Justice for Hire (16 page)

Vehicles parked at arbitrary angles, further impeding the already congested flow of traffic.

Reporters ambled across the street, and some milled about in front of the podium being set up at the foot of the steps leading into the precinct. All carried cameras or notepads, recorders and mikes, killing time until the main event.

The city wanted news, and the faithful gathered to hear the latest on the killing spree.

Lisa Krunk claimed her spot in front of the platform, Don dutifully at her side, his camera primed and ready.

The precinct doors burst open, and one by one a hush fell over the crowd. Reporters made a final scramble for position; their heads cocked upwards, pens, pencils and recording devices poised.

Captain Diego and Hank were first out of the doors. They made their way down the steps and stood behind the podium. Jake and Annie followed, but stayed back from the platform, and to the side. A couple of uniforms positioned themselves at each end, like wooden soldiers, more as show, than as security.

Hank looked around at the crowd of reporters. He recognized a lot of local faces, as well as several from Toronto news outlets. He took one step forward and placed his notes on the podium.

The bundle of microphones, secured to the stand, picked up his voice. “Welcome, and thanks for coming. My name is Detective Hank Corning.” He motioned toward the captain. “And you all know Captain Alano Diego.” The crowd murmured as Hank continued, “I’ll make a brief statement, and then open it up for your questions.”

The swarm waited.

“As you know, Richmond Hill has been hit with a string of murders in recent days. Three, to be exact. In all cases, the perpetrator has been apprehended. At this point, there seems to be little, or no connection among the victims in all three incidents.” Hank paused a moment. “However, we are making some progress in understanding the situation.”

The crowd murmured.

“I want to assure the people of Richmond Hill there’s no need to be concerned. We have no indication there’ll be another murder, or that anyone is in imminent danger.”

Hank had little else he could say. He was stumped, and with no obvious connection he could see, he couldn’t honestly guarantee anyone’s safety. However, he didn’t want to alarm the people and cause undue panic throughout the city.

“Please use normal common sense until we have all the facts in. Don’t go out alone at night, and if you're driving home alone, use caution. Keep your doors locked, both at home, and when in your vehicles.”

Hank paused and glanced at his notes. There was nothing else to say. He looked up. “I’ll take your questions now.”

Many voices spoke at once, like children trying to be heard the loudest.

Hank ignored them and pointed to a raised hand in the second row.

The selected newsman spoke, “Detective, we are aware, in the case of the first murder, the perpetrator claimed no knowledge of what she was doing. Is that still the case?”

Hank paused. “Yes. At this point, she still claims she was unaware of her actions.”

“Does it not seem, then, the other two may have been unaware as well, considering they killed themselves?”

Hank weighed his answer. An affirmative answer could cause undue fear. He elected for vagueness. “We have no indication the other two were unaware of their actions.” He selected another reporter, this time from a television station.

“Detective, you said the victims were unrelated, as far as you knew. But what about the killers? Did you find anything that connects them?”

Hank had to be careful with this answer as well. For now, he thought it best not to share the fact the guns were all from the same lot. “We’ve established a connection of sorts. All three perpetrators were young, and the MO, method of operation, was similar. We have other reasons to believe there’s an underlying relationship in all three occurrences.”

“What other reasons?”

“I’m not at liberty to say at this point.” He pointed to Lisa Krunk, who was uncharacteristically biding her time, waiting patiently, her hand raised. “Yes, Lisa?”

“Detective Corning, I see the Lincolns are in your entourage. How are they involved in this case?”

Hank glanced at Jake and hesitated before turning back. He leaned into the mikes. “They are involved privately on behalf of one of the victims. We’ve worked successfully with them in the past, and they are privy to certain information. They are, however, still private citizens and have no authority to either speak, or act on behalf of law enforcement.”

Lisa stuck her sharp nose in the air. “So what then, is their role?”

“Their role is partially on a consulting basis, as they have certain expertise, and in the interests of justice, we’ve elected to give them access to many of the facts of the case.” Hank hesitated. “Now, if we can get back to the relevant discussion.” He pointed at another raised hand.

“Is there any evidence of drug or alcohol use with the killers?”

Another touchy area. Hank thought quickly. “We don’t have the complete lab results from all three victims and perpetrators yet, so any answer I would give you, at this point, would be premature.”

“So you aren’t denying it?”

“Let’s wait for the lab results, shall we? And now, I thank you for your time. That’s all for now.” Hank turned from the podium and climbed up the steps toward the precinct doors, followed by the captain and the Lincolns.

The reporters remained unsatisfied, and they continued to call out questions. Questions Hank had no answers for. Answers he wanted to find more than anything.

And he was determined to get those answers.

Chapter 32

Thursday, August 25th, 11:30 AM

CHERYL WAS HAVING a hard time coping with the harsh environment at the women’s detention center.

As someone who always thought of herself as a gentle soul, and loving toward others, she found the level of animosity toward her, as well as the system in general, to be bewildering. But even more so, her being a murderer, and therefore rightfully confined to this place, was beyond her comprehension.

She lay on her side on the small bunk, and glanced over at her cellmate who was slouched on her cot, leafing through a magazine. The tough looking woman had said her name was Bull, obviously a nickname, and not very feminine.

Bull noticed Cheryl’s gaze. “You been havin’ more nightmares, girl?” Her voice was husky, like sandpaper, but not unpleasant.

Cheryl shook her head. “Not today . . . I’m afraid to go to sleep, though.”

Bull sat forward and rested her tattooed arms on her knees. “Don’t let it get you down, honey. We all have nightmares in this place. Just gotta learn to cope, that’s all.”

Cheryl nodded. She’d spoken a lot with Bull in the last couple of days, and realized the woman with the rough exterior wasn’t as bad as she looked, and Cheryl was glad for her company.

“It’ll get better. And once we get outa this place and get to a real prison, life ain’t so bad. They take pretty good care of us.” Bull grinned. She was missing a tooth in front, the rest stained and crooked. “TV, books and such, and the food ain’t so bad either. And you get a job to do to keep busy. Keeps your mind from wandering so much. You’ll see.”

Cheryl shuddered. The thought of spending perhaps the rest of her life behind bars was more than she could bear, and wondered how Bull could be so cheerful in her situation. “You’ve been in prison before?” she asked.

“Yup. Did four years awhile back. Made some friends. Knocked a few heads, and it weren’t so bad.”

“Why are you back again?” Cheryl couldn’t imagine how anyone could face a possible prison sentence so lightly.

“Beat a guy up. He wouldn’t open the cash register, so I helped him do it.” She winked. “But I’m innocent, you know. It never happened.” Bull laughed. “Least, that’s what my mouthpiece says. Never admit nothin’, cause you never know you might get off.”

“I don’t think I’ll get off,” Cheryl said. “They saw me . . . do it.”

“Well, keep your chin up. You never know.”

Cheryl nodded, but didn’t feel as optimistic as her cell-mate.

Bull looked thoughtful. “So, when do you see this shrink you were tellin’ me ‘bout?”

“Today . . . soon.” Cheryl was pleased the judge had ordered her to see a psychiatrist. She hoped he would be able to find the reason she could have performed such a despicable act.

“You lookin’ forward to it?”

Cheryl nodded.

“I truly hope you get the answers you want, girl. You don’t seem like such a bad sort, and not the kind as belongs in this place.”

“You don’t really belong here either, Bull. Don’t you sometimes wish for a . . . normal life?”

Bull laughed. “I’m ‘fraid it’s too late for me, girl. This is my destiny and I’m too old to change. Ain’t no going back. My daddy was a con. He died four or five years ago. He said he didn’t want me to end up like him, you know, but with my momma not around, and daddy in jail half the time, well, I had to take care of myself. You know what I mean? Weren’t nobody gonna do it for me.” She sighed. “So, here I am.”

“That’s so sad,” Cheryl said.

“Oh, I’m over the sad. Now it’s just life for me.”

A voice called, “Open sixteen.”

Cheryl looked up from her bunk toward the sound of the voice. She heard a clunk, and then her cell door buzzed open and two guards entered.

“Stand up,” one said, looking at Cheryl.

“Don’t you move,” the other held up a warning hand toward Bull.

Bull leaned back. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Cheryl climbed from the cot and peered at the stone-faced guards.

“Turn around.”

Cheryl felt cold metal as a pair of cuffs snapped onto one wrist, and then the other. She was spun around and pushed in the direction of the door, each guard holding one of her arms.

“Good luck, girl,” Bull said.

They marched her from the cell and the door clanged shut behind them. They prodded her into another room, a garage, where a paddy wagon was waiting. A side door in the van was open, and Cheryl was helped inside the small cubicle. She sat on the hard bench, and then the van shook as the door slammed. She was in a space about three feet square, and could only sit and wonder what was next.

She knew where she was going; to see the psychiatrist. But she thought he would’ve come to see her, and didn’t know she would be taken in such an uncomfortable manner.

The cramped space smelled stale, and of old sweat, but she welcomed the change from the dreary cell where she’d spent most of the last three days.

She heard the rumble of the engine, a grinding of gears, and the vehicle jumped forward. The cuffs hurt her wrists, but Cheryl blocked out the discomfort and closed her eyes.

She heard the whine of the tires on asphalt, and felt the occasional jolt as the vehicle came to a stop, and then leaped forward again.

In a few minutes, the van came to its final stop and the engine died. She heard two doors slam, and then her cubicle was opened.

“Step down.”

Her cuffed hands made it hard to keep her balance. She took a cautious step, stumbled, and a guard caught her arm and jerked her upright. “Be careful.”

“Sorry. I . . . I tripped.”

As she was held by both arms and helped along, she took a glance around. They appeared to be in a lane-way, perhaps behind a mall, or a plaza. She was pushed toward a door in the brick building. Wherever they were going, it appeared they were taking the back way in.

Once inside, they moved down a long hallway, and then up a set of stairs and into a small lobby. A door straight ahead had a plaque on it. “Dr. William Lamb, Psychiatrist”.

She was helped into the room and pushed into a chair. She caught her breath and looked up at a receptionist who was eyeing her warily.

“Dr. Lamb is expecting you. He’ll see you now.”

Chapter 33

Thursday, August 25th, 11:41 AM

LISA KRUNK PROWLED around in front of the precinct after the rest of the reporters had gone back to edit their stories.

Don was slouched on a bench, his head back and his eyes closed, his hands resting on the camera in his lap.

Lisa had hoped to be able to talk to Detective Corning, or the Lincolns, and was disappointed they hadn’t come from the police station yet.

The traffic mess had subsided and vehicles flowed freely. Officer Spiegle’s big job was done for the day. As Lisa saw him head back to the precinct, she stopped pacing and hustled to intercept him. “Come on Don,” she said, beckoning impatiently.

Don jumped up, tossed the camera onto his shoulder, red light glowing, and trudged after his boss.

Lisa cut Spiegle off at the bottom of the stairs. She gripped the microphone, white-knuckled, and determined. “Officer Spiegle, I’m Lisa Krunk, from Channel 7 Action News. I’d like to ask you a few questions if I may?”

Yappy looked at the microphone shoved in his face, and then at the red light on the camera, and drew himself up, his chest puffed.

“Sure,” he said, smiling for the camera.

Lisa had had some luck with Spiegle before, and was hoping he may have some tidbit of information she couldn’t get anywhere else. There was a reason she was number one, often commanding the top story on the evening news, and always willing to do what it took to get to the top.

“Officer, I understand your efforts are helping to crack this case, am I correct?”

He glanced back and forth from the red light to the mike, and then back at Lisa. “Uh . . .”

“I was wondering why you didn’t take part in the press conference?”

Yappy pushed up the brim of his cap and scratched his forehead. “I . . . uh. I had other important work to do,” he said, settling his cap back in place.

“Of course. I realize you can’t do more than your share.”

The cop grinned and straightened his tie. “Yup.”

She had finished massaging his ego. Now it was time to attack. “Detective Corning hinted there may have been some drug use among the killers. Can you tell the viewers what drugs were found to be in use?”