Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  The detective bullpen was eerily quiet this morning. Boisterous conversations dropped to whispers. The click-clack of one-fingered typing was missing. Even the phones were silent.

  Brad found Griffin at his desk. “Brought you a coffee from Gerry’s.”

  Griffin grunted and pointed to his desk.

  Brad set the coffee down and took his chair. “What’s got you so engrossed so early? Did we get a lead last night?”

  Griffin held a hand up as he concentrated on a file folder.

  Brad sipped his coffee and peered at his partner. Whatever it was Griffin was reading, it had his full attention. Griffin might make fun of Brad for needing his morning coffee, but Griffin was no cheerleader before he had a cup or two. And ignoring a coffee from Gerry’s was unusual.

  Never a candidate for the cover of a fashion magazine, Griffin’s suit was especially rumpled, like he’d slept in it. His eyes were bloodshot, and a frown creased his face. A half-dozen open folders were on his desk. Brad wondered if Griffin had been here all night.

  Griffin gathered the files, stood and headed to the door. “Archer wants to see us ASAP.”

  “Did he say why?” Brad jumped out of his chair and followed Griffin out of the room and down the hall.

  “Update on the murders.”

  “I had that figured out,” Brad said.

  When they stepped into the deputy’s office, Archer’s secretary said, “He’s waiting. Go in.”

  They stepped into Archer’s office.

  “Sit, gentlemen,” Archer said.

  Griffin took a chair next to Sturgeon, leaving the chair opposite Archer for Brad. It reminded him of promotion interviews with senior police management. Let the inquisition begin.

  Brad glanced around. Archer, Jackson, and Sturgeon were seated at the conference table. No one made eye contact with him, their jaws tight and faces like stone. There was a chill in the room, like someone had died, but the warm sunlight was streaming through a window. Apparently, he was the only one excited by the sunshine.

  “I didn’t know we were meeting until Griffin told me.” Brad glanced around the table, cocking his head to the side. “Hey, guys. Lighten up. We’re going to break this case today. I feel it in my gut.” He rubbed his hands together.

  All eyes were on Archer. “There are recent developments in the case. Sergeant?”

  Sturgeon glanced down at his notes. “We analyzed a hair sample from the tattoo parlor crime scene. It didn’t match any of the dead men or the girls. Not surprising, that scene was a disgusting swamp of body evidence.”

  “Did you identify the hairs?” Brad asked. “Were they the same person?”

  “Well, no.” Sturgeon avoided eye contact with Brad. “The sample from the parlor was canine.”

  “Are you sure?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes,” Sturgeon kept his gray eyes on his notes. “Human and dog hair are completely different. First, canine and human hair growth cycles are different. Multiple hair shafts emerge from each canine hair follicle as opposed to human follicles that only produce a solitary hair. Second, human hairs grow for two to six years where dogs have a much shorter growth cycle resulting in frequent shedding. Third, animal hair provides a protective function and is thicker than the human hair.”

  Brad nodded. “Well, that doesn’t sound helpful.”

  “Agreed,” Sturgeon said. “Then we did eliminations on known canine hair from our K9 unit.” Sturgeon paused and stared at his report. “We, uh, got a match.” He kept his head down. “Lobo.”

  “What?” Brad blurted. His eyes widened. He did a double-take in Sturgeon’s direction. “Are you sure? No way.” Brad shook his head, struggling to figure out where this was going. It made little sense. “Lobo was nowhere near that place.”

  Sturgeon’s jaw clenched. “It’s clearly a match.”

  Brad glanced at Sturgeon, rubbed his hands over his pants, then glanced at his palms. Dog hair. “That’s my fault. I had Lobo in the car, and then I went into the crime scene.” He picked a piece of dog hair off his palm. “There must have been a transfer of Lobo’s hair when I was in the room. Shit. Stupid of me.” Brad glanced at Sturgeon. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention in your class.”

  Archer glared at Brad, then nodded to Griffin.

  “When the girls from the tattoo parlor were interviewed, they all said the same thing,” Griffin said. “That when they scurried out of the parlor, they saw a car parked beside the building. A black Firebird.”

  “That should be easy to track,” Brad said. “There aren’t that many black Firebirds in Calgary. I bought one of the few—”

  “You see where this is going?” Archer asked. “It hasn’t eluded our notice that you were recently in court regarding your scuffle with Vinnie Bevan, a man who is still in ICU after the severe baseball bat beating. Nor has your history with Arnie Fletcher, the Hells Angels biker recently stabbed to death with a pool cue through the heart.”

  “Chief—”

  Archer held up a hand and continued, “It seems the unique and precise method of stabbing in that case correlates with the stabbings of two drug dealers and one victim at the tattoo parlor. And at that tattoo parlor, the remaining three victims were shot to death in a manner nearly identical to that of another recent crime scene—the murders of Owen Judd and Anthony Moss in their vehicle. Also, at the tattoo parlor crime scene, three of the victims were posed and mutilated as if to send a message. Not unlike the message ‘rapist’ carved into Burke Bailey Baldwin II’s forehead. Griffin mentioned the wall of victims pinned next to your desk, some we hadn’t even thought to include, such as the recent hit and run. They all share an underlying thread of connection though, don’t they? You see why we’re concerned.”

  They were staring at him. His eyes darted from one man to another. Did they believe he was involved? That was absurd. They had to know that. Screw the reports Sturgeon had given. “Come on, you don’t think—you can’t … this makes no sense.”

  “Brad, we’re following the evidence,” Jackson said. “We’re telling you what we know. No one is judging.”

  “It sure as hell feels like I’ve been judged.” Brad’s Spidey senses tingled, and not in a good way. “You guys are freaking me out.” He held out his hands like he was pushing them away.

  Archer set a duty roster on the table. “You weren’t on duty for any of the killings—”

  Brad glanced at the roster, felt his face redden and his fists clenched in his lap. “That means nothing.” Brad glared at Archer with his head held high, breath coming rapidly through his nose, lips pursed. His voice was louder and shakier than he intended. “I’m always scheduled for day shift. If there’s a homicide at night, I get called in. That’s the way Homicide works. Since all the killings were at night, yes,” he growled, “I was off duty.”

  Archer ignored Brad and continued, “Yet for the tattoo parlor killings, you arrived quickly. Why were you in the area?”

  “Oh, come on. I was … visiting Maggie’s grave.” His mouth was dry, but his palms were sweaty. He rubbed them on his pants again.

  “I understand you visit frequently.” Jackson’s voice was calm with a country drawl. It was soothing. “That’s reasonable. We’re talking about a few months since—”

  Brad’s right leg bounced to a rapid beat. “I go sometimes, when I miss her—or need to talk to her.”

  “Late at night,” Griffin snorted.

  Jackson held up a hand. “I get it, I do.”

  “You guys are kidding, right?” Brad pushed his chair away from the table a couple of inches. He glanced around the table—they were all guys who knew him. Jackson clicked a pen in time with a clock. Sturgeon, head down, stared at his hands.

  Archer nodded to Sturgeon. “He needs your pistol.”

  “You’re serious?” Brad tensed, his back firmly against the chair. He felt cold, yet he was sweating.

  “That we are,” Archer said. “We’re just going to test it, compare the ballistics to
the bullets recovered from the pimp and bodyguard murders and the tattoo parlor scene.”

  Brad reached for his service pistol and saw everyone in the room tense. Griffin even slid his hand down to the butt of his gun. Jackson put a large hand on Griffin’s chest. Brad carefully pushed the release on the holster, slid his pistol out with two fingers, and set it on the table.

  Sturgeon, wearing latex gloves, reached for the pistol. He cleared the chamber and caught the expelled cartridge. He released the magazine and placed it in an evidence bag. “I’ll need your spare mags, and your backup gun, as well.”

  Brad slid the spare mags out and set them on the table. He slid his backup pistol, the CZ75, out of his ankle holster. Sturgeon bagged the guns and magazines, pulled some hair samples, then left the room.

  Brad set his hands on the table, then into his lap, then crossed his arms again. His leg muscles tensed with the surge of adrenaline, both legs bounced on his toes, and his hands dropped loosely to his sides—ready for fight or flight. He slid his chair back another couple of inches.

  Brad was the only one who glanced up when the door closed. Now the heat from the sunshine was too intense. Sweat dampened his armpits and his forehead. He licked his lips again and grabbed his coffee. It was warm but wet. He swished it around his mouth, then swallowed.

  “What happens now?” Brad stared at Archer. “Am I suspended—again?”

  “Griffin will escort you to an interview room while CSU tests your weapons.”

  Brad’s jaw clenched, his eyes ablaze. “Hold on.” He pushed his chair back against the wall and stood.

  Griffin jumped to his feet.

  “Easy.” Jackson placed a hand on Griffin’s chest, then turned to Brad. His voice was calm and low.” “There’s considerable evidence that suggests you’re a person of interest. Put your self in our position. What would you do? Give us a chance to work through that.”

  Brad’s eyes narrowed. “Are you charging me with something?”

  “Not at this time,” Archer said.

  “This is circumstantial bullshit,” Brad said. “How is this possible? You all know me.”

  “We know you’re under stress,” Archer said. “What happened to Maggie would make any of us angry.”

  “Sure, I’m angry,” Brad’s eyes peered around the room. His look pleading. “I’m not a vigilante.” Brad glanced at the door. “Am I under arrest?”

  “I’d hoped we could clear this up this morning,” Archer said. “Hang around at least until we have ballistics back.”

  “No thanks.” Brad sighed.

  Archer stood and locked eyes with Brad. “I’m asking you to wait for an hour. Two, tops.”

  Brad stared back. “If you’re charging me, I want a lawyer. If you’re not charging me, I’m out of here.”

  “I’m advising you to stay,” Archer said.

  Brad’s shoulders slumped and his bright eyes dulled. “Is that an order?”

  Archer shook his head. “Griffin will stay with you.”

  Brad closed his eyes. When he opened them the fire was back. “How about I keep working on finding the real killer while the rest of you wait for ballistics that isn’t going to prove shit against me.” Brad opened the door and jogged to the stairs with Griffin close behind.

  Brad shoved the door open on the main floor and nodded at the desk sergeant. Griffin caught up with Brad at the back door and grabbed his arm. Brad jerked it away and glared at Griffin.

  “Don’t.”

  “Archer wants you to stay here.” Griffin slipped between Brad and the door.

  “That’s not what Archer said. I don’t have time for bullshit. I’m going to do my job, catch the murderer and clear my name. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the deputy chief.”

  “Running makes you appear guilty, you know.”

  “I’m not running.” Brad rolled his eyes. “I solve homicides, and we have a lot of them to solve. Come with me.”

  Griffin held his spot blocking the door.

  Brad glared at him. “Do you think I’m a vigilante?”

  Griffin’s jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. “The evidence is pointing that way.”

  “Circumstantial evidence. You coming or not?” Brad deked past Griffin and out the door.

  He stopped halfway down the alley and leaned against the wall, shoulders limp, fists clenched at his sides. His rapid breathing hit the cold air as puffs of mist. His heart pounded against his chest wall. It was like he’d used up all his energy defending himself. From what? He was innocent. In an hour they’d all feel stupid. So why was he worried? He got his breathing calmed and his heart slowed.

  He sprinted out of the alley and across the street to his car. He slid into the driver’s seat, a tight grip on the steering wheel, staring across the parking lot and grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. What had just happened? His heart raced again, and his palms grew sweaty. I’m not guilty. Yet they tried to tie him to the killings. They thought he was the killer. He had to clear his name. How long before they decided he was an outsider and blocked his access to case files or evidence. He banged the steering wheel. Shit.

  He fired up the engine, headed west on Sixth Avenue, then up Centre Street. At Sixteenth Avenue he veered left, then right on Fourth Street. He swung into the Queen’s Park Cemetery and parked across from Maggie’s grave. He wandered over and stood facing the tombstone.

  He wiped snow off the granite and collected his thoughts. What the hell is going on?

  “Hey, Maggie. I miss you. I wish you were here. I’m in trouble. I did nothing wrong. Heck, I didn’t even come close to any line.”

  He took a deep breath and stared at the sky. Wisps of clouds floated over, and giant flakes of snow fell.

  “There’s been a spate of murders. At first, they didn’t seem related, but when I investigated further, I was sure the same killer was involved. Not like the sniper earlier this year. Like a vigilante is killing dangerous dudes—drug dealers, a pimp and his driver, pornographers, a rapist and a biker. That guy, Vinnie, who beat up his girlfriend is in the hospital. Not that clearing out the rabble isn’t a splendid idea … I’m kidding.”

  He pulled his parka collar up and slid on a beanie.

  “I’m being framed for the murders. They have Lobo’s hair from one crime scene. But I take him to work all the time.”

  Brad stamped his heavy boots on the ground, knocking off the snow. “Witnesses reported my car at a crime scene before the murders. Today they took my gun for testing, and my backup. They’re clean, but I’m worried. Since you … since Wolfe killed you, I’ve been screwed up. I’ve got a temper, and it’s gotten away from me at work. Archer believes I’m a liability. He’s still pissed off I forged my psych letter to come back to work. I need to prove I’m innocent, but I can’t do that from jail. I don’t know where to turn. I could sure use your advice.”

  Jackson knocked on the door and peered into Sturgeon’s office. Jackson slid his lanky form into a chair and glanced around the cluttered room. “I like the decorating.”

  Sturgeon glanced up from a report. “You sound like Coulter. And trust me, that’s not good.”

  Jackson leaned back in the chair and linked his fingers behind his head. “You have something?”

  “We have to find Brad.”

  “I know,” Jackson said. “By four, Archer will have every cop in the city hunting Brad. IA is on the case now.”

  “I’m not worried about IA. You and I have to find him first.”

  “Why?”

  Sturgeon slid a file folder over to Jackson. “Ballistics is a match on his service pistol. The bullets that killed the guys in the tattoo parlor, the pimp and chauffeur, are all from Brad’s gun.”

  “That’s not possible,” Jackson blurted. He leaned forward and stared wide eyed at the report. “Maybe someone switched guns?”

  “First, Brad would know if his gun had been switched,” Sturgeon said. “Second, we checked the serial number.”

&
nbsp; “Oh, shit.” Jackson rubbed his hands rubbed his face. “Not possible. I know the kid. Despite his horrific luck, he didn’t do this.”

  “At first I thought that.” Sturgeon pulled the report back in front of him. He glanced down and shrugged. “There is a lot of room for error in some evidence. But you can’t fake ballistics.”

  “Does Archer know?”

  Sturgeon shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “I’ll try to find Brad.” Jackson stood. “You need to redo the ballistics.”

  “We did it right, we double checked—”

  Jackson stopped at the door and held up a finger. “It is my opinion as the staff sergeant for Homicide that we need to reconfirm your results. Do the ballistics again … and take your time.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Brad slowed as he drove through the southwest neighborhood near Mount Royal College. It was well established, with older homes in decent repair, lawns cut, and large, mature trees providing shade. On the right side of the street, several apartment complexes stood out in contrast to the bungalows. Brad had chosen this four-floor building for Annie over a year ago. Twenty-four-hour security and the latest in locks. It was close to Mount Royal College, in Briscoe’s district, and less than fifteen minutes from Brad’s farmhouse.

  He’d planned to talk things out with Annie. Minutes ago, on the radio news, they reported an unidentified police source had revealed Detective Brad Coulter was a person of interest by his own police department.

  Brad turned right, then right again into the alley and parked behind the building. He headed to the back door and used his key, then took the back stairs to Annie’s floor. He opened the stair’s door and glanced at the four apartment doors.

  He stepped to one and tapped lightly on the door. When he didn’t hear anyone moving, he tapped again. He thought shadow passed over the eyepiece. The lock clicked, and the door opened.

  Brad slipped past her into the apartment and closed the door behind.

  “What are you doing here?” Annie asked.