[Lady Justice 13] - Lady Justice and the Assassin

by Robert Thornhill

  “Opps! Sorry!” he said, wiping the white dust from the steering wheel.

  I could only imagine what the guy in the next car was thinking when two cops climbed out of their cruiser looking like ‘Pig-Pen’ from the Charlie Brown cartoons.

  Fifteen minutes later, after dusting off our uniforms and wiping down the interior of the cruiser, we were ready for duty.

  “Donut?” Ox asked, offering me the box.

  “Ummm, thanks, but I’ll pass,” I replied, remembering the sneeze that had sent the powder into orbit.

  Just then the radio came to life.

  “Car 54. What’s your twenty?”

  I almost said ‘Dunkin Donuts’, but then I reconsidered.

  “We’re on Main, just north of the Plaza.”

  “Proceed to 5421 Oak. The resident has reported a break-in. ”

  “On our way.”

  “What are you and Judy up to this weekend?” I asked as Ox headed south on Main through the Plaza.

  “Nothing yet. Keeping our options open. What did you have in mind?”

  The last time Maggie and I double dated with Ox and Judy, the girls were less than impressed. We had taken them to the Burrito Bandito in the smelly City Market so that we could keep an eye on the druggies operating a fruit stand next door. Afterward, we had been informed in no uncertain terms that we owed them big time and that an evening of fine dining was somewhere in our near future.

  Ox and I don’t do fine dining.

  “Maggie keeps reminding me that I still owe her for that City Market thing. It’s kind of like a toothache --- I don’t want to go to the dentist, but I know I’ll have to eventually so I might as well get it over with.”

  “Judy’s been on my case too. Think we ought to bite the bullet?”

  We had just pulled up in front of the Oak address.

  “We’re here. Let’s discuss our options at lunch.”

  We knocked on the door and were met by a very prim and proper matron that appeared to be in her sixties.

  “Good morning, Ma’am. I’m Officer George Wilson and this is my partner, Walt Williams. I understand you’ve had some problems.”

  She held the door open and stepped aside. “I’m Abigail Fitzhugh and yes, we certainly have.”

  We figured from the address that the owners would be well off and we weren’t disappointed. The home was decorated with massive furnishings, and antique pieces were perched on every available surface.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Ox inquired. “The dispatcher mentioned something about a break-in.”

  “Let me show you something,” she said, reaching for a photo in an ornate gilded frame.

  “This is Lazarus. We call him Lazzie.”

  Ox took the frame and we found ourselves staring at the photo of a hairy little dog that looked like a miniature yak. On closer inspection, his face bore a striking resemblance to Chewbacca, the Wookiee in the Star Wars movies.

  “Nice pooch,” Ox observed.

  I saw Mrs. Fitzhugh stiffen. “Lazzie is not a pooch! He is a pure bred Lhasa Apso!”

  “A what?”

  It was obvious that Mrs. Fitzhugh was appalled by our lack of canine breeding.

  “Lhasa Apso! They were bred in Tibet by Buddhist monks. Lhasa is the capital city of Tibet and Apso means bearded. We had him flown into the United States directly from a Buddhist monastery.”

  “Very impressive,” I said, attempting to smooth her ruffled feathers. “Was Lazzie taken during the break-in?”

  “Thankfully, no, but he was certainly disgraced.”

  I couldn’t imagine how a dog could be disgraced. I was about to find out.

  “Let me show you. Lazzie! Come!”

  Moments later, a scrawny pink creature that looked nothing like the regal Lazarus poked his head around the corner.

  “Come here, baby,” she cooed. “Come to mama.”

  The pitiful creature crept toward its mistress with its tail tucked between his legs.

  She picked him up and held him at arms length.

  “This is my poor Lazarus. Someone broke into my home and shaved my dog!”

  Ox and I were speechless.

  In Ox’s twenty-plus years on the force, this was probably his first dog-shaving case. I know that it was a first for me.

  “Well, what are you going to do?” Mrs. Fitzhugh asked, indignantly.

  “Let’s start with the break-in,” I said. “Was there a forced entry?”

  “My husband and I were at a benefit dinner last evening,” she said leading us through the house. “When we returned we found this,” she said, pointing to the back door.

  A pane of glass in the door had been broken, giving the intruder access to the deadbolt lock.

  “Was anything taken from your home?” Ox asked.

  “Nothing! We looked in every room. Nothing was taken. We have silver, jewelry, a wall safe, but the only thing we found was poor Lazarus.”

  “Can you think of any reason why someone would shave your dog?” I asked. “Was his fur valuable?”

  “Of course not. The perpetrator didn’t even bother to take it. Here let me show you.”

  She picked up a gallon zip-lock bag filled with hair.

  “I couldn’t bear to part with it.”

  I wondered if she was planning to glue it back on, but I figured I’d better not go there.

  “Can you think of any possible reason why someone would do this?” Ox asked. “Revenge --- a grudge --- trouble with neighbors?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing like that. We get along well with everyone.”

  “Then I’d say you were pretty lucky that you escaped with nothing more serious than a shaved dog,” Ox observed.

  That was the wrong thing to say.

  “Officer! Apparently you don’t comprehend the devastating psychological trauma that has been inflicted on my poor Lazarus. Imagine a peacock that has been stripped of his plumage --- a magnificent elephant whose tusks have been cut away. It will take months of therapy for my pet and he may never be the same.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Ox apologized. “I didn’t intend to minimize your situation. It’s just that many home invasions turn out far worse for the homeowners.”

  “So I ask again. What are you going to do?”

  “We’ll get the lab guys out here to dust for prints. Maybe they’ll come up with something, and if you can think of anything else that might help us, please call,” Ox said handing her his card.

  Lazarus started squirming in Mrs. Fitzhugh’s arms.

  “Poor thing. He needs to go out.”

  We followed her to the front door. She placed him on the ground and he ran to the far corner of the yard.

  “He’s so humiliated,” Mrs. Fitzhugh moaned, as we watched the pitiful creature do his business.

  A squirrel perched on a branch above the dog was chattering away. It sounded like he was laughing at the once regal pooch. I almost felt sorry for him --- almost.

  As we headed back to the cruiser, I heard Mrs. Fitzhugh’s plaintive cry, “Lazzie! Come home!”

  CHAPTER 3

  The old warehouse in the West Bottoms had once been a small manufacturing operation, but the previous owners had long since closed the doors and moved to a country where wages were cheap and labor unions were non-existent.

  It had set vacant for years until it was rented by ABC Ltd., a company cloaked in secrecy.

  In the drafty hall that had been converted into a meeting room, Brant Jaeger, a representative of the company, sat across the table from Terrance Cobb, the Commander of the Ozark Militia.

  “Nice digs, Brant. Looks like the Brotherhood is really living high on the hog.”

  “Cut the crap, Cobb. Did you come here to insult me or are we going to do business together?”

  “Calm down, Brant. I’m just a country boy havin’ a little fun. If we’re gonna work together, you gotta lighten up.”

  “Sorry,” Jaeger replied, backing down
. “What did your people have to say?”

  “Like you said at our last meeting, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’, but I think William Shakespeare said it best in The Tempest, ‘Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows’. We have concluded that our two organizations have a common goal --- the removal of that heretic from office.”

  “Shakespeare! I would never have guessed that you were a student of the classics.”

  “Don’t underestimate us just because we prefer to live in the hills and shoot the food for our table. It wouldn’t be wise. Now if we’re finished with the verbal jousting, exactly what is your organization suggesting?”

  “I think it is obvious,” Jaeger replied. “The only course of action left to us is assassination. It is a drastic course, but necessary if we are to protect our Second Amendment rights and keep our society from being further polluted by interlopers from foreign shores. Drastic times call for drastic measures.”

  “Even if you are successful, what have you accomplished? The president’s successor is a carbon copy and supports the same agenda.”

  “Precisely! That’s why it must be a duel assassination. We will eliminate both at the same time. In the current line of succession, the presidency would then fall to the Speaker of the House of Representatives, a member of the opposing party and a man more sympathetic to our mutual causes.”

  “A double assassination! It has never been done! Are we embarking on a noble cause or a fool’s errand?”

  “Maybe the militia doesn’t have the stomach for such an enterprise. Maybe you are all content to hide in your hills and rattle your swords. To quote your Shakespeare, ‘Much ado about nothing’!”

  Cobb’s eyes narrowed, “We are sworn to take up arms against any threat to our Republic, either foreign or domestic. If you question our resolve, remember what fate befell your precious Hitler.”

  Anger flashed across Jaeger’s face, then quickly faded. “Peace, Brother. We have a common foe and we must stand together. Truce?”

  Cobb smiled. “Truce. Am I to assume that you will want a pair of sharpshooters? We have some remarkable marksmen in our ranks.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  “And why not? You won’t find finer marksmen anywhere.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, Cobb, and that’s part of the problem.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Homeland Security,” Jaeger replied. “Your organization as well as ours is on their watch list. Why do you think we meet in a building such as this? We have relocated three times in this year alone. Every week, we have a man scour the entire building for bugs planted by our fascist government. They will eventually find us again and we will move on. It’s a game we play.

  “Any overt action by either of our organizations will bring the wrath of Homeland Security crashing down upon us. Using their powers under the Patriot Act, they can do pretty much anything they want with impunity. What chance would your militia have against government drones laying waste to your forest encampment?”

  “I see your point. What do you have in mind?”

  “John Q. Public. The man on the street --- a law-abiding citizen with no police record or ties to questionable organizations. They can’t watch everyone, and our assassin will be from the ranks of those they least suspect.”

  “Why would a man agree to such a despicable act --- an act that would most likely lead to his death or to life imprisonment at the least?”

  “Men do despicable acts every day, for revenge, power, lust, money. We simply need to find men with a powerful motive, provide the means, and the act will follow. I believe we have found such men.”

  “Sounds like you have things pretty well mapped out. What do you need from my militia?”

  “Money --- and lots of it. The men we have in mind need money for their families. For some men, their most powerful instinct is to provide and protect their families. If they believe that can be accomplished, even at the risk of their own lives, they will act.”

  “What makes you think the members of my militia have that kind of money? We’re just common folks, not millionaires.”

  “Where does your militia get their AK-47’s and ammunition? The gun manufacturers are in the same boat as us. If this administration gets its way, their profits will tumble. You may not have deep pockets, but they do, and I’m willing to bet that you know who to talk to.

  “We have powerful interests that are sympathetic to our cause and are willing to make a financial commitment. If you can get your gun manufacturers on board, we can put this thing together and get our country back on the right course. Are you in?”

  “I’ll make some calls. You’re a crazy bastard, but this just might work!”

  “So did you talk to Judy about going out for dinner tomorrow night?” I asked as we headed to our cruiser.

  “Sure did! She asked me what I’d done wrong this time. Can you believe it? What about you?”

  “Pretty much the same reaction. Why is it so hard to believe that two guys just want to take their girls to a nice dinner out of the goodness of their hearts?”

  “Maybe because it doesn’t happen very often. They’re not dummies. Judy said that she’d talk to Maggie and let us know.”

  We always get in trouble when they ‘confer’. Maggie already ruled out Mel’s and Denny’s, but we knew that would happen.

  We had just gotten underway when the radio crackled. “Car 54, didn’t you guys take that call with the shaved dog yesterday?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “Well, we have another one and the captain wants you to take it.”

  “Another shaved dog?”

  “That’s what the caller said. The address is 8712 Summit in Western Hills.”

  “What’s with this ‘mad groomer’?” Ox asked, hanging up the mike. “Why would anyone break into homes just to shave a dog? It doesn’t make any sense!”

  “I can see breaking in to steal a dog --- some of them are quite valuable,” I replied, “or maybe to get rid of one. Some of them are obnoxious little yappers, but I don’t get the shaving thing either.”

  The home on Summit was much like the one the day before --- the owners were obviously not hurting for money.

  Ox’s knock was met by a woman in her fifties that looked like she was trying to recapture thirty. Her hair was bleached blonde and piled high on her head. Her knockers screamed silicone and her face had probably been under the knife more than Joan Rivers. I think she was trying to smile at us, but it was difficult to tell with all of the Botox.

  “I’m Edith Barksdale. Thank you for responding so quickly. Claude and I are absolutely beside ourselves. This has been a shock to both of us.”

  “So Claude is your dog?” Ox asked.

  “Oh, my goodness no. Claude is my husband. Alphonse Beauregard is our Bichon Frise. We call him Alfie.” She gave her head a little tilt. “He is a direct descendant from the court of Henry III of France.”

  We both nodded like we knew what the hell she was talking about.

  “Tell us what happened,” Ox said.

  “Claude and I had dinner with friends at the Country Club last evening. When we returned, we discovered that our home and our pet had been violated.”

  “By ‘violated’ you mean shaved?” Ox ventured.

  “Let me show you,” she said, retrieving a photo that was nestled among several trophies that I assumed Alphonse had won.

  The dog looked like a little white powder puff. His body was covered with curly hair that had been sculptured so that he looked like one of those chia pets that you see on late night infomercials.

  “Cute,” Ox said. “Where is little Alfie now?”

  “Hiding in disgrace!” she replied dramatically. “I’ll see if I can find him.”

  “Great,” I said. “While you’re looking, could you show us where the perp entered your home?”

  A back door into the garage had been jimmied with a crowbar. The door from the garag
e to the kitchen had not been locked.

  When Edith returned, she was holding something that looked more like a rat than the regal descendant of a royal court.

  The poor thing was shivering. He had probably never been naked before.

  For just a moment, I could feel his embarrassment. My mind flashed back to that recurring dream we all have, where we find ourselves in the supermarket in our underwear.

  “Any idea who would do this or why?” I asked.

  “None whatsoever. Claude and I have racked our brains trying to make sense of all this.”

  “By any chance do you know Abigail Fitzhugh?” Ox asked.

  “No, I’d don’t believe that I do. Why do you ask?”

  “The same thing happened to her dog yesterday.”

  “Oh, no! How horrible. So this is the work of a serial shaver?”

  I hadn’t really thought of it in those terms, but she was right, and if indeed it was the work of a serial shaver, there would be more pet peelings.

  “I just wish you could talk,” Edith said, pressing the pitiful beast against her ample, store-bought cleavage. “Then you could tell us what it’s all about, Alfie.”

  For the second time in two days, we summoned the lab boys to dust for prints.

  We resumed our patrol, wondering when and where the defiler of regal dogs would strike again.

  CHAPTER 4

  Brant Jaeger picked up the phone. “Yes.”

  “This is Cobb. I have what you’re looking for.”

  “Not on the phone. Someone might be listening. One hour --- same place as before.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Jaeger. You were right on. It didn’t take much arm twisting to get the gun boys on board, but it might take a few days to get the cash.”

  “Let me guess. They’re going to route the funds through several offshore dummy corporations so that if anything goes south with the operation their hands will be clean.”

  Cobb smiled. “You had it figured all along, didn’t you?”