Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller (18 page)

“We know,” Nina said tersely. “We’ve seen
your reports on the victims and their court appearances. You seem
to have taken their releases very personally, Ms. Gleason.”

Laura contorted her face. “I do take it
very
personally, detective,” she hissed. “Every woman in
this city should, since we’re all potential victims of abusive men
like those bastards.”

Ray moved up to the desk and peered down at
her. “We believe that someone has taken it upon herself to dispense
her own brand of deadly justice on these men. Just how personal is
this to you,
Ms
. Gleason?”

Laura remained unruffled, actually giving a
mirthless chuckle. “If you’re asking me if I killed those pricks,
the answer is no. If you’re asking if I shed any tears over their
departure from this world, the answer is yes—tears of joy that they
got a lethal dose of their own violent medicine!”

The detectives looked at each other
musingly.

“Those are tough words,” snarled Ray, eyeing
the suspect sharply. “Maybe too tough—”

“I’m a tough reporter, Detective Barkley,”
Laura responded unflappably. “It’s how I make my living and what my
viewers expect. I won’t apologize for that.”

“No one’s asking you to,” Nina told her. “But
I think you should know that your being at the trial of all the
victims and doing volunteer work at the Rose City Women’s Shelter
makes you a viable suspect in their murders. For your sake, I hope
you can account for your whereabouts in each instance.”

Laura yanked her glasses from her nose and
glared. “Oh I can,” she spoke tartly. “You see, I was one of the
first reporters on the scene when the news came in of the murders.
But before that I was right here in the station preparing for the
day’s show. And there were plenty of witnesses around to vouch for
me.” She took a deep breath. “As for my volunteer work at the
shelter, it’s something I choose to do with my free time. You see,
my daddy had a nasty habit of hitting my mother in the face with
his fists till it was so swollen you couldn’t even recognize her.
Before she had even healed properly, he was back at it again. And
again. Up until the day that son of a bitch died. Not by her hands,
in case you’re wondering. He got off easy with a heart attack. She
wasn’t so lucky. She died of cirrhosis of the liver after years of
heavy drinking, often as an escape from the pain he’d inflicted
upon her.”

Some of these details had managed to elude
them in their investigation into her background, which included a
number of failed abusive relationships, and time in a detox center
for cocaine addiction.

All the more reason to consider Laura Gleason
a serious candidate for brutally attacking and killing battering
men.

“Nice try,” Laura seemed to enjoy saying,
“but you have the wrong woman. If the killer really is a woman,
that is.”

“Oh, we think it is,” Ray said candidly.
“Someone who took her abuse
very
personally—”
Maybe that
someone is you.

Their eyes locked.

Laura did not yield. “If you’re trying to
intimidate me into some sort of guilt trip confession, you’re
wasting your time—and mine. I’m only doing my job. If I offend some
abusive men in the process, they should take it up with my
superiors.”

“They might,” said Nina sarcastically,
“except they don’t seem to live long enough to do so—”

“Not my problem,” Laura said coldly. “Maybe
men should think of that before they decide to use women as
punching bags.”

Ray found himself resenting having all men
grouped into one dirty bag of laundry, as if male violence towards
women was a given. He shot her a mean stare and said: “Maybe the
woman killing these men should think the same way. She’s only
making things worse for herself...and all women.” He paused
deliberately. “I’m quite sure we’ll be seeing you around, Ms.
Gleason—”

She fluttered her long lashes defiantly. “I’m
sure you will, Detective Barkley. You know where to find me.”

The detectives saw themselves out, the
reporter not bothering to look up from her desk until they had
left. A thoughtful expression appeared on Laura Gleason’s face.

“Is she for real, or what?” Nina asked,
shaking her head as they walked down the corridor.

“Scary, isn’t she?” Ray said pensively. “Even
scarier is the possibility that she may not be our killer. If she
is, she sure is daring us to prove it. And I’ll be damned if we can
even come close at this point.”

Nina’s mouth dropped. “Makes you wonder just
how many Laura Gleasons there are out there—male haters with a
passion?”

“I wouldn’t even want to venture a guess.”
Ray scratched his head glumly.

“Well I’d guess there might be as many as the
Blake Wallaces and Roberto Martinezes in the country,” Nina
ascertained with a hint of wryness in her voice. “And they’re
probably every bit as dangerous in their own way.”

“Yeah, certainly one is,” Ray hummed. “In her
own unique way.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The defendant, Eddie Jackson, was a tall,
thickly built African-American man in his mid forties. His receding
hairline was a dull gray and hostile eyes were as dark as asphalt.
He wore a snug-fitting navy suit. It was a shade darker than the
one worn by his attorney, a woman named Stella Howard. She was
petite next to Eddie, with a brownish curly bob, tea colored skin,
ruby lips, and a petulant pout.

Eddie Jackson, an auto mechanic, was on trial
for assaulting and raping his girlfriend, Emilie Evans. He had
stubbornly resisted a plea bargain, insisting he was merely
defending himself from her attack and that there had been no rape.
In the process he had broken her nose and knocked out most of her
front teeth.

The prosecutor was a grim-faced attorney
named Alex Wright. He was white-haired, long nosed, red faced, and
on the lean side in a craggy gray suit. He liked to look at his
watch as if it contained the mysteries to the center of the
universe.

She watched him from her vantage point, in
which she could see the entire courtroom. She waited impatiently as
the lawyers went back and forth, presenting their cases, almost
toying with the jury, daring them to convict or acquit.

A tall, husky man wearing a cheap brown suit
entered the courtroom and walked up to the prosecutor without
missing a beat. He whispered something in his ear, causing Wright
to wrinkle his nose as if he had just smelled a dead rat. Wright
then got the attention of Stella Howard, who had seemed to be
gaining points with the jury.

The two lawyers conferred, as if no one else
were present. They finally split up and Howard said something to
her client. Jackson shook his head a couple of times, though he
seemed to be miles away from understanding what was going on.

The attorneys met with Judge Cranston and she
listened with interest. She finally nodded with a look of
disappointment on her face, and sent them back to their respective
tables.

Favoring the defendant, the judge said
colorlessly: “Mr. Jackson, your attorney and the prosecutor have
come to terms on a plea bargain. It will require that you pay a
fine, undergo substance abuse treatment, counseling for batterers,
and complete two hundred and fifty hours of community service. Is
that agreeable to you?”

Eddie Jackson scanned the court, as if he was
looking for someone, faced his attorney, and then the judge. “Yeah,
Your Honor,” he spoke huskily. “It’s agreeable.”

Judge Cranston looked at him with serious
reservations, glared at both lawyers, and back again. “The
defendant is free to leave,” she said sternly. “Court’s
adjourned.”

The judge lowered her head as if in shame and
took a deep breath to compose herself. She quietly escaped to her
chambers amidst the commotion that followed.

There was a mild spatter of surprise and
murmurs in the courtroom as the defendant and his attorney left the
room quickly, as if to escape a lynch mob.

* * *

Stella Howard declined to answer any
questions from a few overzealous members of the press who seemed to
live for these types of domestic violence cases. She also
recommended that her client avoid drawing any further attention to
himself. Anyone who followed the local news knew that a psychopath
was on the prowl killing accused or convicted batterers who were
set free or, according to some, escaped justice. The last thing she
wanted was for Eddie Jackson to become another victim.

As it was, she knew full well he was lucky to
have gotten off with a relatively weak sentence and no jail time.
This was the result of DNA tests that were inconclusive on the rape
charge, implying that Emilie Evans could have had sex with another
man. The prosecutor had suggested it might be best for all parties
concerned if they accepted a plea bargain.

Stella believed she had a good chance to win
this case. But, given the recent climate with respect to domestic
violence, she had advised her client this might be the best he
could hope to come up with to avoid jail time.

Now she regarded Eddie Jackson as she pulled
up to the bungalow where he lived. He looked at her with a smug
smile.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully. “I owe you
one.”

Stella dismissed this, wanting no favors from
the man. “You owe me nothing, Eddie. I only did what you paid me to
do.”

He grinned lasciviously. “And you were worth
every penny, Counselor.”

“I hope you take advantage of your freedom by
staying away from Ms. Evans,” Stella warned him, noting she had
been the prosecution’s star witness against him.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Far as
I’m concerned that bitch and I are through! I just want to get on
with my life and find someone who can appreciate me. Know what I
mean?”

Stella felt the weight of his menacing eyes
ogling her. A trickle of fear ran through her veins. She had
believed all along that he was guilty of beating up his girlfriend
and had probably raped her as well. But as a criminal defense
attorney, Stella also believed firmly that it was her duty to
defend her clients to the best of her ability, even if it meant
getting them off. Now she was starting to have second thoughts
about that.

She glared at him. “Don’t even think about
it, Eddie,” she told him with a sharp edge to her voice. “I’m
definitely not your type—”

He got the message, displaying a cocky grin.
“If you say so,
Ms.
Howard.”

Stella watched for a moment as Eddie Jackson
sauntered away confidently. She drove off, hoping she had not made
a tragic mistake taking him on as a client and, in the process,
possibly putting some other women at risk of bodily harm.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Eddie Jackson lumbered up his sidewalk, still
watching as Stella drove away. He envisioned what it would be like
to have a piece of that fine thing when she was without the lawyer
clothes. Under other circumstances he might have taken what he
wanted. But he wouldn’t press his luck with that frigid bitch. It
wasn’t worth it.

Eddie unlocked the front door and went inside
the bungalow. It was dark and smelled of mildew, as though
uninhabited and closed off for years. He cut on the light in the
kitchen and got a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor out of the
refrigerator.

In the living room, he flopped down onto a
well-worn recliner, opened the bottle, and guzzled down about half
of it. He thought about Emilie. That bitch was a fighter. He gave
her credit for that much, often giving as much as she took.

But that night he had been the one doing the
taking. He’d had it with her mouthing off to him and coming up with
one lame assed excuse after another for not putting out. Finally he
lost it and forced himself onto and into her after beating the
bitch into submission.

Even with that he had never expected Emilie
to turn him in. To testify against him. To humiliate him. To damned
near send him to prison.

The stupid bitch had been seeing someone else
all along. Eddie swallowed more malt liquor. At least that’s what
the DNA tests of semen taken from her suggested. He wanted to hurt
her badly for that. But his momma didn’t raise an idiot. Beating
the hell out of Emilie again would only give him some mild
satisfaction, but not nearly enough to risk going to prison.

And there was something else...

There was a killer out there going after guys
like him. Taking batting practice on their heads like they were
human baseballs. Right now wasn’t a good time to be too visible. He
had to be careful and keep his guard up. Lay low. He would be
damned if some bat wielding bitch got the better of him!

Just then Eddie Jackson heard a sound, almost
like the drop of a pen on the stained brown carpeting. He thought
he saw someone in the shadows.

“Who the hell’s there?” he asked, his heart
suddenly racing. He jumped to his feet, straining his eyes in the
direction of the darkened dining room. But he could see nothing and
decided he had let paranoia get the best of him.

Get a grip, man!
He sighed, angry with
himself.
Don’t let this broad mess with your mind.

There was another sound. This one was
heavier, as if something was being dragged. Eddie swiveled towards
the kitchen. There was a tall, good-looking black woman standing
there with long blonde locks and a fierce look in her eyes. She was
holding a wooden bat and wearing dark clothes and gloves.

For an instant Eddie felt as if he had seen
her before. Where? Before he could digest this, much less decide
how to deal with the threat; the bitch came at him with blinding
speed, lifting the bat in the same motion. She swung at his head.
He managed to get his arm up to catch the force of the bat. It
shattered the bone in his elbow and he let out a howl that could
wake the dead.