Justice for Hire (11 page)

Jake heard a shout from the backyard. It was Matty. “Hey, Uncle Hank.” Jake spun his head around. Hank was coming across the backyard. He watched as Matty ran up to Hank.

“Hey, Matty,” Hank said. He climbed the three steps to the deck, dropped into a chair and set his briefcase beside him, as Matty ran back to join Kyle again.

Annie tossed the magazine onto the table. “Do you want some lemonade, Hank?”

“Sure.”

As Annie went into the house to get a glass, Jake asked Hank, “Anything interesting in the reports?”

Hank picked up his briefcase and set it in his lap. He clicked it open and withdrew a folder. “It’s all here,” he said. “The complete reports on both victims.” He dropped the folder onto the table, closed his briefcase and set it back down beside his chair. “It’s pretty much what I expected, except for one very interesting bit of information.”

Jake looked at Hank quizzically. “What’s that?” he asked.

“The killer had Lysergic Acid Diethylamide in his system.”

“LSD,” Annie said, as she stepped from the house.

“Yup. LSD.”

“I thought that went out with the ‘60’s,” Annie said, as she set the cup on the table, filled it with lemonade, and handed it to Hank.

Hank laughed, took the drink and sipped it. “Oh, it’s still around, although it’s not nearly as popular as the new designer drugs.”

“So, the killer was high when he shot Bobby?” Jake asked.

“Not exactly,” Hank replied. “There wasn’t enough in his system at the time to have any effect, but it did show he’d used it recently.”

“How recently?”

“Can’t tell for sure, probably in the last couple of days.”

“Do you think that may’ve been a factor in the shooting?” Annie asked. “Frequent users may have long-lasting psychoses, such as schizophrenia or severe depression.”

“But it doesn’t usually lead to violence,” Hank said.

“What about hallucinations?” Jake asked.

“During, yes, but not after the fact. And not one or two days later.”

Annie sat forward. “Hank, I had a thought. Can you get a drug test done on Cheryl Waters?”

Hank grinned. “I’m ahead of you. I called Callaway on the way over and got him on it. If Cheryl will volunteer, the lab will do a test right away.”

“And if she doesn’t volunteer?” Jake asked.

Hank shrugged. “Then, we’ll need a warrant. But I think, given the circumstances, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I think she’ll volunteer,” Annie said. “And a positive result may answer a lot of questions.”

“What questions?” Jake asked.

“Well, one question really, whether or not the two murders are related.”

Jake looked at Annie and cocked his head. “So, how do you know so much about LSD?”

Annie shrugged. “My mother mentioned it a couple of times. She was a real hippy, back in the sixties. That’s how she met my father. They used to hang around Yorkville, the Canadian capital of the hippie movement. Not exactly Haight-Ashbury, but pretty close.”

Jake frowned and grinned a crooked grin. “I never knew that about you.”

“It’s not exactly about me, and I never said I had a perfect family tree.”

“Is that what happened to your mother? Why she’s so batty?”

Annie gave Jake a playful slap on the arm. “Be nice,” she said. “And anyway, my parents were never into drugs, just the hippy culture.”

Hank laughed. “I didn’t know there was a difference.”

“Now you know,” Annie said, as she picked up the folder of reports. “What else is in here?”

“You’re welcome to keep those,” Hank said. “But everything else in there is as we suspected. A murder/suicide.”

Annie browsed the folder a moment before looking up. “You still don’t know the shooter’s identity?”

“Not yet,” Hank said. “We’re working on it.”

“We went to Samaritan Street Mission,” Jake put in. “We talked to the lady who runs the place, Mrs. Pew, and we talked to Pastor Jackson.”

“I talked to him as well,” Hank said. “Did you find out anything I didn’t?”

Jake shook his head. “We didn’t get much from either of them, except, everyone liked Bobby.”

“Everybody was agreeable on that point. Unfortunately, that’s nothing to go on.”

“What about Bobby’s boss?” Annie asked.

“I talked to him as well. Bobby had been a faithful and hard worker. Always on time, and he had no complaints about him. And of course, like everyone else, he thought highly of Bobby.”

“It’s a real tragedy,” Annie said.

Hank sighed. “It sure is.” He took another sip of his lemonade and set the glass on the table. “I talked to his parole officer as well,” he said.

“Let me guess,” Jake cut in. “He liked Bobby a lot and thought highly of him.”

Hank laughed. “Not really. He didn’t have an opinion on Bobby. I guess he sees so many ex-cons he tries to separate his feelings from his job. All he told me is, Bobby showed up without fail every week, and on time. He said Bobby was adjusting well and seemed unlikely to be a repeat offender.”

“How did he react to the news of Bobby’s death?” Annie asked.

“He didn’t react. He didn’t shrug it off, but I got the feeling it didn’t affect him in any way.”

Annie closed the folder of reports and tossed it on the table. “The witness in the Viper, and the guy who discovered the body, had nothing to add either.”

“What we’re missing is the motive,” Hank said. “We know exactly what happened, we just don’t know why?”

“Or who?” Jake added.

“Yeah, or who. The identity of the killer might help us with the motive.”

“So what’s next,” Annie asked.

Hank shrugged. “I’ve been interviewing people and chasing down leads all day, and there’s nothing left.”

Chapter 20

Wednesday, August 24th, 11:12 AM

THE BOY COULDN’T have been much more than sixteen years old. Though it was a warm summer day, he wore a jacket, his hands tucked inside the pockets, as he made his way up the residential street.

He seemed unmindful of anything that went on around him. A car or two passed by, a couple of pedestrians wandered in the other direction across the street, a squirrel skittered up a tree nearby; all unseen by the lad who strode in a purposeful manner down the sidewalk of the middle-class neighborhood.

His thoughts were somewhat scattered. He knew his destination, and although his goal was firmly fixed in his mind, he wasn’t exactly sure why Harold Garrison must die.

He knew Garrison was an evil man, of that there was no doubt, and he knew he’d been the one chosen to carry out this awful, but necessary task.

The Wizard had spoken, and he was proud to have been selected from the small group of candidates to fulfill the mission. It was all for the greater good and must be carried out as per the instructions he’d been given by those who knew best.

He’d been dropped off two blocks from his destination, and had made his way through the community, following the map in his head, determined to bring his assignment, the death of Harold Garrison, to a successful conclusion.

It mattered not he would have to sacrifice himself for the cause. The cause was good, and just, and necessary, and the will of the Wizard must be done.

His otherwise expressionless face took on a slight smile, a grim expression of satisfaction at the honor about to be his.

~~*~~

HAROLD GARRISON leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. His fingers were woven together, and he stared unseeing across the office, deep in thought.

The campaign was about to begin and he was wrapping up his final plans. The incumbent was down in the polls, and Garrison was sure he would win this election. There was no doubt about it, and he couldn’t wait for the battle to begin.

Sure, it was only a seat on the city council, but he had drive, and it would surely lead to bigger and better things. The people in his ward had responded positively to his plans for the area. They wanted him, and he was proud to serve.

They would begin putting up the election signs in a day or two, and then the house-to-house canvassing would begin. There would be no campaign headquarters, other than his residence, but the brochures printed and stacked in the corner of his office, welcomed anyone in the ward to contact him at any time.

He pushed his chair back from the desk, stood and wandered from the office and into the kitchen. The house was always quiet this time of day. The kids were in school, and his wife, who taught third grade English at Richmond Public, would be busy now, doing the job she loved so much.

He rinsed out his mug, drained the last cup of coffee from the carafe, and fixed up his steaming drink with a bit of cream and sugar.

His wife would be coming home for lunch, and they would have a quick sandwich together before she had to get back to her class, but right now his stomach was asking for food. He found the last leftover chocolate donut in the fridge and retrieved it from the box that had held half a dozen yesterday morning, found a plate in the cupboard, and sat at the kitchen table.

He started as the doorbell rang, breaking the quiet of the house. He dropped the donut, wiped his hands and mouth on a paper napkin, and took a quick swig of coffee, before rising to his feet.

He hurried into the foyer and swung the front door open. He stared curiously at the young boy outside, wondering why he wasn’t in school at this time of day.

“Are you Harold Garrison?” the boy asked.

Garrison nodded. “Yes, I am. May I help you with something?”

“Can I come in for a minute?”

Garrison stepped back and swung the door fully open, allowing the visitor to enter.

~~*~~

THE BOY CLIMBED the final step into the foyer and faced his intended victim. At the same time, he drew his right hand from his jacket pocket, clutching a gun, his finger already tightening on the trigger, as he raised it in the direction of his target.

There was a blast, and a bullet spit from the gun and shattered a mirror on the wall of the foyer. Shards of glass sprinkled about the floor at his feet, but his quarry had eluded him, ducking in time to avoid the deadly fire.

The guy was fast. Too fast.

He spun to the left, corrected his aim, and trained the weapon toward Garrison, who stumbled and half-crawled into the front room.

The boy had been trained well, and his skill at hitting a bullseye was outstanding, but the second shot missed the fast moving target, and embedded itself in the hardwood floor.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. The Wizard wouldn’t be pleased if his carefully laid plans went amiss.

Garrison made it to his feet, and as the boy stepped into the front room and aimed again, his quarry spun out of sight through a doorway.

The assassin followed, the gun still poised and ready. He had him cornered now. He moved carefully to the doorway, his finger squeezing the trigger, ready to shoot as he stepped into the room.

He saw Garrison’s head disappear, ducking behind a desk in what appeared to be an office. He moved carefully across the room, toward the desk, and then stepped around beside it. Garrison was crouched down, shielding himself behind the back of a chair.

The gun spit. One shot. Two. The cushy back of the leather chair, with its comfortable stuffing, proved to be no protection, as the deadly rounds pierced the barrier, bored through the skull of the victim, and ground to a stop, embedded in the hardwood floor.

As Garrison collapsed, his eyes glazed over, and then took on the unseeing gaze of the newly dead.

The job was finished. It had been a success.

The killer smiled, pleased justice had been done, and his part in the great plan was finished.

The last thing the boy remembered, was raising the pistol to his own head, and hearing the resulting explosion as he squeezed the trigger.

He was unaware of his own body sinking to the floor as the shot echoed in the small room, and except for the trickle of blood that found a path between the cracks in the floorboards, all was quiet and still.

Chapter 21

Wednesday, August 24th, 12:01 PM

KIM GARRISON smiled as she shooed the last student from her classroom. Not that she was distressed, or annoyed in the least, by the youngsters she taught, but she was looking forward to a break. On the contrary, she wasn’t averse to enjoying some of the antics of her students. She loved kids, and was proud to be instrumental in helping guide them through their informative years.

She slipped her handbag from the bottom drawer of her desk, stood, and hurried from the classroom. She was thankful Richmond Public was only two blocks from home, and she could get there for a quick lunch with her husband, and be back in plenty of time.

She left the school and stopped by a sandwich shop, conveniently located along her route. She picked up two thick submarines, and hurried toward home.

As she neared the house, she dug her key from her handbag, and stepped onto the pathway leading to the front door. She frowned as she saw the door open, and looking around the yard, expected to see Harold. He wasn’t around, however, and she climbed the steps to the door and stepped curiously inside.

“Harold?”

No answer.

She called a little louder, “Harold, are you here?”

Still no answer.

Perhaps he came outside and wandered around to the backyard for some reason.

She stepped inside the house, heard a grinding underneath her feet, and looked down at the shattered glass.

“Harold,” she called again, more anxious. “Are you all right?”

She looked at the mirror on the foyer wall, cracked, broken into a spider web of pieces. She frowned. Something didn’t seem right.

She hurried down a short hallway to the kitchen. A coffee cup with a half-finished donut was on the table. She tossed her handbag, and the bag of sandwiches, onto the table, and stepped to the back door. She slid it open and peered onto the deck.