Exacting Justice

by TG Wolff

  The heads were mounted on Division Avenue in what had become the usual manner. Common stakes, one on each side of the road, impaled a head. One was a white male, early twenties. The other was the first female, also early twenties.

  “Preliminary ID,” Yablonski said, “Eric Hamby and Jessica Poole. We know these two. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Small time Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Where are they from?” Cruz asked.

  “Denison Avenue. West Eighteenth area.”

  “What’s familiar about that?” Cruz pinched the bridge of his nose. Then snapped his fingers. “Last week. The elderly couple killed in their home. Same neighborhood.” Cruz directed Yablonski to the detective assigned to the case. “How long had he had these two?”

  “Detective. You’re going to want to hear this.” An officer walked down the center of the street with three women in tow.

  “Detective De La Cruz. I’m in charge.”

  The women introduced themselves. All were in their forties, dressed for a warm day on the Lake Erie shore. Two had faces scrubbed clean, the third wore make up with bright red lipstick. The shortest of the three took the lead.

  “For your information, Detective, those heads were there yesterday morning.”

  Cruz blinked in disbelief. “Yesterday morning? But how?”

  “Who do you think comes down here? Nobody but us. Who was to know and nobody was to tell.”

  Cruz looked around the crime scene. It was a city street with apartments lined up the road. “People must have come and gone. Somebody had to see. People had to be afraid.”

  The woman shook her head. “The only people who are afraid are the people who gots something to be afraid of.”

  “It was protection,” the tallest woman said. “A warning. Nobody did nothin’ yesterday.”

  Cruz paced away from the women. “Jesus Christ, Yablonski. Those heads were on the posts and nobody called it in. What the hell is going on?”

  Crime scene arrived and got to work. Cruz directed his team into the housing complex to begin the arduous task of door to door calls. The managing authority was contacted and arrangements made to deliver copies of all surveillance tapes of the campus. The heads were taken with the posts intact. The scene was worked but, as was becoming too common, little was found.

  Late afternoon had Cruz reading the files on Hamby and Poole. Since turning eighteen, the pair had collectively been arrested a dozen times. The story was simple. They had a drug habit. When they needed money to support the habit they either one: sold drugs, or two: stole.

  Back at the home of the elderly couple, the pair had left DNA under the wife’s fingernails and on forks used for a midnight snack. But the police sent to arrest the couple hadn’t been able to locate them just days after the vicious attack.

  Cruz left Yablonski to the task of building the timeline while he did the next of kin notifications. Eric Hamby’s father stood in the opened doorway, his feet planted wide, arms crossed over a T-shirt. “I knew this day would come. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry to inform you Eric Hamby was found dead this morning. The details of his death are under investigation, but you need to know only his head has been—”

  “Drug Head got him? I told that boy. Over and over but there was never anything you could tell him. You better come in, tell me what’s to be done.”

  “I need details, sir. When did you see Eric last?”

  Jessica Poole’s mother became hysterical, her stepfather stood though tears filled his eyes. “Did…did she suffer?” he asked.

  “It’s under investigation, sir.” When the mother wailed with heartbreak, Cruz stretched the truth. “She didn’t. Not to my knowledge. When did you see Jessica last?”

  “Months,” he said. “Jessie, well, Jessie didn’t want…” He broke down.

  Her mother looked up, tears streaming down. “She was so smart in school. She could have been anything, anything she wanted. When I heard about Drug Head, I had this bad feeling. She laughed at me, asked me for money. She swore and hung up the phone when I said no. That’s the last thing I said to Jessie. No.”

  Hours later, Cruz drove by the building holding the Monday meeting. He didn’t slow down. Another two hours passed, the sun was beginning to set as he pulled in his driveway. The garage door was closed, his truck parked directly in front of it. His house was quiet as a church when he walked in. No music blasting. No TV laughing.

  Aurora sat at the dining room table, elbows set, hands clasped over her mouth. Her gaze was hollow, empty.

  “Aurora? Baby?”

  She jumped. She blinked, her gaze eventually settling on him. “I called you. A lot. You didn’t call back.”

  Cruz took his phone out. Eight times beginning at 2:00 p.m. He’d dismissed the first, ignored the rest. “The case flared up. I couldn’t answer. What happened?”

  “A detective called from internal affairs. He wanted to interview me.”

  “Shit. You don’t have to do that—”

  “I already did. I went to his office this afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  Her hands fell to the table with a thump. “Do you know what they asked me?”

  Cruz stood at the opposite end of the table, his fists buried in his pockets. “Not specifically.”

  “It was disgusting, what he implied. I hated answering his questions. Hated.”

  “You should have call—” He stopped himself, realizing she had. It was he who should have. “It’s going to be all right, baby.” He went to her now, down on his knees.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He blurted out the truth. “Because I didn’t want it to be real. Because I could never hurt a child. Because it was easier to ignore than to face. I didn’t think it would go anywhere. It’s a ridiculous accusation made by a criminal who was pissed he’s behind bars.”

  Aurora turned putting his body between her knees. “All the more reason to tell me. This is important to you—”

  “It’s just work. Work doesn’t come here.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Cruz lifted his chin. “Excuse me.”

  “You heard me, Zeus. Bullshit. Your job is here every day. It’s in our bed. Every night. Do you realize we have not had sex in weeks? It’s like we’re some old, married couple. I-I-I barely see you. You don’t live here. You live at your desk or in your car or wherever else you hide.”

  “This is a big case. It takes a lot of my focus.”

  “It doesn’t deserve all of you.” She cupped his face. “Don’t you see what it’s doing to you?”

  Cruz pushed away, came to his feet. “I can handle it.”

  “Well, I can’t. I can’t, damn it.”

  He took a step back though his features crowded together in anger. “Is that a threat? If there’s something you want, just say it, Aurora. You want out?”

  Aurora took a step closer, one hand over his heart. “I want you, and I want you to want me.”

  “I do want you. I’m just tired,” he whispered.

  “Call Oscar. If you can’t talk to me, call him.”

  “I will,” Cruz said, but it was a lie. He wouldn’t call Bollier until he got his shit back together.

  Friday, June 15

  Cruz’s alarm went off, but he was already wide awake. Aurora was in the shower and the tune of the morning was Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”. She’d gotten up early everyday despite being out of school, showering and then walking comfortably naked through their bedroom. He rolled to his side, waiting for the show to start.

  Aurora danced in, wrapped in a towel. She rolled him to his back, climbed on top, then kissed him. “It’s going to be an amazing day.”

  “It is?”

  Aurora propped herself up, her breasts straining against the towel. “My art show is tonight. You’re going to be there, right?”

  Cruz smiled into her worried eyes. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  She pursed her lips.
“How about dead bodies?”

  His hands ran up her ribs until his thumbs caressed the soft skin of her breasts. “I’ll make an announcement there are to be no dead bodies after noon today. That gives me plenty of time before the seven o’clock opening.”

  “Do you want me to wait for you? We could go together?”

  “No. You’re going to want to be there early. I don’t want you stressing over me. You’re going to be great. I know it.”

  Cruz showered, feeling positive for the first time since Montoya broke the news about internal affairs. Yablonski and Montoya had been interviewed. Even Dr. Chen had made the list. Cruz was pleased the doctor was ‘clearly’ on his side. Let IA look. There was nothing to find.

  He picked up his daily inspirations. He hadn’t read the words of other AA members for five days. He’d never done that before. It didn’t feel good. He read through the missed days, feeling like he was catching up on his life.

  The meeting in the chief’s office featured Cruz, Commander Montoya, and Chief Ramsey. No clinical experts to spout twelve-letter jargon. No public relations to spin the tale. No feds to get in the way.

  “Where are we?”

  Cruz spoke. “The evidence has placed the latest victims, Eric Hamby and Jessica Poole, at the scene of the Gertz murders. DNA collected from the female victim and from the kitchen matched Poole while DNA on the male victim matched Hamby. Accounts provided by associates indicate they likely went missing twenty-four hours after they killed the Gertzes. They were not reported missing. The suspect left little to work with, again. The various cameras around the housing campus were focused on doorways. Not the street. The residents closest to the sites have heavy shades pulled at night because of the bright street lights. No one claims to have heard or seen anything.”

  Ramsey curled his lip. “Have you seen the reports from the street? They are lauding him. Raising him up as the poster-child for drug control.”

  “Yes, sir. I heard about the heads.” Morning television reported mannequin heads mounted at the entrances to neighborhoods and parks throughout the city and into the suburbs.

  “This is getting out of hand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to ask the FBI to take over.”

  “No.” Cruz snapped the word, drawing fierce scowls from Ramsey and Montoya. “This is my case. Our case. There is nothing the feds can do that we can’t.”

  “We’re going on eight months, Detective. Eight months of dead ends and gang battles, protests and rallies, media and social bullshit.” Ramsey rose slowly, his shoulders seeming to widen as he released the torrent held behind the hard-edged features. “A killer is trolling our streets with impunity! He goes where he wants, when he wants, toying with us. I am sick of playing his fucking games!”

  “Then we’ll change the rules.” Cruz paced away, giving room for an idea to unfold. “We’ll change the fucking game. Listen, it’s about control, right? Since we found Uncle Hall, we have been chasing after him. He sets a play in motion, we don’t know the clock has started until we find a head. We tried playing a zone defense, but the city is too damn big to throw a net fine enough to catch one in a million.”

  Ramsey dropped his chin, looking like a wolf ready to defend his territory. “Do you have a point, Detective?”

  “We engaged him with Kroc and Pelletier. We were able to confirm he is male and white. He is not untouchable. He just thinks he is.”

  Montoya nodded his head, interested. “What are you suggesting, Jesus?”

  “We start playing offense. I’m going back undercover.”

  The room went silent. The only sound was the whirl from Ramsey’s laptop.

  Cruz held up his hands. “Before you say no, listen. This makes sense. He is approaching dealers. I’ll go back in, my cover is still solid. I’ll throw parties and make headlines and the bastard will walk into our arms.”

  Montoya looked at Ramsey. “I like the idea. Maybe someone from narcotics—”

  “I’m the better choice. Come on, Kurt. Narcotics is already spread thin and they can’t afford to burn a cover. Add to that, they don’t know this suspect. I do.”

  “How about Yablonski? He’s been with you for months. He’s got the chops.”

  Cruz wasn’t being put aside, not even for his best friend. “Absolutely, Yablonski has chops. He’s also arrested half the people we need to draw in to make this look legit. Word will spread fast Cleveland police opened up a house. People don’t forget Yablonski.”

  He interpreted the silence as agreement on this last part at least.

  “I won’t need much,” Cruz said, the details falling into place. “We’ll use Uncle’s house. Mrs. Hall will let us. There’s already a customer base to make it easy to establish the cover. The suspect knows the area, having already attacked Hall. It ups the odds he’d be watching.”

  Ramsey sat, steepled his fingers. “Maybe be irritated another demon-seed stepped into Hall’s shoes. He could come at us hard.”

  “Which is what we want,” Cruz said. “The harder, the better.”

  Ramsey pointed to Montoya. “You like it but you aren’t buying it. What are you thinking, Kurt?”

  “We can’t ignore the situation.” They discussed the investigation into Cruz’s relationship with Jace Parker.

  “It’s ridiculous. It’s the false accusations of a man who beat his own child until his arm broke.” First Cruz fought for his case, now he fought for his pride, his reputation, his life. “There is no, I repeat, no validity to the accusation.”

  “And yet, process must be followed.” Ramsey sighed heavily. “I’ll make a call. If we can clear the record, I’ll give you a month. If not, we’ll go to Narcotics. The approach works for me. I like taking control of the game.”

  Cruz had some far and away hope that Ramsey’s call would solve his problems. Instead, it brought it to his door. After lunch, Cruz sat in Montoya’s office with a Detective Moss from internal affairs bureau. Moss was in his late thirties with a set jaw and a slight air that said everything around him stunk. The file in front of him was two inches thick.

  What did they have in there that was two inches thick?

  Moss opened the cover. “You first met Jace Parker on November first, is that correct?”

  Cruz didn’t like being on this side of the table. It was hard not to be sarcastic and rude. Having Montoya in there, standing on his side, helped. “Yes, it was the day after Halloween. I responded to a call from his mother that their home had been shot at Halloween night.”

  “Did you speak with Jace?”

  “Yes. He was sitting on the porch when I came out of the house. I spoke with him about the incident the day before.”

  “Was anyone with you when you spoke to him?”

  Cruz had to pause. Were any of the uniformed officers around at that point? “His mother and father remained in the house. I stayed close by because I was concerned about Mr. Parker’s frame of mind. There were two uniformed officers at the scene. I can’t say their whereabouts at the time of the conversation.”

  “Did you give the child candy in exchange for information?”

  “No. Absolutely not. I did give the child a bag a candy from my nieces. He had missed trick-or-treating. While he ate the candy, he divulged the name of the man his mother suspected of shooting at her home. He gave me the name voluntarily. I was not interrogating a child.”

  The questioning went on for hours. Everything he had said or done with Jace had been made to feel dirty. Giving him the winter coat was made to sound like a sexual invitation. Aurora had told them he had a special relationship with Jace. The innocent comment was likened to sexual imposition.

  For an hour, they talked about Jace calling and the chocolate rabbit that resulted. Moss asked details Cruz wouldn’t have been able to answer ten minutes after the conversation ended. In the end, Cruz was clear on two points: his relationship to Jace was detective to child, proper and platonic, and Jace’s father was an ambitious dea
ler with a hard-on for the cop who busted him.

  At four-thirty, the interview wasn’t finished but suspended until Monday.

  Cruz walked out of the department. He was sickened by the allegations against him and felt betrayed by a department that took a criminal’s side over his.

  “Detective della Cruz.”

  Cruz looked up to find Sam Bell leaning in a corner, his head hung low, his eyes red. Any other day, Cruz might have cared. Not today. He walked past Bell without stopping.

  “She’s dead now. She dead, too.”

  And Cruz reversed direction. “Who’s dead?”

  “Melissa. Sleeping pills.” The man looked lost, ripped of the only friend he had. “Some doctor gave ’em to her. She took ’em all. Thought maybe you should know.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bell.” He was, more than the words said. Cruz took out his wallet and handed Bell a card.

  “A therapist?”

  “She gets it. Tell her I sent you.”

  Tears streaked Bell’s cheeks. “That boy was everything to her. He…he was her life.”

  Cruz got that, but his shoulders weren’t big enough for another’s grief. “She knew how good a friend you were. Call Edna.”

  He walked on then, needing to be out of this building and away from people needing things from him.

  “Detective De La Cruz!” A different voice shouted his name. This one was excited.

  He kept walking. He’d done his good deed for the day. Everyone else could piss off.

  “Detective. Detective De La Cruz. Just a moment of your time.” Soft-soled shoes closed in behind him. “Just a moment, Detective.”

  Cruz turned and faced a squat, bulldog of a man. He held a paper. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.” The man slapped the paper into his hand. “What’s this?”

  “You’re being sued. See you in court.”

  Cruz looked at the paper, watched his fingers curl, felt the paper crumble.

  “This guy bothering you, Detective?” A couple of officers ran to assist him.