Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  He staggered and reached for the back of his chair again for support. His hands landed on his worn black parka. Of course. He slid the parka off the chair and rummaged in his pockets, finding his wallet. He pulled out several dollars, tried to do math in his head, gave up and slapped a ten on the table. That should cover it.

  Duggan lumbered toward the door, bumping into several tables as he wound his way through the bar. He reached out an arm to push the door and slammed into the dense wood. He moved back, pulled the door open, and stepped into the dark November night. Gloveless hands in his pockets, hunched over, he kept the icy wind away from his face.

  His legs knew the way and led him down the block to the intersection where he’d cross the avenue to the parking lot and his Buick. It was the same route every night.

  Duggan’s eyes tried to focus on the pedestrian light. He was sure it said, Don’t Walk. Fairly sure. Then the light changed to walk—he was mostly sure. He stepped off the curb. Halfway across, he was illuminated in the lights of a car. An engine revved. Duggan gasped.

  The car struck Duggan’s right side. His lower body absorbed the impact, shattering his hip and femur. A blazing pain shot up to his brain. A scream started low in his throat. His momentum carried him over the hood where his head and face impacted the windshield, extinguishing the scream.

  He rolled across the roof—clouds, snow, then more clouds flashed before his eyes. A shoulder caught a corner of the trunk, and he slammed into the pavement, rolling several times, and coming to rest face down.

  No air passed through his broken nose.

  Through shattered teeth and a broken jaw, his breathing came in gasps. The ice-covered road was soothing on his shattered face. People sprinted toward him as if in slow motion. Voices called to him.

  His body shuddered with the cold, and his eyes closed.

  Chapter Seven

  The tones in Fire Station 1 blared, and the voice of the dispatcher came across the speakers. “Medic 1. Pedestrian hit, corner of Fourth Avenue and Macleod Trail SE. Unconscious. Injuries unknown.”

  Amir Sharma and his partner, Jill Cook, shoved their chairs back from the kitchen table where they’d just sat down to eat their dinner, five hours after it had been cooked.

  Sharma took one last, long glance at the roast beef, mashed potatoes, and the rest of the gourmet meal. He licked his lips, his tongue brushing over his dark mustache. For a thin guy, he could really pack away the food. But not tonight.

  They raced out of the kitchen, then across the garage floor to the ambulance. They donned matching standard-issue EMS parkas and black wool beanies and climbed into the ambulance.

  “Medic 1 is responding,” Cook said into the mic.

  Cook and Sharma had been partners for three months. She’d completed the paramedic program two years ago in 1978. She slid a black knit beanie onto the frizzy, light-brown hair that hung to her shoulders.

  Sharma hit the lights and siren as they exited the station. The ambulance slid across the icy driveway in front of the station and out onto the street.

  “Slippery?” Cook asked.

  “You think.”

  Sharma fought for control of the ambulance. He swung right out of the station the wrong way on a one-way street, then right again, also the wrong way onto a dim one-way street. A block ahead, they saw the stopped cars, and a crowd of people gathered near the far sidewalk. A couple of people—dressed in parkas, beanies, scarves, and heavy mitts—stepped away from the patient and waved the ambulance toward the crowd.

  “Helpful.” Sharma tapped the brakes, and the ambulance slid toward the crowd. The tires hit a clear spot, and Sharma stopped the momentum. “I never would have figured out this was an emergency scene.”

  Cook grinned. “They’re trying to be helpful. You know, maybe we’re the blind paramedics.”

  “Tell dispatch we’re on the scene,” Sharma said.

  Cook glared at him. “Thanks for telling me that. I didn’t know I had to call dispatch.” She grabbed the mic. “Medic 1 on scene. Police not on location yet. We have a crowd.”

  “Roger, Medic 1. Police were notified and are responding.”

  As Cook exited the ambulance, she slid on her black gloves and opened the side compartment to grab her kits. Sirens sounded from several directions. She caught up with Sharma at the patient.

  “Paramedics,” Sharma said. “Move back and give us some room.”

  Cook knelt next to the patient’s head and Sharma near his waist. Cook slid off a glove and pressed on the side of the patient’s neck with two fingers. “Weak, rapid pulse, too fast to count. He’s got facial bruising and lacerations. He’s missing some teeth and I’m sure the bones around his eyes are fractured. He’s unresponsive with gasping breathing. Mid to late sixties, maybe older. He’s cold to touch.” She glanced at his lower body. Both legs were splayed at unusual angles.

  “Fractured pelvis, femur, probably both tibia and fibula,” Sharma said. “We need to get going.”

  “He was on his face, so I rolled him onto his back,” a bystander in a suit with a long Burberry overcoat said.

  “Did you protect his neck?” Sharma asked.

  “Uh, no,” the good Samaritan said.

  “I see,” Cook said. “Well, come here and hold his head for me.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  Cook glared. “You already touched him. Get over here.”

  Overcoat man knelt next to Cook, and she placed his hands on the patient’s neck, fingers extended to open the airway. “Don’t let go until I tell you to.” Cook glanced at him. “What happened?”

  “It was a hit and run,” Overcoat said. “He was in the crosswalk. A car pulled away from the curb and sped up. He kept going after he hit this guy.”

  “You saw a man driving the car?”

  “Well, no. But I’m sure—”

  “Thanks.” Cook saw a half-dozen cops heading toward them. “You guys, can you get the stretcher and spineboard?”

  One cop stepped forward. “I will.”

  Cook eyeballed the cop. Sandy-blond hair, wispy mustache with darting eyes that missed nothing. She’d seen him at a lot of calls—his nametag said Robson.

  “Great, Robson.” Cook swung back to her patient. “We need to get out of here quickly.”

  “Roger that.” Robson waved to a couple of cops standing at their cruiser. “You heard the lady. Stretcher, post haste.”

  Cook took the patient’s left hand and set it across his chest. A thin gold band glittered from the fourth finger. She glanced around. “Was there a woman with him?”

  The guy holding the patient’s neck shook his head. “He was the only one in the crosswalk.”

  Cook nodded. His wife might be getting bad news tonight.

  “I’ve got his legs immobilized.” Sharma tied the last knot and eyed his handiwork. “It’s not great, but it will do. They can figure this out at the hospital. Once he’s loaded, I’ll get us there in minutes.”

  When the cops were back, they slid the patient onto the backboard, placed a cervical collar and secured him to the board. The police helped lift the patient onto the stretcher and then into the ambulance. Sharma raced around to the driver’s door. Cook glanced at Robson. “Ride with us for continuity.”

  He jumped into the ambulance and shut the back door as the ambulance began moving.

  Robson stared at the unresponsive patient. “He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

  “I expect so.” Cook started an intravenous.

  “Before we get to the hospital?”

  “Nope. There’s a rule. No one ever dies in the ambulance.”

  “A rule?”

  “More a guideline. Although, I have had some patients die the second the stretcher wheels hit the floor at the hospital.”

  “Paramedic superstition.” Robson nodded. “I get it.” The odor of booze displaced the air.

  “Sometimes being drunk works in their favor,” Cook said. “When they get hit, they’re flexible, and
they just bounce.”

  “But not this time.”

  “Not this time.”

  A steady beep—Sharma was backing into the ambulance bay at the General Hospital. When he stopped, the back doors opened, and a half-dozen paramedics helped them slide the stretcher out of the ambulance into the emergency department and race down the hall to a trauma room.

  The trauma team was waiting. The patient was transferred from the EMS stretcher onto the trauma room gurney and surrounded by gowned trauma specialists.

  Sharma, Cook, and Robson stepped out of the way.

  A nurse handed Robson the patient’s wallet.

  “I’ll start cleaning and restocking the ambulance.” Sharma gathered their equipment.

  “I’ll be right there,” Cook said.

  “Yeah, sure.” Sharma rolled the EMS stretcher with their blood-stained equipment toward the ambulance bay.

  “Are you going to help him?” Robson asked.

  Cook grinned. “Sure. As soon as I get my report done and I’m sure you want a witness statement from me.”

  “That I do,” Robson said. “I need to make a phone call and check out this guy. I’ll meet you in the coffee room.”

  Cook sipped her coffee as she wrote her Patient Care Report. The door opened and Robson stepped in, a wallet in hand.

  “Your patient is James Duggan. Sixty-eight years of age. He has a record for two dozen impaired driving charges. His license has been suspended many times, but he keeps drinking and driving. The most recent charge was from a month ago, and his license was suspended for six months. We found his car. It has tons of scrapes and dents. Appears he played bumper car a few times after nights of drinking.”

  “Ironic that he gets hit while drunk.”

  “Even more ironic if the hit-and-run driver was drunk.”

  “True,” Cook said. “Any word on that car and driver?”

  Robson shook his head. “Not yet. Downtown cruisers are searching. It’s likely the car was stolen. Frequently, the drivers dump the car in an underground parking garage, then take a cab home, or get a friend to drive them. We might need to wait until morning and see who reports a stolen car. The Crime Scene Unit might get some paint samples from the scene or Duggan and tell us what model of car we’re searching for.”

  The overhead speakers came to life, and a calm voice said, “Code 99, trauma one. Code 99, trauma one.”

  Cook glanced at Robson. “You’ve got a traffic fatality now.”

  Chapter Eight

  When Sergeant Caterina Toscana arrived, the scene was a hive of activity. She slid her five-foot-eight frame out of her van, black Sorel boots crunching in the snow, and walked toward Briscoe. Biting wind whipped her short, raven hair around her face. She pulled out a police-issue fake-fur hat and shoved it down on her head. She hated the hat and reminded herself to get a wool watch cap. She leaned into the wind as she pulled on insulated gloves. At least she’d remembered to bring these tonight.

  Sergeant Jerry Briscoe had everything under control. Fifth Avenue was barricaded to traffic, and police tape encircled the entire block. His police issue parka wrapped his thick body and was zipped tight to his jaw. Unlike Toscana, Briscoe seemed to love the fake-fur hat—maybe it kept his bald head warm. He had the flaps down over his ears and tied under his chin.

  “Where the hell were you?” Sergeant Briscoe peered eye to eye with Toscana.

  She could tell by his scowl this would not go well. “It’s barely after eleven. I just got on duty.”

  Briscoe shook his head, chewed his bottom lip, and snarled, “You’re a district sergeant now. You’re at a higher standard. If you’re on time, I consider you late.”

  Toscana rubbed her gloved hands against her arms, frowning. “But, Sarge—”

  His thick finger was in her face so fast, she stepped back. “And don’t ever backtalk me. Now get up to date on what is going on here and manage this scene.”

  “Yes, sir.” Toscana headed over to the Crime Scene Unit huddled in the middle of the road.

  Sergeant Sturgeon pushed off the road, stood, and buttoned his brown knee-length overcoat. “Got in shit, did you, missy?”

  “He’s an ass.”

  “That he is.” Sturgeon shrugged. “But he’s also right.”

  “He’s not my boss,” Toscana said. “I’m a district sergeant just like him.”

  “Nope, not like him,” Sturgeon said. “You’re new to the job.”

  “I’m thirty-one.” Toscana’s brown eyes blazed. “Young has nothing to do with it. He does this shit because he can.”

  “He’s got ten years more experience, and in this case, he’s right.”

  “I know.” Toscana gazed away.

  Sturgeon blew on his gloved hands. “Do you want to know what we’ve got?”

  She nodded, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, that’d be great.” Toscana’s enthusiasm was back.

  Sturgeon grinned and rubbed his gloved hands together. “Not much.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

  “Luckily, we don’t need much.” Sturgeon smiled. “There are no skid marks. The driver didn’t hit the brakes. Some witnesses say the car was accelerating.”

  “Trying to make a yellow light?”

  “Nope. Witnesses all say the light was red for traffic, and the walk light for the victim was activated.”

  “Another drunk?”

  “Possibly, but that’s your job,” Sturgeon said. “We’ve found shattered glass from a headlight, likely the right one, and a few flecks of paint. Once we analyze it, we’ll know the car and model. But for now, you are searching for a dark-brown car. That should help for your cruisers circulating through downtown.”

  “That’s all?” Toscana’s shoulders sagged.

  “All for now. We’ll keep the road closed until mid-morning so we can investigate in daylight.”

  Toscana nodded, then she heard her radio call sign. “501,” dispatch said. “522 found the suspect vehicle. It’s on the third level of The Bay’s parking garage.”

  “I’m on my way.” Toscana glanced at Sturgeon.

  “I’ll send a team over.”

  She jogged to her van, keying her mic. “501 responding. Tell 522 not to approach the car and to seal off that parking garage.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dice exercised, eyes gleaming and with a wide grin, rock songs blaring from the stereo. It was the ultimate high—the thrill of ending a life. Sleep had been impossible after the Saturday-night killing of the drug dealer.

  Everything about that night was incredible. How easy it was to pick a target. The stupidity of the dealer. But most of all, the feel of the knife as it thrust upward. The first pop through the skin, then the second as the knife breached the diaphragm. For a moment, the heart pulsed through the blade to the handle. Then the dealer’s wide-eyed terror. The warmth of the blood and watching the dealer’s soul, if there was such a thing, leave his body and journey to Hell—the perfect destination for him.

  Drugs wouldn’t stop flowing because the dealer was dead. Someone else would sell the drugs under the broken streetlight. Let him go for it. Perhaps Dice would strike there, again.

  Last night’s hit and run hadn’t been as up close and personal, even so, there was the thrill when the man’s body collided with the bumper, windshield, and finally, as he bounced off the trunk.

  Thanks to thorough research, Dice knew the man’s habits—boring habits. Still, when it was time, there was anxiety. No amount of planning could cover every eventuality. What if cops were at that intersection? What if the stolen car stalled? What if the stolen car was damaged when it hit the drunk? What if someone reported the license plate to cops before the car was dumped? The car had been found too soon. That information was locked away until it was needed for another vehicular adventure.

  Otherwise, everything worked perfectly—one fewer drunk driver on the road. Dice did a fist pump and then a few jabs and uppercuts while shuffling around the room like a heavyweight
boxer. The euphoria of the kill ignited all senses. Midway through chin-ups, a plan formed for the next victim.

  The intense daily workouts had Dice toned, strong, and agile. The shooting range was on the list for later today. Several hundred rounds a few times a week. Not yet an expert, but accurate and consistent at close range.

  The early morning workout complete, Dice showered and prepared for work. The bathroom mirror reflected eyes that gleamed, a flushed face and a wide grin. The hot shower gently massaged Dice’s head, neck, and shoulders. As a fog filled the bathroom, the euphoria lessened.

  After the shower, Dice stood in front of the closet. The dark sweatpants, hoodie, gloves, and winter beanie from the night before, were stuffed into a garbage bag. That would go into the dumpster outside the court building.

  There was one outfit suitable for tonight.

  Clothes were important—a power suit, but not too powerful. And shoes, comfortable for standing and walking, but in fashion. Not like the sterile, comfortable, and obvious shoes detectives wore. Those were a dead giveaway. So was the cheap off-the-rack suit. For Dice, that would never do. Today was extremely important.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday morning Brad wandered into the detective bullpen after eight carrying a garment bag. Most of the desks were occupied, and the steady peck of fingers on typewriters filled the room. Cigarettes burned to the filter in ashtrays and the odor of coffee mixed with the smoke—a great place to think.

  Lobo sniffed at the desks as they worked their way to Brad’s domain in the far corner. Lobo slid under the desk and curled up.

  Brad shoved his black gloves into the pockets of his winter parka, then hung it on the coat tree behind his desk. He hung the garment bag next to the parka. He flopped into his chair and checked for anything interesting from the night before. Nothing caught his eye. He figured Sturgeon would be in his office, and it was time to bug him about any new results from the dealer’s murder. Brad left Lobo asleep under his desk, grabbed a coffee, and headed down the hall to the renovated Crime Scene Unit offices. He breezed past the secretary. “Coulter, to see Sturgeon.”