The Vigilantes boh-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  Payne and Harris exchanged glances, then Payne looked at Rapier. He raised an eyebrow and said, “Okay, I’ll bite. Why shouldn’t I worry?”

  “Well, normally I would counsel caution, faithful use of condoms and all.” He paused. “But I’m almost certain you can’t get STDs from your palm.”

  Harris burst out laughing.

  “This one?” Sergeant Matt Payne asked innocently, showing Corporal Kerry Rapier his right palm. Then Payne immediately turned it and folded all but the middle finger.

  “That’s what I think of your counsel, Corporal.”

  Both exchanged grins.

  “And the other thing they all had in common,” Payne continued, “is the Wanted sheet. They were all printed on the same paper stock. Same bond. Same whiteness factor-or lack thereof. Really cheap paper, almost gray. Wanted sheets for everyone but Gartner and Nguyen.” He motioned at the main bank of monitors. “Kerry, can you punch up Nguyen’s?”

  The Colt pistol pointer floated over John “JC” NGUYEN Case No.: 2010- 81-039611 -Pop-n-Drop. The pistol fired and smoked, and the image from monitor number fourteen appeared in place of Gartner’s. The time-stamp ID was identical, and the paused image was almost so, the only difference being that in this image it was Gartner’s body that was grayed out.

  They read the text:

  Name: John “JC” NGUYEN

  Description: Asian male, age 25, 5'2", 110 lbs.

  L.K.A.: 1405 S. Colorado Street, South Philly.

  Prior Arrests: 14 total: possession of marijuana (10); possession with intent to distribute Methamphetamine (2); possession with intent to distribute gamma hydroxybutyric (GHB) (1); Involuntary deviant sexual intercourse amp; rape of an unconscious or unaware person (1). On Probation for GHB distribution. Sex crime charges dismissed due to technicality: broken evidence chain of custody. Outstanding bench warrant for failure to appear in Municipal Court on two counts of intent to deliver a controlled substance.

  Call Received: 31 Oct, 2202 hours.

  Cause of Death: GUNSHOT and/or SUFFOCATION.

  Case No.: 2010-81-039611-POP-N-DROP

  Notes: SNU 2010-56-9280 Found dead with his criminal defense lawyer, Daniel O. “Danny” GARTNER Case No.: 2010-81-039612-POP-N-DROP. Large-bore gunshot to head. Clear packing tape wrapped around head, covering mouth and nose. Garbage bag over head, sealed with packing tape. Packing tape also bound wrists and ankles. One (1) spent shell casing Glock. 45 caliber found in alleyway behind law office of Gartner. Also recovered from inside law office were zipper-top bags, one containing cocaine and one with 53 tablets of Rohypnol. And a large volume (possibly in excess of a gallon) of urine, source unknown, poured around office. Body transported to Lex Talionis, Old City.

  “So,” Payne said after studying the information for a moment, “with the exception of Gartner, all the dead have a sex-crime component. And the exception to that being that Gartner got his client off on a technicality. Ergo, our doer”-he looked at the text box and read aloud from it-“‘SNU 2010-56-9280,’ whose prints are linked to seven of the eight pop-anddrops-”

  “Make that nine,” Kerry Rapier interrupted, pointing to the third bank of monitors. “Here comes Xpress on number twenty-six.”

  He manipulated the console panel, and the video feed from the department’s CCTV camera at Eighth and Arch in Old City appeared on the main bank. It showed a small red pickup packed with teenagers pulling up in front of Francis Fuller’s office building-and being immediately surrounded, first by plainclothed policemen, then by uniforms.

  Using the control panel’s joystick, Rapier first panned the scene, then zoomed in to look inside the open back of the pickup. After a couple teenagers hopped out, the camera had a clear view of a motionless, bloodied black male lying there.

  “This would appear to be one Xavier ‘Xpress’ Smith,” Rapier said. “I pulled his sheet earlier.”

  “Who doesn’t really count in our manhunt of the pop-and-drop doer,” Payne said. “Miracle of miracles, we’re right now looking at the guys-these street-justice vigilantes-who popped Smith. Wish our other doer was so damn easily collared.”

  Rapier said, “His rap sheet shows twenty-two cases of petty robbery, possession of stolen goods, and possession of and intent to deliver crystal meth.”

  “To which,” Payne said, “we can add a charge of murder. At least according to Javier Iglesia. Assuming, of course, Xpress himself is not dead. He’s not moving at all in the back of that truck.”

  They watched the CCTV feed as the uniforms began handcuffing the very unhappy teenagers.

  After a moment, Payne said, “Getting back to what I was saying about our SNU whose prints are linked to seven of our eight”-he exchanged glances with Rapier-“our nine pop-and-drops, the doer is targeting criminals with a history of sex crimes against women and children.” He looked at Harris. “Ergo, Plan A, the obvious thing to do would be to list every critter fitting that profile, then have their Last Known Address immediately put under surveillance.”

  Kerry Rapier offered, “I can generate a report listing them.”

  Harris looked at him, then at Payne, and said, “Then just wait for the doer, or doers, to show up? That’s not going to work. I mean, at least logistically.”

  Payne nodded. “I know, I know. If even one percent of the city’s fifty thousand fugitives were sex offenders, that’d mean we’d need five hundred guys on the street to stand watch. And that’s for just one shift. It’d take fifteen hundred to go round the clock. And then there’s the Megan’s Law offenders.”

  Harris shook his head. “No way we could get that kind of manpower. We may as well put in a request for a magic wand to wave.”

  Payne sighed audibly. He said, “So, Plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “What they say to do when nothing goes right.”

  Harris shook his head.

  “‘Go left.’”

  Harris looked at him a long moment, then said, “Back to square one.”

  Payne nodded. “And looking under the rock under the rock.”

  VII

  [ONE]

  2408 N. Mutter Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 4:08 P.M.

  Driving up North Mutter Street, a narrow one-way lane that ran through Kensington, Will Curtis thought that this godforsaken section of Philadelphia looked not only like time had forgotten it, but also like it had suffered curses worse than all the biblical plagues combined.

  Lice, disease, death of firstborn, hail and fire… hell, it’s all here and more.

  Finding the row house at 2408 had been no problem whatsoever.

  It’s the only damn house standing in the entire 2400 block!

  Curtis bumped the tires of the rented white Ford Freestar over the curb. He stopped the minivan opposite the house where a set of marble steps was all that remained of one row house, and threw the gearshift into park.

  He was still sweating profusely despite having had the windows down to let the chilly November air flow inside. He dropped his head back against the top of the seat and let out a long sigh.

  Never thought I’d get here.

  He was only a little more than three miles from the Mays row house on Wilder Street. But after leaving the Mays house, he had barely made it six blocks down Dickinson Street before his stomach had twisted into a nasty knot.

  Curtis wasn’t sure if the cause of his distress was the chemotherapy treatments for his prostate cancer or his confrontation with Kendrik Mays. Or both.

  While the physical exertion of tracking down the bastard in that basement had worn him out, the mental aspects had taken a genuine toll on him, too. He’d been deeply disturbed by the filthy living conditions and by seeing that poor teenage girl being held captive in the basement and sexually abused.

  Which of course had made him think of Wendy, and her being bound and attacked by that pervert John “JC” Nguyen.

  Who now will never harm another.

  He and Mays and all the others are in th
at corner of hell reserved for such miserable scum.

  What had not bothered Will Curtis-either mentally or physically-was the actual killing of Kendrik. He’d found that shooting vile perverts troubled him less and less each time. Especially when he saw that eliminating them forever freed others-such as the young girl and Shauna Mays-from their awful abuse.

  Whatever the cause of Curtis’s distress, it was the effect that he was more concerned about right now.

  And if he didn’t do something fast, it was going to get ugly.

  Speeding down Dickinson, he desperately looked for someplace that was open on a Sunday morning and would have a toilet he could use.

  But in this residential stretch of Dickinson, there was no gas station, no fast-food restaurant.

  Nothing!

  He’d just about decided that he would have to take a chance and knock on the door of a random house when he saw something a block up on the right: a big red church.

  Thank God!

  Literally…

  The church-he couldn’t readily tell which denomination it was-had no parking lot, and there were no spaces along the curb available, so he nosed the minivan up on a basketball court at the rear of the building.

  And then he awkwardly bolted for the church door with signage reading BANQUET ROOM. He passed a few parishioners, but no one appeared to give him a second thought.

  He found two restrooms in the corner just inside that door.

  Thank God, he thought again.

  As he was leaving thirty minutes later, he saw a small crucifix and a collection jar by the door he’d come in. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wad of cash, then put a twenty-dollar bill in the jar and crossed himself.

  Once back in the minivan, he started to sweat heavily, then felt faint.

  What the hell is going on?

  He turned the van to head back up Passyunk Avenue and made it as far as the Geno’s Cheesesteaks before feeling like he really was going to pass out. He found an open parking spot at the edge of a park across the street, and quickly pulled into it and shut off the engine.

  He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of cheesesteaks from Geno’s. Then he exhaled slowly and decided he should close his eyes for a second.

  He awoke four hours later.

  Groggy and weak, it had taken him some time to get his bearings-where he was and how the hell he’d wound up parked near Geno’s. But then it had all come back to him. As had, very curiously, he thought, his appetite.

  Has to be the damned chemo.

  They said it causes some really weird things to happen.

  Shakily, he got out of the minivan and made his way across the street. At Geno’s, he ordered his and Wendy’s favorite-a provolone cheesesteak with extra grilled onions, a side of freedom fries, and a Coca-Cola with the crunchy pellet-size ice.

  Will Curtis, having slurped the last of the drink, now chewed on the tiny ice pellets as he looked at the run-down row house on Mutter. Clearly there once had been wall-to-wall row houses all along the block. But now only one house was still standing. Some ramshackle fencing-a mix of chain link and four-foot-high rotted wooden pickets spray-painted with gang graffiti-surrounded a few of the abandoned lots. The fenced lots held nothing more than weeds and trash, everything from piles of old car tires to a couple of discarded water heaters.

  Curtis thought that the lone row house, two stories plus a basement that couldn’t total fifteen hundred square feet altogether, looked like it could fall at any moment. Especially without the added support of the row houses that once had been on either side. The red brick of its front-tagged with gang graffiti-had a spiderweb of gaping cracks that ran from the sidewalk all the way up to its sagging roof.

  The rusty white front door was visible through the upper half of an aluminum storm door, where the window glass was missing. The storm door was partly open and hung crookedly. To its left, the downstairs window barely held a battered air conditioner that looked as if it had been targeted for theft more than once.

  Curtis thought it was odd, particularly in a neighborhood as rough as Kensington, that there were no burglar bars mounted over the windows and doors of the structure. Then he decided that the occupants likely could not afford the iron bars, and even if they could pay for them, there was probably nothing of real value inside to protect against theft.

  Why bother?

  There was a short flight of three marble steps from the narrow sidewalk up to the front door. The steps had been painted red long ago, and now the paint was faded and chipped. Someone had drawn on the steps with white chalk-and very recently, as there were two broken stalks of chalk lying next to the drawings.

  The drawings clearly had been made by a child. They showed three stick people: a tall one, a medium-size one, and a small one that was maybe toddler size. The child had drawn the sky with a couple clouds and a disproportionately enormous sun. The sun’s rays-a heavy series of chalk lines-were shining down on the three stick people.

  Despite this squalor, the poor kid seems to have some sort of “sunny” optimism.

  Or maybe it’s a quiet despair, and the kid wishes those rays would shine on his family.

  Well, if the chalk “family” is any indication, the good news is that someone’s in that house.

  He took the top FedEx envelope from the stack on the dashboard and glanced at the name on its bill of lading: LEROI CHEATHAM.

  Wonder if one of those larger stick figures is supposed to be LeRoi?

  If it is LeRoi, the kid’ll soon have one fewer stick figure to draw.

  And maybe the other large stick figure can go collect a ten-grand reward.

  Curtis remembered that Cheatham, a big eighteen-year-old with droopy eyes and a goatee, hadn’t even completed middle school. The Wanted sheet inside the envelope stated that he was a fugitive from Megan’s Law, having failed four months earlier to register as a convicted sex offender after enjoying an early release courtesy of the prison parole board. Unsurprisingly, it also stated that Cheatham had failed to maintain contact with his Pennsylvania State Parole Agent, an offense for which there was an additional warrant.

  LeRoi had the habit of snorting bumps of crystal meth, then entertaining himself during the adrenaline rush that followed by raping the first female he could snatch off the street and drag into an alley or park.

  He’d stupidly dragged his last known victim, the one who’d helped finally put him behind bars, back to his bedroom in the stand-alone row house on Mutter Street. The police found him there hours later, passed out and naked on the floor, after the fifteen-year-old victim had escaped and led them back to the address that was impossible to miss.

  Curtis thought he detected movement in the house. He looked back, first to the artwork on the steps, then to the doors. The rusty white front door was swinging inward.

  A very skinny black boy about five feet tall stepped into the opening. He looked to be ten, maybe twelve, and was drinking from a yellow plastic cup that covered most of his narrow face. He wore oversize khaki pants with the cuffs rolled up, a faded and stained navy sweatshirt, and dirty white sneakers.

  His dark almond eyes darted in the direction of the white FedEx minivan parked across the street, but he didn’t seem concerned about it. He then pushed on the storm door and stepped outside.

  Could he be the medium-size stick person?

  Which would mean there’s maybe an adult and an infant inside?

  The cup still to his face, the young boy pushed the storm door shut, then sat down on the top step. Curtis saw that he’d situated himself so that his back was mostly to the FedEx minivan but he could still see it out of the corner of his eye. Then he put down the cup, picked up a piece of the broken chalk, and went back to working on his art project.

  Curtis slipped the Glock. 45-caliber pistol under his waistband behind his belt buckle, then stepped out of the minivan, carrying the envelope addressed to LeRoi Cheatham.

  When he was halfway across the street, Cu
rtis called out, “This is the Cheatham home, right, young man?”

  The kid did not look up, but just shook his head. He kept drawing, his eye darting a couple times to follow the approaching deliveryman.

  “That’s nice art,” Curtis said as he stopped at the steps. “Who are the people?”

  The kid didn’t reply.

  Curtis pointed to the smallest figure. “Is the little one your baby brother?”

  The kid shook his head as he scratched out another cloud.

  “Your sister?” Curtis pursued.

  He shook his head again. He tapped the stick figure with the chalk, then proudly declared, “It be me, muthafucka!”

  What? Curtis thought.

  He found himself somewhat shocked, first by the out-of-the-blue expletive from the young boy’s mouth, and then by the disconnect between what he saw in the drawing and what the boy said it was supposed to be.

  Weird. The kid has no sense of scale.

  But wait… a twelve-year-old drawing stick figures?

  He must really be backward.

  Maybe some mental defect from his mother smoking crack when she was pregnant. Or from bad diet. Or just being dropped when he was a baby.

  Maybe he’s got that-what’s it called?-Tourette’s syndrome.

  Then again, he probably hears people swearing all the time, and no one tells him not to do it himself.

  The kid went back to drawing clouds.

  “Nice clouds,” Curtis said. “What’s your name?”

  “Michael,” the boy said. Then he nodded once, as if making a point.

  Michael? Well, at least something’s normal around here. But I bet it’s probably spelled weird, like Leroy is “LeRoi.”

  “Michael what?”

  “Michael Floyd,” he said, and again nodded once.

  “Nice to meet you, Michael Floyd.”

  The kid suddenly pointed to the medium-size stick figure. “That be Mama,” he said.

  “Very nice. Who is the other one? Your father?”

  The kid shook his head and said, “That my uncle.”

  “Does he live here?”