Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  “No one comes to mind who would want to kill Burke?”

  Ben’s brow furrowed. “Well, one person, maybe.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Laura’s father, Al Turner.”

  “Why?”

  Ben chuckled. “Because he said he would.”

  Over the next two hours, Brad interviewed the remaining nine players. The further down the roster he went, the less information he could get. Burke had been friends with four other players. They all told the same story. Too much the same. They’d all pointed the finger at Laura’s father, Al Turner.

  Jackson and Griffin wandered back into the classroom and took seats across from Brad.

  “That was ten pounds of nothing,” Griffin said. “According to the cheerleaders, Burke was a perfect gentleman.”

  “The coaches aren’t that generous,” Jackson said. “While they all agreed he was an exceptionally talented athlete, there was also agreement that Burke didn’t think his shit stunk. One coach said Burke was a pain in the butt and did as he wanted on the basketball court. ‘A nightmare to coach,’ were his exact words.”

  “What did the coaches have to say about the ‘alleged’ rape?” Brad asked.

  “Baldwin the first is an immensely powerful man,” Jackson said. “The coaches were careful with what they said.”

  “We’re no further ahead,” Griffin said.

  “Is this murder somehow linked to the others?” Jackson asked.

  “We certainly have a murder crime wave going on. Maybe it’s the cold weather pissing people off,” Brad said. “There’s definitely a trend toward sexual offenders. It’s like someone is saying, if the courts don’t take care of this, I will. But there’s no common ground, no modus operandi. Al Turner is the best suspect in this one.”

  Brad decided he’d show up unannounced and hope to catch Al Turner off guard. He parked in front of the house and hiked up the recently shoveled sidewalk. The sun was fighting through the clouds, but there was still an icy chill in the air. He knocked on the door and glanced around the snow-covered yard. The fence was recently painted and the house, a bungalow, was well maintained.

  The door opened. A lady, mid-forties with a tea towel in her hand, stood in the doorway.

  “I’m Detective Coulter.” Brad held out his badge. “Is Al Turner home?”

  She stared at his badge and wiped her hands on the towel. “My husband is asleep. He worked last night.”

  “What time did he come home?” Brad asked.

  Her lip trembled. “About seven-thirty.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “Invite him in, dear.” A man dressed in sweatshirt and sweatpants stepped behind the lady. “Come in, Detective.”

  He showed Brad to the living room and extended his hand. “I’m Al Turner. Have a seat.”

  Brad shook his hand and sat on the couch. The room was neat and cozy. Afghans sat on the couch and chairs. Family photos lined the mantel above the electric fireplace.

  “How can I help you?” Turner asked.

  Brad leaned forward. “This morning, Burke Baldwin was killed.”

  “I see.” Turner paled, his jaw clenched, and his hands shook. He licked his lips.

  “I need to know where you were last night.”

  Turner nodded. “I was at work. I’m a mechanic at the Ogden Yards. I work night shift, eleven to seven.”

  “You were there all night?”

  He sighed and stared past Brad. “Yes, I was there all night.”

  Brad leaned back and crossed his legs. “Someone can vouch for that?”

  “Sure, at least ten guys. We were replacing an engine on a locomotive. We were together the entire night.”

  “I understand you made threats against Baldwin.”

  Turner nodded. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “Do you have children, Detective?”

  Brad glanced away, thoughts straying to Maggie and what might have been.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “When you do, you will understand. My daughter was violated. Her attacker was found not guilty. His lawyer made my daughter the aggressor, describing her as a tramp. They destroyed her. Yes, I made threats. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you do anything to protect your child? I was angry. I don’t wish ill on any person. I won’t shed any tears for him. But he destroyed my precious baby girl.”

  “I’ll need the names of those men you work with.” Brad handed his notebook and pen to Turner.

  Brad’s stomach rolled. He pushed down the waves of nausea. Turner’s words echoed in his brain: Wouldn’t you do anything to protect your child?

  “Thank you for your time.”

  He took the notebook from Turner and rushed to his car.

  It was close to three by the time Brad was back downtown at headquarters. He bundled up against the freezing north wind and trudged down the alley. The blast of warm air as he entered the back door revived him. He stomped the slush off his boots and brushed snow from his parka, then pushed through the second set of doors.

  The desk sergeant glanced up. “Detective Coulter. You have a visitor.” He pointed toward an interview room.

  “Sarge, any chance you can grab me a couple of coffees?”

  “Only because you asked so respectfully.”

  Brad shrugged off his parka, headed down the hall, and peered into the room.

  Sadie faced the door. Her red winter jacket was over the back of the chair, black gloves and purse on the table. She wore a white blouse with at least three buttons unfastened, and a black knee-length skirt. Her legs were crossed with one black-booted foot swinging freely. She flashed her bright smile. “Detective, I worried you’d gone home for the day.”

  Brad sat, stretched out his legs, crossed at the ankles, and folded his arms. “Ms. Andrus.” He glanced around the gray walls. “What? No camera lights?”

  Sadie pouted. “Your sergeant wouldn’t let my cameraman in. I could call him, though, if you want to do an interview.” She stared at the framed glass on one wall. “Or you could just have someone watch us.” She winked. “That would be fun.”

  Brad shook his head. “No one is watching. How can I help you?”

  “Maybe by decorating this room. The gray walls are depressing, and your cleaners missed a few spots of blood. Better furnishings. A metal table and three aluminum chairs are hardly in fashion these days.”

  Brad rolled his eyes and sighed. “Sadie, what do you want?”

  “You’re not much of a detective if you’re asking that question.”

  The sergeant set two coffees on the table.

  Sadie glanced at hers. “Any chance I can get cream and sugar?”

  The sergeant’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, naturally. I’m sure there’s no pressing police business.” He spun on his heel and left the room.

  “A teen was killed.” Brad leaned forward. “We don’t know who did it. We’re following leads. Anyone who was at the basketball game last night at Lord Beaverbrook High School and has information should contact the police.”

  “You’re getting particularly skilled at that.”

  Brad frowned. “Talking to the press?”

  “No.” Sadie laughed, then pushed loose auburn hair behind her ear. “Stating the obvious and offering nothing new.”

  “Then why are you here?” Brad slid a hand through his long hair.

  “To see if you’d say something other than the obvious.”

  “Did you think I’d do that?”

  The sergeant dropped two creamers and two sugar on the table and left.

  Sadie leaned toward the door. “Spoon? Stir stick?”

  “I wouldn’t press my luck if I were you.”

  “With the sergeant or you?”

  “Sadie, I’m exhausted and swamped.”

  Sadie poured the cream and sugar into the cup, then swirled it in her hands. “The murders are connected, aren’t they?”

  Brad stared blankly as he sipped his coffee. Who would blink first?


  Brad stood. “I need to go.”

  “At least some of them must be linked. Someone hates sex perverts.” Sadie stood and stepped toward Brad. “Blink once if I’m right.”

  “Always a pleasure to see you.” Brad grabbed his coffee. “I’ll have the sergeant show you out.”

  “There’s a fine out-of-the-way restaurant in Chinatown. The Royal Garden. Say six?”

  “Not tonight, Sadie.”

  “Headache?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Brad read and re-read the murder files. They were connected, but nothing to point to a killer. After over three hours, his brain was mush, and his shoulders and neck were tense. He needed to relieve some stress.

  Something that wasn’t working out in a barn in winter. He hadn’t been to the shooting range since he qualified two months ago. He tried to get Briscoe to come with him, but Briscoe had ‘a thing’ with his kids.

  The range was on the fifth floor in the middle of the police headquarters. It was well insulated, with concrete walls and thick soundproofing. Brad sniffed the air, heavy with the smell of gunpowder and lead.

  He grabbed a handful of 9mm ammunition from a box on a shelf in the observation area and donned earmuffs and protective glasses. He stepped through the first door into no-man’s-land. When the door closed, he opened the second door and stepped in. There were two other cops at the six-bay range. He didn’t recognize the guy at the far end, but he recognized the cop third from the door, Sergeant Toscana. She wore a black, scoop-necked T-shirt and jeans.

  She nodded. Brad nodded back.

  He placed a target on the frame and moved it out five feet. He dropped the magazine from the pistol, ejected the bullet from the chamber, and placed them on the counter behind him. He filled three spare magazines with bullets, slammed in a magazine and chambered a round.

  He rolled his shoulders and neck, arms loose at his sides, and wiggled his fingers like some western cowboy ready for a gunfight. Well, in some ways that was what this was about. Not the gunfight tonight, but the one that might be around the corner.

  With his pistol holstered, he eyed the target. Then his left hand darted to his holster, the gun swung up to his chest then out toward the target. Shots rapidly exploded. He dropped the empty magazine into his hand and replaced it with a full mag. He slid the pistol back in his holster and recalled the target. It was his usual pattern. Five to the head, four to the groin and four to the chest. All tightly grouped.

  With a new target at ten feet, he balanced his stance, and drew the pistol. On the fifth shot, the gun jammed. He slapped the bottom of the magazine, racked the action and fired.

  For the next forty minutes, he shot at various distances, round after round, replacing the targets frequently and clearing the gun several times. As he recalled the last target, he felt a presence behind him. Toscana stood just off to the side and gave him two thumbs-up.

  With a new target at five feet, he fired another magazine. He repeated the process at ten, fifteen, and twenty feet. That was enough for the day. He swept the cases into a pile, collected the remaining bullets, and headed out of the range through the double doors to the observation area.

  Brad tossed the remaining bullets in the ammo box on the shelf and set his pistol on the cleaning table. He pulled a small plastic container of cleaning supplies from his gym bag, disassembled the gun and cleaned the individual pieces.

  “That was outstanding shooting.” Toscana set her gun and cleaning supplies on the table next to Brad.

  “Practice,” Brad replied.

  “That was brilliant.”

  “In TSU, we did a lot of shooting.”

  “That accounts for some of it, but you must be a natural shooter.”

  Brad glanced at her pistol. “You’re shooting a Browning Hi-Power as well.”

  “I want to be proficient with it.”

  “It’s a dependable gun when it’s not jamming. Why not the .38 revolver?”

  “Rules say I have to use the .38 at work. But TSU uses the Hi-Power and I need to be proficient. I’m going to be the first female member.”

  Brad stared at her targets. There was nothing wrong with her groupings. Not as tight as his, but they were all killing shots, and that’s what counted.

  “You’ve got excellent groupings on your targets. You’ll be fine with your shooting.”

  “I practice a lot.”

  “You must be a natural.”

  Toscana was cleaning the barrel of her pistol. She glanced around.

  “Something wrong?” Brad asked.

  “I think I left a magazine on the counter on the gun range. I was so distracted by your shooting, I missed it.”

  “I’ll get it,” he said.

  “I’ll get it after I complete my cleaning.”

  “I’m nearly done,” he said. “You keep going.”

  Brad tossed his cleaning cloth on the table. He stepped through the two doors and to the bay where Toscana had been shooting. Less than a minute later he came back into the room holding the lost magazine. “I had to search around. It must have fallen onto the floor and then you kicked it.”

  She took the magazine from him and smiled. “Thank you. There are still gentlemen in the world.”

  “Don’t let that get out.” Brad rubbed the back of his neck. “It would ruin my reputation.”

  “Oh, your reputation will survive.”

  Brad picked up the gleaming pieces of his pistol and expertly assembled the gun. Toscana did the same.

  “Hey, I have some questions about TSU. Can I pick your brain some time?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Do you work tonight?”

  “Nope, my night off. I was done at seven this morning.”

  “How about now?” Brad asked. “I can’t be late, or my dog will be pissed at me. But I need to eat. How about Olympia Pizza in Mount Royal?”

  Brad was sitting in the back booth facing the front door, the back door behind his shoulder. For four years he’d worked this area as a street cop and had spent many hours here, sometimes just coffee or to get out of the cold, other times for one of the best pizzas in the city. He inhaled the fragrant aroma of garlic and tomatoes.

  “You drive like a maniac.” Toscana stomped the snow off her black Sorels and tossed her multi-colored ski jacket onto the seat before sliding in. She wore an unbuttoned red and black lumberjack shirt over her black T-shirt. “There was no way I was keeping up. Not on those icy roads.”

  “Another thing I learned at TSU. We seldom stopped when responding, not for red lights, traffic, traffic accidents we caused, not anything. If traffic was jammed, we drove on the wrong side of the road. Which works great. When people see a huge Suburban heading straight for them, they react fast.”

  A waitress with a red perm and large hoop earrings stopped by the table. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  Brad held his hand out to Toscana.

  “A beer, Labatt’s Blue, please,” she said.

  “Old Vienna for me,” Brad said.

  The woman’s red hair bobbed, and she headed off to get their drinks.

  The waitress came back with two beers. Brad ordered the pizza special.

  “You may be right.” Brad held out his beer, and they clinked the necks. “Acting sergeant, that’s an accomplishment.”

  Toscana shrugged. “I worked hard for it.”

  Brad held up a hand. “I meant no offense. Truly, it’s impressive.”

  “Sorry. I’m used to guys figuring I got the opportunity based on lying on my back.” She pulled at the cuffs of her red and black lumberjack shirt.

  “Well, you must have impressed the right people. What areas have you worked?”

  “Right out of the academy, I was assigned temporarily to Vice. At first, I was thrilled they chose me. I worked hard in classes and figured I’d earned the opportunity.”

  “But—”

  Toscana tilted her head to the side, raven hair swinging with the tips barely touching her shoulder
s. Her lips twisted. “They needed female a cop to play hooker so they could arrest the vermin that prey on the prostitutes. It had nothing to do with excellent marks or hard work, just that I was female.”

  Brad nodded, staring at his beer. “It doesn’t hurt that you’re great looking, also.”

  Her dark-brown eyes rolled. “Sure. The guys stared at me first. I was assisting in loads of arrests, but my name never appeared on any arrest reports.”

  Brad frowned. There were some sides to policing he didn’t like. The archaic boys’ club still had a firm hand on the police service. They’d be kicking and screaming and holding fast to the timeworn ways. He knew how hard it had been with Maggie as a student paramedic in the fire station.

  “You must have done something right.”

  “My partner, Tony DeMarco, was outstanding. He was my sole backup most of the time. Too often, a guy would get rough, and I needed Tony. I can hold my own in a fight, but when you are in a tight skirt and six-inch heels, you lose any advantage. By the time Tony was through with the guy, I doubt he’d ever try to pick up a hooker again.” Her eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled.

  “Those types of guys will find another outlet for their rage.”

  Toscana stared at her beer. “He was my mentor. I owe him a lot.”

  “The Italian connection couldn’t hurt.” Brad cocked his head. “Sounds like there’s more to that story.”

  Toscana nodded and pursed her lips. “Yeah. It’s not good spending most of your time with one person. There were other guys on the team, but Tony was my partner. We always worked night shifts on the weekend. The city shuts down after 3:00 a.m. Then it was the two of us alone in a car, and me dressed to the nines.”

  “Was he married?”

  Toscana chewed her lip and nodded. “Nothing happened, but it was going to. He asked for a transfer. They made him a district sergeant in the northeast. I wanted to transfer there, also, but I didn’t. For the next four years, I got some magnificent opportunities to work on some serious crimes. I did research, paperwork, and all the stuff the detectives didn’t want to do, but it got my foot in the door. I’m sure Tony had a say in this opportunity.”