Justice for Hire

by Rayven T. Hill

  Hank sighed. “It sure is.” He took another sip of his lemonade and set the glass on the table. “I talked to his parole officer as well,” he said.

  “Let me guess,” Jake cut in. “He liked Bobby a lot and thought highly of him.”

  Hank laughed. “Not really. He didn’t have an opinion on Bobby. I guess he sees so many ex-cons he tries to separate his feelings from his job. All he told me is, Bobby showed up without fail every week, and on time. He said Bobby was adjusting well and seemed unlikely to be a repeat offender.”

  “How did he react to the news of Bobby’s death?” Annie asked.

  “He didn’t react. He didn’t shrug it off, but I got the feeling it didn’t affect him in any way.”

  Annie closed the folder of reports and tossed it on the table. “The witness in the Viper, and the guy who discovered the body, had nothing to add either.”

  “What we’re missing is the motive,” Hank said. “We know exactly what happened, we just don’t know why?”

  “Or who?” Jake added.

  “Yeah, or who. The identity of the killer might help us with the motive.”

  “So what’s next,” Annie asked.

  Hank shrugged. “I’ve been interviewing people and chasing down leads all day, and there’s nothing left.”

  Chapter 20

  Wednesday, August 24th, 11:12 AM

  THE BOY COULDN’T have been much more than sixteen years old. Though it was a warm summer day, he wore a jacket, his hands tucked inside the pockets, as he made his way up the residential street.

  He seemed unmindful of anything that went on around him. A car or two passed by, a couple of pedestrians wandered in the other direction across the street, a squirrel skittered up a tree nearby; all unseen by the lad who strode in a purposeful manner down the sidewalk of the middle-class neighborhood.

  His thoughts were somewhat scattered. He knew his destination, and although his goal was firmly fixed in his mind, he wasn’t exactly sure why Harold Garrison must die.

  He knew Garrison was an evil man, of that there was no doubt, and he knew he’d been the one chosen to carry out this awful, but necessary task.

  The Wizard had spoken, and he was proud to have been selected from the small group of candidates to fulfill the mission. It was all for the greater good and must be carried out as per the instructions he’d been given by those who knew best.

  He’d been dropped off two blocks from his destination, and had made his way through the community, following the map in his head, determined to bring his assignment, the death of Harold Garrison, to a successful conclusion.

  It mattered not he would have to sacrifice himself for the cause. The cause was good, and just, and necessary, and the will of the Wizard must be done.

  His otherwise expressionless face took on a slight smile, a grim expression of satisfaction at the honor about to be his.

  ~~*~~

  HAROLD GARRISON leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. His fingers were woven together, and he stared unseeing across the office, deep in thought.

  The campaign was about to begin and he was wrapping up his final plans. The incumbent was down in the polls, and Garrison was sure he would win this election. There was no doubt about it, and he couldn’t wait for the battle to begin.

  Sure, it was only a seat on the city council, but he had drive, and it would surely lead to bigger and better things. The people in his ward had responded positively to his plans for the area. They wanted him, and he was proud to serve.

  They would begin putting up the election signs in a day or two, and then the house-to-house canvassing would begin. There would be no campaign headquarters, other than his residence, but the brochures printed and stacked in the corner of his office, welcomed anyone in the ward to contact him at any time.

  He pushed his chair back from the desk, stood and wandered from the office and into the kitchen. The house was always quiet this time of day. The kids were in school, and his wife, who taught third grade English at Richmond Public, would be busy now, doing the job she loved so much.

  He rinsed out his mug, drained the last cup of coffee from the carafe, and fixed up his steaming drink with a bit of cream and sugar.

  His wife would be coming home for lunch, and they would have a quick sandwich together before she had to get back to her class, but right now his stomach was asking for food. He found the last leftover chocolate donut in the fridge and retrieved it from the box that had held half a dozen yesterday morning, found a plate in the cupboard, and sat at the kitchen table.

  He started as the doorbell rang, breaking the quiet of the house. He dropped the donut, wiped his hands and mouth on a paper napkin, and took a quick swig of coffee, before rising to his feet.

  He hurried into the foyer and swung the front door open. He stared curiously at the young boy outside, wondering why he wasn’t in school at this time of day.

  “Are you Harold Garrison?” the boy asked.

  Garrison nodded. “Yes, I am. May I help you with something?”

  “Can I come in for a minute?”

  Garrison stepped back and swung the door fully open, allowing the visitor to enter.

  ~~*~~

  THE BOY CLIMBED the final step into the foyer and faced his intended victim. At the same time, he drew his right hand from his jacket pocket, clutching a gun, his finger already tightening on the trigger, as he raised it in the direction of his target.

  There was a blast, and a bullet spit from the gun and shattered a mirror on the wall of the foyer. Shards of glass sprinkled about the floor at his feet, but his quarry had eluded him, ducking in time to avoid the deadly fire.

  The guy was fast. Too fast.

  He spun to the left, corrected his aim, and trained the weapon toward Garrison, who stumbled and half-crawled into the front room.

  The boy had been trained well, and his skill at hitting a bullseye was outstanding, but the second shot missed the fast moving target, and embedded itself in the hardwood floor.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. The Wizard wouldn’t be pleased if his carefully laid plans went amiss.

  Garrison made it to his feet, and as the boy stepped into the front room and aimed again, his quarry spun out of sight through a doorway.

  The assassin followed, the gun still poised and ready. He had him cornered now. He moved carefully to the doorway, his finger squeezing the trigger, ready to shoot as he stepped into the room.

  He saw Garrison’s head disappear, ducking behind a desk in what appeared to be an office. He moved carefully across the room, toward the desk, and then stepped around beside it. Garrison was crouched down, shielding himself behind the back of a chair.

  The gun spit. One shot. Two. The cushy back of the leather chair, with its comfortable stuffing, proved to be no protection, as the deadly rounds pierced the barrier, bored through the skull of the victim, and ground to a stop, embedded in the hardwood floor.

  As Garrison collapsed, his eyes glazed over, and then took on the unseeing gaze of the newly dead.

  The job was finished. It had been a success.

  The killer smiled, pleased justice had been done, and his part in the great plan was finished.

  The last thing the boy remembered, was raising the pistol to his own head, and hearing the resulting explosion as he squeezed the trigger.

  He was unaware of his own body sinking to the floor as the shot echoed in the small room, and except for the trickle of blood that found a path between the cracks in the floorboards, all was quiet and still.

  Chapter 21

  Wednesday, August 24th, 12:01 PM

  KIM GARRISON smiled as she shooed the last student from her classroom. Not that she was distressed, or annoyed in the least, by the youngsters she taught, but she was looking forward to a break. On the contrary, she wasn’t averse to enjoying some of the antics of her students. She loved kids, and was proud to be instrumental in helping guide them through their informative years.

  She
slipped her handbag from the bottom drawer of her desk, stood, and hurried from the classroom. She was thankful Richmond Public was only two blocks from home, and she could get there for a quick lunch with her husband, and be back in plenty of time.

  She left the school and stopped by a sandwich shop, conveniently located along her route. She picked up two thick submarines, and hurried toward home.

  As she neared the house, she dug her key from her handbag, and stepped onto the pathway leading to the front door. She frowned as she saw the door open, and looking around the yard, expected to see Harold. He wasn’t around, however, and she climbed the steps to the door and stepped curiously inside.

  “Harold?”

  No answer.

  She called a little louder, “Harold, are you here?”

  Still no answer.

  Perhaps he came outside and wandered around to the backyard for some reason.

  She stepped inside the house, heard a grinding underneath her feet, and looked down at the shattered glass.

  “Harold,” she called again, more anxious. “Are you all right?”

  She looked at the mirror on the foyer wall, cracked, broken into a spider web of pieces. She frowned. Something didn’t seem right.

  She hurried down a short hallway to the kitchen. A coffee cup with a half-finished donut was on the table. She tossed her handbag, and the bag of sandwiches, onto the table, and stepped to the back door. She slid it open and peered onto the deck.

  Harold wasn’t outside.

  Worried now, she went back through the kitchen to the office. She peeked inside the doorway, still calling Harold’s name.

  There was no answer, and the office appeared to be empty.

  She ran upstairs and checked the bedrooms, and then down to the basement. Perhaps he may be in the garage, looking for a box to gather up the broken glass, but her search came up empty, and she received no reply to her calls. Her husband was nowhere to be seen.

  Unsure of what else to do, she went back to the kitchen table and sat.

  She stared at his half-finished donut, and touched the cup of coffee. The drink was cold. Where could he be?

  She jumped to her feet and reached across the table and grabbed her handbag, which she had tossed there earlier. She snapped it open, felt inside, and came up with her cell phone.

  She hit speed dial one, Harold’s number.

  She heard it ring. Once. Twice. No answer. She let it ring as she stood and anxiously wandered from the kitchen to the front room.

  It was then, she heard Harold’s cell phone ringing, and the sound came from his office.

  She hurried to the office and stepped inside. She heard the ringing louder now, from across the room.

  She eased toward the desk, and gasped as she saw her husband, lying on the floor in an unnatural position. She thought at first he may have had a heart attack, but as she hurried around the desk, she stopped short and screamed when she saw a second body, the body of a young man, on the floor beside her husband.

  When she saw the bullet wounds on her husband’s face, and the stream of drying blood, she felt her legs grow weak, her heart pounded, and she began to tremble. She felt faint, and nearly stumbled as she crouched beside her husband’s still form.

  “Harold,” she said, anxiously, fearful.

  She could tell he was dead, but she called his name again and shook him, hoping there was some mistake. He didn’t respond to her hysterical plea, and his face was cold as she touched it with the tips of her fingers. Her tears came freely, falling on the face of the man she loved so much.

  She knelt awhile, weeping, and moaning his name, unmindful of the dead boy who lay at her husband’s feet.

  The cell phone continued to ring, but overcome with grief, she didn’t hear it.

  Eventually her uncontrolled frenzy subsided, and she could think clearer. She straightened her back and turned her head toward the dead boy. She didn’t recognize him. She saw the gun in his hand, and in confusion, staggered to her feet and dropped into a chair in front of the desk.

  She leaned forward and mourned her husband, her face in her hands, crying, bewildered, and afraid.

  In a few minutes she stopped weeping, sat back and took a deep breath. In her confusion, she had dropped her cell phone beside her husband’s body, so she retrieved it and finally silenced the ringing phone.

  Then, she dialed 9-1-1.

  Chapter 22

  Wednesday, August 24th, 12:31 PM

  ALWAYS QUICK TO respond, the forensic unit was already at the Garrison house when Hank arrived. He pulled his Chevy up behind it, swung from the vehicle and ducked under the yellow tape cordoning off the property. The forensics team, in their white coveralls, unloaded equipment from the van, streaming in and out of the house.

  He made his way up the path to the front door. A uniform was leaning against the doorframe and greeted Hank as he climbed the steps.

  “Another lovely day, Hank,” the cop said, handing Hank a pair of booties.

  “Yeah, beautiful,” Hank replied as he slipped the shoe covers on and stepped inside the foyer. “Just beautiful.”

  An investigator was cleaning up some shards of glass inside the doorway and placing them in an evidence box. Hank stepped carefully around him and into the front room. Other investigators were busy conducting a rigorous examination. Hank spied lead crime scene investigator, Rod Jameson, and approached him.

  “Afternoon, Hank,” Jameson said.

  Hank nodded hello. “Where’s the victim?”

  “Two of them,” Jameson replied, waving toward the office. “In there.”

  Hank crossed the front room and stepped inside the office. Investigators were going over the room, fingerprinting and snapping photos. Hank saw the photographer across the room, on the other side of a desk. As he came closer, he saw the bodies on the floor. No matter how often he was called to scenes like this, he never got used to the sight, and was overcome by the senseless tragedy before him now.

  He shook it off, stepped closer, and crouched beside the bodies. He saw the 9 mm Glock in the hand of the young boy, the bullet wound in his temple, and the other victim beside him with two bullet wounds in his head.

  It looked very much like another murder/suicide.

  He sighed and checked the pockets of the boy and found what he expected. Nothing. No identification of any kind.

  He stood and turned to see the medical examiner, Nancy Pietek, come into the room. He greeted her with a nod.

  “Hello, Hank. What have we here?”

  Hank motioned toward the bodies. “Looks like a repeat of yesterday. Another murder/suicide.”

  Nancy approached the bodies, bent over and examined them a moment before standing again and turning to Hank. “An exact repeat,” she said. “The wound on the boy’s temple indicates he shot himself. I presume he killed our first victim, and then killed himself.”

  Jameson came in the room and touched Hank’s arm. “The victim’s wife is in the kitchen if you want to talk to her.”

  Hank nodded. “I’ll be right there. Was she a witness?”

  Jameson shook his head. “No, she came home and found them here and called 9-1-1.”

  “I suppose there were no witnesses?”

  “Nope. And their kids are still at school.”

  “Kids?”

  “Two.”

  Two children, now fatherless. Hank sighed deeply. “I’d better go and see her now.”

  When Hank stepped into the kitchen he saw a female officer sitting at the table, talking softly to a woman who he knew must be Mrs. Garrison. Her eyes were red and she clutched a tissue in a trembling hand. The officer stood and left the room as Hank entered. He pulled back a chair beside the overwrought woman, sat and faced her.

  “I’m Detective Hank Corning,” he said, his voice gentle, soothing.

  The woman turned in her chair and smiled weakly.

  Sometimes Hank hated being a detective. His heart was breaking for this distraught woman,
and for this broken family. His satisfaction came when they were able to track down the evil people who cared little for others, and finally bring them to justice. That was the only thing that drove him on and allowed him to face this job day after day.

  He touched the woman’s hand. “I have a few questions, Mrs. Garrison. Is that all right?”

  She nodded.

  Hank cleared his throat. “Tell me about how you came to discover . . .”

  “I was at school . . . I’m a teacher, and I came home to have lunch with my husband as I often do if he’s at home. And when I came in, I saw the broken glass in the foyer. I searched for him, and finally found . . .” She dropped her head, her shoulders hunched, and sobbed.

  “The young man . . . did you know him?”

  She looked up and shook her head.

  Hank remained quiet, observed her grief, and fought to squelch his rising anger. He had to separate his feelings from his job.

  “My children,” she said. “They’re still at school.”

  “I’ll send an officer to get them,” Hank said, and then added. “Maybe you’d better go with him.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Garrison said, as she turned her head and blew her nose. Hank handed her another tissue from the box on the table. A bag from a sandwich shop down the street was on the table along with a handbag Hank assumed was Mrs. Garrison’s.

  He asked her a few more questions, such as her husband’s name, her name, and the names and ages of her children. He jotted the information in his notepad and tucked it into his pocket.

  “We’ll get your children now,” he said, as he pushed back his chair and stood. He went outside where a couple of the first responding officers lounged about near the front door. He arranged for one of them to take Mrs. Garrison to the school and retrieve her children.

  The investigators waited until Mrs. Garrison was gone before carting a pair of loaded body bags to the waiting ambulances. The vehicles drove away, taking their burden to the city morgue.