Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller

by Flowers, R. Barri

  Carole watched him shake his head in dismay. She kept her cool as she asked: “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth. That the damned car was at PSU while I was giving a lecture.”

  “And...?” She coaxed him for more.

  “And that was that,” Stuart said flatly. “They realized they had the wrong car and presumably went after the right one.” He took a breath. “I have to tell you, Carole, the whole thing really irritated the hell out of me. I may defend criminals, but I’m not one of them. Yet. Certainly not this serial killer they’re after.”

  Carole put a finger to her chin. “Did they ask about Vivian?” She was aware the common perception was that the killer was an African-American female.

  “Vivian does not drive my car!” he blared protectively. “There was nothing to ask. Besides, she’s probably the last person they need to be talking to in Portland. Next to you—”

  Their eyes connected in a moment of edgy contemplation.

  Carole sank back into her chair. “You don’t think I actually—?” she could barely get the words out.

  “Not for one second,” Stuart said quickly with a chuckle. “Just making a point that this femme fatale, if it is a woman, is not someone like Vivian or you. It’s a person with no regard for the law and probably strung out on drugs or whatever the hell else they’re into these days.” He paused. “Whoever the killer is, she certainly hates men.”

  “Not all men,” Carole felt she needed to point out.

  He cast her a knowing glance. “I’m not sure this woman sees a difference between the abusers and non-abusers.”

  Carole begged to differ. “Obviously she does, if you look at the victims—all men with a history of domestic violence.”

  Stuart shrugged, keeping his gaze fixed on her. “I suppose. Unfortunately, it isn’t much comfort to men who don’t beat up women, but could be mistaken as such assholes by a killer who doesn’t seem to have a conscience.”

  “I don’t disagree with you about the position it places innocent men in,” said Carole carefully. “But I think this person has a clear conscience in what she does and how she chooses to do it. It may well be she thinks it’s the only option available to her and women like her to stop the abuse.”

  Stuart wrinkled his nose. “Clear conscience or not, this bitch is not doing battered women any favors by beating a few brutal men to death. If anything, she’s making it worse for women who stand up to their batterers, by putting them in an even more dangerous and vulnerable position against men freaked out by this vigilante.”

  Carole digested that for a moment or two, trying to offer a rebuttal that did not make her sound supportive of the killings or the killer.

  She stirred vegetable soup while saying evenly: “I think maybe in her own way the killer’s actually empowering women to strike back even harder at their abusers. Or at least is giving them second thoughts about hitting someone who could turn the tables on them in a deadly confrontation.”

  Talking mostly to himself, Stuart muttered: “Either way, this lady needs help.” He stared at Carole. “Let’s hope when all is said and done, she gets it before she takes out the whole damned city.”

  Carole felt that spoke for itself, offering no further comment. Instead she turned her thoughts to Ray. She wondered where they were now on the investigation. Would the sketch point them to someone? Anyone?

  Am I still considered a suspect? The thought was unsettling.

  Could they possibly make a case against a sitting judge with nonexistent or insufficient evidence? Did the police have any real evidence?

  They ate in contemplative silence.

  Before long, Stuart raised his eyes. “So, how did you become involved with Detective Ray Barkley?” he asked studiously.

  Carole sipped her water. “He and Detective Parker came to see me to talk about the case they were working on.”

  “The Vigilante Batterer Killer,” deduced Stuart. “Yeah, of course. Did you give them anything they could use?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m not sure they know what they’re after or who...”

  “Well, apparently the man’s after you—” Stuart told her.

  Carole blushed. “Maybe I’m after him,” she suggested, the thought arousing her as she recalled their frenetic and nonstop lovemaking.

  Stuart breathed through his nose. “Good luck,” he said with an edge to his voice. “Just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into. Cops don’t always make for the best partners—”

  Carole thought the same thing about attorneys, in case he missed the irony. “I’m a big girl, Stuart,” she told him firmly. “I can take care of myself.”

  Carole wondered if she truly could. Or would her fragile past catch up to her and jeopardize everything she held dear—including Ray Barkley?

  Stuart smoothed an eyebrow. “I’m not trying to get into your business,” he said. “I just want you to be careful, Carole, that’s all. Wouldn’t want Barkley to have ulterior motives in mind for this romance—at your expense...”

  Carole pondered his words. Ulterior motives? She hated to think Ray could actually be using her for his own purposes other than romance. Not that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. If so, would she be able to spot such motives and deal with them before it was too late?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Ray drove to the house where Thelma Kennedy lived. The thirty-eight-year-old, single mother of two had crippled her abusive ex-husband, shooting him with his gun and severing his spine. She had beaten him with a bat afterwards, claiming it was the result of years of abuse and pent up anger. The court had gone along with this to a degree, convicting her on one count of aggravated assault rather than attempted murder, for which she served five years in state prison.

  Her parole report suggested Thelma had been a model citizen since she was released from the Oregon Women’s Correctional Center a year ago. She had since regained custody of her daughter, who had been placed in a foster home. Records indicated that before doing time Thelma had been a frequent guest at the Rose City Women’s Shelter. More recently, she had been one of the volunteer staffers at the shelter.

  Ray pulled up to the modest sized red brick home in a subdivision. There was a blue Pontiac Bonneville in the driveway. A bicycle lay against the side of the house as if holding it up.

  Ray rang the bell twice before an African-American girl about ten years old opened the door. On the chubby side, she had long, black corkscrew braids interlocked. She looked up at Ray through thick glasses.

  “Is your mother here?” he asked presumptively.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously.

  It was a good question, but he didn’t want to scare her half to death, so Ray answered: “Mr. Barkley.”

  “Mama!” she screamed, running inside. “A man named Mr. Barkley is at the door to see you.”

  A few moments later, a woman appeared in the doorway. She was around five-five and heavyset with a dark brown complexion, blonde micro braids, and black eyes with heavy bags underneath.

  “How can I help you?” she asked irritably.

  Ray put on his detective face. “Are you Thelma Kennedy?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.” Her eyes widened nervously. “Who’s askin’?”

  “Detective Barkley,” Ray introduced himself. “I’m with the Portland Police Bureau, Homicide Division.” He flashed his identification. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Questions about what?” she stammered.

  Ray laid it on the line, telling her about the murder of Blake Wallace, in particular, and all the victims they knew of, in general. Thelma reacted as if she had been sucker punched, but quickly recovered.

  “Come on in,” she said.

  Ray stepped into the house, the smell of fried chicken infiltrating his nostrils. The living room was small, but neat with an old rolled-arm sofa and chair, a cherry ve
neer coffee table, and television that was turned on.

  After sending her daughter scurrying upstairs, Thelma turned off the TV and offered Ray a seat, sitting directly across from him.

  “Look,” she began uncomfortably, “I’m real sorry about what happened to those men, but I don’t know nothing about it.”

  Ray reserved judgment for now. “The victims were all beaten to death with wooden bats,” he said equably.

  “Yeah, I heard. So...?”

  “So you used a wooden bat when you attacked your husband—” Ray said pointblank. “It doesn’t look good, under the circumstances, if you know what I mean?

  She hit him with a look of indignation. “Yeah, I took a bat to my husband. That don’t mean I went after those men!” Her nostrils flared. “I defended myself against a man who beat up on me because it made him feel superior. I don’t have a beef against nobody else.”

  Ray leaned forward. “Not even some other batterers who were set free, perhaps prematurely, to hurt their victims again?”

  Thelma’s jaw hardened. “Hey, I did my time for what happened between me and my ex. He’ll never walk again or touch me again. I got a kid to raise. Why the hell am I gonna beat to death some abusive sons of bitches—even if they deserved it—only to end up back in prison? Who would take care of my little girl then?”

  Ray ignored for the moment the logic in her words, knowing that killers were rarely logical in their actions. “Even abusive bastards don’t deserve to die the way these men did,” he pointed out.

  Thelma’s eyes bulged. “And we don’t deserve to get our asses whipped by men just for the hell of it. Nobody’s willing to lift a finger to help us, neither. Till now...”

  Ray found himself in an uncomfortable position of actually having to stand behind men who battered their wives, girlfriends, and even children—though in no way did he support their actions in any way, shape, or form. He hesitated to even refer to them as men. But as an officer of the law, he was duty bound to uphold it. Killing a few assholes was not the answer to doing justice for the masses victimized through domestic violence. He just wished that women like Thelma had been able to get better protection and not just a temporary reprieve like the shelter before all hell broke loose, one way or the other.

  Ray fixed the suspect with cagey eyes. “I’ll need to verify your whereabouts during the times these men were killed.”

  “No problem,” she said confidently. “I ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”

  “Do you keep bats in the house?”

  Thelma clearly resented the question. “No. It was his bat I used. He used it on me more than once. But nobody wanted to hear ‘bout that, did they?”

  Ray flinched. “I understand you’ve been volunteering your time at the Rose City Women’s Shelter.”

  “I do what I can, when I can, to give something back,” she said proudly. “They helped me out when I needed it.”

  Ray narrowed his eyes. “Do you know of any other volunteers or people who stayed there who might have decided to take the law into their own hands?”

  Thelma shifted unsteadily. “All the women I see there are decent people—not killers.” She paused, adding: “If they wanted to kill anybody it would be their own abusers!”

  “My theory,” stated Ray matter-of-factly, “is someone there decided other abusive men would be just as acceptable to target.”

  She shrugged. “That’s your theory. Sorry. Can’t help you there.”

  Can’t or won’t, he wondered.

  Ray left the house doubting that Thelma Kennedy was the woman they were looking for. He saw no signs of a black BMW, which they still believed might have been driven by the killer. But he still didn’t rule out that this woman, an embittered ex-con, or others associated with the shelter knew a hell of a lot more than they were willing to let on. Except maybe to each other.

  And the victims of the Vigilante Batterer Killer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Ray and Nina stepped into the KJM studio in Northwest Portland that afternoon. They came to talk to Laura Gleason. The twenty-eight-year-old legal reporter had been a regular in Judge Carole Cranston’s courtroom during every domestic violence trial that year. Her nightly reports had a decidedly hard edge on the victimization of women and the injustices of the legal system when it came to punishing batterers.

  It made her a good suspect in the vigilante slayings of four men.

  “She’s visible,” hummed Nina as they made their way through several corridors with various personnel in stages of production. “And she takes no prisoners when it comes to giving her views on air.”

  “Makes you wonder what the lady does off the air,” Ray remarked. “Maybe that’s when she takes the prisoners fatally. Only the sentence of death is carried out swiftly and without mercy—”

  The door was slightly ajar with the nameplate on it reading: Laura Gleason, Legal Reporter. Nina knocked as she opened the door.

  Laura was seated at an ergonomic laminate desk piled with papers, what appeared to be court transcripts, two coffee mugs, and a computer. She was tall and slender with a honey-brown skin tone, wearing a light gray silk twill suit and amber cami. Cinnamon colored yarn braids bordered her square face. Brown eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses took in her visitors with curiosity.

  Ray tried to imagine the attractive reporter wearing a blonde wig, armed with a wooden bat and a killer swing.

  “How can I help you?” She spoke in a soft, friendly voice.

  Ray showed his badge. “Detective Sergeant Barkley, Portland Police Bureau,” he emphasized. “And this is Detective Parker. We’re investigating a recent rash of murders—”

  “Ahh, the vigilante killings,” said Laura, her wide eyes showing instant recognition. “Yes, I know all about them.”

  “We know,” Nina said tersely. “We’ve seen your reports on the victims and their court appearances. You seem to have taken their releases very personally, Ms. Gleason.”

  Laura contorted her face. “I do take it very personally, detective,” she hissed. “Every woman in this city should, since we’re all potential victims of abusive men like those bastards.”

  Ray moved up to the desk and peered down at her. “We believe that someone has taken it upon herself to dispense her own brand of deadly justice on these men. Just how personal is this to you, Ms. Gleason?”

  Laura remained unruffled, actually giving a mirthless chuckle. “If you’re asking me if I killed those pricks, the answer is no. If you’re asking if I shed any tears over their departure from this world, the answer is yes—tears of joy that they got a lethal dose of their own violent medicine!”

  The detectives looked at each other musingly.

  “Those are tough words,” snarled Ray, eyeing the suspect sharply. “Maybe too tough—”

  “I’m a tough reporter, Detective Barkley,” Laura responded unflappably. “It’s how I make my living and what my viewers expect. I won’t apologize for that.”

  “No one’s asking you to,” Nina told her. “But I think you should know that your being at the trial of all the victims and doing volunteer work at the Rose City Women’s Shelter makes you a viable suspect in their murders. For your sake, I hope you can account for your whereabouts in each instance.”

  Laura yanked her glasses from her nose and glared. “Oh I can,” she spoke tartly. “You see, I was one of the first reporters on the scene when the news came in of the murders. But before that I was right here in the station preparing for the day’s show. And there were plenty of witnesses around to vouch for me.” She took a deep breath. “As for my volunteer work at the shelter, it’s something I choose to do with my free time. You see, my daddy had a nasty habit of hitting my mother in the face with his fists till it was so swollen you couldn’t even recognize her. Before she had even healed properly, he was back at it again. And again. Up until the day that son of a bitch died. Not by her hands, in case you’re wondering. He got off easy with a heart attack. She wasn’t so lucky. She d
ied of cirrhosis of the liver after years of heavy drinking, often as an escape from the pain he’d inflicted upon her.”

  Some of these details had managed to elude them in their investigation into her background, which included a number of failed abusive relationships, and time in a detox center for cocaine addiction.

  All the more reason to consider Laura Gleason a serious candidate for brutally attacking and killing battering men.

  “Nice try,” Laura seemed to enjoy saying, “but you have the wrong woman. If the killer really is a woman, that is.”

  “Oh, we think it is,” Ray said candidly. “Someone who took her abuse very personally—” Maybe that someone is you.

  Their eyes locked.

  Laura did not yield. “If you’re trying to intimidate me into some sort of guilt trip confession, you’re wasting your time—and mine. I’m only doing my job. If I offend some abusive men in the process, they should take it up with my superiors.”

  “They might,” said Nina sarcastically, “except they don’t seem to live long enough to do so—”

  “Not my problem,” Laura said coldly. “Maybe men should think of that before they decide to use women as punching bags.”

  Ray found himself resenting having all men grouped into one dirty bag of laundry, as if male violence towards women was a given. He shot her a mean stare and said: “Maybe the woman killing these men should think the same way. She’s only making things worse for herself...and all women.” He paused deliberately. “I’m quite sure we’ll be seeing you around, Ms. Gleason—”

  She fluttered her long lashes defiantly. “I’m sure you will, Detective Barkley. You know where to find me.”

  The detectives saw themselves out, the reporter not bothering to look up from her desk until they had left. A thoughtful expression appeared on Laura Gleason’s face.