[Lady Justice 16] - Lady Justice and the Organ Traders

by Robert Thornhill

  Naturally, Maggie was disappointed, but she shrugged it off. “No problem. It’s a whole month till Christmas. We’ll just do it another day.”

  I realized that I was only putting off the inevitable.

  After squad meeting the next morning, Ox noticed that I was walking a bit gingerly. I shared my encounter with the shopping cart and my collision with little Aiden’s cranium.

  Ox tried valiantly to suppress his grin, but it just didn’t work. “I always thought that getting some ‘head’ was a good thing, but in your case, I guess not!”

  “Very funny! So how was your holiday?”

  “We spent the day at Judy’s parents’ house. Unbelievable! It’s like the whole family is on steroids. They’re all lean and trim and into all kinds of sports. They run marathons and triathlons and lift weights. I get tired just thinking about all they do.”

  Judy, Ox’s wife of just over a year, was an MP in the military and served two tours in Iraq before returning to become an officer in the Kansas City Police Department. We first met Judy taking on an entire gang at a biker bar. Like Mary, Judy is not a woman to be trifled with. **

  While Ox is a robust 220 pounds and strong as his namesake, no one would mistake him for an athlete. I’m twenty years his senior and I can run circles around him.

  “Yeah, I can see how that might make you uncomfortable,” I replied, trying to be a supportive partner.

  “I held my own,” Ox said, grinning. “I could put away more turkey and stuffing than any of them.”

  “I’m sure Judy was proud.”

  Just then the radio in our old black & white came to life. “Car 54, what’s your twenty?”

  Ox keyed the mike, “We’re heading south on Broadway --- almost to Pershing.”

  “Please respond to a car fire on Twenty-Seventh Street under the Southwest Trafficway.”

  “Copy that.”

  We took a left off Broadway onto Twenty-Seventh. As we approached the Southwest Trafficway overpass, we saw a car that had crashed into the concrete overpass support and burst into flames. The fire department had just extinguished the blaze when we drove up.

  “What do we have?” Ox asked a fireman who was busy coiling a hose.

  ***********************************

  ** Lady Justice and the Vigilante

  http://amzn.to/1d3FLK6

  “Crispy Critter,” the fireman replied, nodding toward the smoldering car. “Coulda been worse. We were just finishing a grass fire a few blocks away when we got the call. Any longer and the guy would have been a pile of ashes.”

  Sure enough, the badly burned, but recognizable body of a man was slumped against the steering wheel.

  Ox took one look and covered his nose. “Uhhh! Bad one. I’ll call for the meat wagon and a tow truck. You set up a perimeter to keep the gawkers away.”

  Three hours later, the body had been hauled off to the City Morgue and the burned-out car was headed to the police lot.

  As the last of the cleanup crew drove away, Ox looked at his watch. “Lunchtime, partner. You ready to eat?”

  “Sure, what sounds good to you?”

  “Anything but barbeque!”

  We finished our shift without further incident, and as we were heading back to the station, my cell phone rang.

  “Officer Williams? This is Dr. Grimm at the morgue. Weren’t you and Ox the responding officers at the car fire this morning?”

  “That’s right. What can we do for you, Doc?”

  “I’d like you to come by the morgue. You’re going to want to see this.”

  “Be there in fifteen,” I replied, looking at my watch.

  The morgue is one of my two most dreaded places, right up there with hospitals. They both smell funny and if you’re going there, it probably means that something bad has happened.

  Dr. Grimm met us in his office.

  Using his Bugs Bunny voice, Ox asked, “Ummmm, what’s up Doc?”

  “Like I’ve never heard that before,” Grimm replied shaking his head. “That body from the car --- I don’t usually do an autopsy when it’s an apparent traffic accident or when the body is badly burned, but this fellow was actually in pretty good shape. The fire department got the blaze extinguished before he was completely decomposed. I gave him a quick look and found something quite interesting --- there was a fresh incision in his side that had been surgically repaired. I opened him up and he was missing a kidney. I think this was an illegal transplant that went horribly wrong.”

  “Could he have driven like that and maybe passed out?” I asked.

  “Possible, but not likely,” Grimm replied. “I poked around a bit more and I believe that I found an accelerant on his clothing. I sent it to the lab for confirmation.”

  “So you’re thinking that somebody botched a kidney transplant and staged the fire to destroy the evidence?”

  “It certainly looks that way.”

  “Has the victim been identified?” Ox asked.

  “Yes, his prints were in the system for some minor stuff. His name is Leroy Grubbs.”

  “I know that name,” I said, trying to remember where I’d heard it. Then I remembered the conversation between Mary and Reggie at the mall. “I think he might be one of my tenants at the Hotel. If it is, he certainly didn’t own a car. Ox, what’s the plate number on the vehicle?”

  Ox checked his notes and called the station to run the plate through the system.

  “Reported stolen yesterday,” he replied. “Looks like our accident has just turned into murder and arson.”

  Our next stop was the Three Trails.

  I checked with Mary and sure enough, Leroy Grubbs had been a tenant for about six months.

  Mary got the spare room key from the key safe and we headed upstairs. The room was empty except for the bed, dresser and chair that are the standard furnishings at the Hotel.

  We were poking around when Old Man Feeney stuck his head in the door. “Leroy gone?”

  “Sure looks that way,” I replied.

  “Saw him yesterday. He said he was headin’ to a job but he was carryin’ a little suitcase. Didn’ seem right.”

  “Did you see where he went?”

  “Sure did. Got in one of those big ole SUV’s, a big fancy one. That’s the last I seen of him.”

  “Don’t suppose you got a plate number?”

  “Nope. Don’t suppose I did.”

  I looked at the empty room. Leroy Grubbs wasn’t planning to come back. He had sold his kidney for the chance to have a better life.

  Instead, he wound up with no life at all.

  CHAPTER 4

  Our morning shift had been uneventful and the noon hour was approaching, and that required us to make one of the most critical decisions of the day --- where to eat lunch.

  “How about the food court at the Mall?” Ox suggested. “We could hit that Mexican place. A big burrito would really hit the spot. Besides, I need to do a bit of shopping.”

  “Picking up a little something for Judy at Victoria’s Secret?” I ventured, knowing full well that wasn’t the case.

  “Nope, nothing that exotic. Our toaster blew up. When I pushed the lever, sparks flew and it blew a circuit. We’ve only had the thing a year. It was a wedding present from some relative. The darn thing was made in Hong Kong. I remember my parent’s toaster. They used the same one all during my childhood and it was still going strong when I moved out.”

  “Planned obsolescence. It’s a different world.”

  We had just pulled into the parking lot in front of the Macy’s store when I heard screams. A woman was pointing toward a gray panel van that looked somewhat familiar.

  The van peeled away just as we pulled up.

  “The men in that van!” the woman shouted. “They punched that poor bell ringer and took the kettle!”

  A man in his sixties was on the ground holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose.

  Then it hit me. It was the same van that I had seen when poor Reggie was attack
ed.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” I asked.

  The woman nodded.

  “Call 911. Ox, let’s get those bastards.”

  Ox stepped on the gas and we took off after the van that was weaving dangerously through pedestrians and other cars looking for a parking spot.

  Miraculously, the van made it to the street without taking out a shopper. Ox had to drive more cautiously and by the time we reached the street, the van was two blocks ahead of us.

  The van made a quick turn onto a side street and into a residential area.

  “Looks like he’s trying to lose us,” Ox said, accelerating.

  We turned onto the side street and were horrified to see the flashing lights of a school bus a block and a half ahead.

  The van swerved around the bus barely missing a woman that was pushing a child in a wheelchair. The woman, startled by the near-miss, froze in the middle of the street. We could see the horror in her face as she saw our cruiser bearing down. It was the classic ‘deer in the headlights.’

  “Holy crap!” Ox yelped as he slammed on the brakes. The cruiser skidded to a stop a car’s length from the petrified woman.

  By the time the street was clear, the van was long gone.

  The bell-ringer burglars had gotten away again.

  We had just finished our shift when we received a call asking us to report to Captain Short’s office.

  He ushered us in and introduced us to a distinguished-looking gentleman in uniform.

  “Walt, Ox, I’d like you to meet Major Hawkins with the Salvation Army.”

  We exchanged greetings.

  “Sorry we couldn’t nail those guys today,” Ox said apologetically. “It was just one of those things we couldn’t control.”

  “I totally understand,” the Major replied, “but these robberies have put us in a very difficult position. I need your help.”

  “I imagine that the lost revenue is putting a crimp in your Christmas plans,” I said.

  “It’s not just what we lost in those kettles. We’re also losing our volunteers. The robbery this morning was the third. Our volunteers are cancelling right and left and I can’t blame them. They’re afraid for their safety. If these villains aren’t caught, we won’t have enough help to man the kettles and a lot of families will suffer this Christmas.”

  I was confused. “Can’t you just hire more guys off the street to man the kettles?” I asked, remembering my tenant, Reggie.

  “We only hire enough people to supplement our volunteer program. We pay them $8.00 an hour and on some days, what they collect barely covers their wages. We rely heavily on our volunteers to generate the profits that we need to help our needy families.”

  “So how can we help?” Ox asked.

  “The three hits have all taken place at major retailers in close proximity to one another,” the Captain said. “It looks like the thieves have established a pattern. After conferring with the Major, the one spot in the area they haven’t hit yet is the big Hy-Vee supermarket. There are three entrances and there is a bell ringer at each one. It’s very possible that the Hy-Vee could be their next target.”

  “So how do we fit in?” I asked.

  I thought I saw the Captain wince.

  “On several occasions, when we needed some bodies, you rounded up that posse of yours --- I was hoping you could do that again.” **

  ************************************

  **Lady Justice and the Class Reunion

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  I couldn’t believe my ears. It was true that in several cases, I had enlisted the aid of Mary and the other tenants in my building, but it had always been counter to the Captain’s better judgment.

  He could see that I was perplexed. “With this flu thing going around, we’re shorthanded. The only reason that I’m suggesting it now, is that those kettles would normally be manned by volunteers anyway, and if we can use your people we might have a bit more control of the situation. Besides, they have --- uhhh --- experience in these kinds of things.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” I replied, trying to suppress a grin. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Pretty simple. Your people will man the donation kettles. You will be a ‘rover’ in plain clothes keeping an eye out for anything suspicious and Ox will be standing by in an unmarked cruiser ready to respond if necessary. The perps may not hit there, but I think it’s our best shot.”

  As we left the Captain’s office, Ox quipped, “Looks like the ‘over-the-hill-gang’ is gonna ride again!”

  “Heaven help us!” I replied.

  The ‘over-the-hill’ gang consisted of my dad, Bernice, his significant other and the Professor, all octogenarians. Willie, my old friend and maintenance man, and Mary were in their seventies and Jerry the Joker was the sixty-something youngster.

  I had gathered them in my apartment and they sat at rapt attention while I outlined our plan.

  “Hot damn!” Dad said, slapping his knee. “It’s been kind of boring since we took down those creeps at the health club. I can’t wait to get back in action!”

  The Professor, as usual, was more philosophical. “The Salvation Army is a worthy organization. They do good work. I’d be proud to lend a hand.”

  Poor Bernice, tottering on the edge of dementia and obviously not wearing her hearing aid, was as confused as ever. “We’re joining the army? Didn’t know they took old folks like us.”

  “No, no!” Dad said, patting her knee. “The Salvation Army! We’re going to ring bells for them.”

  Her face lit up. “Oh, I love their store. Bought this dress there,” she said proudly.

  “That reminds me of a joke,” Jerry said.

  I wondered how long it would take before our resident comedian would spring into action.

  “A man walks into the women’s section of a department store and tells the clerk that he wants to buy a bra for his wife.

  ‘What type of bra?’ the clerk asks.

  ‘Type?’ inquires the man. ‘There’s more than one type?’

  ‘There are three types,’ replies the clerk, ‘the Catholic type, the Salvation Army type and the Baptist type. Which one do you need?’

  “Still confused, the man asked, ‘What’s the difference in them?’

  “The clerk responds, ‘It is really very easy. The Catholic type supports the masses, the Salvation Army type lifts up the fallen and the Baptist type makes mountains out of mole hills."

  Dad pointed to Bernice’s saggy boobs. “I’m guessing you wear the Salvation Army type.”

  Bernice punched him in the arm. Sometimes I think she hears more than she lets on.

  My little group was ready to go, but as I looked around the room, I couldn’t help thinking once again, “Heaven help us!”

  We chose Saturday, the busiest grocery shopping day, to launch our undercover operation. We figured that with more people walking by, the kettles would soon be brimming with cash and that might lure the thieves to strike again.

  Naturally, my crew had to add their own twist to the event. They had decided to make it a competition to see which kettle could collect the most money.

  The Major had taken great pains to make sure that everyone knew and understood the ten bell ringer guidelines. He had emphasized #8: “Do not ask, coerce, beg or make any other comments to get people to put money in the kettle. It is a strictly volunteer effort. If they put money in, please say ‘thank you and Merry Christmas.’ If they say they have already given, you say ‘thank you.’”

  Although they couldn’t ask, coerce or beg, my folks figured that offering a little incentive to give wouldn’t be against the rules.

  Dad and Bernice had stayed up into the wee hours of the morning baking cookies. A sign beside their kettle said, “Enjoy a warm cookie with each donation.”

  It seemed to be working. As I patrolled the parking lot, I noticed lots of folks munching away.

  Jerry and the Professor’s sign said, “Enjoy a
Christmas joke with each donation.”

  I watched several folks put money in their kettle, then walk away with a bewildered look on their faces. I worked my way close enough to hear.

  “Thank you very much,” Jerry said, as a man dropped some coins into the kettle. “By the way, do you know what you get when you eat Christmas decorations?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Tinsilitis! Merry Christmas!”

  Suddenly, the bewildered looks made sense.

  I watched as the next person deposited their donation.

  “Thank you. Say, did you know that the Supreme Court has ruled that there cannot be a nativity scene in Washington DC?”

  “Really?”

  “It wasn’t for any religious reasons. They just couldn’t find three wise men and a virgin.”

  I figured that I’d heard enough, so I moved to Mary and Willie’s kettle.

  Item #6 in the bell ringer’s guide stated, “You may sing Christmas carols or play a musical instrument. If management has a problem with that, please stop.”

  A small boom box sitting by Mary’s kettle was belting out an old song I’d heard years ago. I had no idea where she might have found it, but somehow it had made sense to her.

  I was lyin’ in the gutter, all covered up with beer!

  Pretzels in my eyebrow, I feared the end was near.

  When along came the Salvation Army and they saved me from the hearse.

  Everybody bust a gut and sing the second verse.

  Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

  Throw a nickel on the drum and save another drunken bum!

  Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

  I’m sure Mary was wondering why people were hurrying by, trying not to make eye contact instead of putting money in her kettle.

  Finally, she had enough.

  A woman of obvious means walked by with her nose in the air, giving Mary a wide berth.

  “Hey Lady!” she called after her. “I’ll bet we could feed a family for a month for what you paid for that Gucci bag you’re carrying. Loosen up a little and help us out.”