He followed Royal Avenue to Eighth Street, then headed north across Seventeenth Avenue. At Fifteenth Avenue he saw the perfect place to stop. He entered the Dairy Queen and ordered lunch. Seated in the back corner, he tore into his burger, hungrier than he’d realized. As he ate, he pulled out his notes, then tossed them aside. The bigger problem was who was doing the killing and why were they framing him.
Were they two separate problems that came together? The murders started before he was involved. A vigilante with a plan. Then, by luck of the draw, and out of boredom, he investigated.
As he drank his Coke, he worked on a plan and came up with two objectives—avoid the police and figure out who was framing him. To stay out of jail, he’d need to think like a criminal—which, technically, he was.
At what point did the killer target him? What was it he did that scared the killer and caused the killer to add Brad to the plan? It was brilliant. While the police hunted for Brad, the killer wasn’t under suspicion. No one was hunting anyone other than Brad. Would the murders continue? Why not, if Brad was on the loose? In fact, if another homicide occurred, it would be even better for the actual perpetrator. He had no alibi. Not even a bad alibi.
Chapter Forty-Six
Jackson burst into Sturgeon’s office and slumped into a chair.
Sturgeon glanced up. “You and Coulter, neither of you learned to knock. What the heck do you want?”
Jackson stretched out his long frame and placed his hands behind his head.
“Christ,” Sturgeon said. “You two even sit the same way. You bored?”
“Staff Sergeant in Homicide isn’t that busy of a job. Being the sergeant in charge of one cop—Coulter—shouldn’t be that difficult.”
Sturgeon raised an eyebrow. “But.”
Jackson leaned forward. “How the hell does he do it? He’s always in shit.”
“The shit finds him, he doesn’t go looking.”
“Maybe,” Jackson said. “But Christ, a vigilante?”
“You don’t believe that?”
“No. You?”
Sturgeon hesitated.
Jackson’s eyes widened. “Spill it. What have you found?”
Sturgeon shrugged. “Just the stuff you already know. The evidence points to Coulter. No matter how many times we analyze, it comes back the same.”
“You’ve known him a long time. Is it possible?”
Sturgeon shook his head. “Even with Maggie dying, I don’t see Brad doing the murders. He may tiptoe on the line, but he’d never cross over this far.”
“I don’t know.” Jackson pursed his lips. “He was a long way over the line when he forged the psychologist’s note to come back to work.”
“Sure. But he came back to work, not to go rogue.”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “So you say.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“What do you think he’s doing?” Jackson asked.
Sturgeon gazed around his office. “Clearing his name ... I hope.”
Jackson fumbled around in a shirt pocket until he found a toothpick. He slid the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “He doesn’t have a lot of resources to do that. He can’t use his friends.”
“Are you sure?” Sturgeon wrinkled his brow.
“Shit.” Jackson sprung forward and spit out a piece of toothpick, eyes wide. “Have you talked to him? Are you helping him?”
Sturgeon held up his hands. “I have no clue where he is, and I haven’t spoken to him.”
Jackson sat back, nodded and chewed on the toothpick. “He’d figure out a way to contact his friends, though.”
Sturgeon shrugged. “I suppose so. But Griffin and his IA buddies have everyone under surveillance.”
Jackson snorted. “Griffin is a great cop, but the other two?”
“They’re wasting their time if they think Brad’s friends will lead them to him. One of two things will happen. He solves the murders, or he turns himself in. But if he doesn’t want to be found, they won’t find him.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Brad shivered as he sat on the ground against the boulder and listened to the Bow River flow past. The sun had set hours ago. He’d driven east and parked the truck. He’d hiked through a playground and into the east end of Bowness Park, better known as the 7 Bees.
This was where he and Lobo had come on daily runs for four years so Lobo could swim and fetch rocks. Later, it was the place he brought Maggie—then it was their spot. He felt the chill of the wind and shivered. Minus twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit with a wind chill close to minus thirty-five. Why didn’t they just say minus thirty-five? He wrapped his arms around his chest. Military winter gear—bullshit.
There wasn’t a day he didn’t miss Maggie. After she died, he and Lobo had spent hours here every day. Sometimes late into the night. He didn’t want to leave. But it became a place of sorrow—of depression. Then he was worried that one day he would come here and go to Maggie. He couldn’t do that to Lobo, but …
His friends were around, but he’d never felt so alone. He didn’t believe in bad luck, but there was something, some aura around him that got people hurt. He should be able to protect them, but he couldn’t, didn’t. He’d been wrong to bring Sadie into this. He’d rectify that.
He leaned back closer to the rock and brought his knees to his chest, then circled his knees with his arms. He was in as tight of a ball as he could be. Small, a mere speck in the universe.
His head lifted. Someone was crashing down the path through the trees. Shit. Shit. Somehow, they’d found him. But damn, they were making a lot of noise. Brad rolled and faced the noise, drew his pistol and pointed around the left side. If they were coming from the west, then there had to be approaching coming from the east. What a stupid spot to be. He had no escape.
The crashing grew closer, then he heard the panting. The dark shape came over the top of the boulder and pounced on him.
Brad was knocked to the ground with Lobo planting slobbery kisses over his face.
“Lobo, enough. Out.”
Lobo had no intentions of stopping. He kept his paws on Brad’s shoulder, the slobbering getting worse. Two dark figures stood over them.
“Should we call Lobo off?” Steele asked.
“He’s trying to lick off those wisps of a beard,” Zerr said.
“Give them another minute,” Steele said.
Finally, Brad rolled out from under Lobo and stood. “Lobo scared the shit out of me.” Lobo raced around his legs.
“How is that possible?” Steele asked. “He was making more noise than an elephant.”
Brad dusted the snow off his clothes. “I thought Griffin and IA had found me.”
“You set up a meeting through that reporter and then you’re surprised we’re here?” Steele asked.
“He’s tired.” Zerr grinned.
Steele cocked his head. “From what?”
“Last night.”
“Don’t fuckin’ go there,” Brad hissed.
“Me thinks he doth protest too much,” Zerr said.
Steele smirked at Zerr. “Annie said Sadie had a special glow about her.”
“Are you two comedians finished?” Brad glared at his friends. “Nothing happened.”
“Great idea. Plead the fifth,” Zerr said.
“That’s just in the US, numbnuts.” Steele cocked his head. “Hey Charlie, you know what my question is?”
“What would that be, Sam?”
“If our dear friend Brad spent the night at Sadie’s, then why the heck didn’t something happen?”
“I believe he has lost his super power over women,” Zerr said.
Brad smacked Zerr on his back. “If you two idiots are about done, whether my sex life is on or off is not the issue. I’m framed for murder. I have to clear my name. Are you two going to help me or audition for Saturday Night Live?”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Steele said.
Brad glared. “Bring me
up to date. What happened today?”
“Where to start,” Zerr said. “Sturgeon matched ballistics to your gun.”
“Yeah, I heard that. It’s bullshit.”
“The chief ordered Archer to bring Internal Affairs onto the case,” Steele said.
“Ain’t that fuckin’ lovely,” Brad said.
“It gets better,” Steele said.
“Or worse,” Zerr muttered.
Brad glanced from one to the other.
Steele frowned. “Griffin went to Archer’s office and asked to be the lead on your case.”
“Seriously?”
“Kid you not.” Zerr stamped his feet and rubbed his arms. “He’ll be working with Detectives Genereau and Harker from IA.”
“Oh, shit. They hate me.”
“They might have reason to,” Zerr said.
“As I recall, you called them fucking idiots and stormed out of their interview,” Steele said. “Archer had to intervene to save your ass.”
Brad frowned. “I don’t remember it that way.”
“They already hauled us, Briscoe, and Annie in for the third-degree interviews.”
“Sorry about that,” Brad said.
“Are you kidding?” Zerr said. “Most fun I’ve had in a long time. They forgot that in the military I trained on evading and enduring interrogation. I spun them in so many circles they’ll be dizzy for a week.”
“Annie said she messed with them as well,” Steele said. “Sturgeon has his two best techs going over the evidence to see if there’s any way it’s false or tampered with. Your picture is in every cruiser, shown at every briefing, in every newspaper, and on TV. You’re a regular celebrity.”
“Shit. I guess I should have expected that.”
“Jeez, it’s cold by the river.” Zerr shivered and rubbed his right leg. “You couldn’t think of a warm place to meet?”
“Muffin,” Steele said. “Archer is doing the right things. He’s getting immense pressure from the chief. They’ve got your farm, Annie’s apartment, Briscoe’s house, and Maggie’s grave under surveillance.”
“That’s hardly original thinking,” Brad said.
“They’ve got guys following us,” Steele said. “It’s fun leading them all over the city until we want to ditch them. That takes about fifteen seconds. They follow Briscoe home. Even at work he’s got someone tailing him.”
“He’s not gonna like that,” Brad said.
Steele grinned. “Oh, yeah. He enjoys messing with them by racing up Fourth Street and into the cemetery. They follow and then block all the exits. Briscoe sits there for about ten minutes, then leaves. They can’t get the roadblocks out of the way fast enough, and he waves at the cops as he drives around them.”
“Did you bring the stuff?” Brad asked.
“Yup.” Steele swung a duffel bag in front of Brad.
“You got everything?”
Sam shrugged. “Annie gave us the list—older clothes for the homeless style, but not the ‘jeez, you stink’ kind. Binoculars, notebooks, cash, dimes for the payphone—everything.”
“Where are you sleeping tonight?” Zerr asked.
Brad said, “I know a place.”
“The accommodations of last night didn’t work out?” Zerr asked.
“Too many people are getting caught in my wake. It was a mistake last night. I’m not putting Sadie or anyone else in danger.”
“We’ll find you someplace to hide,” Zerr said.
Brad shook his head. “You guys are already too involved. Better if you don’t know where I am. If I don’t figure this out soon, I’ll have to turn myself in.”
“We’re a long way from that happening,” Zerr said.
“Maybe.” Brad shrugged. “I need to find the hookers. Something’s not right with what they said.”
Steele nodded. “We thought that, as well. When we leave here, that’s what we’ll do. Leave it to us.”
Zerr tossed over a plastic bag. “Subs, milk, water, juice, and toothbrush and paste.”
“How do we get ahold of you?” Steele asked.
“You don’t, too risky,” Brad replied. “We meet here every night around nine. If either of us are followed, it’s off. Otherwise, I’ll get messages to you through Sadie and Annie.”
“Reconsider your options,” Zerr said. “You were safe at Sadie’s place.”
“That’s a last resort.” Brad clipped a leash onto Lobo’s collar. He knelt and roughed up Lobo’s head. “Be a good boy.” Brad handed the leash to Steele, grabbed his stuff and headed out of the park to Lobo’s frantic barking.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Brad parked behind the stone-and-brick building. A single light shone from a window facing the back parking lot. Brad sat in the truck staring at the window, wondering if this was a good idea. Maybe not the best, but he was out of options. After he’d left the park, he’d never felt so alone. Leaving Lobo behind was the hardest. Especially when Brad needed him.
A shadow passed over the window. Brad opened the truck door and headed to the church. He hesitated at the back door, then knocked. Not his usual, ‘police’ knock, but a friendly, hesitant knock. He heard noises from inside, then the door opened.
“Reverend Branton,” Brad said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I was—”
“Of course, I remember you, Detective.” Branton’s smile was wide. His blue eyes sparkled. “I don’t typically get visitors at this time of night. Is everything okay?”
“Would you mind if I came inside?”
“Not at all.” Branton stepped aside. “Where are my manners? Please, come in.” Branton, wearing a powder blue button-down shirt, navy pants and black wing tip oxfords led Brad down a short hall to an office with an antique desk littered with papers, books and magazines. “I’m working on a sermon for this Sunday. Doing research.” Branton pointed to one of two recliners. “Please, have a seat.” Branton hesitated at the other chair. “Can I offer you a coffee? Water?”
“I’d love a coffee. I know it’s late.”
“No problem. I have a pot on. I do my best work at night.”
A few minutes later, Branton was back with two steaming mugs of coffee.
“Most cops I know take their coffee black. I made an assumption.” Branton handed a coffee to Brad and sat.
“Good call.” Brad sipped the drink and sighed. “That is what I needed.”
Branton sat back and sipped his coffee. His soft eyes observed Brad.
They sat in silence for several minutes, neither willing to disturb the relaxed atmosphere.
“I don’t watch a lot of TV,” Branton said. “But from what I’ve watched, you are famous—or is it infamous?”
Brad slid forward to the edge of his chair. “I’m sorry. I’m putting you in a compromising situation.”
Branton waved him back down. “Priest and parishioner confidentiality.”
“You’re not a priest and I’m not your parishioner.”
Branton chuckled. “Minor details.” He held his arms wide. “This is a house of God. There’s a reason we call it a sanctuary. You are safe here.” He sipped his coffee and crossed his legs. “How can I help?”
For the first time in a long time, Brad felt comfortable, at peace. Mandatory sessions with the police psychologist Hans Keller had been adversarial. Talking with a psychologist he’d picked, Darlene Fricker, had gone better. He leaned back in the comfortable chair and closed his eyes. Then he started talking about Maggie.
Branton listened intently, never interrupting, eyes locked on Brad, fingers folded in his lap. Brad slumped in the chair when he’d finished his story.
Branton let a few quiet minutes pass. “Would you like me to offer my observations?”
Brad nodded.
“For someone so young, you have experienced more than 99.9 percent of people experience in a lifetime. Your chosen profession guarantees that. Your personal loss is extreme. One thing you haven’t mentioned is your belief in God.”
; Brad leaned forward, but Branton waved him off with a smile.
“That doesn’t matter,” Branton said. “I’m not here to save or convert you. Suffice to say, you came here for sanctuary. If you believe in God, your faith is questioned. ‘How could a loving God allow this to happen?’ If you don’t believe in God, then you believe you are the unluckiest person in the world. Either way, the pain is real and devastating. The road to recovery or acceptance is long, and each person travels that path at their own pace. Some believe in the Kübler-Ross Grief Cycle. The theory is that we go through five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I’m not sure I believe it is as simple as that, but it’s as good of a model as any. Are you with me so far?”
Brad nodded. What Branton said made sense. It surprised Brad he was so far down the path, if he was. When he first woke in the hospital and was told Maggie didn’t make it, he’d been in denial. Forging documents so he could come back to work appeared to be bargaining. On his first full shift he lost it on the asshat who beat his girlfriend. He was angry. When he was suspended just when the sniper case had some leads, he hit depression. If he wasn’t depressed, then what was left?
“I reached bargaining before anger,” Brad said.
Branton shrugged. “It’s a model. Each person will work their way through the stages in their own order, in their own time. From what you’ve told me, you are well down the path, past denial, anger, bargaining and depression. Where does that leave you? Acceptance.”
Brad felt his gut clench. His mouth went dry, and he held his breath. Acceptance? Could he accept Maggie’s death? It didn’t feel right that acceptance was the last step.
Branton read his mind. “Have you realized that acceptance may not be the last step?”
Brad’s head jerked up. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“I have a theory on that.” Branton shrugged, and his blue eyes sparkled. “Just a theory, or as some call it, my opinion. Some people will tell you that you must move on. I don’t accept that. Moving on seems to mean leaving everything in the past, buried, never to be remembered. I believe you need to move forward. You don’t forget the past, you honor the memories you want to, you don’t let the awful memories weigh you down, and you forge a fresh path. Perhaps the road less traveled. I’m rambling and giving a sermon. I apologize.”
Goddess of Justice Page 19
