Justice for Hire (6 page)

She lay on the metal cot in a fetal position, her knees drawn up, afraid to sleep, shivering with fear in the warm room. Finally, drained and overcome with exhaustion, she fell asleep.

Chapter 10

Tuesday, August 23rd, 9:04 AM

BOBBY SULLIVAN could barely make ends meet. The gas bar, where he pumped gas for impatient customers, was about the best job an ex-con like him could hope to find. And he was lucky enough to have this job only because the guy who owned the place had been a friend of his father. That was a long time ago, when his parents were still alive.

Orphaned ten years ago, and fifteen at the time, he was fortunate his widowed aunt had taken him in. In hindsight, he was grateful to her, and grateful even after his stretch in prison, she’d welcomed him back. In fact, she’d stuck with him throughout his ordeal, and the only one who came to visit him. Not often. It was a long trip to Kingston from Richmond Hill, but her few visits, and her letters, had helped him get through his five years of incarceration.

Bobby finished cleaning the windshield of a sedan and dropped the squeegee into the bucket of cleaning solution. Walking around to the driver’s open window, he leaned over.

“That’ll be fifty dollars, sir.”

The man handed him a hundred. Bobby ran to the booth and returned a moment later with the change, handing it back. Without a word from the occupant of the vehicle, the car sped away. Bobby watched as it turned onto the street and melded into the morning traffic.

He took a seat on the curb by the gas pump and waited for the next customer. It may not be the best job in the world, but at least it’s not hard work.

At times, he had accepted his lot in life. This was one of those occasions, and he slipped off his cap, leaned back against the pump and turned his face toward the morning sun, enjoying the warmth.

At other times, however, he was angry at the way things had gone. Society called him a rapist. He knew he wasn’t. He’d been seventeen at the time, and she was sixteen. They were in love, and had been seeing each other for several months before finally succumbing to temptation. They’d made the mistake of consummating their relationship in her father’s house. In her bedroom. And when her parents came home and caught them, it was all over for him.

Gone were his dreams of being a star baseball player. He’d been touted as the next big hope, a golden boy, probably destined for the big leagues. The world soon forgot about him after his conviction.

Her father was rich, and he wasn’t. His pathetic defense hadn’t stood much chance, and so he was locked away.

He never saw her again after that, and he never heard from her while he was in prison. He still thought about her, of course, but by the time he was released, she was married and had moved away with her new husband. Somewhere down east, he’d heard.

Bobby stood and watched as another car wheeled into the station. It was a brand new SRT Viper. He admired its sleek red lines with a bit of envy as it pulled to a stop at the pump. He didn’t figure he ever had a chance of owning anything like that. Not with this dead-end job.

He plopped his cap back on, went to the driver’s side window and leaned down. The window zipped open and the guy inside turned his head. “Fill ‘er up, and watch the paint.” The guy tried to talk tough, but his high-pitched voice and his geeky appearance belied his attempt to be cool. He looked more like a rich snot spending Daddy’s money.

Bobby was careful of the paint as he poked the nozzle into the filler. What he really wanted to do was put a scratch on the guy’s car for being such a jerk, but out of respect for the beautiful machine, he didn’t.

“I’m looking for Bobby Sullivan.”

Bobby spun his head as he heard the voice. A young guy was approaching, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Are you Bobby Sullivan?”

Bobby nodded. “Yup. That’s me,” he said, and then his jaw dropped as he saw the boy remove his right hand from his pocket, his fist wrapped around a pistol.

The hose fell from the tank, spilling gas down the side of the shiny red vehicle. The nozzle clattered on the concrete, splashing fuel at Bobby’s feet as he ducked.

The boy lowered the pistol and fired. Bobby heard an explosion and a bullet whizzed past his ear. On all fours, he scrambled around to the back of the car, and then to the opposite side where he was out of range.

He heard a curse from inside the vehicle, and then rubber smoked as the car bolted away, leaving Bobby fully exposed. The shooter took a step forward and aimed the gun, holding it steady.

A second shot caught Bobby near his left shoulder. He dropped to the ground, and then attempted to stand, but fell again, landing on his back.

The killer stood over him, the gun now pointed directly at Bobby’s head. He fired again. A hole appeared in Bobby’s forehead and he fell to the ground, too dead to see what happened next.

The killer stood a moment, the gun still in his right hand, now hanging at his side. He observed his handiwork, and appeared satisfied his victim was dead.

One more shot exploded as he raised the gun to his own temple and squeezed the trigger. The weapon slipped from the dead hand and clattered on the pavement as his body crumbled to the ground. The sound of the Viper faded in the distance, and then all was quiet and still. The assassin lay beside his victim, their blood trickling from their warm bodies, mingling as one on the hot concrete.

Chapter 11

Tuesday, August 23rd, 9:35 AM

WHEN THE CALL CAME in to 9-1-1, the information was sent to the R.H.P.D. radio dispatcher for the precinct. Police vehicles nearest to the scene of the latest murder were notified and on their way.

Detective Hank Corning was settled firmly in his chair in the precinct, poring over the notes, reports, and evidence of the murder of Charles Robinson, when Yappy approached him.

“There’s been another murder, Hank.”

Hank dropped the papers onto his desk, leaned back and looked up.

“Two guys dead at a gas station,” Yappy continued, as he handed Hank a note. “Here’s the address.”

Hank sighed as he stood. “Thanks, Yappy,” he said, as he took the note and scanned it. He sighed again, and then grabbed his briefcase and strode from the precinct.

Crime scene investigators were already on the scene when Hank arrived at Full Power Gas Bar. He pulled his Chevy to the curb behind a haphazardly parked cruiser and stepped from the vehicle.

A crowd of onlookers gathered in groups of two or three, trying to get a better view, wanting to see what all the commotion was about. Officers were kept busy, making sure the rubberneckers stayed well back.

Hank moved closer and scanned the scene. Red and blue lights flashed. An ambulance was parked nearby, and another one was turning into the lot. The familiar yellow tape was being stretched around the area. Investigators milled about. The police photographer’s camera clicked, taking shots at a variety of angles.

Hank glanced around the gas station. A man was on the far side, leaning against the front fender of his vehicle. Could be a witness.

He approached the pair of bodies lying on the pavement beside the gas pump. A pistol lay a couple of feet away. Looks like a 9 mm Glock. Two or three bullet casings lay nearby. Evidence cones marked the spots where critical pieces of evidence lay.

He turned his attention to the victims. Both had been shot in the head, and one of them also had a bloodstain on his shoulder. Probably a gunshot wound as well.

He looked across the lot. Lead crime scene investigator, Rod Jameson, was talking to a uniform. He held a clipboard in his hand. Hank approached him. “Hey, Rod,” he said.

Rod spun around. “Hey, Hank. What brings you here?” he asked, chuckling at his own joke.

Hank smiled weakly and asked, “All these people watching, did anyone see anything?”

“Nope. We talked to them all. They arrived since, and never saw a thing.”

Hank nodded toward the man leaning against the fender of his car. “That a witness?”

“He wasn’t here when it happened,” Rod replied. “He got here later. He’s the guy who called it in.”

“Thanks, Rod,” Hank said, as he turned and walked over to the man. He slipped out his badge and displayed it. “I’m Detective Hank Corning.”

The man nodded slightly.

“You called this in?” Hank asked.

Another nod.

“Did you see what happened?”

The man finally spoke, “I didn’t see anyone around. I pulled in for gas and there they were.” He nodded toward the bodies. “And so, I called 9-1-1.” He shrugged. “I didn’t see a thing.”

“There were no other cars around?”

“Nope. The place was deserted.”

“Did you see anybody on the sidewalk?”

“Nope. I mean, there might have been . . . I don’t know, but I didn’t see anyone.”

Hank frowned and glanced back at the bodies. There appeared to be no witnesses, and this guy wasn’t much help. He turned back and slipped a notepad and pen from an inner pocket. “I need your name and address, and then you can go.”

The man gave him the information and Hank jotted it down. He flipped the pad shut and tucked it back into his pocket. “Someone may need to contact you later,” he said, “but for now, you can go.”

“Thanks, officer.”

“Detective.”

“What?”

“I’m a detective.”

The man gave an uncertain nod, as if not knowing the difference, and then climbed into his vehicle. Hank watched him drive across the lot. An officer removed the tape to allow the vehicle to pass.

Hank went back to where Rod Jameson was standing. “Didn’t get anything from him,” he said.

Jameson raised his chin toward the cooling bodies. “Nancy’s here.”

Hank turned. Deputy Medical Examiner, Nancy Pietek, had arrived and was bending over the bodies. Hank went over and crouched across from her. “Hi, Nancy.”

Nancy looked up. “Nice to see you again, Hank.”

“Got anything for me?”

“I just arrived. Can’t tell for sure yet, but it looks like either a double murder, or possibly a murder/suicide. Forensics will be able to tell you more about this one than I can.”

“It looks to me like a robbery gone wrong.” Hank pointed at one of the victims. “This guy’s wearing a cap that says ‘Full Power Gas Bar’ on it. He obviously works here . . . but who’s this guy? He has no vehicle. Looks to me like he came to rob the place . . . but who shot him?” He thought a moment, and then looked at Nancy. “But, you think it may be a suicide?”

She nodded. “Possibly,” she said, as she motioned toward the boy. “It looks like this victim was shot point-blank, either self-inflicted, or by someone who stood close.” She pointed with the tip of her pencil. “See those soot marks at the entrance of the wound? And see that star-like tearing in the skin around the wound? When the barrel of a gun is held against bone, and discharged, gases from the muzzle can be forced under the skin, causing it to balloon out and tear like that.”

Hank whistled.

“Again, I’ll know for sure after I get him back to the lab and we check for GSR.”

“And the other guy?” Hank asked.

“Two shots. One in the shoulder, and one in the forehead. Both at close range. Probably less than five or six feet away. That’s all I can tell you for now,” Nancy said, as she stood.

Hank took out his cell phone and snapped a few pictures before standing. “That’ll do for now,” he said. “Thanks, Nancy.”

Nancy turned and walked toward one of the ambulances as Hank knelt back down. Without disturbing the body, he felt in the pockets of the victim wearing the cap. He found a wallet and removed it. He flipped it open and pulled out a driver’s license. Bobby Sullivan. He compared the picture on the card to the face of the dead attendant, and then tucked the license back into the wallet and returned it to the victim’s pocket.

He turned to the other body and searched it as well. He frowned and rubbed his chin. Nothing in any of the pockets. Not so much as a coin, or a key, or even a bus token.

Very strange.

“Hank?”

Hank looked up.

“There’s a guy here I think you should talk to.”

Hank stood and looked where the uniform was pointing. A red Viper was parked at the curb on the other side of the tape. A young man paced back and forth on the sidewalk beside the car, and then looked toward the scene, as if observing the proceedings, and then paced some more.

Hank walked over, identified himself and showed his badge. “You wanted to talk to someone?”

A vigorous nod.

“What’s your name?” Hank had his notepad out.

The boy looked nervous. He stopped pacing, folded his arms and leaned against his vehicle. “Benjamin. Benjamin Butler.” His voice was high-pitched as he said, “I saw it happen.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw a guy shoot another guy.”

“Where were you standing?”

“I . . . I was getting gas. I was in my car. He was filling my tank.”

Hank waited. “And?”

“And a guy came up and started shooting.”

“And then, you drove away?”

“I . . . I was scared. I didn’t want to get killed, so I got out of there as fast as I could.”

Hank studied him a moment before asking, “Can you identify the shooter?”

“I . . . I guess so.”

“Do you want to come and take a look?”

Butler frowned. “Can’t you . . . show me a picture or something?”

“I would sooner you came over, if you don’t mind. I would like you to describe how it happened.”

“Are . . . are they dead?” His voice shook.

Hank nodded.

“Both . . . both of them?”

“Both of them.”

“I . . . I guess I could come over. But not too close, ok?”

“No problem,” Hank said. “We don’t need to get close. Come on.”

Butler followed Hank across the lot. He stopped short as he got near the pump. “That . . . that’s close enough,” he said, as he turned away.

Hank sighed. “Look, I realize this is hard. I need you to look at them a moment.”