Measure Twice

by J. J. Hensley

  The van smelled of death, and Mayton had to admit he did not smell much better. He thought about his plan and was only slightly uncomfortable. He did not like involving variables he could not control, but he had no choice. Assuming this part of the plan went well, his mission would be completed very soon. He had left no loose ends and accounted for everything.

  Well, that’s not quite true, he thought. There was one other variable, but it would not be a problem. In a moment of weakness, he had done something he felt was necessary at the time, but later deemed to be careless. No matter, he concluded as he pressed his foot on the accelerator. Everything was already set into motion and all he had to do now was lay low and wait.

  – – –

  “Here’s something.” Lambert drew some of the papers closer to her face. “It looks like some lawsuits were filed against the city and specifically the Housing Authority.”

  Channing leaned closer and then drew back when a sharp pinch of pain registered with him.

  “According to this, five suits were filed by city employees who worked at the Housing Authority Building on Washington’s Landing. Each of them claimed they came down with various illnesses after moving into the building. They all cited environmental causes. I see one here mentioning respiratory problems, another having to do with the sudden onset of recurring anaphylactic shock, another stating the plaintiff developed vertigo and ulcers…the list goes on.”

  Channing took one of the papers his partner had put down on the table and read. “I don’t see a disposition anywhere.”

  Lambert dug around in her stacks and pulled out several forms. “It looks like they were all settled by the city and Harper Construction. The terms of the settlements were not disclosed and it looks like all sorts of confidentiality agreements have been signed. Five lawsuits. Five agreements. If anyone discloses any information about the case, they forfeit their settlement.” Lambert shook her head. “A cover-up.”

  Channing suddenly felt discouraged. With non-disclosed settlements and confidentiality agreements, this would take weeks to untangle. Lawyers would have to get involved, and he hated lawyers. “We don’t have time for this. And these people aren’t going to talk to us.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” his partner responded. “At the very least, we need to run the names of the plaintiffs through NCIC and check for criminal histories.”

  “Exactly what individuals were named in the suits?”

  Both detectives shuffled papers, but came up empty.

  “I just see organizations. I see the City of Pittsburgh, the Housing Authority, Harper Construction, and the City Planning department.”

  “Okay,” said Channing while attempting to lean back. “Let’s play it out. If the killer is one of the people who got sick, we can assume they might blame Abdella since he ran the Housing Authority. There was some initial publicity about Culligan taking kickbacks for bids, so that explains his death. Wayland would have been responsible for the investigation, which Bryan Clifton claims was a joke. So, if you were looking to get even for being sick, who would you go for next?”

  “Robert Harper, the owner of Harper Construction,” said Lambert.

  “Right. And the City Planning Department is named, too. They would have handled the zoning for that entire project. Who runs that group?”

  Lambert pulled out her phone and started typing out a search.

  “A woman named Treva Pinkston is the Planning Director.”

  “We need to talk to Harris and see if she’s been assigned a security detail. In the meantime, we need to find Robert Harper.” Searching the papers on the table, he added, “I think I saw a phone number for the company headquarters in here somewhere.”

  Channing stopped cold. He read and reread a paragraph above where his finger had landed. “We have a problem.”

  Lambert leaned over to see what had caught her partner’s attention. Her expression turned sour and she went back through the stack of papers listing the plaintiffs.

  “There were only five lawsuits filed. Only five.”

  Channing read the paragraph for the third time. It was on the bottom of filing by one of the plaintiffs.

  On the aforementioned date, the plaintiff began working at the Housing Authority building located at 12 Washington’s Landing Way, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The plaintiff alleges he and five other individuals developed severe medical problems in the subsequent months and brought this to the attention of the Housing Authority. Five of these six individuals are seeking actual and punitive damages.

  “Who doesn’t file a lawsuit when they get seriously sick or injured?” Channing asked.

  “Someone who plans on taking matters into his own hands,” Lambert surmised.

  It took five minutes and three call transfers for Channing before finally learned the location of the owner of Harper Construction. Only by threatening an obstruction of justice charge, did he convince the fourth person to which he spoke to surrender the information. The detectives repeatedly called Robert Harper’s cell phone, only getting through to his voice mail.

  Lambert’s car raced across town at breakneck speed as Channing continued to dial Harper’s phone number. The vehicle skidded to a stop in the gravel parking lot next to the address they had been given. The detectives jumped out of the car and moved quickly toward a construction site. The project, a new office park on the south side of the city, was mostly a shell. The framework of the structures was complete before the ground froze. All that remained to be finished was the internal workings of the complex.

  Construction noise drowned out the crunching of the gravel under the detectives’ feet as they closed in on what appeared to be the main construction trailer. Saws, drills, and hard voices filled the air as men moved past windows that contained no glass. Channing and Lambert spotted a group of men in hardhats standing near the trailer. The man in the center of the group, conspicuous by his dark suit and trench coat, looked up as the detectives approached. Channing noted the man did not appear to be surprised or apprehensive. To Channing, the man seemed to be expecting them. Speaking at a volume loud enough to conquer the surrounding racket, the man dismissed the group of workers and signaled for the detectives to follow him into the trailer.

  Dry heat from space heaters slammed into the faces of the three individuals as they filed into the temporary office. After giving his guests adequate time to get situated, the man stuck out his hand and gave an unnecessary introduction.

  “I’m Robert Harper. I assume you are with the police?”

  Shaking the man’s hand in turn, the detectives introduced themselves. Harper took a seat behind a beaten metal desk and invited Channing and Lambert to sit across from him in the only other chairs that fit in the cramped space.

  Lambert opened her mouth to speak, but like her partner, she sensed the man across from her had anticipated their visit. Noticing that Channing was in no rush to say anything, she leaned back and waited. Harper, a fit-looking man well into his fifties, removed his hardhat and placed it on the desk. Feeling the silence enwrap him, he made infrequent eye contact with the detectives and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “I knew you would be coming to see me,” he stated, sounding like a beaten man.

  The detectives said nothing.

  With a sigh of resignation, Harper continued, “After I found out Abdella was killed, I was afraid it might be about Washington’s Landing. I held out hope that Culligan and Abdella both being killed was a coincidence, but then that guy from municipal investigations ended up dead. Then I knew it was about Washington’s Landing.”

  Harper leaned forward and combed his fingers through graying hair. Like a man tired of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, he said, “I know I should have called the police, but I just kept hoping I was wrong.”

  The dejected man’s shoulders sagged and tears filled his eyes. “What can I do to help?”

  Lambert answered, “Tell us about the project on Washington’s Landing.”r />
  Harper tried to compose himself, took a drink of water from a bottle on his desk, and began.

  “We were contracted to clean out and demolish the old buildings on the island before building the new structures. Glyco Chemical was the previous owner of most of the land being developed. They went belly-up several years ago and pretty much abandoned the facilities there, leaving equipment and all sorts of stuff.”

  Channing sat forward and asked, “What sorts of stuff?”

  With sorrowful eyes, Harper answered, “There were unlabeled barrels of chemicals in a few buildings. We discretely removed most of them.”

  “Most?” asked Lambert.

  Harper hesitated and then drained the rest of his water bottle. He said, “In the last building we began clearing out, we found a stockpile of barrels in a basement. Several had corroded or had otherwise spilled. The fumes hit a couple of my guys pretty hard.”

  “And you discretely removed them, too?” said Channing.

  With widening eyes, the company owner shook his head and said, “No. It was too much stuff and it had obviously seeped into the ground. I wanted to immediately call in the state and federal environmental authorities.”

  “But you didn’t,” said Channing.

  “No. I didn’t. I wanted to give the city guys a heads-up because I knew it was going to delay the project for months, if not years. So, I called Tedla Abdella and told him about it. The Housing Authority was going to occupy the majority of the office space we were building and I figured he’d want to be the one to pass the word up the chain of command.”

  Channing asked, “What did he say?”

  Harper grabbed his empty water bottle and tried to shake another drop into his mouth. He said, “He asked me who else knew about it. I told him that only a couple of my guys knew, and that they weren’t feeling well. He asked me to talk to them and tell them to keep it quiet so as not to start any sort of environmental panic. Then, he asked me to keep quiet about it until he could figure out what to do next. He told me he’d call me back in a few minutes after he talked to some people.”

  “Did he call you back?” asked Lambert.

  “No. Instead I got a call from Nick Culligan. He told me that everything was under control and that my guys could wear protective gear and handle the cleanup. Of course, I knew that wasn’t right and I told him so. Even if we managed to remove all the barrels, whatever those chemicals were had to have gotten into the soil. The floor of that basement was broken apart in a million places. In some sections, there was no concrete at all—just dirt. My company isn’t equipped for that type of work.”

  “But you went along with it, didn’t you?” asked Channing.

  “Culligan made it clear that the city would not be using my services any longer if I didn’t go along. He also implied that I might get some future contracts—multi-million dollar contracts—the city had coming up in the next few years. He told me he and Abdella had already spoken with the head of City Planning, everyone was on the same page, and I needed to play ball.”

  Through a clenched jaw, Lambert said, “And you knew he could back up what he was saying, because he gave you inside information on the bid for the Washington Landing project.”

  Harper fell silent and stared at a wall.

  For a moment, the three sat and listened to the low hum of the space heaters. Channing watched the man across from him. He wanted to be angry, but he could practically feel the regret oozing out of the man’s skin. Channing decided to help finish the story.

  “So the Housing Authority building opened up and people got sick. How many lives did you help put at risk? Fifty? A hundred?”

  “Only a few got sick—only the ones on the first floor, right above the basement. Most of the workers were on the upper floors,” explained Harper.

  “What were the sick ones exposed to?” Asked Lambert. “Did you even determine what those chemicals were?”

  Harper shook his head. “We have no idea. Once the complaints started, the city got attorneys involved and we issued huge settlements. It cost my company millions, but at least I didn’t have to shut down and lay off all my workers. I wanted to go public, but my employees have families to support. I used up all my personal savings to pay the victims, and still had to use some company funds. Personally, I’m bankrupt—but I don’t care. I know what I did and I deserve much worse than this.”

  The room became quiet again as each of the individuals tried to process the situation. Lambert decided to ask about the particularly troubling piece of information she and Channing had discovered at the courthouse.

  “There were six victims and only five settlements. Why didn’t the sixth victim file suit?”

  Again, Harper became distraught and choked out, “Because she died.”

  “And the family didn’t sue? That seems odd.”

  Harper did not respond.

  Channing said, “You’re not safe. He’s coming for you. You know that, right?”

  Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping his eyes, Harper said, “He’s not coming for me.”

  Channing suddenly felt a knot form in his stomach.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because I already told him everything he wanted to know.”

  Channing and Lambert stopped breathing.

  Harper explained, “He showed up at my house a few months ago and told me who he was. He looked like a train wreck and was desperate for answers. Of course, I had no idea he was capable of murder. I told him how I gave in to Abdella and Culligan. I told him how I suspected the city’s investigation was a joke. I told him how we were all responsible for his wife’s death. I was in pretty bad shape myself. In fact—truth be told—I was pretty drunk when he showed up. I hadn’t left my house in days and was hitting the bottle pretty hard. At one point, the two of us were standing in my living room and I was crying and apologizing. He was an arms-reach away from a pair of scissors sitting on a desk. I noticed him staring at the scissors and then looking back at me. Do you know what I did? I actually turned my back to him to make myself another drink. I took my time and waited…hoped he would plunge the scissors into my back. Keeping my back to him, I told him I would never forgive myself. In the quietest voice, he said, “Your suffering will be of your own making.” Slowly, I turned back toward him. He wasn’t there. The front door was open and he was simply gone.

  I passed out soon after he left. In the weeks afterward, I tried to tell myself it had all been some drunken dream. Then Culligan was killed—then Abdella—then Wayland. Part of me hopes he comes for me, but he won’t. He knows I’m already in Hell.”

  “Who is he?” asked Channing.

  “He’s a hangman with a cause,” Harper whispered to himself.

  Channing stood up. “Who is he?” he repeated loudly.

  Harper looked up and exhaled a troubled sigh. “Mayton. His name is Lester Mayton.”

  Step 11

  We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

  T he battering ram splintered the lock on the door as members of the SWAT team flooded the house. Harris, Channing, and Lambert waited on the street and listened for the sound of gunfire. Five minutes passed, and the leader of the tactical unit approached the detectives and informed them nobody was in the home.

  “Do you think he’s on the run? Maybe trying to get out of the country?” asked Harris, not really expecting a response.

  Channing and Lambert stood quietly, watching the SWAT team file out and begin to congregate next to a van.

  Harris said, “We’ll find him. We’ve got his photo, you confirmed it’s the same guy we chased through the Strip District. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “We may not have time,” said Channing.

  “Meaning what?” asked the sergeant.

  “Harper said Culligan told him the head of City Planning was involved. Harp
er relayed that to Mayton.”

  Harris said, “She’s had a full protection detail since Wayland’s murder. Nobody is getting to her. All the department heads are under heavy guard until this thing’s over. Besides, it’s possible Culligan was lying and just wanted Harper to feel more pressure.”

  Channing fell silent and watched the house.

  “Look—the two of you followed your instincts and identified the killer. And you get the added bonus of making those jackasses that wanted to suspend you—and me—look pretty dumb right now. I’d say you’re pretty much untouchable for the moment. How often does one become untouchable? Enjoy it. It doesn’t happen too—”

  Harris stopped speaking as a black Crown Victoria pulled up and rocked to the side as Hatley got out.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he yelled to the three as he approached. “I’m the head of the task force and I found out by listening to the scanner in the station that a suspect has been identified and you guys are running a tactical operation over here! Is this a joke?”

  “Calm down, Hatley,” ordered the sergeant. “Last I checked I’m still your supervisor and I’m not obligated to report to you. Anyway, the suspect has been identified. He’s on the run and a BOLO is being issued for him and his van. Don’t worry, I’m sure Captain Wyche will still give you a nice pat on the back for being such a good boy. In fact, I heard you were on the brink of cracking the case. You guys were operating under a theory that organized crime was moving into the area, right? Maybe if you’re lucky, this former pharmaceutical employee—Mayton—will turn out to be a secret hit man working for La Cosa Nostra.”