The Avenged

by Charles Prandy

  The Avenged

  A Novel

  Charles Prandy

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2012 by Charles Prandy

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Distributed by Smashwords

  Cover image by Ronnell Porter

  eBook

  ISBN-10: 0615637655

  ISBN-13: 978-0-615-63765-5

  To Lisa, Zoie, Kaia and Caiden. I write for you first.

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  Prologue

  COLD PELLETS OF RAIN fall from the night sky and a brisk winter wind blows through the air, causing Detective Jacob Hayden’s body to shiver. In his right hand is a black Ruger 380 handgun, which he holds by his side as he fiercely stares into the eyes of the man he’s about to murder. He’s never killed anyone before. The falling rain stings open wounds along his arms and torso. His torn white T-shirt is soaked and clinging to his body with blotches of red blood stains from where he was sliced with a knife.

  Jacob takes a step closer to the man and raises the cold mass of steel that’s wrapped in his hand. The rain falls harder, smacking him in the face and camouflaging the hot tears that fall from his eyes. This ends tonight. Everything ends now. All he needs to do is squeeze the trigger and the gun will blast, ending his struggle and torment. Yet, something inside of him fights back. Deep in the corner of his mind, he hears the echoing words that tell him justice can still be served. No, it can’t. Despite the fact that revenge is the whispering rationale that plagues his inner soul, his conscience keeps him from doing what needs to be done.

  He extends his arms and steadies his aim, resting his finger on the trigger. Maybe this isn’t the only way? After everything that’s happened to him and after all that he’s been through, he suddenly doubts himself. He tensely lowers the gun, confused by his own emotions. As he does, the man he’s been chasing for the past five months, bruised and beaten up, suddenly smirks.

  “I knew you didn’t have the balls to do it, you pansy.”

  Jacob’s brows curl and white rage suddenly demolishes any doubt. His skin reddens as he sharply extends the Ruger once again. He clenches his jaw, but the deep wounds that have torn at his heart scream to be released.

  “You don't deserve to live!” Jacob yells, more to convince himself than to reassure his enemy.

  The man’s smirk widens to a full smile and then he spits at Jacob. “So now you’re going to be the big bad cop and shoot me? Is that it? You ain’t nothin’ but a piece of scum the garbage man left behind.”

  Jacob becomes engulfed with blind rage and swings his right leg, kicking the man between the legs. The man grunts and topples to the ground in pain.

  “I should kill you right now, you son of a bitch. You took everything from me!”

  Jacob raises and aims the gun. The man climbs back to his knees and eventually stands in a hunched-over position, holding his crotch. He coughs and then slowly stands to his full height. With rain pellets beating him in the face, his cold eyes speak before his mouth opens.

  “And I’d do it all over again if I could.”

  The lasts words are too much for Jacob to handle. He yells as a rush of adrenaline bursts through his veins, causing his finger to squeeze the trigger. He continues squeezing, each bang becoming more deafening than the first, until there are no more bullets left to shoot. As the riveting sound from the jolting gun slowly dies and the adrenaline eases away, his eyes gloss over with fear as he stares at the end of the barrel, confused by what he just did.

  Part One: The Detective

  One

  Five Months Earlier.

  June, 2011 - Washington, D.C.

  I’VE HEARD THE CRIES too many times, working as a homicide detective in Washington, D.C. A teenager gets murdered in the streets, shot by a coward with a gun and left for dead, leaving a grieving mother standing past the police tape, screaming and sobbing with family members over their lost child. They’re the type of screams that haunt the mind in the middle of the night when sleep refuses to come. I’ve heard the cries too many times, and that morning was no different.

  It was 2:33 a.m., a time when most people should be asleep, but the residents on Euclid Street were fully awake. The street was taped off, with yellow police tape keeping bystanders back far enough from the crime scene. Flashing red and blue lights rhythmically bounced off century-old row houses and cars parked along the curb in the dark night.

  I’m Homicide Detective Jacob Hayden from the Third District. I had just arrived at the scene, where a young black male, thin and looking to be about six feet tall, was lying on his back. His lifeless eyes were wide open to the sky and his arms were spread apart. His white tank top and blue jeans were soaked with his own blood. In the background, I heard a woman crying louder than everyone else. The mother, I thought. The kid must live nearby for the mother to have gotten here so fast.

  I knelt next to the victim, who couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen. Patches of thin hair covered his face where he was trying to grow a beard. What was he doing out at this time of morning? I didn’t have to think too hard for the answer.

  A few feet from the kid’s body, officers placed yellow tabs around seven spent shell casings. From the looks of the shells, they were from a handgun, possibly a nine millimeter. The shells were bunched together, which led me to believe that the killer wasn’t moving when he took the shots.

  From behind me, I heard my partner, Charlie Evans, talking to another officer. Charlie was a younger cop who had just made detective last year. He was the University of Maryland’s star quarterback about nine years ago until a defensive end swiftly bypassed a three-hundred-pound lineman and took Charlie down by the knees, ending his dreams of playing in the NFL. Charlie was six-four, slightly taller than me, with broad shoulders and boyish good looks, according to the women from the precinct. Charlie’s thirty-one, a few years younger than me, but his smooth, bare skin made him look like he was still college-bound.

  I stood up when I heard Charlie nearing. He rubbed his hands through his flowing sandy-blond hair as he looked down at the body.

  “Kid’s name is Melvin Johnson,” Charlie said. “But on the street, he’s known as Gimmick.”

  “Gimmick?” I responded. “Did he have a lot of tricks up his sleeve?”

  “Not so much tonight.”

  I turned around and looked at the screaming woman. “Is that the mother?”

  “Yeah, poor woman. Lives down the street. The gunshots woke her up and when she didn’t see her son in his room, she came outside like everyone else, checking to see what happened.”

  “From the location of the spent shells, it looks like the killer walked right up on him,” I said. “Do we know if anyone was with him at the time of the shooting?”

  “No, you know how it is. No one saw nothing.”

  I nodded in agreement. I knew all too well how it was. “Somebody wanted this kid dead in a bad way. Look how many casings are on the ground. A nine-millimeter magazine can hold up to a dozen bullets. I count seven shells. Whoever did this wanted to
make sure he was dead.”

  “You think it’s drug related?”

  “That’s always a possibility, but I don’t think so this time.”

  I motioned for Charlie to kneel and pointed to the kid’s chest.

  “Look at the entrance wounds. They’re targeted at the kid’s heart. The killer knew exactly where he was shooting.”

  “So what are you saying, this was a professional hit?”

  “Looks like it to me. You’ve seen how some of these street kids shoot. The bullets are all over the place. Whoever did this knew how to use a gun.”

  “So where do we start?”

  “Let’s talk to the mother. She may know something without realizing it.”

  Two

  I WAS HESITANT about interviewing the mother so shortly after her son had been killed, but I had little choice. None of the people in the neighborhood saw anything, or at least that’s what they were saying, so the mother may be the only key to helping solve this murder. Sometimes when these kinds of murders happen, a witness emerges a few weeks later, but if my suspicions were correct and this was a professional hit, a few weeks may be too late to help this grieving mother.

  Sitting in a small living room in the front of the house, Camille Johnson, the victim’s mother, appeared to be trying her best to control her emotions. While sitting on a comfortable beige sofa, Camille offered Charlie and me lemonade, but we politely declined. As I looked around the room, I saw two framed pictures of Melvin Johnson in a football uniform that sat on the wooden end table next to the sofa. The grieving mother was in her late forties and thirty pounds overweight for her five-five frame. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate and she wore a ponytail that was streaked with grey. One of Camille’s neighbors, a slender woman with a close haircut named Bonnie Randall, sat by her side. Bonnie looked to be in her late thirties, and her fitted pajamas showed off her toned figure.

  Before questioning her, I offered my sincere condolences to Camille and told her that I’d do everything I could to find out who killed her son. She started to cry again, and hearing the pain in her sobs almost made me postpone the interview. I couldn’t imagine what this woman was going through. My mind went back to a previous case where one mother told me that when her son was murdered, she literally felt a part of herself die. She said that she’d never be whole again. I assumed that Camille must be feeling that way; the same cold, empty, painful void that only a mother could feel.

  “Ms. Johnson,” I softly spoke, “did Melvin ever mention anything about anyone wanting to hurt him? Has anyone made any threats against him?”

  Camille shook her head, “Melvin was a good kid. Everybody in the neighborhood liked him. He grew up in this neighborhood, everybody knew him.”

  “I’m sorry for having to ask you this, but was Melvin into drugs? Was he selling or doing drugs that you know of?”

  “No, not that I know of,” she answered as tears gently fell down her face. Her friend Bonnie held Camille’s hand to comfort her.

  “Have you seen anyone strange in the neighborhood over the past couple of days, someone that you’ve never seen before?”

  “No, I work two jobs. I’m not home much, but I haven’t seen anyone out of the ordinary.” At this she broke down, loudly sobbing, “Oh, God! Why? Why my son?”

  I took down notes in my notepad. Camille’s answers were the same that I’d gotten from the dozen or so people outside. No one saw anything. No one knew anything. Melvin was a good kid who wasn’t into anything illegal. The one question that was in the back of my mind wouldn’t go away: if he wasn’t into anything, then why was an eighteen-year-old kid out in the neighborhood at two o’clock in the morning?

  At that thought, Bonnie, Camille’s neighbor said something. “Now that you mention it, I did see Melvin walking away from a green Mercedes the other day. I’m sorry, I just remembered this.” Then turning to Camille she said, “I’m sorry.”

  Without trying to appear too anxious, I sat up in my seat a little. This was the first real bit of information that anyone had given me.

  “Was Melvin driving the car? Does he own a Mercedes?”

  “No, he wasn’t driving the car. I happened to glance out of my window and Melvin had just turned around and headed this way. The green Mercedes sped off like it was in a hurry.”

  “Did you get a look at the driver?”

  “Sorry, no. The windows were tinted pretty dark. But Melvin appeared to be in a hurry, too.”

  Camille started crying again. I reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I’m going to find out who did this, Ms. Johnson. I promise.”

  There was something about this mother that made me make the promise that I normally wouldn’t make. I glanced at Charlie and he gave me a look like “what are you doing?” I know the last thing I should do is promise anyone that I’ll solve a case. It provides false hope because many times, cases go unsolved. The sorrow of loss in Camille’s deep sobs was overwhelming, and I knew that this woman needed to know why her son had been killed.

  “Ms. Johnson, do you mind if we look around Melvin’s room?”

  Camille nodded without looking up. Her tears appeared to be endless.

  Melvin’s room was the typical eighteen-year-old’s room. Posters of the rappers Lil Wayne and Drake hung on the wall over a twin-sized bed that wasn’t made. The room was small, and on the opposite side of the bed was a small desk with a laptop, an iPod sitting in a docking station, and a four-foot-high dresser next to the desk. Charlie applied his latex gloves and looked through the dresser and under the bed while I searched the closet. As far as evidence, there wasn’t anything in the room that was of any use. The laptop would be taken to the station for forensics to go through to see if Melvin was hiding anything inside it. Other than that, the room was clean of anything incriminating.

  Charlie and I walked back to the living room and found Camille and Bonnie sitting in the same positions that they were in before we went into Melvin’s room. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my card.

  “Ms. Johnson, if you can think of anything, please give me a call.”

  She nodded and held the card in her hand.

  “Again, we’re sorry for your loss.”

  So far the only lead we had was a green Mercedes that seemingly sped off after the driver had a conversation with Melvin. Who was driving the Mercedes? And did they have anything to do with Melvin’s murder? It wasn’t much to go on, but at least it’s a start.

  Three

  TWO HOURS LATER, AT the Third District station on V Street, Charlie and I sat at our desks reviewing a multi-page printout of Department of Motor Vehicle records. There were more than three thousand registered green Mercedes in the District. Bonnie said that she didn’t know much about cars and wasn’t sure if the Mercedes was a late-model or older-model car. She only knew that it was a Mercedes because she recognized the emblem on the hood. I followed a hunch and narrowed the search to later-model cars because I assumed that whoever Melvin was talking to was probably someone younger with money and wouldn’t waste time driving an older-model car.

  Unfortunately, the young kids who sell drugs, once they get a little money, like to drive flashy cars. The fortunate part is that I could narrow my search for later-model cars that were newer than the year 2007. I found that there were fewer than seven hundred green Mercedes registered in the District that were newer than the year 2007. That’s still a lot, but much less than the original number.

  The early morning sun rays started to seep into the station. I told Charlie that we should head home and rejuvenate ourselves. The day was going to be long, trying to find the green Mercedes and also canvassing the streets in search of Melvin’s killer. Thirty minutes later, I pulled in front of my house, exhausted. I’d been at my shift for over twelve hours and needed to relax before hitting the streets again. I’m glad I only live ten minutes from the station.

  When I opened the front door, the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh waffles immediately hit my n
ostrils. My stomach came alive with hunger. In the kitchen, my in-laws, Mama J and Pops, were cooking over the stove in the place where my wife, Theresa, normally stood.

  “From the smell of things, I’d say you guys need to open your own bed and breakfast. Those waffles smell heavenly.”

  Mama J turned around and smiled, holding a plate with two golden, crisp Belgian waffles.

  “We knew you’d be home from your shift any time now, so I thought I’d whip up some breakfast.”

  Adding an in-law suite in the basement had been the best investment that I’d ever made. From time to time, Theresa’s parents would come and stay at the house to cook and clean. They liked being in the city, even though their house was only about forty-five minutes away in Germantown, Maryland. My wife, Theresa, was a fifth year ER resident at Georgetown University Hospital and worked long shifts like me, so many times we’d come home without having cooked or cleaned the house. Mama J and Pops started coming over so often that I decided to finish the basement so they could have a comfortable place to sleep when they stayed over.

  I loved having them here. They reminded me of my parents, who had passed away shortly after I was sworn in to the force ten years ago. My parents had been older when they had me. My mother was forty and my father was forty-four. They had already been married for twenty years and felt like having a child was the next step to completing their lives. In my sophomore year of college, my mother found out that she had breast cancer, which she was able to fight for two and half years before she finally lost the battle. By that time, my parents had been married for over forty years and had known each other for forty-six years. After my mother died, my father lost all will to live and, I often thought, died of a broken heart.