Perverted Justice

by Michael Arches

  Then, for the first time, I got a good look at his right hand. My shot had ripped off several fingers. That had to be incredibly painful, and it was just the start of the terrible price he’d pay for his arrogance.

  I bandaged his wound with gauze as best I could but didn’t give him any pain meds from the kit. Not that ibuprofen would’ve done him much good. I doubted a morphine drip would take away his agony.

  Sirens sounded in the distance, coming from both the east and the west. About time.

  “Okay, Willow, you can let him sit up if he wants.”

  He did, still muttering. His torso rocked back and forth. Wouldn’t look at me or my girlfriend.

  I put an arm around her. “Nice job. He won’t be giving us any more trouble.”

  Her lips trembled, but she smiled at me. “Let’s go home and get drunk.”

  I kissed her on the temple. “As soon as we can, but it won’t be soon.”

  -o-o-o-

  The first law enforcement official to arrive happened to be a Garfield County deputy. His squad car skidded to a halt west of the truck. A guy in his early thirties got out. I recognized him. Had met him in groups a couple of times but didn’t remember his name. It didn’t matter. He was my new best friend in law enforcement.

  He looked down on us from the road and yelled, “Hank, is that you? Are you okay?”

  “Willow and I are all right. Simon made the mistake of pulling a gun on us. Can you call for an ambulance? He’ll survive, but he’s in a bad way.”

  The deputy disappeared for a moment before coming back. “On the way, along with every cop within fifty miles. Is that really one of your deputies down there?”

  “Yeah, I can hardly believe it myself,” I said. “Makes me sick.”

  The Garfield deputy carefully scrambled down the hillside to us. Thankfully, he introduced himself to Willow, so it wasn’t obvious that I’d forgotten his name.

  Minutes later, the first Pitkin County officer arrived from the east. More cops kept coming. They’d take control of the site, and there’d be investigations out the wazoo. Willow and I left our prisoner with the deputies, and we slowly made our way back up to the road.

  Randy soon arrived and formally put me on administrative leave, again. He separated me from Willow and took my statement first, then hers. Our chief deputy also took our weapons.

  I used his radio to contact our dispatcher and asked Muriel to call Ricky. We were going to be stuck here for a while, and he could bring Boomer there instead of babysitting more. That would also give Randy a chance to take his statement.

  In no time, at least twenty people showed up from various jurisdictions. We were well inside Pitkin County, so Randy was in charge. He kept everyone busy working various parts of the case. Simon was hauled off to the hospital in Aspen, and a cop rode with him.

  Without anything better to do, I checked Ricky’s truck. His custom-made, heavy-duty bumper had barely been scratched.

  Eventually, its owner arrived, dropped off Boomer, and talked to our chief deputy.

  Meanwhile, Willow and I heaped praise on our hero hound. As word spread about how he’d goosed Simon at the critical moment, folks stopped what they were doing for a minute and praised Boomer more. He loved every second of it.

  When Randy had a moment to take a deep breath, I asked, “Is anybody running down the owner of that Accord? I’m happy to—”

  He put up his hand. “We’ve got it covered, and you’re on admin leave. Linda’s back at the office, and she’s already coordinating with the sheriff’s office in Grand County, Utah. The owner lives near Moab. She’s also running down the calls made from a burn phone found in the Accord.”

  “Great,” I said. “I know the bastard probably had help in getting rid of Blatter. And we still need to run down the twins who met with Simon and Gregor in Carbondale. If Linda has any problems on the tech side, I’m sure Willow would be happy to help.”

  Too late, I remembered that he didn’t know about Willow’s special talents. “Strictly informal. No cost.”

  He looked at me askance. “Is she why you seem to be so much more tech savvy lately?”

  “Duh.”

  “Probably won’t need her. We’re getting great cooperation from all over. Nobody likes a cop killer, especially other cops.”

  He wandered off without telling me to keep Willow out of my cases. It wasn’t a rousing endorsement, but silence implied consent. At least, I’d heard that in an old movie about Henry VIII once.

  Willow and I wandered around, watching cops and crime techs follow their routines. It hadn’t escaped my notice that our case against Simon depended mostly on my testimony and my girlfriend’s. Fortunately, Ricky had caught a glimpse of Simon at the house, and his gun should still be there.

  Naturally, everyone wanted to believe us, but we all had to anticipate how a sharp defense attorney would concoct some crazy defense. He might claim I was framing Simon for the vigilante killings.

  I remembered that Jenkins had already thrown that argument in my face. It wasn’t a great theory, but I’d heard worse from desperate defendants. All they had to do was to create reasonable doubt.

  Chapter 20

  Randy cut me loose, and two of our lab techs drove Willow, Boomer, and me to her house. The techs collected the gun and looked for other evidence supporting our stories. To avoid contaminating evidence, Willow and I grabbed the horses and the dog before driving home.

  We unloaded our critters, and I took Barney’s truck and trailer back. He’d already heard something on the radio, and he wouldn’t let me go until I gave him the basics.

  When I got home again, I was ready to collapse into bed. Except that Malcolm Younger and Sarah Abraham were waiting on the front porch swing.

  “What took you so long?” she asked. “You left Willow here over an hour ago.”

  “Barney.” I didn’t need to say anything more. He was a legendary bullshitter.

  Without much choice, I invited them inside. I was technically on leave, so I cracked open a beer. Willow had cooked dinner, and she’d kept some warm for me. While I ate, the two lawyers grilled us for ninety minutes. They thought up a dozen potential weaknesses in our case against Simon, and we carefully evaluated how we could deal with each of them. The main loose end were the two tall, thin guys who’d met with Simon and Gregor at the Bonnie Lass in Carbondale.

  Finally, I said, “The best things you can do to lock this case down are first, clear me for duty. And second, tell Randy to get Willow involved in tracking the communications between Simon and his buddies. She’s a marvel.”

  Sarah backed me up on both counts. But the district attorney said, “The problem is, of course, if you two concocted a scheme to frame Simon, you’ll keep doing it. It’s much better for other officers to find any other evidence against our new prisoner.”

  He had a point, but I said, “Fine, others will take the lead in gathering evidence. I just want to stay in the background to follow what happens to the end.”

  He nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem—as long as you keep your fingers out of the pie.”

  -o-o-o-

  When I woke up Friday morning, I expected an email saying the DA had reinstated me. Nope, for once, I got to stay at home with the dog and horses.

  Overnight, Willow was dragged into some financial crisis in Brazil, but nobody connected with my work contacted me. I always complained that I didn’t have enough time to hike or ride, so I took Rambo and Boomer out for a leisurely stroll along the Roaring Fork River. Lovely, as the golden cottonwood leaves fluttered in a soft breeze.

  But I couldn’t get my mind off Simon’s case. The son of a bitch had betrayed us all. A half-dozen times, I caught myself reaching for my phone. No, I wasn’t going to call the DA to whine about getting my gun and job back. Not yet, anyway.

  -o-o-o-

  Lunchtime came and went. Mom, and a few of my local friends, called. They’d seen news reports
which made it seem like I’d faced almost certain death and brought a killer to justice. I calmed them down by glossing over the tenser moments and reminded everyone about all the help I got.

  Nobody from the office called. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing that kept them too busy to check up on me.

  Not having anything better to do, I mucked out the stalls in the barn. To thank me, several horse flies bit me. That didn’t improve my mood any.

  -o-o-o-

  By six p.m., I’d waited long enough. Called Sarah. “Are you, by any chance, going to let me work again?”

  “Didn’t anybody tell you? You’re cleared for duty, but as we talked about, you have to stay in the background on the Simon investigation.”

  A wave of relief flowed through me. I was beginning to worry that they’d found some terrible secret in my past that would cost me my job. I didn’t know of anything, but that somehow didn’t matter. “Great, I’ll go to the office.”

  “Actually, all the work is in Moab today,” she said. “They have an active posse comitatus militia group over there. Their sheriff’s planning to execute a search warrant first thing in the morning.”

  Posse comitatus was a part of English common law from centuries ago. Modern day vigilantes had corrupted that same legal doctrine to justify taking the law into their own hands. “I’d dearly love to be present for the final act.”

  She paused for a moment. “Hank, why can’t you just chill out for a few days? You know we’re worried that some shyster lawyer is going to concoct an incredible conspiracy theory with you at the center of a deadly web.”

  “We’ve got plenty of proof to beat that argument. And it’s my case, and I need to see it through. Is that so terrible?”

  Sarah hemmed and hawed but didn’t try and stop me from asking the Utah sheriff to let me tag along on their raid. When I hung up with her, I called Randy. He discouraged me from going to Moab, too, but didn’t flat-out order me to stay home.

  “Isn’t it up to the local sheriff?” I asked.

  “What a stubborn woman you are,” was all he said before hanging up.

  I called Isaiah Buckley, the Grand County Sheriff.

  “You’re welcome to come along as an observer, but you will not be part of the search team. We’re meeting at five-thirty a.m. at my office.”

  “Thanks so much!” I hung up and hit the road before somebody could call me back and say they’d change their mind.

  -o-o-o-

  At five a.m., I got up and ate a hurried meal of yogurt and Raisin Bran at my motel in Moab. Made it to the sheriff’s office with plenty of time to spare. I told Isaiah, a tall, burly man who looked a lot like a bear, “I appreciate so much the chance to tag along.”

  In a deep gravelly voice that matched his appearance, he said, “Don’t make me regret giving you the benefit of the doubt. I checked with Randy. He and I met at a Boy Scout jamboree long before you were born. My old buddy says you have a way of getting into trouble but getting yourself out again.”

  I stifled a laugh. Couldn’t disagree. “I won’t cause you any headaches.”

  He nodded. “Gonna hold you to it.”

  They’d already obtained a search warrant for the ranch they were about to raid. It was ten miles outside of town on a nasty four-wheel-drive road. I’d brought my Rubicon, so I figured I could get there.

  According to the sheriff, my job was to “stand in the back of the crowd and look pretty.” I didn’t bitch, even though I thought about it. But Isaiah might’ve been hoping he could goad me into giving him an excuse to keep me in town.

  The sheriff asked if anyone wanted to add to his comments. I couldn’t resist. “Please keep in mind that we’re also looking for two men, tall and thin, probably brothers. They met several times with our vigilante in Carbondale. We’ve got John Doe warrants waiting for them at my office.”

  I circulated the drawings Angie and the police artist had prepared.

  Everybody, including me, suited up in body armor and helmets. They checked their weapons and were good to go. I’d gotten my .357 Magnum pistol back and wore it in its holster.

  When Isaiah saw my hardware, he asked, “A Colt Python? Haven’t seen one in ages.”

  I pulled it out. “Stainless-steel with the six-inch barrel.”

  He looked at me askance. “That’s a big gun for a lady.”

  “I can handle it. It’s been in the family for fifty years. My granddad on my mom’s side gave this to me when I first pinned on a badge.”

  “Can’t argue with family traditions,” he said. “Just remember, that’s for your protection only.”

  I nodded.

  -o-o-o-

  I followed a line of four sheriff’s SUVs. They zipped right along, obviously knowing the crappy road much better than I did. I followed their line as they wove between boulders and potholes.

  The sun was a distinct glow in the East when we reached the gate to a large ranch. The gate was padlocked with two different chains. No intercom.

  One of the deputies in the first vehicle pulled out a big-ass bolt cutter and cut the locks off. We streamed through and drove hard for a fancy, two-story cedar log home a half-mile away. These desperados had some serious bucks.

  I hoped the people here had partied hard on Friday night and were still sleeping.

  No such luck. When we got within a hundred yards of the home, a rifle shot rang out.

  All chances of secrecy gone, the sheriff’s vehicles hit their lights and sirens to make sure the ranch’s occupants knew we were cops.

  Another shot rang out from the house and hit the windshield of the vehicle ahead of me. One of the deputies ahead identified us with a loudspeaker, “Grand County Sheriff’s Office. We have a search warrant.”

  The only response was another gunshot. The deputies opened fire with a dozen pistols.

  I stayed as close as I could to the SUV in front of me, hoping it would shield my relatively new Jeep from any damage. Mentally, I urged the guys ahead of me to speed up.

  I’d been in enough firefights to know how badly things could go if we didn’t overwhelm the assholes quickly. Attack with overwhelming force. Each of the other vehicles contained four officers, three of which fired steadily at the house’s windows as we drove on.

  A steady stream of bullets continued from their side. We shot out every window facing us, and several of our windshields were blasted. Our drivers kept going.

  Despite my effort to hide close behind the SUV ahead of me, a bullet punched through my windshield in the center. Didn’t hit me but clanged against the metal tailgate. Even though I was wearing armor, that bullet sent a blast of adrenaline surging through me.

  The first SUV practically slammed into the front porch. The four deputies inside piled out, still firing continuously. One grabbed a battering ram from the back of his vehicle.

  Within seconds, all of the other cops were lined up behind him. I brought up the rear and held my gun but didn’t shoot.

  The two cops at the head of the line slammed the battering ram into the front door, ripping it off its hinges. Everyone followed inside, including me.

  The officers spread out, yelling, “Police! Hands up!”

  But nobody faced us. As the deputies cleared the ground floor, I checked out the back kitchen window. No sign of anyone running away. I strode over to the sheriff.

  “No one out back. They must be upstairs.”

  In his deep, gravelly voice, the sheriff roared, “Grand County Sheriff’s Office! We are executing a lawfully authorized search warrant. Put down your weapons and come down with your hands up. Last chance, before we come up and resume firing!”

  Total silence for a long moment. These thugs were complete idiots.

  Chapter 21

  The sheriff and his deputies headed for the stairs. Their heavy boots stomped on the steps, and the booming sound echoed through the house.

  Before they got halfway up
to the second floor, someone yelled out from above. “Wait! Don’t shoot. We’re coming out unarmed. Jeff’s dead, and Ian caught a bullet. He can’t hold both arms up. Didn’t know you were cops.”

  The sheriff shook his head in obvious disbelief. I didn’t buy the bullshit either, but every gunfight avoided was a victory. The cops on the stairs backed down to the main floor and kept their guns held high.

  Five men walked out onto a landing upstairs where we could see them. Four held their hands up, and one held his right arm with his left hand. The wounded arm dripped blood. Two of the men were tall and thin, including the injured guy. They strongly resembled the drawings Angie had inspired. Two of the other men were short and stocky. The last was a slim, Hispanic guy who looked to be barely out of his teens. His whole body shook.

  As each came down the stairs, the deputies cuffed them with their hands behind their backs. Then one of our guys cut away the shirt from around the gunshot wound and bandaged it.

  I blew out a deep breath of relief. Our long, vigilante nightmare was almost over, and even better, Isaiah’s team had come through this fight safely.

  -o-o-o-

  Technically, the search warrant sought items belonging to Simon Grassley, including his yellow Camaro. It would be up to the sheriff to decide how much of an uproar he wanted to make about the attempted murder of a dozen police officers. I tended to dislike getting shot at, and I hoped Isaiah would throw the book at them.

  “Is anybody up there alive?” the sheriff asked. “Don’t lie to me, or you’ll be in much worse trouble than you already are.”

  The prisoners shook their heads.

  “I want clear, verbal answers,” Isaiah said.

  “No,” they all replied.

  The sheriff turned to his crew. “Execute the warrant. Hank and I will keep an eye on our prisoners.”

  Several deputies strode out the back to check the barn and a detached garage. Several more searched the rooms on this floor for Simon’s possessions. The rest went upstairs.