Silent Justice (10 page)

Ben’s lips parted. Did he know? Was this some kind of game he was playing? Or was he really as blind as he seemed?

The phone rang. Ben crossed the room and snatched it up. “Yeah?”

Ben listened to the man on the other end, then he covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Mike. “It’s for you. Sergeant Tomlinson.”

Mike waved a hand in the air. “Aww, tell "em I’m dining out.”

Ben dutifully repeated the message. “He still wants to talk to you.”

“Please remind the good sergeant that I’m off-duty.”

Ben did, but it didn’t make any difference. “There’s been a murder. Three of them, actually.”

“Three?” Mike threw down the crust of his pizza. “Damn. Tell him I’m not home.”

“Wait. There’s more.” Ben listened for another ten seconds or so. “He says, if you’ve just eaten, you might as well bring a barf bag to the crime scene.”

“What?”

“He says you’ve never seen anything like this before in your life. Never.”

Mike closed his eyes, inhaled, and pushed himself off the sofa. “I’m on my way.”

T
RYING HIS BEST TO
maintain a stoic demeanor, Mike lifted the sheet off the corpse on the right-hand side of the bed.

“Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” he whispered, without even realizing it.

He turned abruptly, fighting back the gorge rising in his throat. “I need to make a phone call,” he said curtly, pushing his way out of the room.

“Sure,” Sergeant Tomlinson said, pointing the way.

Mike walked into the hallway and didn’t stop until he found a place where he could be alone for a moment. He passed though all the crime technicians working the scene—the hair and fiber men, the print dusters, the camera-persons, the body-fluid experts, the kids from the coroner’s office. He avoided eye contact. He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Tomlinson, with that dodge about making a phone call. But he had a professional reputation as a “tough guy” to maintain, and he couldn’t very well do that by vomiting all over the crime scene.

When he had fully recovered, Mike casually strolled back into the bedroom. For once, he removed his stained and tattered overcoat and slung it over a chair. It was incredibly hot in here. Or so it seemed to him, anyway. He was burning up.

“What the hell happened to this poor schmuck?” Mike asked.

Tomlinson shook his head. “The medical examiner can’t tell us with certainty. Not till he gets the stiff back to his OR, anyway. But he appears to have been pummeled by some kind of blunt instrument. I’m thinking maybe a baseball bat.”

Mike nodded grimly, trying to block out the chilling mental image of this man, bound and gagged, being used for batting practice. Actually, he thought the baseball bat guess wasn’t quite right, but it wasn’t far wrong, either. “How many times was he hit?”

“Can’t say yet. But I can see at least a dozen different points of impact.”

Yes, Mike thought. But given the overall destruction to the body, the number was probably twice that. Maybe more. “How many times was the wife hit?”

“If you mean by the baseball bat, none.” Tomlinson walked unexpressively to the other side of the bed, then lifted the sheet covering the other corpse. “She’s been shot. Twice.”

“But not hit?”

“Not that we can see. The medical examiner will be able to tell us for sure.”

“What kind of gun?”

“We haven’t extracted the bullets yet, so I can’t say for sure. Looks like some kind of high-powered pistol, though.”

Mike turned away. What the hell was this world coming to, anyway? It was enough to make a man vote Republican. “And the boy?”

“He was also shot. Once. In the center of the forehead.”

“That’s pretty damned efficient. Are we talking about a professional here?”

For the first time, Tomlinson hesitated just a beat. “I don’t like to speculate in advance of the evidence, sir, but … that seems to me a distinct possibility.”

“A hit man?”

“Or perhaps just a freelance serial killer. Or maybe just someone who’s a damn good shot. But definitely someone … who’s done this sort of thing before.”

Mike nodded. The sour expression on his face seemed a permanent fixture, and was likely to remain so until he got the hell out of this house of horrors. “What have the forensic teams turned up?”

“Damn near nothing. Hair and fiber boys have turned up a few trace elements, but so far they all match clothing found in the victims" closets.”

“What about prints?”

“None.”

“None?” Mike was incredulous. “This killer must’ve been in here for a good long time.”

“Just the same, the dusters found no prints, other than those belonging to the deceased. And not many of those.”

“In their own bedroom?” Mike thought for a moment. “Our killer must’ve wiped the place. Before he left.”

“That was certainly … professional of him.”

“Yeah. So what have we got to go on?”

Tomlinson spread his hands. “Frankly, not a hell of a lot.”

Mike took a step back and surveyed the gruesome scene. The sheets were off the corpses again; the videographers were making their record, preserving this nightmare for all time. The glare of the klieg lights did nothing to soften the grotesqueness of it all, particularly the inhuman mutilation on the right side of the bed.

There’s something I’m missing here, Mike thought quietly. Something that doesn’t add up. But what?

“Who was this guy, anyway?” Mike asked. “The victim, I mean.” Tomlinson had been here barely an hour, but Mike knew he’d have the basics on all the victims. Since Mike had drafted him onto the homicide team a few years back, after a nasty serial killer case, he had proven himself to be a top-notch assistant. Best Mike had ever worked with, in fact. “What’s his name?”

Tomlinson flipped his notebook open. “Name’s Harvey Pendergast. He’s fifty-three, white male, married, slightly overweight and balding. Wears glasses for myopia.”

“What’s he do?”

“He works for the Blaylock Industrial Machinery Corporation. Over in Blackwood. Some kind of middle-management executive. Makes about a hundred and twenty grand a year.”

Mike whistled. “Not bad.”

“I guess he needed it,” Tomlinson commented. “He’s got more clothes in that closet than JCPenney’s.”

Mike allowed himself a wry grin.

“So what do you think?” Tomlinson asked. “An enforcer?”

Mike slowly shook his head. “Doesn’t seem quite right.”

“You said yourself this was a very professional job.”

“Well, it wasn’t an accidental death, that’s for damn sure. But a hit man wouldn’t have taken the time to batter poor Harvey around like that. He would’ve just put a bullet through the man’s head and disappeared.”

“Prescott thinks it was a robbery.”

“Prescott?” Mike’s teeth ground together. “Was he here?”

“Only for a while. He was in the neighborhood and heard about the killings on his scanner. He disappeared just before you arrived.”

“Lucky for him.” Prescott was the department’s other homicide detective. To say that the two did not get along would be an understatement of monumental proportions. “I don’t want that screwup anywhere near this case.”

“Understood.”

“You know these murders are going to get major play in the press. I don’t want anyone mucking up our chances of making a collar.”

“Got it.”

“Why in God’s name would he think it was a robbery?”

“Harvey’s wallet was emptied. Some of his wife’s jewelry appears to have been taken.”

“But the mutilation—”

“Prescott says that was just a dodge. To throw the cops off.”

Mike rolled his eyes. Was it any wonder he couldn’t tolerate Prescott? In addition to being arrogant, in addition to getting his job through political connections instead of by merit, in addition to endangering prosecutions by flouting procedure—he was just stupid! “This was no robbery. No robber would stand around here banging at the victim when he had a gun in his pocket and there was so much more loot in the house.”

“But the stolen jewelry—”

“That was the dodge. A bit of misdirection intended to confuse us.”

“Then you agree with me.”

“What’s your theory?”

“Serial killer. I think this has to be the work of some kind of major crazy.”

Mike thought a good long while before answering. “I don’t know. Sure, the perp’s got to be a little off-kilter to do what he did to that man on the bed. Tying him up. Beating him over and over again. Unless …” His eyes drifted back toward the bedroom. “Unless he had a reason.”

“A reason? What sane reason could there possibly be for that kind of torture?”

Mike turned abruptly, grabbing his coat from the chair. “That’s what I have to figure out.”

Through the high-powered binoculars, his green eyes peered out toward the house that last night had been visited with so much carnage—at his hands. From his secure hiding place across the street, he could watch the furious come and go of the various crime technicians, all going about their separate and specialized tasks, rather like ants in an anthill. They would make all their tests and studies, use all their high-tech paraphernalia … and they would come up with nothing.

He smiled. There was a certain pride a man could take in this sort of work, he realized. To commit an act so horrible, at least by the standards of contemporary society, an act so vilified, and to get totally and utterly away with it—well, one couldn’t help but get a little egoboost out of that. They couldn’t catch him. It simply couldn’t happen. Wasn’t within the realm of possibility.

As he watched, he spotted a face he knew emerging from the house. A man wearing a stained and rather disgusting trenchcoat. He couldn’t think of the man’s name, but he knew he was a police detective. He’d seen the man’s picture in the paper. The
World
seemed to think he was quite the Sherlock Holmes, that he could solve anything.

He laughed quietly. This time, Sherlock Holmes had met his Moriarty. There was no way that boob in the tacky coat could catch him. No way he could even get close. And even if he did get close—

He laid his hand gently upon the ball-peen hammer still in his coat pocket. He seemed to draw strength from its presence. A current of energy surged through it to him, reminding him that he was invincible, telling him he could destroy anyone who stood in his path.

No, there was no way he could be caught. Which was important. Because he still had work to do. If he was going to find the merchandise.

Still, he cautioned himself, it wouldn’t do to get too cocky. Pride goeth before a fall. And advance preparation was the key to success. Perhaps he should take a few precautions. Vary his routine a bit. Just to keep the police swimming in circles.

His smile broadened. Yes, that was exactly what he would do. It would be smarter that way—and more fun, too. His eyes twinkled in anticipation. After all, variety was the spice of life, right?

And humans, being the resourceful creatures they were, had devised so many different ways to kill. So so many.

“Is something wrong?” Sergeant Tomlinson asked.

Mike rubbed the back of his neck, then scanned the surrounding neighborhood. They were standing in the driveway of the house where the murders had taken place, preparing to get into their respective cars. “I don’t know. I just got a sudden chill for some reason.”

“Probably the aftershock. That scene inside was pretty gruesome.”

“Yeah. I suppose so. Look, when you get back to HQ, I want you to get all available personnel working on this case.”

“Understood.”

“Pick two men and have them start running the details of this crime through the FBI database. See if there are records of any recent murders resembling this one.”

“Got it.”

“And have someone run a background check on the victims. If there are any possible reasons why someone might want to wipe out this entire family—or any one of them—I want to know about it.”

“Will do.”

“I’m going to want someone to comb the area. Talk to all the neighbors. Ask if anyone saw anything suspicious.”

“O-kay …” Tomlinson said, a bit slower than before.

Mike knew why he was hesitating. As any experienced cop would realize, this would be by far the most miserable of the assigned tasks. “Tomlinson, I’m sorry to do this to you … but I’d appreciate it if you’d handle that one yourself.”

To his credit, Tomlinson didn’t bat an eyelash. “Yes sir.”

“I’m going to check out this guy Harvey. He seems to be the one the killer was most interested in. The one he wanted to hurt most. I’ll go to his place of work, talk to his boss, his coworkers. Find out whatever I can. And when the background check is finished, maybe I’ll have some more leads.”

“Sounds good, sir.” There was something about the inflection in Tomlinson’s voice, the way he finished the sentence on an
up
tonality rather than a
down,
that told Mike there was more he wanted to say.

“Something else, Sergeant?”

Tomlinson licked his lips. “Sir … I expect you wanted me to get on this right away.…”

“You got that right.”

“Sir … would it be all right if I made a quick dash home? Saw my family?”

A deep crease crossed Mike’s forehead. He’d met Tomlinson’s family a few times—a pretty wife named Karen. A daughter, probably about four or five years old now. He knew Tomlinson was very devoted to them. Which was probably why his marriage still worked, when so many other cops" marriages had failed. “May I ask why?”

“I don’t know, sir. I just …” His eyes drifted back toward the house. The house of horror. The site of the most violent, grisly murder the two of them had ever witnessed. “I’d just like to check on everyone. That’s all. Won’t take a minute.”

Mike laid his hand on his protégé’s shoulder. “You do that, Sergeant. And give them a kiss for me.”

“Yes sir.”

He erased his smile. “And then get to work. Double time. Understand?”

“Yes sir!”

“Good.” He turned and stared up at the house, at the bedroom window—the one splattered with blood. “I don’t know what happened in there. But I intend to find out.”