Goddess of Justice by Dwayne Clayden (mobi ebook reader TXT) 📕

“How about I buy you lunch?” Sturgeon asked.

Brad glared. “You ask because you know I’ll pass. And don’t tell me you’re going to eat. This bugs you as much as me.”

Sturgeon grinned. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Brad exited the Medical Examiner’s Office and stepped out into the sunlight—no snow in the forecast for today. He pulled his sunglasses out of his parka pocket. Before he put on the glasses, he noticed Sadie leaning against a CFCN News van parked behind his car.

She wore a long dark-blue snow parka that came to her knees, boots that covered her feet to her knees, dark gloves, and sunglasses. Her auburn hair glimmered in the sunlight and hung loose on her shoulders.

They’d positioned the van so it blocked Brad’s escape. He headed to his car.

“I didn’t see you at breakfast this morning,” Sadie said.

Brad unlocked his car. “I tend not to eat before autopsies.”

“That’s probably best.” Sadie leaned against his car and crossed her arms. “Wouldn’t want to vomit on your leather jacket.”

“Or my hiking boots.” Brad glanced at the driver-cameraman still in the van. “What, no bright lights today?”

Sadie slid her sunglasses down her nose. “Seems bright enough out here. Should we do the interview?”

Brad crossed his arms. “There will not be an interview.”

Sadie pouted her lips. “We don’t have to do it here.”

“No.”

“No, not here? Yes to lunch?”

Brad reached out, slid her sunglasses off, and leaned close. “Read my lips. No interview.”

“You could use some lip gloss.” She reached into her pocket. “Want some?”

Brad opened the car door. “You are exasperating.”

“No interview? No lip gloss? We’re back to lunch, then.”

“Sadie, please move your van.” Brad slid into his car. “I have work to do.”

“Dinner? About eight?”

Brad closed the door and started the car.

Brad sat in another claustrophobic room, this time in the Crime Scene Unit area. There must be some rule that video viewing rooms had to be tiny. A generic metal desk, office chair of undetermined age with minimal padding, and a video monitor and player on the desk. He had the lights off as he watched the video for the second time—this time watching the tattoo parlor, rape and murders. The first twenty minutes were hard to watch. He winced and looked away a few times as the girl was repeatedly raped.

They’d package it as porn, but it was vicious. Yet again, he was reminded what Annie had endured when she was held captive by Jeter Wolfe. He wanted to barf. Even his coffee didn’t interest him. Between the autopsies and this, he might not eat for a month.

The rape was interrupted when the attacker’s head exploded in a mist of blood, brain, and bone. Right after the gunshot, the girl’s screams burst from the speakers. The victim frantically scratched and clawed at her dead attacker. Finally, she pushed him to the floor, rolled off the bed, and dashed past the camera.

A second shot rang out, then the camera wobbled and fell on its side. Two additional shots sounded. There were screams from several girls.

A muffled voice said, “Get cleaned, get changed and get out of here.” A pause. “Say nothing to anyone. But if the police stop you …” He couldn’t hear the rest.

It was hard to make out the voice. Maybe it could be enhanced. He’d ask Sturgeon. No identifying factors. It could be male or female—deep, but unnatural, and an attempt to disguise the voice.

The shots were seconds apart. It would take a skilled marksman to hit the head on the first shot, turn right, hit the head a second time, and then two shots to the chest of the third suspect.

Shooting like that was something the tactical support unit or special forces practiced. It was not something you typically learned at a gun range.

He scrolled through the tape in slow motion. The four shots took three and a half seconds. He wasn’t sure he could do that.

After the fourth shot, the girls were told to leave, and then the video ended. Seconds later, the video started and panned the room. The rapist on the bed and the other two men shot and positioned on the other side of the room. He fast-forwarded until Zerr entered onscreen. Steele moved to his side. “Sweet baby Jesus.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dice watched the six o’clock evening news while working out. It was a recorded segment, shot late last night well after the murders. The tattoo parlor was in the background and cops wandered around the scene. The segment switched to an interview at the scene—a closeup of Detective Coulter. Dice stopped barbell curls and increased the volume.

“Detective Coulter, with you on the scene, I gather it is a murder investigation.”

“It is an investigation of multiple suspicious deaths.”

“For my viewers, a few years ago, the Gypsy Jokers Motorcycle Club owned this tattoo parlor—”

“Gang.”

“What?”

“They’re not a club. They are organized crime.”

“Right. But the bikers don’t own this place anymore. Do you think the Hells Angels want it back? Is this the start of another biker … gang war?”

Dice increased the weights and listened as the interview continued—what a waste of time.

“Is this an attack on the sex trade? With the murder of a pimp—”

“Thank you, Ms. Andrus.”

“As you heard, we are not getting a lot of information from the police. As we learn about this incident, we will update you. Sadie Andrus, CFCN News.”

Dice set the weights aside and mopped the sweat with a towel. Generally, murder would get assigned to different detectives, unless they were connected. So far, there wasn’t anything to connect them, but with Coulter on both cases, he might find the one thing that linked the deaths. He was getting too close.

This confirmed Dice’s previous suspicion. There were two options. First, make Coulter the next victim. Second, get him off the case. The first option wasn’t great. The death of any cop, but especially Coulter, would bring the wrath of the police service on