Dark Justice (31 page)

“Me? Why?”

Allen cleared his throat again. There seemed to be something he needed to say—something he wasn’t looking forward to saying. “Got a call on the radio from one of my deputies. Deputy Andrews.”

“A fine fellow,” Ben said. “He helped me break up a near riot.”

“Right.” A longer pause. More hesitation. “He’s found something.” Something about Allen’s expression sent a chill down Ben’s spine. “Something? Or … someone?”

Allen nodded grimly. “Tess O’Connell. What’s left of her.”

Ben joined Sheriff Allen in his Jeep for a half-hour drive into the forest. On the way, Allen showed Ben where he’d broken up the whipping incident several nights before. Their destination, though, was a good fifteen minutes beyond that.

“This is pretty well off the beaten track,” Allen explained. “It’s pure coincidence that Andrews happened on it.”

“What was he doing in the forest?”

“Oh, we try to patrol out here from time to time. Just as we do in the city.”

“Patrol for what? Jaywalking grizzly bears? Spotted owls flying under the influence?”

“More like environmental radicals blowing up expensive equipment. Sabotaging machinery.”

“You take your instructions from the logging companies?”

“Kincaid, try to get this through your head. I don’t take my instructions from anyone. I’m not on anyone’s payroll. Neither is my department. When we go out on patrol, we go looking for crime, regardless of the politics behind it.”

“But you patrol in places where you’ll catch environmentalists.”

“Or loggers. If more of my men had been in the forest that night, your Green Rage buddies might not have lost their camp. And if I hadn’t been driving around the night that whipping took place, three of your friends might well be dead now.”

Ben bit his lip. Allen was right, of course. Ben was out of line. “I’m sorry. Trying this case has made me paranoid.”

“Can’t say as I blame you for that.” They drove another fifteen minutes or so down a narrow dirt trail into the heart of the forest. Ben supposed that Allen probably had landmarks that he followed. For Ben, it was just trees and trees and more trees.

Eventually Allen pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road. “From here, we walk.”

Allen checked his pocket compass and pointed. They headed off in that direction.

Not two minutes later, Ben saw Deputy Andrews in the distance. As they approached, Ben picked up on his distressed expression, the pasty white condition of his face.

“Where?” Sheriff Allen asked.

Andrews pointed, up high and to the left.

And there she was.

She had been nailed facefirst to the tree, with six sturdy iron spikes hammered through her arms, legs, and torso. She had been crucified, her arms stretched out and her legs splayed. Except on closer examination, Ben realized her arms weren’t so much stretched out as … wrapped around the tree trunk.

She was a tree hugger, now. Literally. And finally.

“Y
OU GONNA BE ALL
right?”

Ben nodded. He’d been sick—right after he’d gotten his first glimpse of the grotesque, blood-soaked corpse pinioned to the treetops. It was Tess all right, but nothing like the Tess he had met a few days before. This atrocity was more rag doll than human being.

He’d tried to contain himself, but to no avail. “Sorry. I don’t normally react this way.”

“Ben,” Allen said, “there is no normal for something like this. It’s not a normal situation.”

Shortly thereafter, the rest of the crime team arrived. They began the deliberate process of collecting evidence, trying to find any trace of the monster who had done this.

The worst lot fell to the two men from the coroner’s office. They were supposed to recover the body. But how? Could they pry her loose? The standard coroner’s bag didn’t include a claw hammer.

“We can’t just leave her like this,” Allen said bitterly. “Go back and find something that will do the job.”

The coroner’s men did as they were told. Ben noticed they didn’t seem all that upset to be leaving the crime scene. But then, who would be?

Eventually, the coroner’s team returned with ladders, heavy-duty prying equipment, and two more burly-looking associates. Ben didn’t envy them in the least. The task they had before them was so gruesome he couldn’t watch. He didn’t even want to think about it.

The next two hours were spent photographing the crime scene and collecting trace evidence. Ben hung around, hoping the investigators might turn up something he could use at trial. One thing was certain: Tess was not killed by George Zakin, who had been behind bars when this murder occurred. Granny would no doubt claim that there were two different murderers at work. But if Ben could prove both killings were the work of the same killer, it would prove the killer wasn’t Zak.

And—more disturbingly—it would prove that the true killer was still at large.

“I can’t say that I see any connection between the two crimes at all,” Sheriff Allen said, taking a short break from supervising the crime-scene detail. “The previous murder was of a logger. This victim was a Green Rager.”

“You’re assuming the motive is linked to the tree-cutting dispute,” Ben said. “But what if it isn’t? What if it’s about something altogether different?”

“Like what?”

“If I knew that, this would be a very short trial. Unfortunately, I don’t.”

“You’re just speculating, Ben.”

“Maybe. But look at it this way. By all appearances, this crime was committed by someone in the logging camp. Someone free, on the loose, and capable of murder. Presumably, that person was around when Dwayne Gardiner was killed, too. So who’s to say this sick bastard might not have committed the first murder?”

“I don’t agree that it appears this crime was committed by a logger. I’ve grown up with loggers. Most of them are good, calm, decent men. This could just as easily have been done by one of your terrorist pals.”

“Why?”

“How should I know? Maybe they had an internal dispute. Some fight for power or authority. I hear these terrorist groups spend half their time squabbling among themselves.”

“Green Rage is not a terrorist group.”

“Or maybe someone did it to throw suspicion on the loggers. Try to get your man Zakin off the hook.”

Ben frowned. It was theoretically possible, he supposed. Disturbing, but possible.

“Thanks for inviting me out here,” Ben said. “I probably won’t sleep for weeks. But I needed to know what was happening.”

“No thanks necessary. No matter what you think, the local law intends to give everyone a fair shake.”

“I wish everyone in this town shared your intent. You think some of your men could give me a ride back to town?”

“Yep. You can ride in the coroner’s truck.”

Ben winced.

“Don’t worry. They’ll have room for you up front.”

Well, that was a relief, anyway. “Thanks again, Sheriff. If there’s ever anything I can do for you …”

A sheepish grin came over the man’s face. “Well, you could put in a good word for me with that legal assistant of yours.”

Ben nodded. Yes, he certainly could. And probably should.

But
would
he?

That was the question.

T
HE SECOND TRIAL DAY IN
Judge Pickens’s courtroom evidenced no diminution of local interest. If anything, there were even more spectators; Ben noted that the sergeants-at-arms had allowed more spectators in to fill the seats vacated by yesterday’s jury pool. All the familiar faces Ben had noted the day before had returned.

Ben had barely slept. Even after he returned from the site where Tess’s body was found, escorted by two coroner’s attendants with distressingly lively senses of humor, he hadn’t been able to sleep. The scene was too memorable, too horrific, and besides, he needed to practice his opening statement.

Of all the various components of a trial, this was perhaps the one Ben hated most. Although, come to think of it, he probably said that about every phase of the trial at one time or another. But in opening statement, it was possible to prepare in advance, to
can
it—and most lawyers did. Some of them were very polished speakers, adept at delivering rehearsed speeches.

Ben wasn’t. He much preferred having another person to interact with, a witness or a juror. Standing in front of fourteen people and delivering a prepared monologue only served to remind him why public speaking was most people’s greatest terror. And sleep deprivation wasn’t making it any better, either. Judge Pickens had announced in advance that openings would be limited to a half hour for each side—a disappointment for Granny, a godsend for Ben.

When the sheriff’s deputy brought Zak into the courtroom, he appeared even more furious than the day before. “What the hell is going on out there?”

Ben lowered his eyes. “You’ve heard about Tess.”

“Damn straight.” Zak reached up to brush back his hair, then realized he’d cut it short. “They say this woman was part of Green Rage? I never even met her.”

“She was new,” Ben said, repeating what Maureen had told him. “She was local.”

“And they killed her? Man. This thing is out of control. Totally out of control.”

Ben was inclined to agree. But unfortunately, nothing had happened yet that was likely to stop the pattern of strikes and strike-backs. At this rate, the spiral of hate would continue to expand until it finally culminated in something even more horrible than what happened to Tess.

“This group is falling apart!” Zak moaned. “They’ve got everyone so scared—even Deirdre won’t go into the forest. How the hell is she going to find the world’s largest cedar tree if she won’t go into the forest?”

“I appreciate the dilemma,” Ben said gently, “but at the moment, you have worse problems to worry about.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And that’s what I want you focused on. This trial. One hundred percent.”

Zak folded his arms and gave Ben a grudging nod.

The bailiff made the usual announcement, and in walked the Honorable Judge Tyrone J. Pickens. The Time Machine was on time this morning, and Ben for one was relieved.

Pickens ran briskly through all the introductory instructions to the jury, admonishing them not to discuss the case till the presentation of evidence was completed, reminding them that their decision should be based upon the testimony and the evidence—and that what lawyers said was not testimony or evidence. On that happy note, he called for opening statements.

Granny took center stage with a solemn expression on her face. She signaled from the outset that there would be no fun and games during this opening. She wanted to impress them with the gravity of the crime—and the necessity of punishment.

“Dwayne Gardiner was only thirty-two years old,” she said, adopting the narrative tone of an evening newscaster. “He had a wife and a small boy.” She paused, allowing the import of her words to sink in. “Dwayne had worked for WLE Logging all his adult life, since he was eighteen. He was a hard worker and a good one, often putting in as many as sixty hours a week. He was up for promotion, and had he lived another six months”—another ponderous pause—”he would probably have been given a position that would almost double his salary. He and his young wife would have been able to buy that three-room house on Lincoln they had their eye on. But now that will never happen.”

Ben kept his hands planted firmly on the table. He could object on grounds of relevance—because none of this was—but he knew that would gain him little ground with the jury. He would wait for something more important.

“That will never happen because on July thirteenth, in the dead of night, his life was stolen by this man.” Her arm shot back and pointed directly at Zak. “George Zakin killed Dwayne Gardiner—what’s more, killed him in perhaps the most gruesome, agonizing way you could imagine. I will warn you in advance—this is not a crime for the weak-stomached. When you hear what happened, you will be disturbed by it—perhaps more disturbed than you have been by anything you’ve heard before in your life.”

Ben shook his head. As if the crime wasn’t bad enough already, Granny was determined to melodramatize it, to build suspense, to ensure that they would be horrified when they finally heard the details.

“Why did he do it? you may be wondering. Why would anyone commit such a heinous crime against an innocent, hard-working man? Well, George Zakin is a member of an organization called Green Rage. I’ll bet you’ve heard of it. In fact, Mr. Zakin is the local leader of the group. Green Rage claims to be an environmental group, but its real purpose is to stir up controversy and turmoil by committing terroristic acts against loggers and logging companies.

“Green Rage came to town a few months ago, trying to stop the totally legal and federally approved logging of the Mount Crescent watershed. It seems the rule of law was of no importance to these Green Ragers; they were a law unto themselves. They began stealing equipment, sabotaging the mill. They even planted bombs on expensive logging equipment, blowing them up in dangerous high-octane explosions.”

She pivoted, adopting a somewhat more contemplative tone. “Now, I don’t know what you jurors think about people who use bombs. But in the wake of the World Trade Center and the hideous Oklahoma City tragedy, we in the law enforcement community are not very sympathetic to these tactics. But I’m not asking you to pass judgment on whether it’s acceptable to use terroristic tactics to achieve political goals.”

Like hell you’re not, Ben thought.

“I’m simply telling you that the evidence will show that these tactics were used by Green Rage, that it was in fact a disturbingly common practice for this team of elitist radicals. So it is not altogether surprising, if nonetheless tragic, that the tree cutter Dwayne Gardiner tried to start on the night of July thirteenth had a bomb planted in it, a bomb that was rigged to explode when the ignition was turned. A bomb planted by George Zakin.”

Granny kicked her head back, swishing her buoyant hair behind her shoulders, pressing her bosom forward ever so slightly. It seemed Granny was not opposed to using a hint of sex appeal to get her message across, either.