busy woman went back to her place in the serving line before they headed toward the back of the room, past the tables of hungry eaters, and stopped in front of a door with a small sign, which read, “Youth Center”.

  Jake pushed the door and they peeked inside. The room looked more like a gymnasium. A group of boys played basketball at one end of the court. Annie saw three or four blacks, a couple of Hispanics, one Asian, who now had control of the ball, and a few white guys, all playing together. It was a great place to keep youth off the streets and out of trouble.

  At the near end of the gym, a handful of guys sat on benches, chatting and laughing.

  Jake turned to Annie. “It looks like Pastor Jackson isn’t in here. Let’s try the chapel.”

  A sign pointed to the chapel at the far right of the main room. Jake followed Annie and they stepped quietly into the peaceful sanctuary. It was lined with a dozen or so rows of folding chairs, facing toward the front. A large cross hung on the wall at the back of a small stage, behind a portable podium.

  In the front row, they saw Pastor Jackson. It had to be him. He looked just as Mrs. Pew described. He was black and he certainly was big. He sat beside a young girl, his arm around her shoulder. Their heads were bowed and they appeared to be praying.

  Jake and Annie slipped into chairs in the back row and waited.

  In a couple of minutes, Pastor Jackson and the girl stood up. She appeared to be about sixteen years old. Barely to his shoulder, she gave the pastor a hug before turning toward the exit. She walked with her head down, and glanced up briefly at the Lincolns. She was dressed in Gothic fashion with a long black flowing dress, a black lacy shawl around her shoulders, black hair and fingernails, and a ring through her painted black bottom lip. Annie smiled at her. The girl returned a fragile smile and hurried out.

  They stood and moved into the aisle. The pastor noticed them and headed their way. “Welcome,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Pastor Jackson.” He was every bit as tall as Jake, but perhaps a hundred pounds heavier.

  They shook his hand. “We’re Jake and Annie Lincoln,” Jake said. “Can we talk to you a moment?”

  “Sure can.” A grin split the pastor’s cheerful face. “Have a seat,” he said, as he flipped a couple of chairs around and motioned for them to sit. They sat and he dropped into another chair and faced them, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re private investigators,” Jake said. “We’d like to talk to you about Bobby Sullivan.”

  The smile left the pastor’s face as he sat back. He shook his head. “Tragic. Very tragic.”

  “We understand he attends your church, Richmond Baptist?” Annie asked.

  “Yes he does . . . did, and he helps . . . helped out here, as well.”

  “We talked to Mrs. Pew a few minutes ago,” Annie explained. “She told us we could find you here. We suspect Bobby’s death is related to another case we’re working on, but we’re running out of leads. We don’t know if you can shed any light on it or not, but we wanted to meet you.”

  “A Detective Corning came to see me this afternoon at the church,” Jackson began. “I told him all I knew, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.” He shook his head. “I can’t think of anything new. Bobby attended Richmond Baptist faithfully. He got along with everybody, and when he was here . . . same thing.” He sighed. “So tragic.”

  Annie hadn’t expected to learn anything new from Pastor Jackson, however she had wanted to try and get a better understanding of Bobby’s life. She really had no more questions for the pastor. She glanced at Jake. He too, seemed to be unable to come up with anything else.

  “Thank you for your time, Pastor.” Annie dug a business card from her purse. “Just in case there’s anything else,” she said, as she handed it to him.

  The big man took the card and glanced at it. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” he said.

  Annie stood and offered her hand. “Thanks again,” she said, as she and Jake shook hands with the pastor. “You’re doing a great work here.”

  They left the chapel, made their way through the main room, and out to the sidewalk. They walked in silence to the car, climbed in and fastened their seat belts.

  Annie sat quietly a moment, wondering if they were on the right track. The victim of the first murder was so unlike Bobby Sullivan. It seemed Bobby was more like Cheryl Waters in some ways, and had little in common with Charles Robinson. One victim was a real estate developer, and one pumped gas. Nothing was making sense about either of the two murders, but her instincts told her there was a connection. Both were confusing, and she knew they were missing something.

  She glanced at Jake. He had keyed the ignition, and was leaning forward, staring through the windshield, down the street toward the mission. “Remind me to put this place on our charity list,” he said.

  “We don’t have a charity list.”

  “We do now.”

  Chapter 18

  Tuesday, August 23rd, 7:50 PM

  HANK HAD SPENT all day interviewing those who knew Bobby Sullivan, and who potentially had information to help him find who had killed Bobby, and why. He’d run out of leads, and though he’d been in constant touch with the medical examiner’s office, they hadn’t revealed anything else he could run with.

  He returned to the station and leaned forward at his desk, leafing through the completed reports. The M.E.’s findings on Bobby Sullivan were not a surprise. Forensics had gone over everything from the scene, and the complete forensic and lab reports were in. The observations he’d made at the crime scene proved to be correct.

  He slipped the summary report on Bobby Sullivan from the stack of papers, and reread it.

  Report of Findings on the Death of Bobby Sullivan

  Cause of death: gunshot wound to the head.

  Manner of death: homicide.

  Blood alcohol: negative.

  Blood drug screens: negative.

  Urine drug screens: negative.

  My examination of the body of Bobby Sullivan revealed a gunshot wound to the head, with the entrance wound on the forehead, and the exit wound on the rear of the head. The trajectory of the bullet that went through Bobby Sullivan’s
head was front to back, and slightly upwards.

  Bobby Sullivan also received a non-fatal gunshot wound to the left shoulder, four inches down from the top surface of the shoulder and three inches in from the armpit.

  Trace particles of gunshot residue on the clothing of Bobby Sullivan suggested both shots had been from a distance of three to five feet.

  In my opinion, Bobby Sullivan died of a gunshot wound to the head. Manner of death is homicide.

  The bullet, ascertained to be of 9 mm by the ballistics report, had been retrieved from the pavement below Bobby’s head, and was determined to be from the gun that was found at the scene.

  There were also details of a complete external examination of the body of Bobby Sullivan. There were no visible defensive wounds, and the findings revealed nothing unusual.

  Hank leafed through the papers and pulled out the summary report on the killer.

  Report of Findings on the Death of John Doe

  Cause of death: gunshot wound to the head.

  Manner of death: suicide by a single, self-inflicted shot from a 9 mm handgun.

  Blood alcohol: negative.

  Blood drug screens: negative.

  Urine drug screens: 11 ng/ml Lysergic Acid Diethylamide detected.

  My examination of the body of John Doe revealed a contact gunshot wound to the head, with the entrance wound on the right side of the head, and the exit wound on the left side of the head. The trajectory of the bullet that went through John Doe’s head was right to left and slightly upwards.

  A muzzle stamp was imprinted on the skin surrounding the entrance wound. The muzzle stamp marks the position of the muzzle of the gun on or near John Doe’s head at the time the gun was fired.

  Gunshot residue found on the clothing, the right hand, and soot marks at the entrance of the wound, suggest the fatal wound had been self-inflicted.

  In my opinion, John Doe died of a gunshot wound to the right temple. Manner of death is suicide.

  An external examination of the killer had not revealed anything abnormal. The weapon was determined to be the same 9 mm Glock found at the scene.

  An internal autopsy had not been considered necessary on either victim and had not been performed.

  Both reports were signed by Nancy Pietek, Deputy Medical Examiner.

  The interesting thing was the presence of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide, LSD, in the system of the killer. Certainly not a large amount, and probably not enough to have had any effect at the time of the shooting, but enough to show the unknown killer had taken LSD in the recent past.

  The sketchy statement of the driver of the red Viper, Benjamin Butler, which had been attached to the reports, had been of little help.

  Hank pulled forward the box of evidence gathered from the scene and tipped out its contents onto his desk. It contained a folder of shots the police photographer had taken, along with a Glock 9 mm handgun and four shell casings. There were a few more items, including the recovered bullets, Bobby’s wallet, a single key, and a few coins that had been in his pocket.

  Hank sat back and scratched his head, staring intently at the evidence in front of him, trying to determine his next course of action. He spun his chair around and called to Callaway, a few feet away.

  Callaway looked up from his monitor. “What is it, Hank?”

  “Anything on our John Doe yet?”

  Callaway shook his head. “Nothing. Fingerprints turned up nothing in the system. Facial recognition came up blank. His picture has been on the news reports, now nationwide, but nobody has called in to identify him yet.”

  Hank frowned.

  Callaway shrugged and continued, “It may take a few days, Hank.”

  “Let me know the moment you get anything,” Hank said, and turned back to his desk. He gathered up the evidence and placed it back in the box, snapped open his briefcase, slipped the reports inside, and grabbed his cell phone from its holder. He selected a speed-dial number.

  “Jake here.”

  “Jake, I wanted to see if you guys were home. I have the reports on Bobby Sullivan and want to run them by you.”

  “No problem. Come on over. We’re out back.”

  “Be right there.” Hank stabbed his phone off, tucked it away, picked up his briefcase and strode from the precinct.

  Chapter 19

  Tuesday, August 23rd, 8:28 PM

  JAKE DROPPED HIS iPhone onto the deck table and slouched back in his chair. “Hank’s on his way,” he said. “He has the reports on the Bobby Sullivan murder.”

  Annie was leaning against the railing, watching Matty and Kyle kick around a soccer ball in the backyard. She glanced at Jake. “Anything interesting?”

  “He didn’t say. I suppose if there was, he would’ve mentioned it.”

  Annie refilled her glass of lemonade from the icy pitcher and dropped into a deck chair across from Jake. She picked up a magazine from the table and leafed idly through it.

  Jake sipped at his drink and glanced over toward Matty. With all of the problems he’d seen people immersed in lately, he felt fortunate his family was safe. Sure, they’d had a few harrowing times, but overall, he had nothing to complain about, and much to be thankful for.

  Jake heard a shout from the backyard. It was Matty. “Hey, Uncle Hank.” Jake spun his head around. Hank was coming across the backyard. He watched as Matty ran up to Hank.

  “Hey, Matty,” Hank said. He climbed the three steps to the deck, dropped into a chair and set his briefcase beside him, as Matty ran back to join Kyle again.

  Annie tossed the magazine onto the table. “Do you want some lemonade, Hank?”

  “Sure.”

  As Annie went into the house to get a glass, Jake asked Hank, “Anything interesting in the reports?”

  Hank picked up his briefcase and set it in his lap. He clicked it open and withdrew a folder. “It’s all here,” he said. “The complete reports on both victims.” He dropped the folder onto the table, closed his briefcase and set it back down beside his chair. “It’s pretty much what I expected, except for one very interesting bit of information.”

  Jake looked at Hank quizzically. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “The killer had Lysergic Acid Diethylamide in his system.”

  “LSD,” Annie said, as she stepped from the house.

  “Yup. LSD.”

  “I thought that went out with the ‘60’s,” Annie said, as she set the cup on the table, filled it with lemonade, and handed it to Hank.

  Hank laughed, took the drink and sipped it. “Oh, it’s still around, although it’s not nearly as popular as the new designer drugs.”

  “So, the killer was high when he shot Bobby?” Jake asked.

  “Not exactly,” Hank replied. “There wasn’t enough in his system at the time to have any effect, but it did show he’d used it recently.”

  “How recently?”

  “Can’t tell for sure, probably in the last couple of days.”

  “Do you think that may’ve been a factor in the shooting?” Annie asked. “Frequent users may have long-lasting psychoses, such as schizophrenia or severe depression.”

  “But it doesn’t usually lead to violence,” Hank said.

  “What about hallucinations?” Jake asked.

  “During, yes, but not after the fact. And not one or two days later.”

  Annie sat forward. “Hank, I had a thought. Can you get a drug test done on Cheryl Waters?”

  Hank grinned. “I’m ahead of you. I called Callaway on the way over and got him on it. If Cheryl will volunteer, the lab will do a test right away.”

  “And if she doesn’t volunteer?” Jake asked.

  Hank shrugged. “Then, we’ll need a warrant. But I think, given the circumstances, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I think she’ll volunteer,” Annie said. “And a positive result may answer a lot of questions.”

  “What questions?” Jake asked.

  “Well, one question really, whether or not the two mu
rders are related.”

  Jake looked at Annie and cocked his head. “So, how do you know so much about LSD?”

  Annie shrugged. “My mother mentioned it a couple of times. She was a real hippy, back in the sixties. That’s how she met my father. They used to hang around Yorkville, the Canadian capital of the hippie movement. Not exactly Haight-Ashbury, but pretty close.”

  Jake frowned and grinned a crooked grin. “I never knew that about you.”

  “It’s not exactly about me, and I never said I had a perfect family tree.”

  “Is that what happened to your mother? Why she’s so batty?”

  Annie gave Jake a playful slap on the arm. “Be nice,” she said. “And anyway, my parents were never into drugs, just the hippy culture.”

  Hank laughed. “I didn’t know there was a difference.”

  “Now you know,” Annie said, as she picked up the folder of reports. “What else is in here?”

  “You’re welcome to keep those,” Hank said. “But everything else in there is as we suspected. A murder/suicide.”

  Annie browsed the folder a moment before looking up. “You still don’t know the shooter’s identity?”

  “Not yet,” Hank said. “We’re working on it.”

  “We went to Samaritan Street Mission,” Jake put in. “We talked to the lady who runs the place, Mrs. Pew, and we talked to Pastor Jackson.”

  “I talked to him as well,” Hank said. “Did you find out anything I didn’t?”

  Jake shook his head. “We didn’t get much from either of them, except, everyone liked Bobby.”

  “Everybody was agreeable on that point. Unfortunately, that’s nothing to go on.”

  “What about Bobby’s boss?” Annie asked.

  “I talked to him as well. Bobby had been a faithful and hard worker. Always on time, and he had no complaints about him. And of course, like everyone else, he thought highly of Bobby.”

  “It’s a real tragedy,” Annie said.