[Lady Justice 01] - Lady Justice Takes a C.R.A.P.

by Robert Thornhill

  And many a failure turns about

  When he might have won if he stuck it out.

  Don’t give up though the pace seems slow—

  You may succeed with another blow.

  Success is failure turned inside out—

  The silver tint of the clouds of doubt

  And you never can tell how close you are.

  It may be near when it seems so far.

  So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit—

  It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit!

  That was not what I wanted to hear! I wanted someone to say, “Oh, poor Walt. Give up this nonsense and just go back to being plain old you.” But I didn’t want to be that guy anymore.

  Then I thought of my own heroes. No matter how badly they were beaten, did Roy Rogers and Gene Autry ever throw in the towel? I don’t think so. And even Superman had kryptonite to contend with. Life is full of adversity. You can either bow to it or stand up to it.

  Then another thought struck me. I don’t play golf! I never have. And fish smell really bad. And who wants to travel alone.

  Maybe I should stick it out a while longer.

  I called the professor and thanked him and went to bed.

  When I crawled out of bed the next morning, I had the distinct feeling I had been hit by a semi. I looked in the mirror at my bruised and swollen lip. The Red Badge of Courage. Right? I figured the best way to take my mind off my aches and pains was to get my butt in gear, get to work, and figure out how to catch these guys.

  In the squad room, Ox, the captain, and I reviewed the data we had. At least my confrontation had revealed that the kid wasn’t acting alone. In fact, it seemed like the story out of Oliver Twist where Fagan was sending the kids into the streets to do his dirty work. We had come close to nabbing them, but we obviously needed more reinforcements. One patrolman didn’t stand a chance against four armed Latinos. Unfortunately, with the recent murder, manpower was spread thin. We decided to continue our foot patrol but not split up as before.

  We walked the streets as briskly as possible trying to cover the ground between the four ATMs, but it was impossible to be everywhere at once. We were a block away when the kid struck that morning. By the time we arrived on the scene, there was no sign of the grabber. According to witnesses, he had ducked down another alley and disappeared. We checked the alley looking for any sign of the perps but only found a UPS truck and a van with Moonlight Maintenance on the side. Just normal people doing their normal jobs.

  I had a thought. These guys obviously had a foolproof way of disappearing after the grab. We didn’t have a clue where to look for them. What if we could plant a tracking device in the money they grabbed, let them make their getaway, and then follow them to their hideout? We couldn’t put tracking devices on all the money coming out of every machine, but if we had a uniform standing close by three of the machines, they would be forced to hit the fourth machine. We needed a plant, someone non-threatening who could watch until there was no line at the machine and then go to make a withdrawal. But the cash would actually already be in hand and fixed with a tracking device.

  Hmm. Mary!

  I shared my idea with Ox and the captain. The captain was reluctant at first, but I reminded him that no one had been injured, just scared, and he finally agreed.

  That afternoon I went to the Three Trails and told Mary my idea. “What do you think?” I asked. “Are you in?”

  “Hell yes, I’m in!” she declared. “It’s been too damn quiet around here lately. I’ve been bored. I need to kick some ass!”

  “No ass kicking,” I replied. But I wasn’t too worried. I remembered how fast the kid was, and while Mary is tough, she’s not that mobile.

  The next morning, Ox was staked out at one ATM in full dress uniform, I was at another, and a third officer covered the other machine. Mary was in a coffee shop across from the fourth ATM. She was to watch and wait until there was no line, then approach the machine and act as if she were making a withdrawal, but the money with the device would already be in her hand. If there was no attempt, she was to return to the coffee shop, wait thirty minutes, and repeat the process.

  She made her first withdrawal without incident and returned to the coffee shop. A half hour later she tried again. This time the kid came out of nowhere, grabbed the money from her hand, and sped away. “Get back here, you little creep!” she screamed, but the kid was long gone.

  So far, so good.

  This time we made no attempt to apprehend. We wanted to follow them to their safe house. The third officer took Mary home while Ox and I tracked the little green blip on the screen in the squad car.

  It was no surprise that the blip was leading us to Kansas City’s west side. There is a large Latino community there. After about twenty minutes, the blip became stationary, and we knew they had reached their destination.

  We slowly cruised the neighborhood, and when we were within a block, we stopped and surveyed the street. And there it was! It had been right in front of us all along—a panel truck with Moonlight Maintenance on the side. Trucks of all sizes and shapes are supposed to be in alleys. That’s what they do. Nothing suspicious there. They were hiding in plain sight. After the cops left the alley, they just drove away.

  Pretty slick!

  Ox and I had done our job. The perps were in the house with the marked money. It was time to turn the situation over to the tough guys. We called it in, and soon officers with helmets, shields, a battering ram, and big guns were on the scene.

  Ox watched the front, and I was stationed in the back as the assault team got into position.

  I heard a loud crash and shouting as the team breached the doorway. After the initial assault, it became quiet, and I assumed the bad guys were being cuffed and Mirandized. Then I saw a basement window slide open, and the Latino who had knocked me on my keister was crawling out. I was fifty yards away from him and again figured that the chances of my sixty-five-year-old legs catching him were slim. He hadn’t noticed me as he took off across the lawn toward a park and ball field on the next corner.

  I quickly searched my mental database of useless information and pulled out a postulate I had learned in high school geometry. The hypotenuse of a right triangle is longer than its sides, or something like that. Basically, I had the angle on him, and if I got my butt in gear, I could cut him off at the park.

  I was amazed that I actually remembered that.

  I took off and raced toward the ball field, where a group of neighborhood kids were playing ball. I drew my revolver and assumed the two-hand stance just like I remembered Sergeant Joe Friday do it.

  The perp hadn’t seen me yet, and as he approached, I pointed directly at him and yelled, “Freeze! Police!”

  He looked up startled, and instead of stopping, raising his hands, and surrendering like he was supposed to, he grabbed the closest kid. How come these guys can’t follow a script?

  He had grabbed the catcher, a portly kid decked out in shin guards, chest protector, and helmet. He pulled his .380 and held it against the kid’s helmet. “Drop it, copper,” he said, “or I’ll put one right in this kid’s head.”

  I hesitated only a moment as I saw the look of terror in the boy’s face. As I slowly knelt and placed my gun on the ground, the perp started backing away, putting distance between us.

  He hadn’t noticed the baseball lying where the terrified kids had dropped it, and as he was backing away, he stepped on the ball. His feet flew out from under him, and the gun flew from his hand. He fell flat on his back, and as I saw the portly catcher in full gear fall on top of his exposed rib cage, I heard a sickening crack. The boy’s helmeted head snapped back, catching the perp squarely in the mouth.

  I charged forward, rolled the boy off the perp and the perp on his stomach, and cuffed him.

  As I stood, my toe caught the perp in his injured ribs, and he let out a yelp of pain.

  “Oops!” Accident? Well, maybe not.

 
; As the perp laid there, bent double, gasping for air, with a bloody mouth, it took some of the pain away from my own ribs and lip.

  Lady Justice has an uncanny way of evening things out if you give her the chance.

  If I had quit, these scumbags would still be out there ripping off the good citizens of Kansas City. However, I harbor no guilt about quitting football. Smartest decision I ever made.

  CHAPTER 11

  Samantha Green was on top of the world.

  She had just received the ‘Rookie of the Year Award’, honoring her as the top new real estate agent in the Kansas City area, and today, she had received the phone call that every agent dreams about --- a cash buyer for her own listing --- a double dipper!

  The big home on Ward Parkway had sat vacant for several months, but the buyer, an out-of-towner, had driven by and loved the exterior and the neighborhood.

  At $349,000, if she could get his name on the dotted line, she would be pocketing a twenty thousand dollar commission.

  Her broker had cautioned the agents not to meet strangers at open houses alone, but when the call came in, there was no one around to go with her.

  She had thought about trying to reschedule the appointment, but didn’t want to discourage the buyer.

  She had arrived at the home in plenty of time to turn on the lights and spray the rooms with Spring Flowers to mask the vacant house scent.

  She had just finished, when a car pulled into the driveway.

  Eagerly she opened the door expecting to see her buyer.

  She was surprised to see an agent from another office.

  “Jack Ballard! What are you doing here?”

  “Hi Samantha. I saw your car. I might have someone interested in your listing. Mind if I have a quick look around?”

  She really did mind, but she didn’t want to be rude.

  “Sure, but make it quick. I’m expecting a client at any moment.”

  “Of course. I’ll make this quick.”

  She stepped aside to let him enter.

  Once inside, he closed the door and snapped the deadbolt.

  “Jack, what are you doing? Jack! JACK! NO! PLEASE!

  A wave of panic had rippled through the real estate community. One of their own had been taken. Bulletins and alerts had circulated from the Board of Realtors to the offices and on to the agents. Take no chances. Meet no strangers. Go out in pairs. Stay alive!

  And still there would be yet another life this vicious killer would steal away.

  We were met at squad meeting by a grim-faced captain.

  “Men, a second body has been found floating in Lake of the Woods in Swope Park. She has been tentatively identified as twenty-four-year-old Samantha Greenwood, another real estate agent. Like Ms. Duncan, she was also nude, and her body was covered with ligature marks.

  The captain reviewed and compared the similarities of the two murders. It was plain and simple. We were looking for a serial killer who would probably strike again.

  The victims were from different offices in different parts of town. One veteran agent and one rookie. They had never co-oped on a sale together. There was no obvious commonality other than the fact that both were women and both were realtors.

  The officer from homicide who had been given the lead on the case was Detective Derek Blaylock. He was a twenty-year veteran cop and considered to be the best in his division.

  We spent the next hour reviewing the facts and evidence of the cases. Not much there. The autopsy had come back on Nancy Duncan. Death by strangulation prior to her being dumped in Loose Park Lake. Ligature marks, bruising, cuts, and worst of all, evidence of severe trauma in her vagina indicated that Ms. Duncan had experienced an excruciating and painful death. Forensics had found no physical evidence on the body or in the park around the lake.

  Not much to go on.

  Detective Blaylock reviewed the possible list of obvious suspects.

  In a homicide, experience has shown that the first person to rule out is usually the spouse or significant other. Neither woman was currently married, and as far as coworkers knew, neither was involved in a serious relationship.

  Dead end there.

  An obvious suspect would be a disgruntled client, but the brokers of both agents knew of no trouble brewing. No complaints had been filed, and why, if a client were out for revenge on an agent for perceived negligence on their real estate transaction, would he attack a second agent with absolutely no connection to his deal?

  We had to keep looking.

  Another possibility would be a jealous coworker. As mentioned previously, real estate is a very competitive business and is governed by the old 80/20 rule. Twenty percent of the agents account for eighty percent of the business. There are a few really good agents and a whole lot of wannabes. But since agents in the course of their activities co-op with other agents, serve on committees together, and socialize at board functions, there is a very active grapevine. If you poop on another agent, the word spreads fast, and your bad reputation soon spreads throughout the real estate community. So far, both women had spotless reputations. Aggressive? Yes! But fair and honest. Still, with nearly two thousand members in the local board, we couldn’t rule out the possibility of another agent with a grudge. That’s a lot of interviews and a lot of legwork.

  With nothing else to go on at this point, the detectives were concentrating their efforts on interviewing family and coworkers, trying to uncover the common thread that linked the two women to the killer.

  After the squad meeting, I called Maggie. Of course she had heard the news and was devastated. I asked her if she knew the girl. She said she knew her by reputation only. Samantha had been an agent for just two years. She had been dubbed a rising star in the real estate community and had earned the honor of ‘Rookie of the Year’.

  There’s something about being young and successful that gives one a sense of invulnerability. Bad things always happen to someone else.

  Not always.

  Apparently, Samantha had been really pumped yesterday afternoon. She shared with her office partner that she had an ad call on one of her listings, a large two-story home on Ward Parkway listed at $349,000. The house was vacant and ready for immediate occupancy, and the caller said he could pay cash.

  Samantha had asked her office partner to accompany her, but she was expecting a client as well.

  When you’re young, eager, and driven, caution often takes a backseat to ambition. Samantha left and never returned to the office.

  Maggie shared that the real estate community was in a state of panic. Business had come to a virtual halt. No one was showing property unless the client was known and trusted.

  “Maggie,” I said, “I don’t want you to set foot out of your office unless you call or text me where you are going and who you are with and when you will return. Do you understand? I don’t care if you’re just slipping out for a sandwich at lunch. I want to know. This guy is killing women just like you. You’d never know when you are being stalked and when he might strike again.”

  “I promise,” she said. “I gotta go now.” I heard her sob as she clicked the phone shut.

  CHAPTER 12

  Funny thing about criminals --- they never seem to take a break. In fact, the incidence of petty crime often increases, as the bad guys know the police are preoccupied and spread thin over the city.

  Ox and I were seldom assigned a specific case. We were usually on patrol or serving warrants. But with senior officers busy trying to apprehend our serial killer, we got a new assignment, the Senior Center mugger.

  The Thomas Swope Senior Activity Center was indeed the center of the universe for the growing population of golden-agers. It was open every day of the week, and the entire day was filled with a menu of activities designed to exercise the mind and body of the aging.

  In one room octogenarians were decked out in spandex leotards and were learning to do a yoga exercise that would ward off arthritis. Not a pretty sight!

  There were card
tables surrounded by women with naturally gray, bleached blonde, dyed black and brilliant blue hair, playing canasta or bridge.

  In the corner, an old guy with bony knees wearing Bermuda shorts, sandals, and calf-length black socks was playing pool with a grizzled ex-farmer in Big Smith overalls with a red bandana hanging out of his back pocket.

  And you’ve got to understand the lingo. Getting a little action meant you didn’t need your fiber that day. Getting lucky meant you found your car in the parking lot, and an all-nighter meant you didn’t have to get up and pee.

  Something to look forward to.

  A hot meal was served every day. The cost was only $5 for those who could afford it. No one was turned away.

  Friday night was bingo, and Saturday night was a dance. Life was good!

  Or at least it was until some enterprising thug decided that mugging seniors could be profitable.

  Now you’ve got to understand we’re not talking about Al Capone or Pretty Boy Floyd here.

  If you take down a bank or armored car, you get thousands of dollars. If you take down Mrs. Bergmeyer, you may get $18.37. But you may also get her prescription drugs that can be sold on the street or occasionally a credit card.

  Besides, it was making life miserable for the old folks. And life is too short.

  Fortunately, no one had been seriously hurt. The guy’s M.O. was to surprise the victim, sometimes on the way to the bathroom, which I have found is a frequent occurrence among the elderly, or on the way to their cars. He was always dressed in a white sport coat with a pink carnation in the lapel, and he wore a Richard Nixon mask. Now that’s scary.

  The Senior Center administrator had tried to hire a security company to patrol the grounds, but operating on a tight budget, soon had to abandon the idea.

  Midtown squad had been instructed to do as many drive-bys as possible, but with the center open twelve hours Sunday through Thursday and fourteen hours Friday and Saturday, the chances of a black and white driving by at the moment of a mugging were slim.