JUSTICE REBORN (A Charlie Taylor Novel Book 1) (3 page)

As the new technology emerged, her natural
curiosity compelled her to become involved, and she was soon a leader, able to
understand the new concepts and adapt. The announced creation of Stephen’s
Board with the available vacancies stirred her interest. She never applied, old
ghosts dampening her aspirations. But, when Stephen called and offered her the
Forensic Division, she accepted immediately, only after did doubts resurface.
Her emotional churning should not have been a surprise because periodic
flashbacks had been with her for years.

  “Dr. Kate Martinez, Forensic Division
Head, March 29, 2021, I declare a Condition Confidential and request the
recording equipment be turned off during my presentation.”

Her declaration brought even more focus to
the meeting.  Kate presented a grim and determined image. She had everyone’s
attention. A Condition Confidential signaled a serious issue and was only
invoked to ensure top level secrecy; anyone who leaked the discussion which
took place under a Condition Confidential would be immediately dismissed and
charged with a criminal offense. 

Ann, on a signal from the Judge, pressed
the console button to stop the recording; Stephen turned back to Kate. “I
assume this has to do with what you observed during the S3 Interrogations at
White Rock prison.”

“Yes, and I will get into the details in a
minute, but first let me give an overview. None of this is confirmed, and it’s
all highly speculative. But, it is my observation, and I stress only mine. It
appears the highly emotional events in a person’s life may be stored multiple times
in different locations.”

Silence. The entire room stared at Kate.
Everyone afraid to ask the obvious question; the Judge asked.  “Kate, are each
of these different memory streams duplicates of the same event or does each
memory stream have a different interpretation of the event?”

Jacob, the political appointee, regularly
last to understand implications, was fast enough on this one.

“What the hell! White Rock has already
executed 155 convicts based on the infallibility of the damn memory streams.”

It’s a shit-face job.

I snuck away earlier this afternoon.
Another week in Records and the Chief and I will have our last conversation,
something along the lines of:

“Duncan, there’s part of my anatomy which is
aching for a kiss, why don’t you pucker up?”

Well, that’s for next week, now it’s a few
minutes after six. Monk and I are in my kitchen:  maple wood cabinets form a
semi-circle around a central work island. The blinds are only partially closed
and the warm spring sunshine makes dappling patterns around the kitchen;
actually it’s hot, too hot for spring.  Monk is starting to arrange the
ingredients he needs to prepare his ham on rye specialty, our supper before the
basketball game. This happens to be one of those very rare Monday night games,
due to some scheduling conflicts.

Even his gentle smile cannot subdue his
menacing appearance, a tall man at 6”8”, just a fraction over 300 pounds, a
shaved head, and hands each the size of a small computer monitor. He got the
‘monk’ label at University when he was the only regular church attendee on the
team.  Monk is new to the priesthood, now Father Ed.

We were both young kids when he arrived in
my neighborhood as an immigrant from some eastern European country, his
assimilation difficult because of language and cultural issues. He claims his
transition was facilitated by a friendship with me. The two of us romped
through elementary school, next did all the teenage crap, both good students,
and excellent athletes, our bonding continued to the University level.

Injuries forced me to the sideline, but
Monk graduated to the pros and spent eight full seasons as a defensive tackle,
five times named all-pro. During those years, he was a typical young athlete
enjoying all the privileges that came with fame and adoration of the fans:
parties, women, soft drugs among the pastimes. He had his youth, and as long he
stayed away from the hard drugs, he could run and sweat out his indulgences. He
abruptly left it all behind and today a Roman Catholic priest.

When he arrived earlier this afternoon, he
walked around the house looking for adjustments. On his last visit, he
chastised me; he is upset because I never change anything in the house; the
kitchen fridge is still plastered with notes from Nancy and Linda’s drawings.
All the same family pictures are on the wall; Linda’s bedroom is vacuumed
weekly, bed made up and ready for her return. Since my wife, Nancy, and
daughter, Linda, were killed, I’ve had a few problems. It’s been two bad years.

I’m on a stool at the island. My Internet
connection is reliable, and the beer is ice cold.

“Monk, you know this guy never stops his
self-promotion.”

“Who and what are you talking about? Find a
great site?”

“I’m talking about our illustrious leader
of the Legal Division, Doug Brewster. He teaches one evening class at the
University, and on his website he has posted his interpretation of the history
of our evolution to Justice Reborn. He says it’s for his student. Let me read
you this pretentious shit. He goes on for pages.”

While Monk slices the rye loaf, no sliced
bread for these sandwiches, I begin to read aloud from the summary on Doug’s
website:

We live under a radical new system of justice: Justice
Reborn.  The question is: how did we arrive at the Tipping Point which forced
politicians to make this change? The academic debates will probably go on for
decades: how did the public’s daily diet of fear and frustration morph into
uncompromising anger?

The general consensus is it started with the years of
unresolved environmental issues; the unrelenting matters of global warming and
polarity reversal dominated everyday life. The media’s sophistic reporting
combined with a searing sun and erratic transmission signals intensified the
prevailing tension.

 “Charlie, do you remember our next
hospital visit?”

“Yes, I remember….. St. Michael’s
Children’s Hospital, cancer ward.”

“Not sure which ward and won’t know until
we get there. But, I think we’ll need Wes; there is a lot to  distribute, and
the hospital doesn’t want us on the ward for more than 90 minutes.”

“Not a problem but try and get us some
smaller jerseys. The extra-large are more like overcoats, and we look like
refugees. Don’t worry I’ll make sure Wes comes. Toss me another beer. And
listen carefully: this is important.”

The scale and complexity of these
problems meant the public had to depend on the expert. Unfortunately, the war
of egos dominated and politicians, bureaucrats and scientists all took turns,
resulting in many stalemates, no sustained focus, and no practical solutions. 
Responsibility and control evaporated in these heated debates.

This time, it’s Monk’s turn to interrupt.
“Is it true you once threatened to shove Doug’s pipe up his ass?”

“True. At the time, he was just an
assistant DA…… still a real asshole.  I needed a search warrant and no matter
what I came up with he insisted it wasn’t enough and never provided any ideas
or assistance as to how to enhance the request. I asked him if I shoved the
pipe up his ass would this clear his mind.”

“How much did that cost you?’

“Doug never registered a formal complaint,
but it trickled down and got to the Chief. All I got was one of Duncan’s
screaming sessions. Now please, allow me to continue with this masterpiece.”

By this time our original system of
justice had evolved into a process the man on the street could not support:
defense lawyer flaunting their clever arguments and judges ready to accept any
minor deviations in police protocol as reason for dismissal. The inequity (real
or perceived) became the new focal point of frustration, supplemented with
prisons as hardcore playgrounds, and repeat offenders laughing at society.

I stop. “Well, Doug got this right. I
remember too many cases where a judge appeared to only care about the accused,
and we had to prove ‘intent’. The fact that a son of a bitch left a night club
pissed, mad as hell, got into his car and drove right into the exiting crowd,
didn’t matter. We had to prove he intended to kill someone, two dead bodies
didn’t count. For us this was an impossible scenario; his bloody track record
didn’t even matter. How could I prove he meant to kill and not just do some
minor damage? Of course, for me the key point was that there were two dead
kids, and this asshole got his wrists slapped.”

“You know Charlie, if you had pursued your
legal career, you would have ended up as a hanging judge.”

“Bullshit, listen to the rest.”

Monk continues to drink beer and fuss over
supper, careful about the sequence with which he completes the layers of ham, lettuce,
onion slices, cheddar cheese, mustard, salt, pepper, and tomatoes.

I drink the rest of my beer and kept
reading aloud.

But crime and punishment
was an issue the man on the street understood and when Dr. Max Armstrong’s
innovations burst onto the scene, it became apparent: alternatives were now
possible. Here was an opportunity to establish responsibility and take control,
a move to soothe the widespread feeling of helplessness.

The guilty or innocent
debate no longer required a legal team; if doubt no longer existed, why not
execute?

Monk speaks up again, “The more I hear, the
more concerned I become that ‘mercy’ has been deleted from the system.”

I know this is his opinion and don’t want
to get into it with him. “We are lucky in our Sector to have Stephen Miller as
the Judge. The entire system needs his type of leadership; some unanticipated
events will test all of us.

 I know the impact on repeat offenders will
be accepted by the police forces; but eventually, the public may wonder if they
asked for too much…… …will it be perfect?  Not likely but I am optimistic.
Alright? Let me finish.”

Armstrong’s scientific innovations allowed
a dramatic paradigm shift and the associated legislation was passed in …..

Monk interrupts. “Leave it Charlie. I heard
all I want to know about the system.”

I shut down and we tear into the
sandwiches. Food out of the way, I open another beer. I’m not driving tonight,
and I’m a little careless with my consumption.

 “I am curious about Dr. Max Armstrong. He
seems to be a real character. You meet this Armstrong guy at least once didn’t
you?’

 “Dr. Max, as well as being brilliant, is
tough and aggressive. You would not want to stand between him and one of his
ambitious goals. It was obvious many of his colleagues were jealous, but I’m
not sure it’s because of his science or libido. He was one son of a bitch of an
interview; his mind was on something else.

However, I will say, he is one helluva good
looking guy, regardless of what planet he comes from.”

 “Come on Charlie finish your beer and
let’s go. I don’t want to miss any of this game the coach is starting the new
kid, the seven-foot center.”

 As we drive to the game, Monk continues to
lament about the rigidity and harsh punishments of Justice Reborn. Monk is
silent for a few blocks and then.

 “All society must now face an
uncomfortable question. Since there is no place to hide, are we seeing man’s
true nature? It’s hard to reconcile and remember we are all selected from the
same gene pool.”

                                                ###

Both men sat in the Judge’s chambers; both
silent and upset, mugs of coffee untouched. They waited for a confirmation or
correction call from Doug’s senior man, Jessie Lopez.  Doug Brewster, head of
the Legal Division finally broke the silence.

“Stephen, we can’t duck this one. I
discussed the issue with both of them this morning; the father is furious……he
claims the girl was underage.”

“I can’t believe anyone so smart could be
so dumb. Damn it he has women literally chasing him. Why go for a young
teenager?  Did he think no one would find out?”

“He seems to think it’s a game. You know he
loves to match wits with anyone, likes the high of being on the edge, the risk
adds to the affair.”

“Jessie is researching the family and
digging into Max’s record. But I don’t think it will change anything. The only
question is: how outrageous will this mess become?”

Doug’s phone rang, causing both men to
twitch.

“Alright Doug, you may as well answer it.
We have to know all the details maybe there has been an error. Maybe the girl
recanted.

The killings always began the same way: a
woman, without a companion, booked a hotel room for an extended stay, four or
five days.

Unfortunately for the killers, a long term
hotel quest spied a man leaving one of the crime scenes, a fortuitous sighting,
a short-lived glimpse of an individual with a large scarf and sunglasses. This
one brief look allowed the police to declare: it was a couple.

Today, the male half occupied the room, on
the second floor of the Ritz. His female partner left earlier in the day, their
staggered departures all part of their plan. At times, he brooded at being
spotted after the first killing but tried to flush the feeling from his mind.
Now the housekeeping, a chore he could not share; he had the expertise.

He was not a large man, very slim, a few
inches below six feet. His bare chest signified strength and fitness; his
clothing, including his underwear, formed a mound on the floor against the exit
door. With his back to the door, he sat on his haunches like a Vietnamese
peasant and scanned the room.

After the second murder, the media labeled
them: The Five Star Couple. They were pleased with the media name; it reflected
each partner’s unique contribution to the killings.

His knowledge and expertise equaled
whatever forensic expertise the police could muster; in fact, he was a year or
more ahead of most cities. His tools, an array of chemical sprays and a
miniature vacuum device, were all assembled. Even though he knew the technology
and the details, his caution resulted in careful, premeditated moves.

The murdered girl’s body sagged against the
pillows at the head of the bed, nude and posed in the yoga lotus position.
Various body fluids associated with her recent death stained the sheets and
floor. The intense and prolonged tortured ended when they broke her neck; the
approach meant fewer weapons to transport.

The killer waited for the application of
the first fine spray to soak the body, the furniture, the clothing, and
carpeting in the room. The delay allowed him to read last night’s newspaper,
the hotel being one of the old fashion exceptions which supplied printed news
to all guests; the headlines blared:

PRISON DECOMMISSION STARTED:

155 DEATH ROW INMATES EXECUTED

The Warden at White Rock
prison, in Sector 13, confirmed the first step in the Prison Decommission
program, euphemism for “empty the jail”, was started by processing the death
row inmates. An average of four prisoners has been executed every day for the
past number of weeks. S3 Interrogation is being used to confirm the guilt of
each inmate: any prisoner found to be innocent is released; otherwise, the
inmate’s execution sentence is completed.

The Decommission Plan is to
shut down all prisons within 12 months. Although there is a definite plan for
the death row inmates, there has yet to be an agreement reached in how to
process the remaining prison population. The simple approach of “just open the doors”
puts the public at risk and would never be accepted. An informed source states
there are many ideas and the debates have been intense, but no agreement has
been reached.

During death row interrogations,
a prisoner may reveal additional crimes. The recent adjustment to Justice
Reborn, Amendment 33-2, is in effect at White Rock. This amendment allows for
an execution even if the inmate was never formally charged with the newly
revealed felony. However, prison officials refuse to comment on how this is being
implemented. Our understanding is:  when unsolved crimes surface during an S3
memory scan and guilt is confirmed, the presence of a Legal Division
representative is all that is required for an execution to proceed.

The article went on for a couple of more
pages, but he did not have time to read any more; there was a job to finish.
The housekeeper used his second spray application to saturate specific spots,
next scrubbing and vacuuming the troublesome areas. His creeping anxiety
screamed: get out, leave, and leave now. But he relished mastering the tension
and exercising his discipline; each square foot required all his attention. He
did not rush.

Other thoughts started to surface and
challenge for dominance. Was it time to get out of the city? This fifth girl
might force a change in police priorities. Because all the girls were
prostitutes the public and media outcry remained subdued, in fact some even
treated it as a joke: a recent cartoon featured a prostitute going up to a
hotel room and getting a bigger bang than expected. But this sluggish police
response would not last.

An extraordinary development generated more
confusion, particularly when he started dumping bodies in their target
neighborhoods. The media labeled him: Horny Harry. He roamed the streets raping
and killing any girls, except prostitutes. The police were furious with the
press for the inappropriate name, but the rapist-killer thrived on his
notoriety and communicated with the news media using his new identity.  His
letters to the press were sick announcements about his charm and stamina;
unbelievably, he christened himself a ‘lover’.

The police would never reveal how resources
were allocated, but he assumed Harry would be their first priority. Regardless,
the housekeeper knew with each killing there was the chance of a mistake or an
opportunity to leave a clue for a perceptive detective. Best to move to another
city? His internal arguments swayed back and forth; first the risk had
increased and then:  no, the risk was reasonable.

The hard housekeeping work produced a fine
sheen of sweat, his upper body gleaming, the room silent except for his heavy
breathing. When he reached the inside of the hotel room door, he dressed and
packed. Before leaving the room, he used the third high power spray whose fine
disbursement was able to reach all corners. The chemical mist would slowly
settle and cover the entire murder scene. As long as the crime scene remain
undetected for the next 24 hours, the combination of sprays would convert the
space into a neutral hotel room.

Before stepping into the hall, he carefully
adjusted his large sunglasses, a wig, and a hood, all selected to provide an
effective cover but still not look suspicious. The enhanced disguise all a
result of that one unfortunate sighting.  The ‘Do Not Disturb” sign would
remain on the outside door lever; this sign would buy them time. As well as
booking the room for four days, they had booked the prostitute for the entire
week.

The more days which passed before the body
was discovered, the more difficult a detective’s job would be, witnesses
struggling with fuzzy memories and security tapes possibly erased and reused.

The hallway did not present a challenge,
and he casually strolled to the stairwell, best to walk down to the lobby.  The
killer descended a couple of flights of stairs without encountering another
hotel guest. Overconfidence could be the downfall of the Five Star Couple. The
housekeeper knew the dangers, but he could not help thinking the killing was as
close to the perfect crime as anyone had ever executed. Not like the imbecile,
Horny Harry, who continued to provide the press with clues and brag about his
lovemaking prowess and sexual stamina.

As he strolled out of the hotel, he thought
back to the beginning. For the housekeeper, violence started early, a frequent
visitor, his father and brother delivering unprovoked brutal punishment. The
beatings and pain became a regular cycle in his life, until he matured, gained
strength and mounted an offense with his fear converted to rage. His
demonstration of explosive anger and the week in the hospital convinced his
father, and his older brother then behaved like a docile pet.

The enjoyment and high from random acts of
violence became a habit; however, after a couple of incidents with the police,
he realized some control was necessary. It was about this time he met his
current partner, and he had someone to help him manage the incidents and to
share the fun, her analytical mind and poised regime provided a stabilizing
dimension. With some proper planning, the cycle of rage and violence could
continue and the intoxicating highs enjoyed.

As he stepped through the front door of the
hotel, the suffocating heat delivered a shocking contrast to the air
conditioned hotel. It was not raining, but many people used umbrellas to
provide protection from the blazing sun; everyone appeared to be hustling, in a
hurry to get to the cooler environment of an office building. 

The housekeeper walked away from the hotel
at a leisurely pace, his rage satiated, his demeanor like a Buddhist monk. In a
matter of days, another cycle would start a slow build, daily ratcheting up the
desire for a violent climax. With the help of his partner, he would plan one
last assault in this city.

The police investigation continued to
stumble along the wrong path; the media was screaming in the wrong direction;
unless Providence lobbed some biased missiles, their schedule would not be
disrupted.

                                             
# # #

Emma Collins assisted Dr. Kate at White
Rock prison and helped prepare the Board report concerning the multiple memory
streams.

This afternoon she brooded about a recent
telephone call. Unable to reach Dr. Kate, she convinced herself a call to
Wilson was their best alternative: Dr. Joe Wilson would know some answers and
was normally willing to discuss any scientific topic. Wilson, now retired, had
been a member of Dr. Max’s original research team.

Unfortunately, her call was shuffled to his
answering service; her next decision, to leave a message, now appeared
reckless. How big a risk was the damn message?

Emma identified herself and labeled the
message as ‘private and confidential’. First she set the stage, covering their
current status and their time lines, and then she posed the two difficult
questions:

“Why were multiple memory streams of the
same event not encountered during the initial research work?

Second, are memory streams a real
reflection of an event? Or, is stored memory modified by the emotions of the
individual at the time of the event? Or, does modification occur later when the
memory is relived?”

   The message, although labeled as
confidential and personal, might be accessed by his wife or an adolescent.
There was no way to know how his household handled personal messages; maybe
they all used his password. A leak would be a fiasco for the Sector.

If some unpublished facets might taint the
original research, why would he tell her? He had nothing to gain. In fact, the
revelations could cause problems for the entire research team. Wilson might
contact Dr. Max and let him know what was going on, something the Judge
insisted not be done. And why had the Judge declared Dr. Max not be contacted?

The Sector desperately needed the answers
but had she made a grave mistake?