Instant Justice
Chapter 1
Tuesday, June 2nd,
11:28 p.m. Southwest slums of
Palentine City.
Officer Edward Cowley strained forward to listen to a report of shots fired crackle through on the cruiser’s radio. A map showing the location of the shooting popped up on their computer, with the quickest route from their current location highlighted. The dispatcher assigned them as the primary unit to respond.
Ed picked up the microphone and cleared his throat. “Two baker eighteen, 10-4, responding,” he said slowly.
Ed’s partner, Jack Mockan, reached down and pushed a white button under the radio, sending the high-pitched whine of their siren piercing through the silence of the nearly deserted streets. He then pumped the button beside it a few times, releasing a series of harsh squawks.
“I love that sound,” Jack said, grinning.
As Ed replaced the microphone, the mechanical voice of the automatic dispatcher confirmed their intent, recited the exact time and then relayed information about which unit would be providing backup.
Ed groped for the “holy-shit” handle above the window as the cruiser picked up speed. Neither of them spoke as they raced onward, Ed's grip of the handle ever tightening.
The regularity of the passing buildings slowly disorientated Ed. He knew the structures had been erected as symbols of goodwill, but now they seemed nothing more than decaying monuments to a failing social system. Jack slowed as they approached and then turned onto 139th Street.
One block down, a hysterical, heavyset woman waved her arms frantically and shouted incoherently, like a spiritualist communicating in tongues. They pulled into the apartment complex at number twelve and stopped a good twenty yards from her.
Jack called for the woman to stay put, but she continued as emphatically as ever. Ed opened his door, stood halfway out and shouted across the roof, “Please, ma'am, stop where you are!”
“Take it easy, Ed,” Jack said. “You’re only going to get her more excited by shouting at her.”
The middle-aged woman stopped about five yards from the cruiser, pulling her worn terrycloth robe tight to her chest.
“Did you call the police, ma'am?” Jack asked in a slow, well-enunciated tone.
“Yes sir,” she said with a touch of hysterics still lingering in her voice. The circling blue and white lights of the cruiser washed over her with hypnotic regularity. “Someone's been shot! Right up there in the hallway. We were watching TV and s-s-s-suddenly ...” She paused for a quick breath. “Someone's been shot right--”
“Please, ma'am,” Jack said, approaching. “Slow down and tell us exactly where the shooting took place.”
Her expression froze, as if she was mentally collecting her scattered eggs back into one basket.
“What happened?” Ed stepped forward.
“There is a body on the seventh floor. We were watching TV when we heard a gunshot. I listened at my door for a few minutes but didn't hear anything so I peered into the hallway and that's when I saw the man lying there. I thought he might just be drunk or something so I crept toward him. A few of my neighbors came out to join me and we went and looked at him. That's when we saw the blood on the wall and also that he was lying face down in a mess of it, so I ran back into my apartment and called you.”
A second cruiser pulled in as Ed looked up from his notepad and nodded to Jack that he'd captured the statement.
Jack turned back to the woman while hoisting his pants over his slightly sagging belly. “Okay, ma'am. Can you take us to the body?”
She nodded quickly and then headed toward the front entrance. Jack followed her into the decaying eighteen story brown brick building after signaling the newly arrived officers to stay put outside. Ed hooked his notebook back on his belt, and tapped the butt of his gun. He glanced at a plaque of the city’s logo above the front door. Its colors had long ago faded, leaving only a sprinkling of dull specks clinging to their hue. Reluctantly, he headed in as his mind suddenly raced ahead. He pictured a hallway covered in blood with dismembered body parts strewn about as if thrown out from a gigantic blender. Running a hand through his short-cropped hair, he tried to clear the gruesome images.
Ed’s gaze darted from shadow to shadow as his eyes adjusted to the low light. Eventually, his attention settled on a graffiti splashed wall. He squinted at the colorful expressions of discontent until the scurrying of a couple of fleet footed cockroaches distracted him.
The sound of the opening elevator startled him and his head flew around toward it. He paused a moment to let his racing heart wind down before stepping forward. His feet squished into the sticky buildup on the elevator's floor. As they ascended, he fidgeted and shuffled his feet fearing standing still would cause him to become stuck in the thick layer of grime.
When the elevator opened, the scent of death enveloped Ed. He pushed the smell out of his mind as he watched Jack inhale deeply. They followed the woman cautiously toward a group of mostly robe-clad people, loitering near the body. A splash of deep red against one of the doors caught Ed’s eye. It was as if a balloon filled with paint had exploded there. Ed studied the plain gray numbers, 705, hanging just above the blotch of red. Glancing to the body, he felt a little queasy and had to turn away. The scene wasn't nearly as hideous as he'd imagined, but an overwhelming reality flooded his senses and he felt the urge to throw up. He closed his eyes and fought the subtle but constant upswings in his stomach.
Jack scanned the group a moment then continued toward the body. He looked closely at the push-bar handle of the stairwell door before pushing it gently with his elbow. After a quick look, he moved back to the body.
Ed moved the crowd back, then pulled out his notepad and stood beside Jack.
A glistening pool of blood framed the upper half of the corpse with a smooth, deep red border. Jack scanned the body from head to toe. “Dark brown hair matted with blood, worn out and faded brown tweed jacket, gold watch, no rings, blue casual slacks, possibly silk blue socks, and black leather shoes,” he recited as Ed took notes.
“Looks like a single gunshot wound to the back of the head,” Jack said, standing. “He seems a bit over dressed to be living here. Probably a drug deal gone bad.” He held the talk button on the microphone strapped over his shoulder. “Two-baker-eighteen, we have a D.O.A. on the seventh floor at 125 139th. Will cordon off the scene and wait for the scene agent.”
“10-4,” came the distorted reply, followed quickly by the time recited in a digital voice.
Ed stationed himself a few feet from Jack, facing away from him. With outstretched arms, he herded the group of spectators further away from the macabre sight, and then turned back to watch Jack.
After donning a pair of rubber gloves, Jack gingerly inserted his index finger into each of the corpse's exposed pockets. He found nothing in the pants, but from the blazer he pulled a crumpled candy bar wrapper. He twisted it to see all sides, then pushed it back in. “I don't see any signs of a fight, no signs of bondage and no identification.”
“Think he was just robbed and shot?” Ed asked. “And aren't we supposed to leave the body alone until the scene agent gets here?” His eyes darted toward the corpse.
“No, he wasn't robbed. They didn't even touch his watch. He obviously doesn't live here and he wasn't just out for a midnight stroll in the ghetto.” Jack turned back to the body and then back to Ed. “I don't think this guy looks like a drug dealer, how about you? He looks more like a banker or a techno-weenie to me. Anyway, it's up to homicide to put the puzzles together. Why don't you go over the woman's statement with her again while I start taking statements from the rest of the gore mongers here.”