The Vigilantes

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “Yeah, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla of Internet search engines,” Payne said. “I take your point. I’m just not convinced.”

  “Hell, Matt, the FBI has a page devoted to a Wanted poster for that raghead, Whatshisname the Terrorist, with a twenty-five-million-dollar price tag for his head. And all sorts of bounties for lesser criminal shits. How the hell is that any different if we add it to our website?”

  After a moment, Matt nodded. “Okay, you’re convincing me.”

  Mickey went on: “And we’re also a place to give ‘attaboy’ accolades to cops who otherwise don’t get noticed, like a patrolman walking the beat in your neighborhood who unlocks your car after you’ve left your keys in it.” He pointed to his shirt. “Kiss a Cop.”

  “Now, that sounds like a stretch.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Matty. You ever read a positive piece on a cop? Everyone likes a pat on the back now and then.”

  “Well, you’re absolutely right about that. Rare is the day you ever hear anything good about cops doing their job. Just mention the name Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.” He smiled. “Sounds like we’re on the same side of this fight, Mick, just different teams.”

  “Exactly.”

  IV

  [ONE]

  Standing at the bar at Liberties, Harris looked from Mickey to Matt, took a sip of beer, then said, “You remember Danny Gartner, Matt?”

  Payne, his glass to his lips, raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Really? ‘The shittiest lawyer in all the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, ’ as they call him in the DA’s office? Never could forget a prick like that. Can’t count the times in court during questioning that he tried to make me look stupid or crooked. So he’s the one who got dumped at Francis Fuller’s door?”

  Harris nodded and said, “Gartner and one of his loser clients, a cocky little shit by the name of John Nguyen, aka ‘Jay-Cee,’ ‘Johnny Cannabis,’ age twenty-five. And mean as hell.”

  Then he mimed that his right hand was a pistol. He put the tip of the index finger in the base of his skull and, moving his thumb forward, dropped the “hammer” and mouthed Bang!

  He said: “Apparently, a fairly big-bore weapon. Really made a mess of their skulls.”

  “I think I’m about to cry,” Payne said, more than a little sarcastically, then sipped at his single-malt. He feigned wiping at a tear under his eye and went on: “Nope, guess I was wrong.”

  O’Hara chuckled.

  Payne smiled. He said to Harris, “Should I know the punk client, too?”

  “Only if you were in on any of his dozen drug busts for possession with intent to distribute. Just two of which ever went to trial—both for running roofies and other date-rape drugs—because Gartner kept playing the three-strikes game. There was also a sexual assault charge that got tossed because of a broken chain of evidence.”

  “Three strikes, eh?” O’Hara said. “That has to be one of the worst rules ever. Whatever happened to the notion of a speedy trial, as opposed to a speedy dismissal?”

  Clearing out cases so there could be speedy trials was precisely why, at least in theory, the Municipal Court had invoked Rule 555 in the criminal court procedures.

  Despite the shared name, Philly’s three-strikes law had nothing to do with laws across the land which declared that if someone racked up three felony convictions, he or she was clearly a habitual criminal who hadn’t learned a damn thing the first two times in the court system—and, accordingly, deserved a long sentence that essentially locked them up and threw away the key.

  Philly’s three strikes, in fact, could be argued to have the polar opposite effect of those laws: Rule 555 actually put criminals back on the streets.

  When someone was arrested, they came before the court for a preliminary hearing. But, due to any number of reasons—busy work or school schedules, miscommunications, even having second thoughts about testifying against a known thug—not all the victims or witnesses would show up for a hearing. And if they were not there in court at the scheduled time, then the prosecutors had to inform the judge that they were not prepared and that they had to request a rescheduling of the preliminary hearing.

  An occasional request for rescheduling might be manageable for the court system. But with the understaffed DA’s office overwhelmed with cases, the constant juggling of hearing dates made court scheduling chaotic, if not impossible.

  In response, the judges came up with Rule 555. It allowed prosecutors only three attempts at a preliminary hearing. If on the third hearing date the victims or witnesses still had not made it before the court, the judge slammed his gavel and announced, “On grounds of no evidence, case dismissed!”

  And the accused walked.

  Criminal defense lawyers were not held to such a standard. And the manner in which Danny Gartner and others of his ilk abused the system was equal parts clever and slimy.

  One type of abuse was for the defense attorney to ask his client on the day of a hearing if he or she saw anyone waiting in the courtroom who could be called as a witness against them. If they did, the defense attorney told the accused to scram. When the judge called the case, the defense attorney came up with an excuse—“Your Honor, my client could not get free from his job” and “didn’t have bus fare” were popular—and promised the court that the client would absolutely make a later court appearance—“even if I have to fry those McBurgers myself, Your Honor, then chauffeur him here.” The lawyer would request a delay.

  That wasn’t strike one, two, or three for the prosecutor.

  But it damn sure was an inconvenience for the prosecution. And especially for the victims and witnesses, who, unlike the judges and lawyers and cops, were not paid for their time in the judicial system. Accordingly, they genuinely might not be able to get another day free from their job or school duties, and would end up a no-show. And then their absence did trigger a strike against the prosecution.

  Another type of abuse was for the accused, or an associate of the accused, to intimidate the victims or witnesses back in the ’hood so that they simply gave up on pressing the case altogether. The message—Snitches are not tolerated—was not lost on anyone in the ghetto. It didn’t matter that such an act was illegal. It still effectively caused a case to go nowhere—and the accused to go free.

  And thus Rule 555 made the DA’s job of bringing cases to trial more difficult—if not damn near impossible.

  “Now,” Mickey said, “where were we on the pop-and-drops?”

  “Tony was describing how they found Gartner and his punk pal.”

  Harris nodded, then said, “Well, both of the victims were bound. They had their wrists and ankles taped with packing tape. You know, it’s clear and maybe three inches wide, designed for those handheld dispensers?”

  “Yeah,” O’Hara said, “I’ve got one. I just use the rolls by themselves, because every time I tried with the dispenser, that jagged row of teeth always wound up slicing my hand or arm.”

  Payne snorted. “I’ve had that happen.”

  “Anyway,” Harris went on, “it appears that the doer also used the tape without the dispenser. Through the clear tape you actually could see dirty fingerprints that were picked up on the adhesive side.”

  “The doer didn’t wear gloves?” Payne said.

  Harris shrugged. “Unless the doer made either Gartner and Jay-Cee bind the other, or made someone else. Whatever the sequence, whoever did it left prints. We will just have to see if they match those of the deceased, or whatever prints they can lift at Gartner’s office.” He stopped and gestured upward with his left index finger. “Speaking of which . . .”

  He paused and finished off his Hops Haus lager, then signaled the bartender for another round of drinks for all three of them.

  “Speaking of which,” Harris went on, “when we ID’d Gartner at the scene—his wallet, including driver’s license and sixty-four bucks cash, was still in his hip pocket—we sent Crime Scene Units over to Gartner’s apartment and to his office. The
apartment manager didn’t seem particularly upset with his demise, except for the fact he owed three months’ back rent. Anyway, the manager let us in. There was no apparent sign of anything having happened in the apartment.”

  “And the office?” Payne asked. “Where is it?”

  “Over on Callowhill, not far from the ICE office.”

  “Really?” Payne said, mentally picturing the building that housed the local office of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the federal agency that was under the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. “Was Gartner into immigration law, too?”

  “I doubt it. I don’t think he was that smart.”

  “You know, those guys can be real lowlifes,” O’Hara put in. “Some poor immigrant, wanting to do the right thing and become a legal citizen of the United States, willingly goes through all the hoops, including hiring an immigration attorney to help him understand all the legalese. The immigrant gives the lawyer his five-grand cash retainer, then the lawyer doesn’t do shit and the poor immigrant, who probably drove a cab to hell and back to earn that five large, and now is even poorer, winds up deported. And the lawyer keeps the retainer, never again to see the client for whom he’s done nothing.”

  Payne shook his head. “Nice.”

  Mickey looked furious. “If I ever find a way to put stuff like that on CrimeFreePhilly, those guys are toast, too.”

  John Sullivan delivered their drinks, and after they’d all had a sip, Harris continued.

  “Gartner’s office was a mess. But it appeared to be just a normal office mess. There was no sign of a struggle there. And no forced entry. Curiously, both the front and back main exterior doors of the building had been left unlocked, as had the interior door to Gartner’s office. We found drugs on one of the desks, what looked like coke or crank in one zip-top bag, and another bag with roofies. There was even a line of powder on the desktop that hadn’t been snorted.”

  “That’s strange,” Payne said. “Like someone had to leave fast. But no signs that either he or his punk client was popped there?”

  Harris shrugged. “The CSU boys were still working it when I stopped by on the way here. But, for now, it appears the answer is no. And Jay-Cee’s motorcycle was parked on the sidewalk.” He paused, sipped his beer, then said, “Something did happen there, though—something really weird.”

  He looked between Matt and Mickey, whose curiosity clearly was piqued.

  After a moment, they said in unison: “What?”

  “Piss.”

  “Piss?” they repeated in unison.

  Harris nodded.

  “There was piss everywhere,” he said. “And I mean everywhere. You’d think gallons.”

  “Animal urine? Like some dog got loose in there?” Payne asked. “You said the doors were unlocked. Maybe they’d been open, too.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Judging by the amount, though, something bigger. I mean, who has that large of a bladder?”

  Mickey glanced over at a couple at the bar in a two-part cow costume.

  “Cows?” he offered. Then he looked back at Harris and said, “Or maybe the doer is a deer hunter. Once, when I was up in Bucks County, I found a place where they were selling bottles of animal piss—I think it was doe urine—that hunters poured on themselves to mask their human scent in the woods. Or maybe it was meant as an attractant to draw out horny males. Or something.”

  Payne looked at O’Hara, raised his eyebrows, and said, “So you’re thinking that fucking Bambi is the doer?”

  O’Hara and Harris laughed.

  Payne then looked at Harris and said, “I’m assuming there’s enough piss to run a DNA analysis?”

  Harris snorted.

  “Enough to float a boat. There was a pool of piss in the plastic bag alone. The dope that hadn’t dissolved just floated in it!”

  “Was there piss at the scene at Francis Fuller’s office in Old City?”

  Harris nodded. “Yeah. On Jay-Cee’s pants crotch. But that was more like he’d just pissed himself. Nothing like the pools of it in the office.”

  “Anything else out of the ordinary?”

  “Define ‘out of the ordinary,’ Sergeant Payne.”

  They all chuckled.

  Harris, looking deep in thought, then said, “Not really. Gartner was wearing a T-shirt that read PEACE LOVE JUSTICE.”

  Payne snorted. “File that under ‘Irony,’ Detective, not ‘Extraordinary.’”

  Harris shrugged. After a minute, he added, “Well, the only other thing that comes to mind is that there wasn’t any paperwork attached.”

  “Really?” Payne said, visibly surprised. “Now, that’s out of the ordinary—outside the MO of the other pop-and-drops, that is.”

  “Paperwork?” O’Hara asked, looking from Matt to Tony. “Like police forms?”

  Then he looked at Payne.

  “Wait,” O’Hara said. “Back up. Explain that ‘outside the others’ modus operandi oddity thing. What method of operation?”

  Payne took a sip of his single-malt, then said: “The MO in the other cases is that someone’s shooting fugitives in the head or chest and dumping their bodies. Further, the dead guys—and they’re only guys, so far—are wanted on outstanding warrants. A couple of them jumped bail, the others violated parole, for sex crimes against women and children. Involuntary deviant sexual intercourse, rape, aggravated indecent assault. These shits get popped point-blank, then dumped at a district station, one we assume is closest to where they got nabbed.”

  “None dumped at the Roundhouse?”

  “None. At least not yet. That’d be an interesting situation.”

  O’Hara nodded as he took all that in.

  “Now, the difference between those dumped at the districts and these two tonight is that tonight there was no ‘paperwork’—printouts of the bad guys’ Wanted info downloaded from the Internet. All the others had their paperwork stapled to them.”

  “Stapled? Like to their clothes?”

  Payne nodded. “Usually. But one bastard who’d raped a ten-year-old girl had his sheet stapled clean through his prick. Multiple times.”

  “Ouch!” O’Hara said, instinctively crossing his legs.

  Payne then said, “You know, it’s funny, because your website is one place from where more than one of the Wanted posters has been downloaded. You can tell because the line at the foot of the page shows the date the page was printed and its source URL.”

  “That’s great to know,” O’Hara said. “That means that CrimeFreePhilly is working!”

  “Only,” Payne said dryly, “to create more crime, it would appear. As far as I know, as much as a miserable dirty rotten shit Danny Gartner was, he had no criminal record.”

  O’Hara shrugged. “Chalk it up to collateral damage. You associate with swine, you’re going to get muddy, too.”

  “Jay-Cee,” Harris put in, “had charges against him of involuntary deviant sexual intercourse and rape of an unconscious or unaware person in one case that Gartner got tossed.”

  Payne nodded, then took a swallow of his single-malt and glanced at his watch.

  “I need to get the hell out of here. I’m trying to have a life outside of work,” he said, then looked at O’Hara. “Okay, Mick. That’s all we know at this point. Now tell me what you know.”

  O’Hara raised his glass. “Not a goddamn thing, Matty. That’s why you’re called the confidential source close to the Roundhouse, and I’m called the reporter.”

  O’Hara took a sip of his drink as Payne gave him the finger.

  “Sorry, pal. I really wish I had something for you. You know that eventually I will. And when I do, it’s yours.”

  They all then stared into their glasses, quietly thinking.

  After some time, O’Hara suddenly said, “So, Matty, what do you think are the chances of solving this?”

  “Seriously?”

  O’Hara nodded. “Seriously.”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Right now, I’d say that the odds are ab
out as high as the number of ‘r’s in ‘fat fucking chance.’ Zilch. Which is maybe slightly better than, say, finding all those fifty thousand fugitives.”

  Harris said, “Hey, you got Fort Festung. He was in the wind.”

  “Whoopie! One down, another forty-nine thousand nine-ninety-nine, give or take, to go. And don’t forget that he took almost twenty years.”

  Tony Harris’s cell phone then chimed once and vibrated. He pulled it from the plastic cradle on his belt and glanced at the LCD screen.

  “It’s Jenkins,” he said as his thumb worked the BB-size polymer ball to navigate the phone’s screen. He rolled and clicked to where the text messages were stored. “He’s working the Wheel.”

  The Homicide Unit had a system called “the Wheel,” basically a roster that listed the detectives on the shift. At the top of the roster was the detective currently assigned to “man the desk.” When a call came in with a new murder, the “desk man” got assigned to the case. The detective listed below him on the roster—who was said to be “next up on the wheel”—then became the next “desk man.”

  Harris pushed again, then saw the message and exclaimed, “Holy shit!”

  O’Hara looked at Payne and casually inquired, “How come you don’t get ‘holy shit!’ texts from the Wheel guy? You’re a sergeant. That outranks a lowly detective like Harris.”

  Tony handed Matt the phone for him to read the text message.

  “Correction,” Payne said. “I’m a sergeant assigned to a desk. Tony gets the fun job of working the streets.”

  He looked at the screen.

  “Holy shit!” Payne repeated, rereading the message as he said, “Well, Mickey, do you want an exclusive for CrimeFreePhilly?”

  “Sure. What?”

  Matt handed the phone back to Tony, then his eyes met Mickey’s.

  “Minutes after the last Crime Scene Unit drove off from Lex Talionis,” Matt said, “another body got dumped there. Someone walking by thought it was a vagrant passed out on the sidewalk. Then they noticed all the blood.”