Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  “Exactly,” Gayle said.

  “But the serial numbers marched,” Sturgeon said.

  “On the frame. There aren’t always serial numbers on a replacement barrel for a Browning Hi-Power.”

  “No shit,” Sturgeon said.

  “Our theory,” Gayle said, “is that at some point, Coulter’s barrel was changed for the killer’s barrel.”

  “Excellent work, ladies,” Sturgeon said. “I have to find Staff Sergeant Jackson.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  An unmarked police sedan pulled off the road in front of the truck and plowed through snow as it stopped. The door opened and Sergeant Jackson hauled his lanky frame out. He zipped his parka and slid on gloves as he strode to Briscoe and Zerr. Steele ambled over. Jackson glanced at Briscoe. “Charming hat.”

  “Yeah, well, my ears ain’t gonna freeze off and my brain stays warm,” Briscoe said.

  “You need a better hat then.” Jackson glanced at Steele and Zerr. “How did you find the truck?”

  Steele told Jackson about the call from Sadie and how they spotted the abandoned truck.

  “Ms. Andrus got my message to Coulter,” Jackson said.

  Zerr glanced at Steele, then said, “I guess. You know?”

  “What did you find in the truck?” Jackson asked.

  Zerr told Jackson about the registration and insurance and the scrawled note with the word, “Toscana.”

  Jackson rubbed his chin. “He was leaving us a message. He didn’t have much time. There are only two reasons you pull out your registration and insurance. If you’re in a traffic accident and you are exchanging details with the guy. Or—”

  “The cops stop you,” Zerr said.

  Jackson nodded. “Not any cop.”

  “Toscana,” Briscoe said.

  “She’s all hot about tactical stuff,” Zerr said. “She’s built solid. In the TSU testing a few months ago, she bench pressed more than some guys on the team.” Zerr glanced at Steele, who gave him the finger.

  “I know she’s at the range at least three times a week,” Briscoe said.

  “And she’d know all about crime scene investigations,” Jackson said. “And how to plant evidence. Well, that fits with what Sturgeon and his team found.”

  “What’s that?” Briscoe asked.

  “You know, most of the evidence against Brad was circumstantial and easily disproved,” Jackson said. “The most damning evidence was ballistics. Sturgeon’s techs believe the killer swapped the barrel on Brad’s gun for the killer’s gun.”

  “How?” Steele asked. “None of us ever let our guns out of our sight unless we lock them up. You taught us that, Sarge. Brad told us that at every meeting. Every frickin’ meeting.”

  “The only way we answer that question is by finding Brad,” Jackson said.

  “And Toscana,” Briscoe added.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Brad’s camouflage parka was zipped, his collar up, and his hands were behind his back. He hunched into the wind as he headed south from the crack houses of Victoria Park. The gray day from the low clouds was fast approaching darkness.

  A freezing December wind whipped through him like he didn’t have the parka at all. Ice needles peppered his body, mostly his face, which had no protection.

  Minutes into the walk and Brad was chilled to the bone. He shivered, shoulders hunched, and chin tucked into the top of his parka. The crunch of snow was steady behind him. The cold steel at his neck reminded him he’d let his guard down for a second, maybe even less, and screwed up. The pain in his chest and the headache were a further reminder.

  Toscana told him to stare ahead and keep walking. As he wiggled his gloveless fingers to get circulation flowing, the gun pressed harder against his neck. The voice said, “Don’t.”

  His brain ripped through ideas for his escape. But a confounding variable was Kearse’s nephew. If Brad put up a fight now, chances are they’d never find Michael and not in time to save his life.

  Brad continued south.

  “So, where are we heading?” Brad asked.

  “Shut up.”

  “Trying to make conversation,” Brad said.

  There was no response.

  To pass the time, Brad thought about his mistakes. First, meeting Sadie had been dumb. He should have known the killer would figure that out. Second, he’d been slow to figure out who the killer was. By the time he knew, it was too late. And third, he was an idiot.

  Capture was an interesting twist. He was with the killer and likely heading to wherever Michael was being held. All good. Not so good was his pistol and Maggie’s gun, his backup, were gone. No doubt taken while he was unconscious. He was weaponless. He just needed to wait for the right moment.

  “I would have put money that you were taking me to Victoria Park,” Brad said. “You know, end this where you started.”

  “I told you to shut up.” The gun moved away. Before he could react, the butt of the gun slammed into the side of his head. The world spun, and he staggered a few steps. A hand grabbed the collar of his parka and pulled him upright. The gun was pressing into the back of his neck again.

  “Keep walking.”

  Brad’s vision cleared, and he tried to figure out where they were going. He’d been sure where the murders started would also be the end. Not for the first time today, he’d been wrong. That it would stop now, he was sure. He had no intention of it being Kearse’s nephew or him. In his mind, just one person was going to die.

  “Not a great way to continue a relationship.”

  The gun pressed harder into his neck. “You’ve had plenty of opportunities to have a conversation.”

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, Toscana.”

  “You can call me Dice.” She pronounced the name dee kay.

  “Are you seriously calling yourself by a nickname? Wow. What the hell? Why dee kay?” He said it in a mocking voice.

  “Dice in Greek mythology means Goddess of Justice.”

  That wasn’t the answer Brad expected. “Is this about revenge?” He glanced over his shoulder.

  The sidewalk was slick. Brad contemplated a slip, going down on one knee. Then he could either swing his arm around and take his assailant’s legs out, or a whip kick would do the same. Then he was back to the same problem of finding out where Kearse’s nephew was being held. No, it wasn’t the time.

  If he wasn’t being taken to a drug house in Victoria Park, then where? No one was on the streets, and no one paid any attention from the few houses that still had glass windows.

  He stamped his feet as he hiked, willing circulation to return and warm blood to flow to his toes. The icy wind was at their backs, with Toscana absorbing most of the blast.

  “I need to know Michael Trant is okay.”

  Toscana smacked the back of Brad’s head. “What part of shut up are you having trouble with?”

  Brad caught the hint of hesitation in the voice. “I’m having trouble with all of it. Maybe we weren’t best friends, but you came to me for advice. I was straight with you about your chances for TSU. We had pizza and beer and some laughs. I helped you with Briscoe. I don’t understand why you are doing this.”

  There was a snort. “Ah, are your feelings hurt? You know all you need to know. The last couple of weeks I didn’t hesitate to kill. If you don’t follow everything I ask, you will die. I’ll leave your gutted and bleeding corpse splayed out. Then I will take pleasure in killing Trant.”

  Brad tried to figure out how he’d missed the warning signs with Toscana. She’d been on the periphery of events with the snipers, but there’d been nothing to make him suspicious. She was aggressive and career oriented. Driven to get ahead. Even at the range and having pizza, he had felt no danger. “If you keep killing, they’ll know it wasn’t me.”

  Toscana laughed. “Maybe. But forever you’ll be remembered as a disgraced cop. I can live with that.”

  “There are people who won’t accept that I did the killings. They’ll keep huntin
g for you.”

  “Ah, isn’t that cute.” Toscana sneered and her voice mocked. “Your precious group of friends will fight to clear your name. They might try, but there is overwhelming evidence against you.”

  “The next time you murder, they’ll pour over the crime scene, the evidence, the method. They’ll find you.”

  Toscana sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Coulter. The dream world you live in. I tried to vary my modus operandi, but obviously I slipped up since you figured out the cases were connected. In the future, I’ll plan better and make sure there are no breadcrumbs for your friends to follow. Even if they connect a few murders, it will be too late for you. You’ll be in heaven or hell with your beloved Maggie.”

  Brad’s gut clenched. He had an idea where they were headed. “Are we there yet?”

  Pain ripped through the back of his head; the full force of the blow knocked him to his knee. He rolled onto his shoulder rather than having his face pounded into the ice. That happens when you have your hands tied behind your back. The icy cold was soothing. He blinked his eyes, his vision cloudy. He could nearly make out a face framed by the hood of a parka. As his vision cleared, he was yanked to his feet, the gun jamming into his neck.

  “Stop being a smartass. Shut the fuck up and move.”

  They continued south. The city was in complete darkness. Clouds formed around the streetlights, giving an eerie, eighteenth-century-London feel. If Jack the Ripper had popped out from between houses, he wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d rather take his chances with the Ripper. Pain pounded in the back of his head in time with the beat of his heart. If he could get his heart rate down, maybe the pounding would subside. Then Toscana jabbed the gun deeper into his neck. Yeah, his heart rate wasn’t coming down anytime soon.

  Toscana shoved him toward the abandoned building. Sandstone and brick walls had defied seventy years of harsh weather. The windows had not survived vandalism and were boarded.

  “Open the door,” Toscana ordered.

  Coulter stepped through the doorway first, the gun still firmly against his neck. The room was in darkness, their footsteps echoed, and he sensed they were in an open area, maybe half the size of a school gym. Coulter stepped farther into the room. Toscana followed, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding the gun at his neck. They headed through the room. Coulter stopped and Toscana bumped into him. He listened. It was faint, but someone was moaning ahead. A sniffle, then moaning.

  Toscana shoved Coulter toward the increasing sound. They came to a heavy door. “Inside.”

  Coulter opened the door.

  The moaning ceased. A voice pleaded, “Please, stop.”

  The dark room flooded with light. When Coulter’s eyes adjusted, he saw a young man secured by ropes to a chair. Michael Trant. He was slim, emaciated, and mid-twenties. His brown hair was long, to his shoulders, with a greasy shine. He looked nothing like Roger Kearse.

  Blood oozed from dozens of cuts. His face was bloated like he’d been in a heavyweight championship fight. One eye was swollen shut. He had the vacant stare of someone high on opioids.

  “Hey, are you Michael Trant?” Coulter stepped toward the man.

  Toscana jammed the cold steel of the gun into Coulter’s neck.

  “Move and you die,” Toscana said. “Slowly kneel.”

  Coulter knelt. “Hang in there, Michael.”

  Toscana pulled Coulter’s head back by his hair. “Shut up. Stay on your knees.”

  “What the hell are you doing, Toscana?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m executing the sentence they should have received. The courts are gutless. These predators are allowed back into society to continue their depravity, to prey on the weakest. If the courts don’t stand up for the victims, who will?”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me.” Dice slid the cattle prod out of her pocket and jammed it into Coulter’s side.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  The APB on the unmarked police van finally paid off. A patrol cruiser had spotted the van parked in Victoria Park. Jackson coordinated TSU raids on several houses. They arrested a dozen with outstanding warrants, seized drugs from every house, but didn’t find Brad, Michael, or the killer.

  Steele tossed his helmet into the back of the Suburban in frustration.

  “What a fucking waste of time.”

  “We kicked a hornet’s nest of lowlifes and drug dealers in the area,” Zerr said. “They’ll be crapping bricks for weeks.”

  “You realize that they’ll all be back onto the street before dark, right?” Steele asked.

  “Sure, but it was fun,” Zerr said.

  “But it didn’t get us any closer to finding Brad or Michael or the killer.”

  “You’re being whiny again.”

  Jackson headed over to them.

  “Get anything worthwhile, Sarge?” Steele asked.

  “Not initially. There was a weird person hanging around here a few weeks ago. Dressed all in black and kept to the shadows.”

  “Probably doing surveillance for the second murder.”

  Jackson nodded and blew onto his fingers. “Yup. Another guy said at least an hour ago, two were people heading east toward the rundown Symons Mattress factory.” Zerr and Steele exchanged glances. Every cop knew about the Symons factory. In the summer, on warm nights after shift, occasionally cops gathered for a brew or two after work.

  “Homeless heading out of the cold to shelter in the factory,” Zerr said.

  “Maybe,” Jackson replied. “He said one guy was dressed in jeans and a blue parka and the other person, shorter, was behind and dressed in black.”

  “Okay, you convinced me,” Steele said.

  Chapter Seventy

  Brad was floating in cold darkness, then toward a light. He was over—well, he wasn’t sure what he was over. People moved below him, hustling from one place to another. He floated across the street and over some steps. A door opened, and he continued. Another door opened, and he was in a courtroom. “It is clear, Your Honor, that Coulter is guilty,” Jenni Blighe said. “His carelessness, his ego and his failure to protect the innocent all contributed to the death. You must sentence him accordingly.”

  The judge, Ethan Gray, glared at Brad. His words were obvious.

  “Coulter? Coulter? You had one job. Protect my daughter. I release you into the custody of Dice. May the Goddess of Justice have mercy on your soul. Or not.” His eyes blazed and an evil grin crossed his face. He laughed, a loud, maniacal laugh. The judge disappeared. Brad’s body wouldn’t move. The room went dark and he was freezing.

  “Coulter.”

  He lifted his head a few inches and opened his eyes. It took a moment to focus. Then it started coming back. Toscana sat before him, grinning. Her hands rested on her thighs, one hand holding her gun. He glanced down. His camouflage parka, gloves, and beanie lay in a pile on the floor. His upper body, with only a T-shirt, shivered.

  He was in a chair, his arms still tied behind his back, calves tied to the legs of the chair. Several loops of rope tightly encircled his chest, making it difficult to take a deep breath.

  “What the hell?” Brad struggled against the ropes.

  “For a while, I admired you.” Toscana casually sat back in the chair. “With the shit you’d been through, I was sure you’d understand what needed to be done.” She smiled sadly. “But you were weak.” Her voice rose. “Unfortunate, really. We could have cleaned up the city. Partners.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “Crime would decrease. Criminals we didn’t execute would flee the city. Almost as good.”

  “You’re out of your mind.” Brad jerked his body in the chair.

  “You’re too smart for your own well-being. You slipped through my carefully planned frame-up. This isn’t personal. But I can’t let you stop me.” Her nostrils flared.

  Brad flexed and relaxed his hands and wrists. He slid his arms up and down and side to side against the ropes. Soon his arms were on fire from the rope burn, but he continued. He
needed to create some slack in the ropes. He slid as low as he could in the chair. His fingers spread and he reached as far around his back as he could. His fingers searched for the cold metal he’d clipped to his pants under his belt. Nothing there.

  “Searching for this?” Toscana held his tactical knife in her hand and waved it in front of his eyes. “Quite sneaky, clipping it under your belt.” Toscana held her finger to her lips. “Now who was it that told me to always carry a knife?” She swung the hand holding the knife wide, then pointed it at Brad. “Why, it was you.” She grinned. “The gun on your hip and your right ankle were easy. She flicked her wrist, and the blade flew open. She gently touched the edge across his face. “Oh, nice and sharp. I bet it would cut the ropes with no problem and you could escape. You won’t find out.” She closed the knife and slid it into her pants pocket. She glanced over at Michael. “There are too many who need justice.”

  “Your justice.” Brad practically spit the words.

  “My justice.” Toscana sneered with an ugly twist of her mouth. “Does it matter? Like I said, if the courts won’t do it, I will.”

  Brad laughed. “You aren’t the Goddess of Justice. You’re a punk, a thug with an overgrown sense of yourself. You’re a cold-hearted killer with an over-confident sense of superiority, nothing more.”

  Toscana loomed over Brad, her face reddening.

  Brad jutted out his chin. “True justice doesn’t mete out punishment for a chosen few. The laws are the same for all.”

  Toscana leaned inches from Brad’s face. “Those who died were guilty. They were also the scum of society. That’s a win both ways.”

  Keep her talking.

  Brad rolled his eyes, his chin high. “You haven’t given the justice system a chance. Heck, you haven’t even given being a cop a chance. We see some evil stuff, and the courts don’t always see it the way we do, but they take a lot of evil pricks off the street.”

  “Correction, pretty boy.” Toscana straightened, legs wide, eyes blazing. “We arrest many people, but few of them end up in jail. Hell, most are out on bail before we’ve even completed the paperwork. Out to re-offend. Right back to the shit they were doing.”