Cruel Justice (24 page)

“I was trying to be a good father,” Hal Rutherford said defensively. What a crappy way to start the day this was. Barely out of their separate beds and already fighting. “That’s why I didn’t say anything. We were having a good time. Abie seemed to be responding to me. I didn’t want to spoil everything by turning the ball game into the Spanish Inquisition.”

“And what if this man shows up again, huh? What then?”

“Keep it down,” Rutherford said, waving his hands. “Abie’s probably awake. He might hear.”

Abie was, in fact, hearing every word. He had learned long ago that they didn’t realize how loud their voices were. And when he hunkered down next to the air vent in his bathroom, he could hear every word they said downstairs.

“I’m not going to let something horrible happen to my son, Hal. We went through too much hell to get him. I won’t let it all be for nothing.”

“Rachel, you’re exaggerating this situation wildly out of proportion.”

“How do you know?” She stood so close to him he could feel the alcoholic spray on his face. “Answer me that, Mr. Know-It-Fucking-All. How do you know?”

“If it will make you happy, I’ll go talk to Abie.” Rutherford sighed. He really hated to do it. They had actually had a pleasant time together, first at the ball game, then afterward at Baskin-Robbins. For the first time in months he felt like his family was on the road to recovery. Unless, of course, his wife destroyed all the goodwill he had created.

“Does it have to be, now? This instant?”

She glared at her husband. “What are you waiting for? Until it’s too late?”

“Fine. I’ll do it now. Bitch.” He trudged unhappily up the long winding staircase.

Abie, of course, heard him coming. He scrambled away from the vent and pretended to be emerging from the bathroom.

He met his father in the hall. “Hi, Dad. Wanna shoot some baskets?”

“Uh, no, son. Not right now. I need to … ask you some questions, okay?”

Abie tried to walk past him. “I’m not in the mood right now.”

Rutherford placed his hands firmly on his son’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, son. We can’t put this off any longer. Who was that man I saw you talking to when I drove up in your mother’s car?”

“What man?” Abie wasn’t exactly sure why, but for some reason, he didn’t want to tell his father about Sam. For one thing, Sam had asked him not to. Even beyond that, though … it seemed wrong, somehow. Besides, he was certain his father wouldn’t understand, and would probably make a big deal out of it. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Now, Abie, don’t be contrary. I saw you talking to him. Who was he?”

Abie twisted underneath his father’s grasp. “He’s just a friend, okay? So leave me alone.”

His father did not release him. “How did you meet this friend?”

“He helped me out one day, all right?” Abie shouted. “He saved me from two moron bullies from school.”

“Bullies? I didn’t hear anything about this. When was this?”

“What difference does it make? Sam was there when I needed him. Unlike you!”

Abie squirmed out from under his father’s hands and started to run, but his father grabbed his arm and jerked him back.

“Now, look here, son. You may not like it, but I’m your father, and when I ask you a question, I expect an answer.”

“Let me
go
!”

“Not until you tell me everything about this … Sam.”

“I won’t! I won’t tell you anything. I hate you!”

Like the first bolt from a gathering storm, a sudden rage swept through Rutherford’s body. It was everything working at once—Abie, Rachel, the booze—

He wasn’t sure what caused it, but suddenly he was consumed with an anger he could not contain. He reared his hand back and slapped Abie with all his might.

Abie’s head jerked backward. His head ached; he felt as if it might snap off his neck. It was a long moment before he felt sufficiently oriented to talk.

“
I hate you!
” he shouted, when he could. “I hate you and I always will.” With the same fury Rutherford had shown a moment before, Abie bent down and bit his father’s hand. His father cried out. Without wasting a second, Abie tore away from him and raced down the stairs.

He passed his mother as he bolted through the living room, but he didn’t stop to talk. He didn’t look back; he knew his father would be close behind him. He had seen the expression on his father’s face when he bit him. Abie knew that if his father got a hold of him now, something terrible would happen.

Abie raced out of the house and across the wide, well-trimmed front lawn. Just as he passed the tall hedge that lined the perimeter of their property, a familiar face emerged.

“Sam!” Abie shouted. He was so overwhelmed with relief and joy he could have cried. He ran up to the man and hugged his legs. “What are you doing here?”

“I was bringing you this.” He held up the boy’s blue book bag. “You left it in my car yesterday.” He crouched down to Abie’s level. “You look scared. Is something wrong?”

“It’s my dad. He already hit me once, and he’s trying to do it again. He’s gonna kill me!”

“Not if I can help it,” Sam said resolutely. “Come with me.”

Abie glanced over his shoulder. His father hadn’t come out of the house yet. Maybe Mom slowed him down. Still, there was no time to waste.

Abie eagerly took Sam’s hand. “Where are we going?”

“My car is parked just down the street. I’ll get you out of here.”

Together, they jogged down the street. “I sure am glad you were here,” Abie said breathlessly, once he was in the car. “You saved me from the bullies before. I should’ve known you’d save me again.”

The man smiled. “Just relax. I won’t let your father hurt you.”

Abie believed him. Hadn’t Sam always been there when he needed a friend? Unlike his father. “You’re the greatest.”

“Thanks. So are you.” The tall man snapped his fingers. “Hey. I know a really fun place we could go. What do you say?”

“Whatever you want,” Abie answered. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“That’s good to hear,” the man said, his eyes twinkling. “That’s very good indeed.”

F
IRST THING IN THE
morning, Ben stopped by his office to check on what progress, if any, his associates were making. Christina was hard at work preparing exhibits and witness examinations for the trial. He hadn’t actually asked her to do that, but he was relieved to see it was getting done. He had been concerned that he would never be ready when the trial started, especially since he was spending most of his time investigating, but seeing the amount of quality work she already had managed to generate gave him a glimmer of hope.

Jones had prepared a report summarizing all the information about the murder he could glean from newspapers and other written records, which he presented to Ben in a spiffy plastic folder with a spiral binder. If they were in high school, Jones would definitely get an A. The contents of the report were excellent, too. Jones even found some video footage in the local TV news morgues. He also prepared a streamlined statement of facts and chronology.

Ben took out his pencil and made a few crucial additions to the chronology based on the information he had gathered during the past few days. It raised many questions, but provided very few answers.

On his way out, Ben bumped into Loving. “How’s the investigation going?”

“Not so well, Skipper. I’ve been interviewing all the potential witnesses Jones and Christina came up with: Or trying, anyway. They’re not very cooperative.”

“Anyone know anything?”

“Not so far. Well, one gal I thought knew something, but she refused to talk to me.”

“Keep working on her. And all the others.”

Loving pounded his meaty fists together. “You want I should bust some heads?”

“Uh, no. Not at me moment. But I would appreciate it if you could do some checking on a guy named Ronald Pearson.” Ben quickly outlined what he knew about Pearson. “I thought maybe you could talk to some of your buddies who are engaged from time to time in, um, less-than-legal occupations.”

“You mean crooks.”

“Well, yes. See if any of them know anything about drug running from Peru. And see if anyone knows what Pearson might be doing with members of a North Side street gang.”

Loving’s eyes moved closer together. “Them gangs are bad news, Skipper. If you’re messin’ with them, I better stick close to ya. I wouldn’t want nothin’ to happen.”

Ben smiled. Everyone should have a two-hundred-and-fifty-pounder who idolized him. “I’ll be all right, Loving. See what you can find out. If you turn up anything, I want to know immediately.”

Ben found Mike at his desk at Central Division headquarters. He was hunched over a tall stack of reports, a toothpick jutting out of his mouth, a hand pressed against his forehead, and the other fist crumpling an unwanted piece of information.

“How goes it?” Ben ventured.

“Like hell,” Mike said. “I got so many—” He stopped abruptly. “Where have you been?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your face is red.”

“I don’t quite follow.”

“You’ve been out in the sun!”

“Oh, right. Got some exercise yesterday.”

“
You?
I thought the only exercise you got was walking up the stairs to your apartment.”

“I’m broadening my horizons.”

“Uh-huh.” Mike leaned back in his chair. “What did you do, play a fever-pitched round of croquet?”

“Golf, actually.”

Mike looked astonished. “
You? Golf?
”

“It’s not that demanding a sport …”

“Yes, but it requires you to be outside. To get hot. Sweaty even.”

“For your information, I happen to like the outdoors.”

Mike chuckled. “I remember Julia telling me about how when you were a little kid your parents had to lock you out of the house to get you to play outside. And even then you’d just stand by the door wailing to be let back in.”

“That was a long time ago. I’m not quite the wimp you make me out to be.”

Mike continued strolling down Memory Lane. “And I remember hearing about that time Julia put fake vomit on one of your comic books. Said you cried for hours. Even after she showed you it was fake.”

Ben coughed. “I’ve always taken good care of my books. …”

“And the time she showed you a squished pearl tomato and told you it was the neighbor’s dog’s eyeball.”

“I still don’t find that remotely humorous—”

Mike slapped his knee. “And the time she told you the scratches would come off your records if you baked them in the oven—”

“Look, could we talk about the case?”

Mike grinned. “Whatever you say,
kemo sabe.
”

“Thanks loads. Have you heard anything new about the Leeman Hayes prosecution?”

“Well, of course, I’m not officially involved in that case. But it’s just possible I accidentally overheard Bullock talking too loudly for his own good while we were in the cafeteria line.”

“Accidentally overheard what?”

“Bullock bragging that he took over the case and was calling in all his markers to win it.”

“Great. Just what I wanted to hear.”

“You’d better look out for him, Ben. He’s got a lot of markers to call, and he knows how to make them count, too.”

“I’ll stay on my toes. Anything more specific?”

“Heard he’s planning a surprise witness.”

“That would explain why he’s delaying giving me a witness list. Any idea who the witness is?”

“ ’Fraid not.”

“Or what the witness will say?”

“Not really. But I did see a form in the main office that indicated Bullock was pulling a lot of old police reports. Does your man have a record?”

“I don’t think so.” With a sudden frisson of horror, Ben realized he hadn’t thought to check. “I’ll make sure.”

“Do that.”

“Anything else?”

“Sorry. The cafeteria line moves pretty fast.”

Ben nodded. “Oh well. Appreciate the help. Still looking for that child molester?”

“When I can. According to Chief Blackwell, now I’m also supposed to be investigating the youth-gang problem.”

Ben’s ears tingled. “Youth gangs? You?”

“What, did you think I just push paper all day long?”

“No, but I thought you occasionally investigated homicides. …”

“Unfortunately, there have been several gang-related homicides. And now that I’m division supervisor, the whole mess gets laid at my feet. Blackwell says we have to make a concerted effort to confront these threats to the family unit. God knows there’s never been a worse time in history to try to raise a family than now.”

Ben decided he could spare a few more minutes for this chat. He pulled a chair up to Mike’s desk. “How did this youth-gang business get started, anyway?”

“You mean historically? Adult gangs have been around since the dawn of civilization. And they still are. What’s the mob, after all, but a great big gang for grown-ups? People learned long ago that there’s strength in numbers. And the people most likely to learn that lesson are the people who have no power individually. The poor. Ethnic minorities.”

“And children.”

“Too true. It wasn’t until after World War Two, though, that the current gang movement began. Gangs formed mostly along ethnic and racial lines, though not always. It wasn’t a bad idea in the abstract—it gave young people a sense of identity. A sense of power. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way some of them decided to try to better their situation via crime. And violence.”

“This is fascinating, Mike, but what I really meant was how did it get started in Tulsa?”

“Well, we’re not the worst off by a long shot, but we’ve got ’em. You know, in Chicago there are forty known street gangs with over twenty-eight thousand members. I know of four gangs in Tulsa, with a couple hundred members. Still, it’s not anything to laugh about.”

“Who runs these gangs?”

“Usually some older, more experienced man acts as the fearless leader and provides direction. Provides arms. Organizes their activities.”

“A member of the same ethnic minority?”

“Not necessarily. It’s not unknown for a white man to run a black gang, or a black man to run a Hispanic gang. If they can earn the gang members’ trust and provide them a means of scoring some big bucks—hey, why not?”