Silver Justice

by Russell Blake

  “Glenn. Get in here. I need you to look at something,” Matt Rice’s voice called from the editor’s office.

  Glenn Wexler stopped typing and stood with a groan, his back killing him after spending most of the day at his computer screen. Such was the way of the professional journalist in the increasingly difficult environment brought about by the Internet. Budgets had been slashed, then slashed again, and staffing had never been thinner. That meant worker bees like Glenn had to carry a lot more load to get the paper out every day.

  He approached Matt’s office with trepidation, hoping he wasn’t about to be handed yet more to churn out before leaving for the evening. He’d already worked through dinner time for the third day in a row. Enough was enough, he decided as he steeled himself for a confrontation. He wasn’t a bath mat. Time to stand up and be a man.

  Although being an unemployed man wasn’t so appealing when there were bills to pay.

  “Shut the door,” Matt said as he entered.

  Glenn complied and raised his eyebrows in a silent inquiry as to what the fire drill was about.

  “Come over here. Look at these. I just got them by e-mail.” Matt gestured to a spot where Glenn could see the images on the monitor.

  Glenn walked around the desk, careful not to disturb the overhanging stack of back issues.

  His eyes went wide. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yup. From the psycho killer — The Regulator. Shots of his latest butchery, up close and personal.”

  “Jesus. You need to call the cops. Maybe they can trace the account…” Glenn blurted.

  “I know. I’m going to in a second. After I finish choosing a few for the morning edition. What do we know about today’s killing?”

  “Just what the FBI put out. A male New York resident, murdered sometime last night, believed to be the work of The Regulator. Not much more. Name will be released after the next of kin have been contacted. The usual ambiguous routine.”

  “Well, the days of ambiguity are over. There’s a message with the photos identifying the victim and making a statement about bringing criminals to justice. Sounds like he views himself as a vigilante. Chuck Bronson — The Terminator,” Matt said.

  “I think that was Death Wish. Terminator was Schwarzenegger. Who wasn’t a vigilante. More of a robot assassin,” Glenn corrected.

  “Yeah, whatever. I could never tell what the hell either of them was saying. One Chuck Norris could have kicked both their asses. The point is that we have a serial killer who’s giving us gold, and if he wants us to print his side of the story, I don’t see any reason not to, do you?”

  “One reason is it could get us in hot water with law enforcement…maybe you should run this by legal before making any final decisions?” Glenn counseled.

  “I’m all over it. I have a conference call in a few minutes.”

  They studied the message under the photos until Matt finally said, “He’s pretty vague, don’t you think? Says he’s going after untouchable criminals that the system won’t prosecute. Promises more to come, as well as a story that will detail the crime of the century.”

  “Uh huh. Let me guess. The trilateral commission and the Templars are secretly keeping Hitler’s brain alive?”

  “I know. This gives me the creeps. But still. It’s a gift, and these days I’ll take whatever I’m given. Which brings me to why I wanted to talk to you. We’re going to need fifteen hundred words, and nobody can crank out quality as fast as you. What do you think? Can you get this done stat?”

  Glenn sighed. He knew it. Then again, this was an unexpected break, and it would ensure his byline was seen by a huge number of people. Might even go national. This was the sort of thing he would have actually stayed up all night for.

  “Give me an hour. I’ll flesh out the bare bones from the FBI and throw in some lurid speculation. Finish with a paragraph that will ensure that nobody feels safe. It’ll scare the shit out of anyone reading it.”

  “That’s my boy,” Matt said.

  His phone rang.

  “That will be legal. I need to take this. I’ll look for your article before I leave. Thanks, big guy.”

  “Sure thing, boss. No problem.”

  A white Chevrolet sedan pulled up to the warehouse on the outskirts of Rochester, New York, a few minutes south of the suburb of Brighton. The worst of the morning commute traffic had died down, and the vehicle had made it to the building in reasonably short time. The area around it was green, thick with trees, typical of most of upstate New York. Aside from the steadily expanding populated areas, the region was still relatively unspoiled — as far from the dense concrete jungle that was Manhattan as one could get and still be in the same state.

  The two occupants of the car studied the metal-sided exterior of the building, and were surprised at the absence of security cameras that would usually serve as an early warning system. Which wasn’t positive — it made the information that had come in that much more far-fetched; one of countless false alarms they had to wade through every year in order to glean a real lead.

  In this case, they were part of an ongoing investigation into a human trafficking and prostitution ring operated by the aggressively proliferating Chinese criminal syndicates. Already, bloody turf wars had taken place in several East Coast metropolitan areas between the Russians and the Chinese, and that looked to become the norm.

  “What do you think?” the younger, fair-haired driver asked as he scanned the nearby structures for any signs of surveillance.

  “Looks like your average industrial building to me. What did the tip claim?” his partner, a paunchy, shorter man in his early forties, inquired.

  “Said that around twenty underage Asian females are being held in the building, waiting to be transported to massage parlors that are fronts for prostitution. The caller said the move is supposed to happen today or tomorrow, and that while the building is low security, they have the girls penned up in a chain link holding area inside the warehouse.”

  “Think we should call in an assault team?”

  “Not until we’ve done at least some cursory nosing around. No way we can justify an armed incursion if we haven’t knocked on any doors or watched the place for a while. Could be complete bullshit. But you know how this goes — every now and then a rival tips off the law to make life difficult for their adversaries. You never know. This could be an early birthday present. It’s happened before.”

  “So what do you think? We go poke our noses in and see if there are a bunch of caged Chinese girls in the back?”

  “Hardly seems likely they’d show us around if that was the case, right? No, I say we hang out here for a few hours and see who goes in and out. Then we make a call later. For now we stay put and enjoy our coffee.” He tapped the rim of his cup of convenience store brew.

  “You want to take the first nap, or should I?” his partner joked.

  They adjusted their seats to more comfortable positions, settling in for a few hours of wasted surveillance. All part of the job.

  Four hundred and sixty yards away, a bearded figure lowered the binoculars and thumbed his iPhone on. The photograph of a man, taken as he was walking out of the federal courthouse, had been enlarged for ease of identification.

  The blond driver had gained ten pounds in the two years since the snap had been taken, but he was unmistakable.

  The bearded man raised the glasses to his eyes again, scanning the periphery of the area where the vehicle was parked, gauging the traffic patterns of the roads feeding into the industrial park. He’d planned his escape route carefully and would be miles away before anyone had a chance to react. The flat roof of the empty structure he was perched upon hid him from view, and he seriously doubted that the pair in the car had any idea what they were walking into.

  A light breeze ruffled the nearby tree tops as a pair of gray doves took to the air. It was an idyllic day after months of gloom and cold. Spring had arrived and looked good to stay. He didn’t mi
nd the cold, but was always glad when the sun came out and the weather got warmer. It made days like today much more pleasant — no numb hands or hours of shivering to contend with.

  He continued to check the surrounding area, then returned his attention to the car before setting the glasses down on top of the black nylon backpack next to him.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I don’t know how you can say Aerosmith and Bon Jovi in the same breath. I mean, come on. Toys in the Attic. Pump. We’re talking real rock and roll. Not pop anthems with a pretty face.”

  “Why do you always pick on Bon Jovi when you’re bored?” the blond driver asked, already knowing the answer, having had the discussion dozens of times before.

  “Because it just bugs me that they got as big as they did, and bands like Tesla and Rhino Bucket, who made real music, faded to nothing.”

  “Life’s not fair. I’m sorry to break it to you. But you’ll thank me later.”

  “It…it isn’t?” his portly partner stammered, a look of confused concern on his face as he sipped his brew.

  “No, Virginia, and there’s no Santa Cl-”

  The driver’s head exploded with a wet crack as the back of his skull blew across the rear seat, a spray of bloody tissue spackling the side windows with crimson. A hole in the windshield announced the entry point of the fifty-caliber round and the shattered rear window signaled its departure route. A second bullet tore into the driver’s throat just under his jaw, but he was already dead, even as his ruined head lolled forward to slump against the horn.

  A third shot rang out, and one of the front tires hissed as a slug ripped through it.

  The driver’s partner instinctively ducked below the level of the dashboard, grappling for his service pistol even as he wiped the bloody remnants of his partner off his face with his suit sleeve. His hands shook as he reached over to the radio and grabbed the microphone, keying the transmit button before he made the distress call.

  He glanced at the macabre profile of Supervisory Special Agent Andy Teluride, obviously now deceased, and made the call, hopeful that there would be at least a squad car in the vicinity to lend backup.

  The shooter took two more seconds to survey his work through the high-powered Zeiss scope and briefly considered killing the other agent, the top of whose head he could just make out bobbing above the dash. It would be an easy shot, but he decided to err on the side of caution. His assignment was done. No point sticking around any longer than necessary.

  He slipped the rifle into the carrying case and scooped up the backpack, taking care to drop the binoculars inside before shouldering it. After running in a crouch to the far end of the building, he tossed first the sack, then the rifle, over the side onto the soft grass a story below, then pulled on gloves before lowering himself over the side until his feet were dangling six feet above the lawn. He released his grip and dropped, landing easily, then retrieved his bags before moving into the underbrush at the edge of the deserted parking lot. His vehicle was a hundred yards beyond the far side of the brush — an easy minute jog.

  A handheld police scanner chirped and crackled in his pocket, and he could just make out the chatter. A cruiser would be at the site within five minutes. That left him four to be long gone in the opposite direction, headed for the freeway that would take him to his crash pad in Buffalo.

  This had been child’s play. It would ensure that he rose in the ranks and got a bigger slice of Seventh Sons’ drug profits, in addition to the cash bonus he’d been promised for carrying out the hit. All in all, a very productive morning.

  He got to his truck and stowed his gear before sliding into the cab. The Nissan’s big motor turned over with a satisfying roar, and within twenty seconds he was headed south, away from the shooting, looking to all the world like a man with no worries. He listened for a few more minutes to the police radio, then switched it off once he was on the road east.

  He was home free.

  Silver’s phone rang right after she dropped Kennedy off at school.

  “Pick up a copy of the Herald,” Seth’s voice advised.

  “What now?”

  “They notified us late last night that they were running something this morning. We’ve had a team over at their offices for the last hour, but it doesn’t look like there are any traces on the e-mail the killer sent them. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Knows his cyber-security. The e-mail account he used to contact them was set up yesterday using a proxy mask. We can probably get past that, but what do you want to bet that it was done from a public computer? Same setup he used in Florida? Just get the paper and call me back.”

  “I’ll be there within fifteen minutes, so no point. Have one sitting on my desk when I get in. See you in a few,” Silver said before hanging up.

  So their killer had turned up the heat in a bid for wider exposure. That wasn’t unexpected given his performance in Boca Raton. But it meant that her life would become more complicated now because the media furor would bring more pressure on the Bureau to do something to stop him. And the truth, which was that they really had nothing, wouldn’t sit well with the inevitable panicky politicians. It never did.

  The subway was packed, but she tolerated the jostling from the press of humanity with grim determination. When the train pulled into her station, she got out with a sigh of relief and strode purposefully to the exit, up the familiar shabby stairs a block from her office. New York in late spring could be pleasant, and today was a textbook morning — no rain, light breeze, forecast calling for no clouds and a high in the mid-seventies. She enjoyed the warmth as she made her way down the sidewalk, recalling her discussion with Kennedy last night. It might be nice to get away someplace different, where there weren’t any skyscrapers or horns honking. The thought of Kennedy on a surfboard doing the California dreaming thing made her smile as she turned and approached the coffee shop where she got her morning jolt of caffeine each day before work. Nodding to the invariably aloof young man behind the counter, she exchanged a handful of change for a tall cappuccino, quickly exited, and threaded her way through the pedestrians to the front entrance of her building.

  Once through security, Silver bee-lined for her office, where as requested a copy of the paper sat waiting. The front page was a collage of crime scene photos, obviously taken by the killer. Particularly chilling was the central one where the victim was still alive, bound to the bed and obviously aware of his imminent fate. His eyes spoke such horror that Silver found herself looking away. More than any of the other shots, that particular one would cause a riot. She knew it the second she saw it. They were in deep trouble.

  Her inbox had a stack of messages, which she rifled through as she waited for her computer to boot up. Three from Washington, spaced every fifteen minutes. That couldn’t be good. Even as she registered the thought, her desk phone rang. Silver steeled herself for the onslaught she knew was to come. She took a quick gulp of her coffee and resignedly lifted the handset to her ear.

  The killer re-read the article and smiled, leaning back in his swivel chair, feet up on his computer desk as he nibbled on a doughnut. It had been another rough night, made more so by his brain racing at a thousand miles an hour, and he felt like he had a hangover even though he hadn’t taken a drink in months. He hoped the headache would fade as the day progressed — there was much to do, and he couldn’t afford to be incapacitated.

  The reporter had done a decent job of splicing in the message he had sent. At this stage, it was long on speculation and innuendo and short on fact, which is how he preferred it. The art was in getting the balance right — provide enough to titillate and keep the story topical without tipping his hand and revealing too much.

  The idea that he was bringing guilty predators to his brand of justice was the most important point, and that had come across loud and clear in the article. He didn’t want to be lumped in with the Ted Bundys of the world — twisted psychopaths who killed to satisfy some primal bloodlust. Quite the opposite, he didn’t consider
himself to be a particularly violent man.

  He swallowed a morsel of doughnut and reached for his coffee while he debated his next target.

  The killings would get harder from here. The final ones were increasingly high profile. He wanted to save the best for last. Make a statement.

  He didn’t think anyone would figure out the connection until it was too late. Only a few people in the world understood what these men had done and how they were intertwined. If he had more time, he could have targeted a dozen more equally deserving, who were also beyond the reach of justice, but he didn’t have that luxury, although he’d certainly daydreamed about it.

  There was only so much he could accomplish. It would require all his skill and patience to successfully carry out his plan to fruition.

  He was at the halfway point, but already tiring. That wouldn’t do at all.

  After standing and stretching for a few moments, he paced over to his kitchen with his now-empty cup and got a can of soda. One of his guilty pleasures; he’d never acquired the taste for diet drinks. Full tilt was the only way he drank them, sugar be damned. And the caffeine would help him stay alert. At this point he needed all the help he could get.

  The killer peered through the window by the sink and noted that it was a nice day. He’d become so wrapped up in his mission that simple pleasures like this had largely been lost on him. Maybe he needed an intermission, a change of scenery.

  He chugged the cola on the way to the hall closet, where he pulled out a coat. Lately, the chill never left his bones, even when it was warm out. He knew it was all part of the process, but he still didn’t like it.

  Opening the door, he squinted up at the sun, then did a quick scan of his drab little block. This was all he had accomplished in his life — nothing else to show for it.

  The walk to the market took twenty minutes round trip, during which time he saw only one person he knew — a woman who had made it more than abundantly clear that it got lonely in the neighborhood at night. He wondered to himself how flirty she would have been if she’d known that she was extending a none-too-elegant invitation to the country’s most wanted serial killer. The thought made him smile, and for a moment he felt better.