JUSTICE REBORN (A Charlie Taylor Novel Book 1)

by Ivan Bering

  During the scanning process, electromagnetic signals are blasted into the brain or more correctly are aimed at a particular region. This is an unwelcome stimulus, and the cells respond or release their contents as a weak transmission; these responses are captured and displayed.

  All this probing should be completed in 45 minutes or less. Any longer and, usually, permanent brain damage results. The scanner, a Medical Technician, works with a small group of people, known as the Watchers. This group consists of three or four people.

  As the streams of memory play out on a monitor, the Watchers signal the Medical Technician to move “ahead” or “back” in time. They determine if the displayed memory pocket happened before or after the crime scene. Each new position of the scanner provides a fresh pocket of memories to be viewed and assessed. Watchers are forced to make rapid decisions; any prolonged discussion about the point in time being displayed will eat into the 45-minute limit.

  The mandatory member of the group is the Historian, a government employee, who as the name implies specializes in historical events, customs, and fashions. Also, it is standard practice to have a detective who was associated with the case and can recognize the crime scene.

  Last, the convict will select one or two people. His selections have to be very familiar with his life and are usually parents, siblings, or spouse. They will be able to recognize a family event, like a wedding and know when it happened.”

  The Warden had enough. “So individuals are going to be executed or released based on their own memory of the crime and now with Amendment 33-2, it could be a capital crime they committed at any time.” He got up and left the room. Pat watched the Warden walk away, certainly not pleased with what she had brought to his prison

  Her own concerns and frustrations grew with each hour. The Board concluded earlier in the week. Where was the green light to proceed? Jacob, the Head of the Prisons Division, was not answering her calls. Maybe it was related to the environmental issue. Transmission problems were common, signals breaking up, calls just abruptly dropped, depending on an erratic magnetic flux. Friends tried to explain it was all related to the bloody magnetic north pole; all the technical terminology was beyond her.

  She wanted to keep resending her requests for clarification but was concerned the repetitions might irritate Jacob. His physical appearance and style often deceived newcomers into believing they were dealing with the third string, a serious mistake in judgment which, if they had no trading cards, would cost them. He never paraded his backers, a discretion they all respected. The political world, also, appreciated his willingness to accept the public opprobrium associated with some of their more devious agendas.

  Pat was left with unanswered questions. Her plan was to corner Dr. Kate or Emma at tonight’s Spring Dance; maybe they’d have the answers. Why no team for the prison? Why no clearance from the Board?

  # # #

  Back at the Hall of Justice, Chief Duncan Stirling was in a black mood. His session with the tourist still lingered and irritated him. He had to appease and win over an angry blond who claimed Charlie grabbed her breast at a damn basketball game.

  The new legislation meant innovation and change at a rapid pace with many issues not covered by regulations; creative decisions were necessary without preordained guidelines. The Chief struggled when working in this gray zone, the result unwanted pressure and anxiety.

  This was compounded by problems with Charlie, his best detective, the man he usually relied on when a case proved difficult or unusual. Although Charlie frequently drove him to the edge because he never stayed in the box and regularly forgot to provide the type of obsequiousness the brass expected, Duncan recognized his strength and lived with the problems this brought to his office. Or, he had to this point.

  The first few months after Charlie lost his wife and daughter, he appeared to be coping. This solitude quickly disappeared. More and more incidents reached the Chief: bouts of heavy drinking and juvenile behavior, coupled with the occasional burst of anger. All finally proved too much. Duncan assigned him to a desk in Records, out of the public eye, and away from the Homicide squad. But now this bullshit.

  The basketball charge was a valid complaint: Charlie had grabbed and held her breast, a goddamn handful of breast. After his strong recommendation at the Monday Board meeting, what the hell was he to do? Call the Judge and ask for an emergency meeting? Difficult to describe this as a crisis with the S3 issue hanging over them. This was not the time to declare an error in promoting Charlie.

  These issues and a home front with an unhappy wife meant Duncan longed for the good old days where everyone knew the rules. How to simplify his life? That fucking Charlie Taylor needed taming, and their past history no longer counted.

  CHAPTER 9: Charlie’s LOG: The Spring Dance

  Jesus, I have to hurry. The Chief wants to see me

  My head is splitting, mouth unbelievable, and the rest of the classic signs are all present. What a helluva weekend. I think the Spring Dance was a success. Unfortunately, all I remember is arriving and having a few drinks, after that a black void, nothing, nada.

  I’m close to my destination, the Hall of Justice, which houses most of the Investigative Division, including Administration, Homicide, Records, and the Dispatch Center. It’s early morning. The Chief said ‘early’ and made it sound like a few seconds delay would be fatal, and not for him. I think this is the day we discuss Mamma Mia.

  The street vendors are setting up. It’s bright morning with sunshine bouncing off any reflective surface, but once I go through those two massive front doors of the Hall, the setting will change. Inside there will be long, narrow, dark hallways with rows of offices, some doors opened, others closed, but all blinds will be pulled to ward off the hot sun.

  I’m trying to remember the dance, the recollection a frustrating, useless exercise. God, this is getting scary. Best not tell Sam or Monk. I run up the staircase in front of the Hall of Justice, push through the front giant doors and start for the bank of elevators at the end of the hall; I hear someone calling me. Wes Krause, my old partner and good friend, is trying to get my attention.

  “Charlie, I hear the Chief wants to see you. I bet I know why. I’m surprised you were able to dress yourself this morning. Why’re you looking so stunned?’

  “Smart ass. Tell me. Come on, tell me.” I really like Wes but he does enjoy playing games, and I’m not in the mood. Wes more closely resembles a 1960’s hippie than a homicide detective. He has a dark complexion and is tall, with a long dark brown ponytail, a beard which is occasionally trimmed, black plastic framed glasses because corrective surgery not possible, a relaxed persona. In reality, he’s an excellent athlete, with strength and speed, who plays on the same recreational basketball team as I do.

  Wes is a follower which makes him a good partner for me, a guy who often moves on instinct and occasionally needs someone to flash the warning lights. He is a close friend and his loyalty is evident to everyone, even if they don’t understand the origin. Around the station he has developed the reputation as ‘Charlie’s bodyguard’. At times, I find his loyalty embarrassing but our street bonding goes deep.

  “You don’t know? You had another blackout. Didn’t you? You can’t remember the goddamn mess you created. Recall the shit storm which followed? Can you?”

  This time I’m really uneasy; he’s right I can’t remember, no matter how hard I try. Wes stares at me, and my response is to look stupid, but there is nothing but a blank wall, almost the entire weekend a vacuum; I don’t have to say anymore, he knows.

  “I better get you up to speed because you are going to hear about this one. Even with all the booze you were doing ok for most of the party, until near the end. I thought you were safe, and I wasn’t paying too much attention to your wandering. At some point you spotted the redhead and her girlfriend; they were both wearing gowns with a lot of bare shoulder and back which presented a target for…”

  “Oh, Christ, don’t tell me. I
don’t want to know!”

  “I’m just getting started. Their dates had left them to get more drinks. That’s when you arrived. The ladies certainly weren’t impressed.

  I don’t know what you whispered into Red’s ear. And, I was still on the other side of the room when you started on her shoulders; it was a combination of licking and kissing her bare shoulders and bare back. Man, this was serious shit; your face was all over her back. I think the only reason she didn’t scream was she was in shock.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The lady in question, Red, is Emma Collins a senior medical technician in the Forensic Division, a real beauty. I had thought, numerous times, of asking her out but never found the courage to ask. Apparently the other night I had plenty of courage.

  She is tall and thin, a typical runner not a classic robust build with pronounced curves. She is a light brunette with a natural pronounced red sheen which she wears as a short crop instead of the current fashion of long straight hair. Emma isn’t cute but is best described as handsome with light Saxon complexion and startling blue eyes. At 27 years old she is an urban female whose primary focus is her career, someone not prepared to associate with nits.

  As you can see I’ve done my homework, just never did anything about it. From what my sources tell me, her current workload is massive with the new legislation forcing her to continue to adjust and innovate. Technology is being rolled out at breakneck speed.

  Wes sees I’m a blank and continues. “About this time her date arrives with the drinks. He is a sergeant from the Robbery Division, looks about 6’ 4’’. Looks like an ex- Marine. He pushes you away, and when you persist, he reaches for your neck.

  This is where your luck kicks in; I think your wobble and swaying made it difficult for him to find you throat. So even in your state, you’re able to isolate one of his fingers. You apply a finger bend on him……son of a bitch ….it looked like you turned the finger down to his forearm.

  At this time, the band stopped playing. And in this quiet lull, our ex -Marine, now on his knees, comes out with a Comanche style scream. Of course, the entire hall turns to the wailing; everyone, and I mean everyone, is peering at the scene. There is no one else on the dance floor, except for the screaming sergeant, a grinning pie-eyed ex-homicide detective. Red, close to tears, tried to pull you off. I got there in time to get you away before his friends arrived. Shit, I never knew a man could scream that loud.”

  “No bloody more! Jesus Christ! The Chief was still there?”

  “Listen everyone was there. You have to stop drinking. The blackouts are bad enough, but the behavior will get you killed.”

  We’re almost at the end of the corridor when we both see her. It’s Red, and she is coming straight at us. Time for a quick decision. I have to apologize. She’s going to walk right by us as if we don’t exist. I wonder why. I step in front of her and give it a shot.

  “Emma, listen I want to..” That’s as far as I got.

  She glares at me. “You frigging asshole!”

  I try a second time, she beats me to it and belts out ––– “frigging asshole”––– and walks away.

  Wes is grinning. “That was very smooth. Went well. I think she likes you.”

  Screw it. I can’t fix it. I leave Wes and head for the elevators and Division Headquarters. The reception area is exceptionally large; it allows for staff to congregate while waiting to see the Chief. There is a mixture of small lounges and a few armchairs; the steno’s station is vacant, too early in the am. There a few other detectives in the office area, in particular a group from the Vice and their head man, big mouth Webster, who is smirking (what the hell does everyone find so funny today?). I’m not ten feet into the office and Webster starts.

  “Looks who’s here. It’s lover boy. Is it true you bit Red’s ass last night in full view of the Chief? So was it the booze or just really horny?”

  His pals get into the act. “Charlie puts a whole new meaning into tearing one-off”.

  At this point, a few of the idiots slip in sets of huge plastic false teeth and start making clicking sounds. This group came prepared——Webster is aware of everything that is going on in the Division. Of course, they know I never bit anyone but it makes for a great story, and I will be part of the Division’s oral history for years. As the prank continues the laughter gets louder, some are crying (Christ, it’s not that funny), and the giant false teeth keep up the vigorous chomping.

  Someone lets out a mock moan and groans. “Bite me baby.”

  The room sounds like it is full of a bunch of goddamn beavers who are going to chew up all the wooden fixtures. The place is full of the clacking sound, laughter and hooting, clack, clack and more clack….the false teeth an unholy symphony.

  I’m no longer amused and step towards Webster. We all stop, when the Chief steps out of his office. “Charlie, get in here. The rest of you get moving. Now.”

  The Chief and I go way back. Once I get into his office, I think about how to apologize. I walk to the empty chair and begin to sit down.

  “Hold it, did I tell you to sit? Stand and listen closely. At the beginning of last week, I convinced the Judge you should be appointed the new head man in Homicide. He agreed but wanted the announcement delayed until he had an opportunity to talk to Doug Brewster and Jake Konahouse, neither one your biggest boosters.

  Then a couple days later I have to talk a blond into not pressing charges because you squeezed her breast at a basketball game. Not my favorite chore, playing a humble servant to a groupie. But you managed to top all that this weekend. I didn’t see what triggered the incident with the sergeant and I don’t want to know, the spectacle on the floor was enough.

  My problem is: I went so far out on the limb to get you back into Homicide I can’t afford to make an immediate reversal and throw you back into Records. But you have to understand this, from here on there are no more free passes; one more drinking incident and you’ll be buried in Records or completely off the force. The loss of your wife and daughter started all this, but it’s time to move on. Either you move on or get out. Do you have anything to say?”

  My mouth isn’t going to work. I shake my head. As I said the Chief and I go away back, and I know when he is talking tight and under control that he is furious––– best to sneak out as fast as possible.

  “At three pm today the Judge has asked that the Section Heads attend a special Board session. This means you. I can’t begin to tell you how disappointed I’m in what is happening with and to you. But the gloves are off, and if you let me down one more time, I’ll kick you so goddamn hard you may never recover. Now get the hell out of here and get ready for this afternoon.”

  ###

  I leave and almost run to the Homicide department, three floors down. The entrance hall leads into an open area cluttered with whiteboards, filing cabinets and some portable cork boards; we are fortunate in that senior staff also have real offices, with full walls, even windows. Wes is waiting, no longer grinning.

  I guess. “You knew about the reinstatement and promotion. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Come on, forget it. The rumor has been around here for the last week, but I thought it best to keep quiet in case it was false. Time to go. You have a room full of detectives who want to bring you up to speed and don’t get sensitive if you get an uneasy inspection; you deserve it.”

  I know he’s right, and I think about how to recover the respect of the group. This is not going to be easy. There are three others in the room when Wes and I get there: Karen Zubik, Manuel Moreno, and Terry Patterson are detectives in Sector 14 homicide. They know about the promotion and make all the proper sounds; no one mentions the spring party. We assemble in the meeting room, everyone around the large table, and we start a quick review of all the active cases; most of it’s routine, except there are two serious open cases.

  Wes is in charge of the first major case: a serial team, known as the Five Star Couple, who kill prostitutes in four or
five-star hotels. He starts his summary. “Although it’s not confirmed, it does appear our Five Star Couple have been at the Ritz. A body was discovered this morning. If the Forensic team confirms the initial assessment, this will be number five. I haven’t been over to the hotel but if it is number five the pressure is really going to mount. The Tourist Association has already phoned the Chief and the Mayor, and I suspect the Judge will get the next set of calls.”

  I know he is right. The Ritz is a world class convention center and hotel complex, the hub for many international events held in the city. It will get a lot of video and be an evening news as an exclusive feature. “Wes, once you get confirmation I want to know. I’ll get over to the hotel and walk the crime scene with you. In any case, I’m going to put together a brainstorming session. This couple is too damn smart for a conventional approach; we need a different perspective.”

  I turn to Karen. She is the oldest detective in the squad. Her first years in a patrol car were spent with Duncan Stirling, an exuberant and easy going young man who would eventually become the Chief. He had been protective of the rookie, taking the time to pass on all his street smarts. He was a great mentor and, with his love of the book and structure, made sure she understood the written rules and regulations.

  Today she is in excellent condition, a small woman, not a prankster, a face with a few hard earned wrinkles, more years on her frame than the rest of the squad but still a significant force. Her petite physique means she is frequently challenged; her hours with the martial arts fraternity soon prove this to be a mistake. I’ve become her champion, as I see tenacity, intelligence and a commitment hard to match, and always allow her maximum freedom on most of her cases. As well, she is the only one on the squad who knows about the sting I ran to help Wes. She never told me how she found out, and she never shared her knowledge with anyone else.