Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  “No, it’s not true.”

  “There were rumors about you and Sadie during the sniper case. This appeared to fit.”

  “Stinking rumors.” Brad drained his beer. “None of their goddamned business. Nothing is happening, and nothing happened before. She’s a reporter hunting a story, and I’m always in the middle of a shit show. That’s all.”

  Steele sipped his beer and smirked. “Wow, I touched a nerve.”

  “Just get me another beer.”

  When Steele went inside, a pregnant Emma Steele slipped out onto the chilly deck. In the last month of pregnancy, her face was pale with dark circles around her eyes. She appeared exhausted. She’d pulled her dark brown hair back in a ponytail and wore a police-issue black beanie.

  “Get back in the house,” Brad said. “I don’t want to deliver your baby on my deck.”

  “I don’t either.” She rubbed her belly. “I’ll wait another month.”

  Brad glanced at her bulging blue down parka. “How are you feeling?”

  “Enormous as a house and waddling like a duck.”

  “You’re gorgeous.” Brad winked.

  “You’re such a smooth-talking liar.” Emma leaned against the house. “Have you talked to Charlie lately?”

  Brad shook his head. “Some, why?”

  “Annie has said nothing?”

  Brad set the BBQ fork down. “What’s up?”

  Emma stepped closer to the heat of the BBQ. “Charlie tells everyone he’s fine, and he’s healed from the helicopter crash, but Sam says that’s not so. Sam frequently sees Charlie rubbing his leg and limping. Especially after a long run. Charlie’s complained about the cold affecting the leg.”

  “Ah, shit.” Brad sighed. Six weeks ago, when they were hunting the snipers, Charlie Zerr’s helicopter was shot down. It crashed into the Bow River and Charlie had serious injuries including a damaged spine, fractured femur and broken hand. “I should have known he came back too soon.”

  “You’d know.” Emma smiled.

  “Touché. I’ll keep my eye on him.”

  Emma gave Brad a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks.” She glanced at the BBQ. “I don’t know how you do this. I’m going back inside.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  After an early jog with Lobo in the dark, chilly December morning, Brad was warming up with coffee from Gerry’s. He slid between desks in the detective office, heading to his cubbyhole in the back corner. He stopped five feet from his desk, coffee halfway to his mouth. Staff Sergeant Jackson sat in Brad’s chair, dark boots on his desk, giving a toothpick a thorough workover. His black suit jacket was open and a striped, red tie, too wide for fashion, lay on his white shirt.

  “Hey, Sarge. You’re up early.”

  Brad slumped into a chair across from his desk.

  Jackson swung his long legs to the floor and leaned over the desk. “I tried to make it simple for you. Let me remind you. Tell me everything you do, including when you take a shit.”

  “I thought you were just being colorful. But since you want to know, I had a great shit this morning, right after my jog. I rarely take a crap until after I’ve had coffee, but today for some reason—”

  Jackson pounded a fist on the desk, then pointed a shaking hand at Brad’s chest. “Not today, Coulter. No backtalk, no comedy act, no innocence. On Saturday night—that would be about thirty-four hours ago—you attended a double homicide. Not a burglary. Not someone passing counterfeit money. A fucking double homicide. Do you call me? Let me know what’s happening? No. I arrive on scene and you have already left. I had to get my information from Briscoe and Sturgeon. But I think, no problem. Coulter will call me Sunday. This morning, I’m walking down the alley and the chief’s driver drops him at the back door. The chief talks to me like I know what happened thirty-four fuckin’ hours ago. I play along like I know all about the murders. I tell him I’ll see you this morning and get an update. I can’t find you.”

  “Ah, Sarge. I didn’t want to wake you up in the wee hours of Sunday morning. The guys were dead, so there wasn’t anything you could do.”

  Jackson’s jaw was clenched, and his eyes ready to pop. His finger was shaking uncontrollably. “I see. Tell me about Sunday mid-morning, and no, I don’t go to church. Afternoon, Evening? What about first thing this morning? Heck, I would have visited your new farm Sunday, but apparently you were entertaining.”

  Brad looked away. “I’m sorry. You are invited the next time I have friends over.”

  Jackson’s large hands slammed onto the desk, eyes ablaze. “Coulter, that was not the point. We are not friends and I don’t need to hang out with you in my off-duty hours. I’m not even thrilled about sitting here with you now. But those were the orders to me from Deputy Chief Archer. I plan to follow his direction. My orders to you are that you keep me informed every second of every day. Is that clear enough?”

  Brad nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me about this double homicide.”

  Brad slid his chair close and told Jackson everything from the initial call to the autopsy.

  “Any leads?” Jackson asked.

  “Nope,” Brad said. “The murder weapon is a 9mm, more common than the cold. I watched hours of television video trying to find witnesses, a familiar face or someone showing too much interest. But I struck out.”

  “Excellent analogy.” Jackson stood. “Because if you screw up again, you’re benched. Is that clear?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Dice stood before the living room wall and used the red Sharpie to place a large X on two pictures—victims three and four. Dead. These killings had upped the game. The Homicide Unit was investigating. Not that they cared about the pimp and his driver, but the killings were out in the open and innocent people were around. A shooting scared the public. When the public was scared, Mayor Kearse felt he needed to protect and make promises the police would have to keep. Dice still couldn’t believe that a drunk TV reporter could become mayor. If the citizens knew half of what Dice knew, they’d run him out of Calgary. Heck, out of the province. Kearse thought his secrets disappeared when he became mayor. But Dice knew where the skeletons were.

  Today, Dice had other problems. Despite not being on the roster for Homicide, Coulter showed up at the double murder. Everyone knew about Coulter. The local hero. The tragic death of his fiancée.

  The problem was, he was an excellent cop. If he sunk his teeth into this, he wouldn’t let go. Not that there was anything for him to work with. Dice was meticulous in planning. The killings had gone exactly to plan. The gun was stolen from a drug dealer, who stole it from another dealer, who bought it from a pawnshop. The guy who pawned it stole it from a house he broke into so he could pawn stuff and have money for drugs.

  Even if Coulter found the gun, it would trace back to the home robbery years ago. Coulter might waste time with the original owner, but that would be a dead end. Maybe he’d find the pawnshop, but the trail would end there. Coulter finding the gun wasn’t part of the blueprint, but the gun was part of the bigger scheme.

  As for Coulter linking the murders—the three events had nothing in common. He probably didn’t even know about the two drug dealers. He would focus on the pimp and whoever he’d pissed off, which would be every girl turning tricks for him—likely a few other pimps he had put in the hospital and out of business. Maybe he’d had his driver teach a lesson to an aggressive customer about how to treat a lady.

  The crimes broke most of the rules. Cops were anal on motive and method. Killers who murdered more than one person generally had a modus operandi, an MO. The killings may vary somewhat as the killer improved his technique but would have similarities. The weapon was the same—a knife, a gun. The victim was similar—a teen, with long brown hair, and green eyes or some such physical description.

  Dice made sure the cops could not apply their tried-and-true methods of a homicide investigation.

  No, even with Coulter investigating, all was well. Still, he was an u
nplanned factor, and his participation in the murders had to be addressed. He was now part of the problem. Dice placed his picture on the wall.

  Dice slid a finger over the pictures. Who was next?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dice headed down the dark alley toward the tattoo parlor. They normally closed by nine, but Dice had begged for an appointment at nine-thirty, saying that because of work, the appointment couldn’t be earlier. Agreeing to pay extra for the time didn’t hurt.

  The alley had been excellent cover, but now Dice, dressed head to toe in black, would be exposed to the traffic on Edmonton Trail for about fifteen seconds. Head down, Dice jogged to the door and knocked.

  A guy with long hair, a beard, and full arm tattoos peered out the door window, then opened the door.

  “You Aaron?” Dice asked.

  “That’s me.”

  Dice stepped forward, grabbed his shoulder, and thrust a knife under his ribs to his heart. His body shook as his hands tried to grab Dice’s neck. Blood spewed from his mouth, and he made gurgling sounds. Dice eased him to the ground, then stepped around him and behind the reception counter.

  Dice opened the cash drawer and took the money—not a lot. Under the counter was a strong box. Dice tried to open it, found it locked, and used the knife to pop the lid. The box was full of cash. Dice stuffed the money into a plastic bag and shoved it in a pocket.

  Dice headed down a hall. There were three closed doors, two to the left and one to the right. Dice listened at the one on the left—no sounds, then stepped to the right and listened at the first door. Muted voices. Perfect.

  Dice drew a gun, slowly rotated the doorknob, and eased the door open. The room was lit by powerful lights aimed at a bed in the corner. No one heard the door open.

  A camera situated to the right filmed the action on the bed. Beside the camera, a man gave directions. On the bed, a man, mid-thirties, was screwing a teen. To the left, two other women dressed in petite bathrobes watched, their eyes filled with terror.

  One teen glanced at the doorway, saw Dice, and gasped.

  Dice had already chosen targets. The first bullet struck the man on the bed in the back of his head. He collapsed on the screaming girl.

  Dice swung to the right as the director glanced left. The bullet struck his jaw and exited behind his ear. As he collapsed, he knocked over the camera, exposing the cameraman to the third and fourth bullets, mid-chest.

  Now the girls were screaming. The girl on the bed frantically twisted to get out from under the body. As she slid off the bed, she clawed at her face, trying to remove the blood, brains, and bone.

  “Get cleaned, get changed, and get out of here.” Dice handed a plastic bag of money from the cash box to the closest girl. “Say nothing to anyone. But if the police stop you, say …”

  The three girls grabbed their screaming friend and raced out of the room.

  Dice lifted the camera back into position, then hit the pause button.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sam Steele and Charlie Zerr met Sergeant Briscoe at a coffee shop on Memorial Drive and Edmonton Trail at 10:30 p.m. The waitress had barely finished pouring their coffee when dispatch radioed Briscoe to call in pronto. Briscoe finished the phone call, waved to them and headed out the back door. When they caught up to him, he told them an anonymous call had come in that three teens were acting strangely and wandering around Sixteenth Avenue without winter parkas. When the street cops talked to them, the girls eventually said they were held captive and forced to do sex tapes. But someone had come in, killed all the men and told them to get out.

  Steele and Zerr followed Briscoe’s van to the scene. No time to be discreet, Zerr pulled up to the front of the parlor. He and Steele jumped out, grabbed their rifles, and headed to the house. Zerr limped through the snow as they ascended the front steps. Steele shouldered open the door. A man lay in a sizable puddle of blood. Zerr stepped past Steele, his gun sweeping the reception area.

  Steele knelt next to the victim, slid off a black glove, and reached for a pulse. He shook his head. With a hand signal, Steele directed Briscoe to remain by the door.

  Zerr stepped to a hall and again aimed his rifle. Steele brushed past and into the parlor toward six chairs.

  The room was empty. Steele headed back to Zerr and gently gripped his shoulder. Then Zerr stepped forward. The first door on the left was open and empty.

  Zerr stopped in the room’s doorway on the right and held up his fist. Steele stopped behind Zerr, who pointed to a door on the left.

  Steele opened the door and peered in—empty. He stepped past Zerr and checked the second room on the left. An unoccupied bedroom. He nodded and mouthed, Clear.

  Zerr nodded and stepped into the room to the right. “Sweet baby Jesus.”

  Steele moved to his left. “Ah, shit.” He keyed his radio. “Dispatch, TSU has cleared the scene. No hostiles. But we have four DOA. I need the Crime Scene Unit. I’ll get Sergeant Briscoe to contact Homicide.”

  Brad had been at Maggie’s gravesite when he received the page from Briscoe. Brad wasn’t sure how Staff Sergeant Jackson would react to Briscoe circumventing the system and again paging Brad directly, rather than having dispatch call the next Homicide team. The drive took less than five minutes.

  Brad parked his Firebird behind the TSU truck. He stepped out of the car. Lobo stuck his head out of the back window. He loved hanging his head out the window and letting the wind blow over him, no matter how cold the weather. “Lobo, stay.” Brad scratched Lobo’s head.

  Brad headed up the sidewalk. Déjà vu washed over him. A few years ago, when they were fighting the Gypsy Jokers and Satan’s Soldiers biker gangs, his TSU team had raided this tattoo parlor. A senior member of the Jokers, Eldredge Hammond, had managed the place. Brad had chased him down in an alley and was about to make the arrest when a police dog raced past and took Hammond to the ground. Roger Kearse, then a CFCN reporter, and his cameraman, caught it all on tape. Brad glanced around. No media here yet.

  He jogged past a constable running crime scene tape around the scene and up the front stairs where Steele and Zerr waited.

  “This was the Jokers’ place,” Steele said.

  “Yeah, I was just thinking about that. I heard someone else runs this now.”

  Steele led Brad inside. “This guy must have answered the door.”

  Brad surveyed the scene. “Someone he expected or trusted?”

  “That someone had skill,” Charlie Zerr said, limping up behind them. Zerr was in the second intake to the Tactical Support Unit and had quickly become friends with Brad and Steele. He was not imposing—five-ten and one hundred and seventy-five pounds. But as a former US Army Ranger, he was the best trained and qualified member of TSU. Now that Brad was a detective, Steele and Zerr were seldom apart.

  Zerr pointed to the victim at the doorway. “Up to the heart with one stroke. Precise and deep. His heart probably stopped before he hit the floor.”

  “I’ve seen this before,” Brad said. They stepped around the body to the hall.

  “It appears they’d expanded beyond tattoos.” Steele pointed to the bedroom. Brad stepped to the doorway.

  He whistled. “That tells a story, doesn’t it?”

  A male was propped up on the bed against the wall. Dried blood smeared the wall behind his head. Blood soaked the bed sheets between his legs. His eyes were wide, staring ahead. His penis was shoved into his mouth.

  The second victim, closest to the door, sat on the floor against the wall. The right side of his jaw and face was missing. His penis hung out from the gaping hole.

  The third victim, near the camera, was positioned the same as the others. He was naked from the waist down and blood pooled around his groin. His penis was also stuffed in his mouth.

  “This is personal,” Brad said. “Very personal.”

  “The camera was still running,” Steele said.

  “That might be a clue,” Zerr blurted.

  “You think?
” Brad replied.

  Zerr glanced at the camera. “I mean, well, maybe the killer didn’t know it was running.”

  “Everything is too precise,” Brad said. “I doubt the killer made that mistake.”

  “We were meant to see the video,” Steele said.

  “Possibly,” Brad said. “Maybe it’s the porn, maybe the killing, or even a message to us.”

  “What type of message?” Steele asked.

  Brad shrugged. “I’m not sure. Message to pimps and pornographers. This is the second homicide scene that involved the sex trade.”

  “You think they’re connected?”

  “No sense getting ahead of ourselves. We let the facts talk to us.” Brad scrutinized the room. “What does the evidence tell us? Not, does it verify our hypothesis?”

  “That’s brilliant,” Steele said. “Did you just make that up?”

  “Coulter?” a familiar voice bellowed from the hall.

  Brad, Steele, and Zerr swung to the voice.

  “What the heck are you doing?” Sturgeon strode toward them slipping off his tan sheepskin gloves and unzipping his brown knee-length overcoat. His winter overshoes were covered with white booties.

  “What I always do,” Brad said. “Examining the scene and searching for evidence.”

  “Did you not learn anything from my class? You remembered my quote about evidence, but not the part about contaminating the crime scene.” He glared at Brad and then Steele and Zerr. “I understand you two clowns coming in here to secure the scene. But Mother of God, Coulter, why are you in here?”

  Steele and Zerr retreated behind Brad. “Uh, I guess that’s my fault. I asked them to bring me in.”

  Sturgeon glanced at the floor. “Well, look at that. A few bloody boot prints. Oh my. Is that a Vibram tread? Does anyone here wear boots with a Vibram tread?”