LADY JUSTICE
AND TERROR
ON THE TRACKS
A WALT WILLIAMS
MYSTERY/COMEDY NOVEL
ROBERT THORNHILL
Lady Justice and Terror on the Tracks
Copyright March, 2020 by Robert Thornhill
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, incidents and entities included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events and entities is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America
Fiction, Humorous
Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General
LADY JUSTICE AND
TERROR ON THE TRACKS
CHAPTER 1
Mostafa Jafari heard the gentle tap on the door and looked cautiously through the peep hole. Seeing his comrade, Ahmad Shirazi, he slid the deadbolt and let Ahmad slip inside.
“Are you sure you weren’t followed?” Mostafa asked, looking up and down the street.
“I am positive,” Ahmad replied. “I took precautions. Have you received any word about our next assignment?”
“No, nothing yet.”
“What’s the delay?” Ahmad asked, obviously frustrated.
“Patience, my friend,” Mostafa replied. “When the time is right, we will be notified.”
“But surely you must have some idea. Have you heard anything at all from our people in Iran?”
“Only that preparations are being made to deliver a blow that will strike fear in the hearts of the infidels.”
Ahmad’s eyes widened. “Surely not a nuclear attack! I was told we were years away from having that capability.”
Mostafa smiled. “Ahmad! You sound like the Americans. But that is exactly what the Ayatollah wants the world to fear, our growing nuclear threat. Our enemies will be so focused on keeping that threat at bay, they won’t see what we actually have in store for them.”
“I --- I don’t understand.”
“It was the Cold War between the United States and Russia that had the entire world quaking at the thought of nuclear annihilation. Today, there are nine countries that possess nuclear weapons. It is estimated that there are over 13,885 such weapons, more than enough to bring an end to the human race as we know it. It is this fear of mutual destruction that has caused us to alter the way we wage war against our enemies.”
“Go on.”
“The American way of life is a house of cards built on a shaky foundation that most of its citizens can’t comprehend.
“The U.S. electrical grid is a perfect example. It is a highly complex system with some 3,300 utility companies that work together to deliver power through 200,000 miles of high-voltage transmission lines. The nation also has 55,000 electrical substations and 5.5 million miles of distribution lines that power millions of homes and businesses.
“Virtually everything in the American home is powered by electricity. When an ice storm wipes out power lines, there is no alarm clock, coffee pot, television, furnace motor or lights to see in the dark.
“Imagine New York City with no power. High rise buildings with no lights, heat, air conditioning or elevators. Imagine the grid-lock when all of the traffic lights are out. And this is just the beginning. Without electricity, the pumps that pull water from rivers or aquifers will not function.
“A cyberattack on the U.S. electric grid could cause power losses in large parts of the United States that could last days or up to several weeks in some places, and it would cause a substantial economic impact.”
“I can see that,” Ahmad replied, “but is such an attack possible?”
“Absolutely! A perfect example on a smaller scale was the attack on a substation in Metcalf, California. Shortly after midnight on April 16, 2013, fiber-optic AT&T phone lines were cut, shutting off service to nearby neighborhoods. The attackers also fired more than 100 rounds of .30-caliber rifle ammunition into the radiators of 17 electricity transformers. Thousands of gallons of oil leaked, causing electronics to overheat and shut down. It took twenty-seven days to get the system back up and running. Imagine such an attack on a nation-wide scale.”
“I see the possibilities, but do we have the people to pull off such an attack?”
Mostafa nodded. “After World War II, every country recruited scientists who could develop weapons of mass destruction. The result was the nuclear warhead.
“In this day and age, the people being recruited are not scientists, but the world’s most skillful hackers, people who can penetrate the complex computer systems that control America’s power grid.”
“Is such an attack even possible?”
“It is not only possible, but it has been done. Three years ago, a group of Russian hackers going by the name, Sandworm, were able to bring Ukraine to a standstill by shutting down its power grid through a type of malware. When launched, hackers were able to commandeer the cursors of the infected computers, leaving Ukrainian officials helpless. The hackers initiated blackouts that cut the power to hundreds of thousands.”
“And do we have people such as this?” Ahmad asked.
Mostafa smiled. “Indeed we do!”
CHAPTER 2
Ten years ago, when I first started with the Kansas City Police Department, nobody ever heard the term, porch pirate. People just went to the store, bought their stuff and carried it home.
In the last few years, everything has changed. It used to be that the only thing that one could have delivered was pizza. Now, a person can boot up their computer and order almost anything and have it delivered directly to their front door.
Giant corporations such as Amazon have pretty much anything a person could want on their website. Prime members can have their order delivered to their doorstep in one or two days, absolutely free!
These technological advances have spawned a new breed of thieves --- the porch pirates.
At first, it was pretty much a snatch-and-grab operation. The crook would cruise a neighborhood, spot a package left on a front stoop, grab it, and drive away.
As these thefts became more prevalent, homeowners became more cautious. Neighbors would watch for suspicious characters roaming their block, and some homeowners even installed cameras to capture the theft of their goodies on video.
As the homeowners became more proactive, the porch pirates upped their game as well. Now they masquerade as Amazon drivers, wearing the Amazon jacket and even stenciling ‘Amazon Prime’ on their vans.
Once they spot a package, they pretend to make a delivery, substituting an empty box for the real one.
Now that I’m retired from the police department and have become a private investigator, this new breed of thieves has brought more business to Walt Williams Investigations.
One of the swankier neighborhoods was experiencing a high volume of porch thievery and hired my partner, Kevin McBride, and me to nab the culprits.
Before coming to Kansas City, Kevin had been a P.I in Phoenix for thirty years. I am continually amazed at the unorthodox things Kevin comes up with to bring the bad guys to justice.
This case was a perfect example.
Kevin had gotten his hands on one of those dye pack things that banks use. We planted it in a very attractive box and placed it on the doorstep of our client.
We were parked in a driveway two houses down a
nd across the street.
“Here comes a car,” Kevin said, as a black sedan turned onto the street.
“He’s cruising slowly and looking,” I said. “This might be our guy.”
We ducked as the sedan passed by, turned around, then stopped in front of our client’s house.
We saw the guy get out of his car carrying a package.
“He’s even wearing an Amazon jacket,” Kevin said, as we watched him casually stroll up the sidewalk, look around, then switch his package for the one we had planted.
“Got him!” Kevin said, grinning. “Now comes the fun.”
We followed as the sedan pulled out of the subdivision and headed to the business district. We saw him pull to the curb and stop, most likely wanting to see what treasure he had just pilfered.
“Wait for it,” Kevin said.
Suddenly there was a muffled explosion and red smoke came billowing from the sedan.
“I love it when things come together,” Kevin said, gleefully. “Time to call Ox.”
Before our stakeout, I had called Ox, my old partner on the force, and told him about our caper. He and his new partner, Amanda, were on patrol nearby.
“Got him,” I said. “Corner of 45th and Nichols Parkway. It’s the car covered in red dye. You can’t miss it.”
We waited until Ox pulled up behind him, then headed home. Another job well done.
I had just pulled off my shoes and settled into my recliner with a glass of Arbor Mist when there was a knock on the door.
It was Dad and his sweetie, Bernice, tenants on the second floor of my three-story brownstone.
“Hey, Sonny,” Dad said, “just wanted to remind you that tomorrow morning we’re all going to the homeless camp with the Free Hot Soup people. You promised you’d make one of your tuna casseroles.”
Crap! I had indeed forgotten I’d promised to tag along.
“I’m helping Bernice whip up a batch of her snickerdoodles,” he continued, “and Jerry is cooking a pot of beans and weenies. We’re leaving at nine sharp. Don’t be late.”
So much for a relaxing afternoon, I thought, setting aside my Arbor Mist.
After a moment of calculation, I realized that if I waited until tomorrow morning to start my casserole, I’d have to get up at the crap of dawn. Not a pleasant thought. So I decided to make two casseroles: one for our supper and the other one I’d warm over the next morning.
While I was gathering the ingredients for my casseroles, I thought about my previous contact with the Free Hot Soup folks.
It was about a year ago when Dad came storming into my apartment, justifiably upset because some jerk at the Health Department along with cops, showed up at a homeless camp and poured bleach on all of the food that the Free Hot Soup people had prepared for the homeless.
They claimed that the organization didn’t have the proper permits, that the preparers weren’t trained in safe food management, and the food wasn’t prepared in inspected kitchens.
Starving people watched in horror as perfectly good food was ruined.
Needless to say, once the story hit the news wires, the good citizens of Kansas City rose up in protest. The criticism was so harsh that city officials backed down and haven’t bothered the group since. After all, it’s just a group of concerned citizens like Dad and Bernice, who prepare food in their own kitchens and deliver it to people less fortunate.
My wife, Maggie, is still an active real estate agent and at about five o’clock I heard her come in.
She stood at the entry and sniffed, then a moment later she was standing in the kitchen door with her hands on her hips.
“Hmmm! Tuna casserole! What have you done now, Walt Williams? Or even worse, what hair-brained scheme are you and my brother cooking up?”
Unfortunately, I had used the tuna casserole ploy one too many times when seeking absolution for something stupid I’d done or permission for something stupid I was about to do.
“Actually, neither one,” I replied, giving her a smooch on the cheek. “I promised to make a casserole for the homeless tomorrow, so one is for them and the other is for us.”
She looked at me skeptically. “Really? That’s all?”
“Cross my heart.”
She walked away, shaking her head. “Wonders never cease.”
Maggie knows me waaaay too well!
At nine o’clock on the button, Dad knocked. “Okay, Sonny. Let’s go! We’re burning daylight!”
“Where are we headed?” I asked as I slipped my casserole into the trunk beside the cookies and beans and weenies.
“A camp down by the railroad tracks,” Dad replied. “From what I hear, it’s a big one.”
Twenty minutes later, we parked in a lot across the tracks from the camp. Dad was right. It was indeed a big one.
Tents and make-shift cardboard shelters lined a fence just a few feet away from the tracks. People were huddled around fires burning in fifty-five-gallon barrels.
Several of the Free Hot Soup people were already there distributing food to small groups who were eagerly gobbling the donations.
I spotted a group of men who had not yet been served and headed their way with my casserole.
“Anybody here interested in a warm tuna casserole?” I asked.
A man in an old navy pea coat rose to his feet. “I reckon we might be.”
He took the casserole and began passing it to three other guys in the group. “Smells mighty good.”
After they had all filled tin plates and taken a few bites, the guy in the pea coat rose and grabbed my hand. “Right tasty. Thank you. My name’s Harley Wiggins. That there’s Roscoe, that’s Pete and the ugly mutt on the end is Wilbur.”
Each one nodded as they were introduced.
“I’m Walt Williams. Glad you like it.”
At that moment, I felt the ground shake and heard a rumble in the distance.
“That’s the 10:05,” Roscoe said. “Right on time.”
A few minutes later the train rumbled by, less than fifty feet from where we stood. Judging from the number of cars that passed, I figured the train had to be at least a mile long.
It was so loud it was impossible to speak. As I stood there watching, I tried to imagine what it must be like, hunkered down in a tent in the dark of night, then hearing the whistle of a train that would be passing within feet of my bed.
It brought to mind the lyrics of the old Hank Williams ballad.
Hear that lonesome whippoorwill
He sounds too blue to fly
The midnight train is whining low
I’m so lonesome I could cry
I could almost hear the quiet sobs coming from the dark, cold tents.
As soon as the train passed, I saw Dad and Bernice heading our way.
“Who wants a snickerdoodle for dessert?” Bernice asked as Dad opened the box of goodies.
“I wouldn’t mind a cookie,” Harley said. “How about you guys?”
“Hell yes!” Wilbur replied. “I ain’t had a snickerdoodle in a coon’s age.”
While I’m not an expert on the longevity of raccoons, I guessed it had probably been a long time since Wilbur had eaten one of the tasty treats.
After munching his second cookie, Harley turned to Bernice. “Mighty tasty. Thank you, pretty lady.”
I think Bernice actually blushed.
Suddenly Harley’s demeanor changed from satisfaction to alarm. “Damn!” he said, pointing down the gravel road. “This ain’t good. This ain’t good at all.”
I looked where he was pointing and saw an SUV followed by a black and white with its lights flashing.
My first thought was that it was the Health department returning to pour more bleach on Bernice’s cookies. I hoped not. The last time, she threatened to shoot them with the little .32 she keeps strapped to her ankle.
A stern-faced man climbed out of the SUV and headed our way. Two cops from the black and white followed close behind. I recognized one of the cops from my days on the f
orce, Officer Dooley.
“Listen up!” the man shouted. “You folks are going to have to pack up and move off of railroad property.”
I stepped forward. “Hey Dooley. What’s going on?”
The man looked me over, probably surmising that I wasn’t one of the squatters. He turned to Dooley. “Do you know this man?”
“Yeah, I do,” Dooley replied. “That’s Walt Williams. He used to be a cop. Now he’s a private investigator. He’s a good guy.”
The man stepped forward and offered his hand. “My name is David Fox and I’m with the Kansas City Terminal Railway. What’s your business here?”
“I’m just here with the Free Hot Soup folks.” I looked around. “Things appear to be pretty quiet. What seems to be the problem?”
“Under normal circumstances,” Fox replied, “we look the other way when these folks set up camp on our property as long as they don’t cause trouble. But not today. We’ve been vandalized again, and we have good reason to believe that the vandals are from this encampment.”
“Vandalized? How?”
“Wires have been stripped from our tracks and control boxes. The minute the damage is done it shows up on our computers. These people do thousands of dollars in damage just to get thirty dollars’ worth of copper wire. And that’s not the worst of it. We can’t use that section of track until the damage is repaired. It disrupts our entire schedule. We just can’t tolerate this kind of behavior. These people will have to move.”
I knew exactly what Fox was talking about. During my years on the force, Ox and I had been sent, along with other officers, to homeless camps throughout the city. Like the railroad, the city would look the other way until citizen complaints forced them to clear the area. This, of course, did not fix the problem. The camp just packed up and moved to another part of the city and remained there until the complaints started pouring in again.
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