Personal Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

  At the far end of the large room, hanging lights lit up a handful of pool tables. Players leaned in, and well-aimed cues stroked the balls. They spun across the table, colliding with a click, click, some thudding into pockets.

  Several bystanders sat bug-eyed, engrossed in the games, letting out occasional howls at a shot gone wrong, or a chorus of cheers when one went right.

  Jake nodded at the bartender and eased closer to the pool tables. As far as he could tell, Brown was not there. No one paid him any attention as he moved a few steps closer and looked around.

  Brown was gone.

  He spun back and approached the bartender. “I’m looking for Punky Brown.”

  The proprietor wiped his hands on his off-white apron, squinted across the room, and shrugged. “He was here a minute ago. Guess he just left.”

  Jake looked around for the men’s room, spied the sign at the far side, and strode across the room. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. No one was there.

  He turned back and headed for the entrance, waving his thanks to the bartender as he strode by. He hurried out to the sidewalk and looked both ways. An old man hobbled up the street to his left, a couple of women to his right.

  The sound of a motorcycle being kick-started caught his ears. He turned toward the sound and saw a familiar denim jacket, fifty feet away, past the old man.

  It was him.

  It was the guy who tried to kill Annie and him, and he was getting away.

  Jake’s long legs sprang into action and he raced down the sidewalk as the bike eased forward. Five seconds later, his big hand had a fistful of denim, dragging the rider from the motorcycle. The bike went down and spun in front of an oncoming car. A horn blared and the vehicle swerved in time.

  Jake dragged the man to his feet and whirled him around. His baseball cap soared away revealing a bald head, a gaunt face, and cold green eyes, widening with recognition.

  It was Punky Brown, and he was reaching under his jacket.

  Jake grasped him by the wrist, yanked his arm back, and a pistol clattered to the asphalt. Punky looked down at the weapon, then back up at Jake, his face contorted with anger. He struggled in vain to free himself from the viselike grip now holding both arms.

  “Let me go,” the killer demanded through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with hatred.

  Jake spun Punky back around, twisted his arms behind his back, and held them solidly in place with one hand. With the other, he did a quick frisk, checking for more weapons.

  “You’re under arrest,” Jake said, forcing him to the sidewalk, face down. He held Punky solidly in place with a knee on his back, slipped out his cell phone, and called Hank’s number.

  “I have our wannabe hitman,” Jake said when Hank answered. He gave the cop a quick briefing.

  Hank was amazed and almost speechless. When he recovered, he said, “I can’t come right now, but I’ll contact dispatch and get the closest car there immediately. I’ll see you at the precinct. Don’t let him get away.”

  Jake grinned. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  Chapter 26

  Wednesday, 1:41 p.m.

  HANK SLID HIS chair back and watched as Punky Brown was led into the precinct. The would-be killer had a sullen, defiant look on his face. His chin jutted out, his eyes darting furiously about the room as if looking for an escape route.

  Hank stood and intercepted the procession. “Take him to interview room one,” he said to the officer holding Brown firmly by the arm. “I’ll be right in.”

  Punky glared at him briefly, then looked away as the officer marched him toward the back of the precinct.

  Hank turned and grinned at Jake, a couple of steps behind. “Nice job.”

  “It was him or us,” Jake said. “I had no choice.”

  “Annie’ll be pleased.”

  “I called her on the way over. She’s happy she doesn’t have to wear the vest anymore. Frankly, I am too.” He slugged himself in the chest. “Can’t wait to get this thing off.”

  Hank chuckled. “Let’s see what I can get from this guy,” he said, and turned to Detective King who had wandered over. “Does he look familiar to you?”

  King shook his head. “Never seen him before.”

  Hank led the way across the floor and down a hallway at the back of the large room. He pushed open a door and turned to Jake. “You can watch from here.”

  Jake went inside and King followed Hank into an adjacent room. The walls were bare, painted an off-white. A camera hung in one corner, pointed toward the center of the room. It would record everything said and done.

  To their left, the upper half of the wall consisted of a large, two-way mirror. Jake would be watching with interest from the other side.

  Punky Brown sat on a bench on the far side of a metal table, facing the mirror, his hands cuffed to a ring embedded in the table top. He glanced up briefly as the detectives entered, his surly expression unchanged.

  King stood at the end of the table, spread his legs, and crossed his arms. Hank pulled back one of the chairs on the near side, dropped a file folder on the table, and sat down. He stared at the suspect. Punky stared back, his chin in the air.

  Hank opened the folder, leafed through it casually, and then looked back up. “What’s your name?”

  No answer.

  “According to your driver’s license, your real name is Francis Spankly.” Hank grinned up at King. “Not the kind of name you would expect from such a tough guy as this.”

  King leaned over the table and glared at Spankly. “The thing is, he’s not so tough without a gun in his hand.” The cop straightened up and laughed. “Are you, Mr. Spankly?”

  The suspect attempted to jump to his feet, the cuffs stopping him from getting more than halfway. He glared up at King, hatred in his eyes. The detective put both hands on the suspect’s shoulders, forcing him back down. “Stay there, punk.”

  Hank leaned in. “Who hired you to kill the Lincolns?”

  Spankly spoke for the first time. His squeaky high-pitched voice came out as a whine. “I don’t know them.”

  “Annie Lincoln knows you,” Hank said. “She can identify you as the man who entered her home, attempting to kill her.”

  Spankly looked around the room, avoiding eye contact. “It wasn’t me. Probably somebody who looks like me.”

  King laughed. “Nobody looks like you, Spankly.”

  Hank knew lying to a suspect about evidence often got results, and he had no qualms about it in this case. “We have a slug from your pistol. As soon as ballistics compares it to your gun, we’ve got you.”

  “I lent my gun to somebody. Must’ve been him.”

  Hank glanced at the folder in front of him. “You fired on officers when you tried to kill Jake Lincoln. We have shell casings with your prints on them. That puts you at the scene.”

  Spankly glared at Hank a moment, his eyes narrowed, then he looked away and was silent.

  Hank leaned back. “We all know it was you, Spankly. But here’s the good thing. Maybe because you’re so inept, or maybe from sheer luck, but as far as we know, you never killed anyone.”

  Spankly squeaked again, “That’s right. I never killed nobody.”

  “Then all you have to do is tell us who hired you to kill the Lincolns.”

  The suspect stared silently toward the mirror as if seeing right through it, his face flushed with anger—or was it fear? Or both?

  King leaned in again, grabbed Spankly by two hands full of denim, and pulled him from his seat. The cuffs reached their limit and clunked against the metal ring. King glared down into the cold, green eyes from a distance of six inches. “You’re going down for two counts of attempted murder if you don’t talk to us.” King let go and Spankly dropped back into his seat.

  “You’re not allowed to do that,” Spankly said, a sullen look on his face.

  King shrugged. “That’s nothing. Wait until I get started.”

  Hank leaned forward and spoke gently. �
��I think it would be safer for you if you talk to us.” He jerked a thumb toward King. “Detective King is kind of hard to control sometimes.”

  The door opened and an officer poked his head in, a sheet of paper in his hand. He gave it to Hank and went back out, closing the door behind him.

  Hank studied the paper, smiled, and looked back at Spankly. “Says here you just got out of prison. Paroled for good behavior. That’s hard to believe, but anything’s possible.” He laid the paper carefully on the table and leaned in. “Here’s the thing, Spankly. I could put you away right now for parole violations. Consorting with known ex-cons. Carrying a concealed weapon. That would give you an automatic three more years.”

  “I say let’s do it and be done with this guy,” King said.

  A hint of fear appeared in Spankly’s eyes. The cuffs tinkled as he fidgeted with his hands.

  “Last chance before I turn you over to King,” Hank said. “Who hired you?”

  “I don’t know,” Spankly said.

  King leaned down again. “How can you not know?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  Hank lifted a brow. “Then how did he hire you?”

  “I got a phone call. Offered me five large to off the two of them.”

  “And how did you get paid?”

  Spankly shrugged. “Didn’t yet. After the job’s done.”

  King laughed. “You’re a real businessman, aren’t you?”

  “He said he knew me from prison. He dropped some names and it seemed like I could trust him.” Spankly’s head swung back and forth between Hank and King. “He said he would call me again when the job was done and arrange for payment.”

  “And you have no idea who it was?” King asked.

  Spankly shook his head violently. “No idea.”

  “You’d better not be lying. If you are, we’ll know, and you’ll find out pretty quick we know.” King leaned in close to reinforce the threat.

  “I ain’t lying,” Spankly whined. “And I didn’t kill nobody.”

  “You’re sure it was a man?” Hank asked.

  Spankly nodded vigorously.

  “What was his voice like?”

  “Normal voice, I guess.”

  “Like yours?” King asked, and then threw his head back and laughed.

  Spankly said nothing, his eyes burning with renewed hatred.

  Hank stood, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” King said, laughed again, and followed Hank from the room.

  Jake turned as Hank opened the adjoining room and stepped inside. The cop glanced through the glass. Spankly sat quietly, his head down, his hands clasped together.

  “It’s too bad we couldn’t find out who hired him,” Hank said. “But at least we know he’s the one who tried to kill you. You two should be safe.”

  “Safe for now,” Jake said. “But whoever hired him might find another way.”

  Hank nodded. “Unfortunately, you might be right.”

  Chapter 27

  Wednesday, 3:27 p.m.

  ALFIE OWENS always protected his little sister—from other boys. But when no one else was around, Amber was the subject of as much torture and teasing as any eight-year-old could muster.

  And like most boys he knew, he was quickly becoming an expert at making girls mad.

  Amber, a year younger, was entrusted to his care each day as they walked home from school. This day was no different from any other.

  Amber walked ahead, stepping carefully on each railway tie in perfect rhythm, one foot, and then the other, counting as she went.

  One, two, three, four, five,

  Once I caught a fish alive.

  Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,

  Then I let it go again.

  Alfie stopped and crouched down. He had spied a small tree branch by the side of the tracks. He picked it up, grinned, and used it as a prod to hurry his sister along.

  It didn’t take her long to get tired of it. She spun on her heel, put her hands on her hips, and faced her bully brother. “Alfie Owens, if you don’t stop that I’m going to tell Dad and he’ll give you a good lickin’.”

  Alfie laughed. “I doubt that. We all know you get mad a lot about nothing. Who’s gonna believe you?”

  Amber moved closer, her eyes flaring, and grabbed for the branch. Alfie laughed, backed away, and stuck out his tongue. “Scaredy Cat.”

  She stopped and glared. “I’m not a-scared of you,” she said.

  “Maybe I’ll tie you to the railroad tracks and let a train run over you,” he said, with as mean a face as he could muster. “Then you’ll be afraid.”

  Amber stuck her nose in the air. “Leave me alone.” She spun around and marched away from her tormentor.

  It wasn’t in him to quit. In three quick steps he held Amber’s long, auburn ponytail in his fist. He tugged, not too hard, but none too gently.

  She’d had enough for one day.

  She reached up and freed her hair from his grasp with a tug and a toss of her head, and then spun around. She reached to push him away but he stepped back. She stopped and crossed her arms as he taunted her. “Scaredy Cat. Scaredy Cat.”

  Amber’s eyes flared and she stepped closer, but Alfie turned and loped ahead. She followed, angry now, not afraid of the bully.

  A few steps in front of her, Alfie stopped short. The look on his face made her forget her anger as she followed his gaze toward the row of bushes along the side of the tracks.

  Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. She brought her hands to her face, covered her eyes, and peeked carefully between her fingers at the startling sight in front of them.

  Alfie moved in a step. The branch in his hand no longer served as a torture device, but was now being used to prod at the foot of the man who lay on the ground beside a bush.

  Alfie crouched down and looked a little closer. He was pretty sure the man was dead. The only other person he’d seen dead before was his grandmother and that was a long time ago. But his grandmother didn’t have flies buzzing around his head like this guy did.

  And grandmother didn’t have blood all over her like this guy did.

  Alfie looked up at Amber. She stepped back, her face still turned toward the body, her eyes clamped shut, her arms wrapped around herself.

  He stood and turned toward her. “It’s a dead body,” he said. “Amber, don’t you wanna see the dead guy?”

  Her eyes remained sealed and she shook her head vigorously.

  “Scaredy Cat,” he said.

  She turned her back on him as he crouched and continued his visual examination. The man’s eyes were open, staring at the sky, but Alfie was pretty sure the guy couldn’t see anything.

  “I’m afraid,” Amber said, her voice quivering. “We’d better tell a grown-up.”

  “Scaredy Cat,” he said, continuing to eye the body curiously. “The guy’s dead. He can’t hurt nobody.”

  Amber walked away.

  He crept up behind her, yelled “Boo”, and she jumped, spun toward him, and glared.

  He leaned in and laughed. “Scaredy Cat.”

  Amber turned and walked away, her head high.

  He sighed, stood, and followed her.

  Amber stopped. “There’s a house,” she said, pointing. “Maybe there’s somebody home.”

  They were less than twenty feet from an access lane running from the tracks, past a house, and to the street beyond.

  She led the way, Alfie following, across the back lawn to the house. He stepped past her, climbed up on the back porch, and banged on the door.

  An old woman finally answered, a curious frown on her face. She was at least as old as Alfie’s mom and he figured she must be at least thirty-five. Maybe more.

  Alfie looked her in the face, turned sideways, and pointed toward the tracks. “There’s a dead guy back there. I ain’t afraid but my sister is.”

  The woman frowned, looked at Alfie, and then looked at Amber who was furi
ously nodding her head. “There really is,” Amber said. “He lies a lot but he’s telling the truth this time. I saw it too.”

  The woman looked back and forth between the two kids and then raised her eyes toward the back of the property. She turned, slipped on a pair of shoes, and stepped out onto the back porch. “Show me,” she said, her tone revealing she wasn’t certain whether or not to believe the far-fetched story.

  Alfie marched off, leading the way. Amber stayed close at the woman’s side as they followed him across the lawn and up the lane. He stopped and pointed.

  The woman gasped, took a step back, seized Amber by the arm, and half-dragged her to the house.

  Alfie took a last glance at the man on the ground and then turned and followed, swishing the stick through the air and wondering if all girls were scaredy cats like these two.

  Chapter 28

  Wednesday, 3:54 p.m.

  RHPD WAS NOTIFIED when the 9-1-1 call came in and cruisers were dispatched immediately to secure the scene. Hank was informed, and by the time he and King pulled to the shoulder of the road behind a cruiser, its lights still flashing blue and red, the CSI van had already arrived.

  The access lane leading to the tracks was taped off, and the main focus of attention seemed to be near a group of bushes, down the lane, along the side of the railroad tracks.

  The coroner’s van pulled in behind Hank’s vehicle and Nancy Pietek stepped from the passenger side. She joined the detectives. “Lovely afternoon, Hank, King,” she said.

  “Nice day to be alive,” Hank answered.

  King nodded, grunted, and said nothing.

  The small group went up the lane where investigators did what they do best. Trace evidence was being photographed, collected, and documented. Most of it would be meaningless, but the search for any elusive piece of telltale evidence would be thorough.