Blind Justice

by Ethan Cross

  PRAISE FOR ETHAN CROSS

  “A fast paced, all too real thriller with a villain right out of James Patterson and Criminal Minds.”

  —Andrew Gross, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Reckless and Don’t Look Twice on The Shepherd

  “Cross pushes the boundaries in this sinisterly clever showdown between one shadowy vigilante justice group and three twisted serial killers. The surprises are fast and furious, and will leave you breathless to read more.”

  —Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Catch Me and Love You More on The Prophet

  “The best book of its kind since Thomas Harris retired Hannibal Lecter, a cat-and-mouse-game extraordinaire that will leave your knuckles white and your stomach churning.”

  —Jon Land, bestselling author of Strong Vengeance on The Prophet

  “The Shepherd will not lead you astray but down a path of horror, chills, suspense, great characters, and an equally fantastic story line! I plan to keep a very close watch on Mr. Cross and what he comes out with next.”

  —Cheryl’s Book Nook

  “This guy writes the scariest, most terrifyingly intelligent villains I have ever read.”

  —Cayacosta 72

  BLIND JUSTICE

  ETHAN CROSS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Studio Digital CT, LLC

  PO Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2015 by Aaron Brown

  Jacket design by Aaron Brown

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-207-0

  E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-936558-91-9

  Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com

  Visit the author’s website at www.EthanCross.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by US Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.

  First Story Plant printing: August 2015

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my daughter, Calissa,

  for introducing me to the world of special needs…

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  General George Easton woke up covered in blood.

  He tasted the coppery liquid on his tongue before he noticed it on his hands and arms. Glancing around, he tried to clear his thoughts and determine where he was. An exact copy of the Resolute desk rested in front of him, its top stained with dark red hand prints. He had commissioned the creation of the intricately-carved replica shortly after the Senate had affirmed his nomination for Commandant of the Marine Corps. The original Resolute desk sat in the Oval Office as a gift from Queen Victoria to President Rutherford B. Hayes, built from the timbers of the British Arctic Exploration ship Resolute. He had felt it fitting since his large white colonial home, located on the Marine Barracks at 8th and I in Washington DC, was truly the White House of his chosen profession, and this was a Marine’s equivalent to the Oval Office.

  As Easton tried to stand, pain shot through his limbs. He had seen combat many times. He had watched men die, killed men himself. Training had conditioned him to keep his head in situations such as this, and his mind ticked off the possibilities as if reading from a checklist. He sniffed the air. There was no trace of smoke or gunfire, just the smell of old leather and fresh blood.

  As he pushed himself up from his black leather chair, his feet slipped on the hardwood floor. His shoes left bloody smears on the dark wood as he stumbled forward and steadied himself against the side of his desk. And that was when he saw her crumpled body in the corner of his office.

  He rushed forward, knocking over a lamp and chair, falling on his knees in front of the mangled body of his wife. Crawling forward, he took her lifeless form into his arms and cradled her like a child. He didn’t bother to check for a pulse. There was too much blood. Her face had been beaten into an unrecognizable pulp. His shaking arms pulled her close to his chest as he sobbed, the tears flowing down his cheeks and mixing with the blood.

  The realization of what had happened came slowly at first, then thundered through his mind, flooding him with anger and guilt. In that moment, he knew exactly who had killed his wife and why.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, General.”

  The gravelly voice startled Easton, and he spun in the direction of the sound. A copper-skinned man with coal black hair stepped from the shadows. The nondescript tan camouflage fatigues of a soldier covered the man’s large frame, and the gleaming silver of a decorative Colt 1911 pistol stretched from his right fist. The General recognized it as his own gun that normally rested within a display case on the mantle-piece of his office.

  Easton began to stand, but the other man aimed the weapon and said in a South American accent, “Please don’t move. I would hate to kill you before we’ve had a chance to speak, but I will. I’m sorry that it’s come to this, General. You were just trying to fulfill your duty, to do the right thing. But so am I.”

  Easton clenched his teeth together so hard that pain shot through his jaw. His eyes scanned for anything to use as a weapon.

  “Don’t get any ideas. Remember, you have four children and seven grandchildren to think of as well.”

  “You stay the hell away from—”

  The man stopped him with a raised hand and calmly said, “Please, General, let’s not make this any more painful than it needs to be. If I could get to you here, in a secure military facility within the heart of DC, do you think that I would have any problem snuffing out the lives of a few young couples in the suburbs. We’ll start with your oldest son, the lawyer, and his family. It’s his birthright, after all. Please understand that I don’t wish you or your loved ones harm, but don’t question my resolve. Where is Wyatt Randall?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Another man with the wiry frame and intense eyes of a special forces commando stepped in from the hallway. He held a dark Glock pistol.

  The copper-skinned man said, “We know that’s not true. If you do the right thing now, this ends with you. No one else has to get hurt.” As he spoke, he circled Easton like a shark but stuck to the periphery of the room, away from the bloody crime scene. “A true military tactician realizes when it’s time to order the retreat and save the lives of his remaining forces rather than needlessly sending them all to their deaths. Think for a moment. Look at this situation objectively. There is no nobler death than a father sacrificing his own life for his children. But let’s say for a moment that you somehow overpower myself and my partner. What then? We’re not working alone. Our associates will still visit the homes of your children and grandchildren. You have no choice. There is no way out for you.”

  Easton closed his eyes and hugged his wife tight against his body. Her warm blood soaked through his shirt and ran down his skin. Her hair still carried the scent of cinnamon from her favorite shampoo. “I don’t know where Randall is, but he’s supposed to meet me tomorrow morning at 8:30. In front of the Lincoln Memorial. He’s going to turn over all the evidence then.”

  “And he hasn’t given you anything yet?”

  “He’s showed me the files, but he kept them with him. As insurance.”

  The copper-skinned man scratched at the black stubble covering his cheeks and narrowed his eyes. Then he retrieved a cell
phone from his pocket, punched the keypad, and placed it to his ear. “Yes…kill the son.”

  “No! I’m telling you the truth. Search my computer and my files. There’s nothing here.”

  The man hesitated a second, searching Easton’s eyes. “Hold that order. If you don’t hear from me in five minutes, then kill him.” The phone snapped closed. “We’ve already searched your files. I don’t know that I believe you, but unfortunately, we’re out of a time. I’m sure you’ve guessed that we’re not going to leave you alive, but I am going to give you a choice about how you die. You can either do it yourself, or we can force you and simply make it look like a suicide. I’m not sure of your religious beliefs on the matter, so I wanted to give you the option.”

  Easton glared at the man, his hatred overshadowing his fear. “How considerate of you.” Venom dripped from his words. He raised his hand, palm out. “Give me the damn gun.”

  The man slid the decorative Colt .45 caliber 1911 across the floor. It spun to a halt against Easton’s foot inside the pool of red. Hesitating only a second, the highest ranking Marine in the United States picked up the weapon. The gun had been a gift from an Italian general whom Easton had worked with while in Naples and during the NATO bombing of Yugoslavia. He had never fired it. “What’s your name?”

  The man cocked his head to the side. “Why do you ask?”

  “I want to let the devil know to be on the lookout for you.”

  “My name is Antonio de Almeida. But I’ve seen a glimpse of hell during my life, General, and I truly pray that you’re destined for a better place. You may have a moment to prepare your soul, if you need it.”

  The General ignored Almeida. The man’s words about a father dying for his family being noble came back to his mind, but he didn’t feel noble. He felt fear and helplessness and failure. Only two years left on his four-year term as Commandant, and then they were going to retire to a farm in Tennessee. Forty-four years of marriage. More good years than bad. He stroked her hair and hoped that he would get to see her again on the other side.

  Then he raised the gun to his temple and squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Deacon Munroe couldn’t see the flashing lights of the crime scene. He couldn’t see anything at all, but he could hear it and feel it. The creaking of the flashers rotating in light bars atop police cruisers. The murmurs of a crowd of onlookers. Patrol officers controlling the scene and pushing back the crowd. Feet striking the pavement, moving with purpose. Detectives. Crime scene techs. Reporters shouting questions. All of it overlaying the dull roar of the city. His city—Washington, DC.

  The world was an intricate tapestry of sounds, smells, and vibrations that most people never noticed. But in the years since losing his sight, Munroe had learned to weave the data from his remaining senses together. He intertwined each strand in his mind’s eye and could usually stitch together a picture of his surroundings. Still, there were so many details that were lost to him. If he couldn’t hear it or smell it or feel it, then it didn’t exist in his world.

  He had always prided himself on his attention to detail, and it was this affinity for minutiae and problem solving that had led him to become a detective in the first place. Then, one day, half the details just disappeared, and the world had become a frightening place of darkness.

  “What do we see, Gerald?” Munroe asked in his soothing Southern drawl, the words dripping from his mouth like honey. He adjusted the dark designer sunglasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. He was seldom in public without them. Although his eyes appeared normal, people found his vacant stare to be unsettling.

  “Crime scene,” Gerald Dixon said. His voice was deep and smooth. “Lots of cops going into the Commandant’s House. I see some jackholes in windbreakers with white letters. Probably NCIS.”

  “Jackholes?”

  “Yeah, you know. More than a jackass, slightly less than an asshole.”

  “I see,” Munroe said. People often found it humorous when he used verbs that referred to sighted actions, and conversations always grew awkward when someone accidentally used such a verb around him. But in reality, he used terms like that constantly in common speech, even though they were technically inaccurate. There was nothing offensive about it. In fact, he found it more offensive when people noticed the faux pas and apologized, as if he were some sensitive child that needed to be coddled.

  “Check the crowd. Anyone suspicious? Anyone seem out of place or watching just a bit too closely?”

  A moment passed, and Gerald said, “Nothing.”

  “Okay, let’s make an entrance.”

  Gerald guided Munroe’s hand to his forearm and led him up to the door. Agents and police stopped them a couple of times along the way, but a flashing of their credentials from the Defense Criminal Investigative Service or DCIS allowed them to pass.

  Once inside, Munroe heard the voices of detectives and CSI crews echoing off the hardwood floors, but a loud nasal voice cut through the rest. “What are you doing here, Munroe? This is an NCIS investigation. We don’t need help from a special investigator on this one.”

  “Hello, Agent Ashter. I’d try to insult you now, but I’m afraid that I may lack the proper vocabulary for it to be effective or even understood.”

  “Screw you, Munroe. You’re a liability, and I don’t want you stumbling around my crime scene.”

  He laughed. “Your crime scene? We both know Markham’s never going to let you take the training wheels off. Speaking of Markham, don’t you need to be picking up his dry cleaning, getting coffee, mowing his lawn?”

  He felt Ashter push in close. The man smelled like breath mints and Old Spice. “You shouldn’t even be an active agent. You’re a cripple. I don’t know what you hold over the heads of the big boys at the Pentagon, but if you ask me, your retirement’s about ten years overdue.”

  Munroe had descended from Southern Aristocracy, and like a true Southern gentleman, he took the other man’s comments with a calm, indifferent smirk. But on the inside, the remarks reverberated through his mind. He wanted to scream. He wanted to bash Ashter’s face in. He had become accustomed to people discounting him because of his disability, but few were as blatant and rude as this. Still, Munroe’s father had always said that to show anger to those beneath you was to put your weaknesses on display.

  “I do so enjoy our little talks, but I have work to do. Where’s your boss?”

  He could hear Ashter chewing on his bottom lip and suspected that the agent’s head was shaking as well. Munroe continued, “Come on. You know that I’ll just make a quick phone call, and all this ignorant posturing will be for nothing.”

  Ashter hesitated but then said, “Stay here. I’ll send him down to you.”

  A few moments later, Munroe heard NCIS Special Agent Dean Markham approaching. Markham had taken a round in the hip several years before, and it gave his gait a rhythm Munroe found distinctive. Munroe stuck out his hand and said, “You need to keep your dog on a shorter leash.”

  Markham shook the proffered hand and replied in his Boston accent, “He’s a good agent.”

  “If brains were dynamite, that boy wouldn’t be able to blow his nose.”

  “Why are you here?” Markham said, all business.

  “I was here to see General Easton. At his request. He called me and said that he had an urgent matter that he needed to discuss. I came as soon as I could.”

  Munroe heard Markham flip open a notebook and click a pen before the agent asked, “What did he need to talk about?”

  “He wouldn’t say over the phone. I really have no idea.”

  “What’s your relationship to the Commandant?”

  “We’re old friends. We get together now and then, drink some scotch, smoke cigars.”

  “Did he often discuss personal issues with you? Marital problems, anything like that?”

 
“No, he wasn’t looking forward to his retirement, but his wife definitely was. You want to tell me what’s happened? Why are you asking about marital issues?”

  Markham released a deep breath. “Because it looks like he brutally murdered his wife and then killed himself.”

  Munroe was silent a moment. “That’s not right. The man I know would never have done something like that.”

  “It’s too early to make any definite conclusions, but that’s the way it looks.”

  “Things aren’t always the way they seem.”

  Markham flipped the notebook closed. “They almost never are, but this is our investigation. I’ll let you in out of respect for your service to this country and your…sacrifice. But stay out of our way. If you see…I mean…pick up on anything, you come to me first.”

  Munroe once again fought to maintain his calm demeanor. It seemed that these guys always fell into two camps: one that thought he should be collecting disability and one that gave him undue respect for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. None of them respected his skills as an investigator or treated him as an asset. He was just thankful that the DOD and the Joint Chiefs didn’t share the viewpoint of the NCIS and FBI.

  Gerald led him up the stairs and down a familiar path, the rhythm of Markham’s footfalls sounding on the hardwood in front of them. He knew they were headed to General Easton’s office. He and George Easton had shared many glasses of fine scotch in that room. As he counted their steps to judge the distance they’d traveled for his mental tapestry, he knew that the eyes of the previous commandants were looking down on him from the portraits that lined the hall. He could feel the weight from the gazes of the great men, urging him to find justice for their fallen brother. History was thick in this place. The home of the commandants was said to be the oldest continuously occupied public building in DC and one of the few not burned by the British when they sacked the Capitol in 1814. Legend held that the British spared the home of the commandant from the torch out of a gesture of soldierly respect. It was fifteen thousand square feet, including thirty rooms not counting closets or baths. Unfortunately, he had never actually seen the interior of the great structure. Just one more detail and experience stolen from him.