Goddess of Justice: The Brad Coulter Thriller Series, #5

Chapter One

November 22, 1980

A streetlight flickered, illuminating the road for a moment, then plunging it into darkness. The drug dealer, in his early twenties, leaned against one of the broken streetlights. His cigarette glowed intermittently, giving away his location. Cigarette in his mouth, he rubbed his hands together, then wrapped his arms around his thin body. Dealing on a cold November Saturday night required dedication, or maybe, desperation. He had a product to sell and junkies willing to venture out to get their fix. He stomped his feet, shivered, and took a long drag. The smoke, mingled with his breath, formed a cloud in front of him on his exhale.

Dice watched from the shadows of the crack houses across the street. Once an affluent area of Calgary, Alberta, Victoria Park had become the armpit of the city. House after house, block upon block of crack dens. Dice had to admire the dealer’s choice of location. He’d have steady business until well into the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately for him, tonight would be his last night in business.

Sirens, wailing from several directions, broke the silence. A police cruiser raced past, then another. Seconds later, an ambulance passed, followed by another cruiser. The emergency vehicles stopped outside a house a couple of blocks past the dealer. When he’d heard the sirens, he’d slipped back into the shadows. But not so far that Dice couldn’t see him.

Unfazed by the police presence, the dealer moved from the shadows. As crackheads popped out of the houses to see who’d overdosed this time, the dealer made further sales. Such was the life cycle in Vic Park.

An hour from now, the scene would be repeated with another overdose, a fight over drugs, or a domestic assaults, and knifings were common.

Dice waited in the shadows until the ambulance sped away. A few minutes later, the cops came out of the house with three men in handcuffs. The cruisers left, and the addicts headed back to their homes.

This was the time to act. The streets would be quiet for at least half an hour.

Sliding his beanie low, jacket collar up, Dice staggered toward the dealer, who was working on another cigarette, making him easy to find—just follow the glow.

The dealer heard the footsteps and pushed away from the streetlamp.

You got guts. The cops were just here.

Dice nodded, pretended to trip on the curb, and lurched toward the laughing dealer.

Seems you’ve got a head start. Whatever you need, if I don’t have it, I’ll get it. Name your poison.

Dice whispered, Crack.

Jeez, you’ll have to talk louder than that.

Dice staggered toward the dealer and stumbled again. Before Dice hit the street, the dealer reached out a stabilizing hand.

Maybe you don’t need nothin’ right now.

Dice’s hand came up holding a hunting knife. The long blade thrust upward, just under the sternum, pointed toward the dealer’s left shoulder.

The blade pierced the dealer’s heart. With one hand on the knife, Dice shoved the dealer back against the pole, twisted the knife, then let his body slide to the sidewalk.

The dealer grabbed his chest with his right hand, blood spewing between his fingers. Eyes wide, he mouthed, Why? His eyes stared past Dice as life spurted out of his body.

Dice wiped the knife on the dealer’s hoodie, slid it back into a sheath, and headed north toward downtown.

Chapter Two

Detective Brad Coulter sat at the back of a classroom in the hotel conference center. He stretched his lean six-foot-one body out, legs well under the table, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. He wondered why these places put up fancy chandeliers, yet the sliding walls were a dull gray cloth. Sure, it was practical, they could make the rooms bigger or smaller, but who cared about the lighting. He was in the sixth row of tables. He always sat at the back. Each table had a crisp white tablecloth, a jug of water and, best of all, a bowl of Jolly Ranchers. Twenty-three other detectives were in the class.

Today was the second day of the Crime Scene Management Course. It was further punishment from Brad’s boss, Deputy Chief Archer. In October, Brad returned to work after a two-and-a-half-month leave following the murder of his fiancée and their unborn child. He was immediately immersed in a series of sniper shootings that shocked the city of Calgary. Deputy Chief Archer discovered Brad had returned to work under false pretenses, and he was suspended. When the snipers said they would only communicate with Brad, he was brought back in, and later that day, they tracked the snipers. One was now dead, the other awaiting trial.

Before Deputy Chief Archer could terminate Brad for falsifying a return-to-work letter, Mayor Roger Kearse recognized Brad and his team as heroes. Mayor Kearse had been adamant Brad remain a cop and keep his position in Homicide. First, Archer and Coulter agreed on a one-month unpaid leave where Brad would assist Crown Prosecutor Jenni Blighe with the case against the surviving killer, Logan Hirsch. It kept Brad out of the public eye, away from cops who felt Coulter had crossed a line, and it allowed him to use his law degree after passing the bar exams earlier this year. Brad also used the time to take his dog, Lobo, for daily runs, keeping in great shape.

The second part of Archer’s plan was to keep Brad busy taking courses and, therefore, unavailable to respond to homicides and not on the roster. Last week, he’d attended classes on Multi-Culturalism and Media Relations.

This week it was Crime Scene Management, the new course name the identification bureau geeks adopted to make themselves feel important. At least after today, he’d get a three-day break. The instructor was his good friend and academy classmate, Sergeant Bill Sturgeon. He’d heard Sturgeon’s rant many times over beer. He even looked the part of a professor. Stocky build, thick salt-and-pepper—more salt—hair combed back, a bushy mustache and a herringbone blazer. Gray eyes roamed the classroom. The only things missing were leather patches on his elbows and a pipe. Although, having his friend as an instructor wasn’t enough to keep Brad awake.

Crime Scene Management is changing. We cannot have the first officers on scene and detectives wandering around contaminating the area. The Crime Scene Unit needs to be the first at the scene to video, take photos and identify evidence before your size-twelve boots grind everything into the carpet or ground. Before your donut-sticky fingers touch everything.

That’s hurtful, a detective said.

Truth hurts, another replied.

Sturgeon waited for the laughter to subside.

Brad’s head bobbled, then his chin returned to his chest.

He woke out of his snooze when he heard his name.

Those are the essential points of Crime Scene Management. Coulter?

Brad’s head popped up, his brown eyes frantically trying to focus. He sat upright and rubbed a hand through his shaggy brown hair.

Yes, sir.

Can you remind the class what any three of the essential points we just discussed were?

Brad shook his head, hoping to clear his brain and dig up three points. He couldn’t. You’ve covered them so well, it would be pointless for me to take up your valuable time repeating them.

Sturgeon headed toward the back row, narrowed eyes on Brad. He repeated the steps as he counted them off on his hand. First, preserve the crime scene. Second, keep pertinent evidence uncontaminated. And third, scene and evidence protection at a crime scene begins with the first arriving officer. Sturgeon surveyed the class. It’s apparent we need to take a break.

Chairs scuffed the floor as cops headed out of the classroom to smoke, grab a coffee, or both.

Sturgeon strode over to Brad. Thanks a lot, buddy. I appreciate the support.

Brad poured two coffees and handed one to Sturgeon. I’ve heard this before.

I know, but backing me up wouldn’t hurt, would it? Sturgeon took the coffee. This would be better with Scotch.

They wandered back to Brad’s table and sat. I’ll buy you a beer when we’re done today.

Sturgeon snorted. How about I just take the cash?

Beer, or nothing. Brad popped a Jolly Rancher into his mouth.

Beer it is. Sturgeon eyed Brad down and back up. I miss a memo about appropriate detective clothing?

Brad glanced down. What?

Black button-down shirt, jeans, and what are those? Cowboy boots?

I’ll have you know the shirt and jeans are Harry Rosen.

Does he know you have them?

Brad ignored the comment. They’re Italian and the boots are Roper lace-ups. Cowboy boots are stupid to wear if you get in a foot chase.

Yeah, I don’t worry about foot chases. Sturgeon sipped his coffee. I’m a bit worried about your masculinity, though.

Asshat, Brad mumbled.

Sturgeon leaned close, his voice a whisper. I had an interesting call Saturday night.

Do tell. Brad’s eyebrows arched.

A drug dealer stabbed in Vic Park.

Brad’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. That doesn’t sound exciting. In Homicide, we call that a regular Saturday night.

Sometimes a Sunday, occasionally a Wednesday, and often a Thursday, Sturgeon added.

What’s special about a dealer getting stabbed for his drugs? The Jolly Rancher clicked on Brad’s teeth.

That’s the interesting part—he wasn’t robbed. He still had his cash and drugs.

Brad shrugged. The killer got spooked. Any cruisers in the area?

A few minutes before, the downtown guys responded with EMS for an overdose. They hauled three crackheads away.

You’re losing me. Brad grabbed another Jolly Rancher and popped it in his mouth.

The dealer was stabbed once.

Lucky for the killer, unlucky for the dealer. Brad worked the Jolly Rancher free from his straight, white teeth with a finger and leaned back in his chair.

Not lucky. Sturgeon pointed to his lower chest, then left shoulder. The knife entered under the sternum up toward the left shoulder.

Brad’s chair rocked back to the floor. Right through the heart.

Sturgeon rolled his gray eyes. Finally, I got your attention.

That’s not a common street method of murder. Too clean, too precise.

Exactly. Special training.

Brad swallowed the Jolly Rancher. Armed forces?

Sturgeon sat back and sipped his coffee. That’d be my first guess.

But why?

Not my job. Sturgeon smirked. I collect evidence. You do the detectiving.

There was a similar murder earlier this year. When Brad returned to work in October, Griffin had given him two homicide cases where the investigation stalled. One was of a drug dealer in Victoria Park who was stabbed under the ribcage and up into his heart. Brad didn’t get to investigate it before the snipers struck. Now it appeared the murders of the two drug dealers may be linked.

Yup. Not as clean as this one. Some hesitation stabs, then the fatal blow.

Brad nodded. Send me the case file.

Chapter Three

The next morning Brad parked his black Firebird in the association parking lot, grabbed his coffee, let Lobo out, then crossed the street and headed down the alley to police headquarters. He nodded to the desk sergeant on their way to the stairs. On the second floor, they passed the tribute to fallen members. Brad stopped, as he did every time he passed here, and remembered two close friends who had died in the line of duty—his partner Curtis Young, and his friend, Tina Davidson. Young, killed by bank robbers on a highway outside the city. Davidson, kidnapped, tortured and murdered by Jeter Wolfe, the same monster who had taken his fiancée from him. Lobo barked from the door to the detective bullpen. Brad nodded to the memorials for his friends, then headed to his German shepherd’s side.

They wandered through the maze of metal WWII-surplus office furniture to his back-corner desk.

Brad tossed his black gloves on his desk, removed his parka and hung it in a coat tree. He dropped into his chair, put his feet on his desk, leaned back and sipped his coffee. Lobo crawled under the desk and was soon snoring.

He picked up the file of reports from Saturday’s stabbing homicide. It wasn’t his case, but his interest was piqued by Sturgeon’s comments. Besides, he didn’t have a case that required his attention, and it was unlikely Archer would assign one to him. Detective Don Griffin, Brad’s current partner in Homicide, would be in court for the week. Maybe when Griffin was back and could take the lead on a homicide, Archer would let Brad work murders. Brad was on his own unless the shit hit the fan which, given his history, was likely.

The report from the first cops on the scene was brief and lacking detail. They arrived, they saw a body, they called EMS and their sergeant. No weapon was found, but there were no details of any search. The case was referred to detectives. Typical of a street cop’s report, and even more typical of an event that happened in Vic Park.

The Patient Care Report from the paramedics had been detailed, but most of it concerned their treatment. The victim was found pulseless and breathless, leaning against a streetlight. Blood covered his chest and pooled on the sidewalk.

Paramedics transported the patient to the Holy Cross Hospital minutes away. A trauma team had been waiting in the emergency department, but it was quickly determined the patient was dead with no hope of resuscitation.

The detectives who responded were from the General Investigative Services. They handled a variety of cases, but not homicides. Brad figured that night no Homicide detectives were available, and since Archer had put Brad on the sidelines, GIS got the call. Their report was thorough, but with no leads. As Brad expected, no one from the area reported anything. Certainly, nothing they were going to tell the police. The victim had one hundred and seventy dollars on his person, mostly in fives. He had a pass for the shelter and a package of gum. The case was listed as open.

The autopsy was brief and to the point. The victim had one stab wound, and, as Sturgeon said, the blade entered beneath the xiphoid process in an upward stroke to the left shoulder. The knife pierced the left ventricle through to the right atrium. The inside of the heart was a mess of lacerations. The medical examiner speculated that once the knife was inserted, the attacker twisted the blade, ensuring the destruction of the heart and a quick death. The toxicology report noted marijuana and heroin.

Brad flipped to the dispatch report. The call came in to 911 at 11:10 p.m. The first cruiser was there at 11:12, and EMS thirty seconds later. The response time was excellent. The question was how long the victim had leaned against the pole before anyone checked him. It was strange he still had drugs and cash in his pockets. If he’d been found by crackheads, both money and drugs would be gone, and it’s unlikely they’d call 911.

Brad flipped a few pages further in the dispatch report. The 911 call was made from a payphone on Sixth Avenue SW. Nothing to follow up there beyond the question of why someone would walk over eight blocks to call 911. There were plenty of payphones between the murder scene and where the call came from.

The dealer had a long record—over twenty charges for drug possession, dealing, and a couple of related assaults. Nothing deemed serious enough to warrant actual prison time, according to the records. All before he was twenty-one years of age. No doubt his juvenile records would be as impressive. Still, no one deserved to die like this.

Brad opened the envelope containing the crime scene photos. After a glance, he realized they were useless—dark photos of a pole, blood on the sidewalk, and nothing else. Several footprints in the snow of different-sized footwear were identified, most with a Vibram sole, like the boots police and paramedics wore. Maybe Sturgeon and his classes were onto something. This crime scene had been contaminated.

He checked the evidence list. Most notable was the lack of a murder weapon at the scene. The killer either kept the knife or tossed it. There was nothing in the notes about finding the knife, but blood smears were noted on the dealer’s parka. The investigating officer suspected the knife was wiped clean on the dealer’s coat.

The evidence list contained dozens of needles and syringes, small plastic baggies, and food and drink containers that went on for pages.

It wasn’t a robbery or a drug theft. The murder was up close and personal. Who? Why?

Brad swung his legs off his desk, stood, grabbed his winter parka, and headed out of the office. Lobo slipped out from under the desk, stretched, then jogged to catch up.

I’m going to a crime scene.

The secretary didn’t glance up from her typing.

Brad parked his black Firebird on Eleventh Avenue just east of Macleod Trail and headed to the light pole. As he hiked, he slipped on a black beanie and matching gloves. The police tape was gone, but it wasn’t hard to identify the large brown stain on the sidewalk under the streetlight. He studied the dilapidated houses. Once the pride of Calgary, they were an eyesore and the hub of the drug culture.

He snorted at the thought of finding a witness. Uniformed officers had gone door to door. He’d been assigned that task hundreds of times. First, you seldom got any information worth using. And second, you got a ton of abuse. Worse in this neighborhood.

I was minding my own business.

No, Officer, I didn’t see or hear anything.

Insult the cop. Get the hell off my porch, pig.

And his personal favorite, because it was used the most: You got a warrant? Idiots. He didn’t need a warrant to ask questions. They watched too many 70’s TV cop shows like Columbo and Streets of San Francisco. Although, Starsky and Hutch didn’t worry about needing a warrant.

Brad studied the scene. If he’d stabbed the dealer, which direction would he escape? West was back to busy Macleod Trail. A chance to fit in, but there had to be a lot of blood on the assailant’s clothes. Even in this area, a bloody shirt would stand out. North was out for the same reason. South would take you to the Stampede Grounds. Also, if there were no events on the grounds, the probability of security spotting you was high. They wouldn’t be asleep yet.

That left east. A few blocks east, you’d come to the Elbow River with many wooded pathways. Further east led into Inglewood, which wasn’t a much better neighborhood than Vic Park. Decision time. Did the killer go east, because that was the smart direction to go? Or did the killer go north and was the one who made the 911 call? If so, why would the killer call 911? Despite the 911 call, Brad’s gut said the killer went east.

He headed back to his car and let Lobo out. They checked the drainage gates and sewers where a knife could be tossed. After ninety minutes of Lobo sniffing ditches, drains and sewers, they’d struck out as far as a murder weapon was concerned. At the river, he followed the paths, not sure what he was searching for, but hoping he would know when he found it. No luck.

Brad shivered and flexed his gloved hands. Despite evidence having been collected from around the scene the night before, Lobo found at least twenty baggies that no longer contained drugs, dozens of syringes and needles, and various pieces of clothing including a disproportionate number of bras and panties. The farther they searched from the site of the murder, the more crap they found.

Well, they’d given it a shot. Brad dumped the garbage into a box in the trunk and poured a bottle of water into a bowl for Lobo. Next would be a bath for the dog to get the grunge off.

While Lobo drank, Brad leaned against the car and again envisioned the murder. Someone got close and personal. No defensive struggle by the dealer. Someone he knew. A user? That narrowed it down to the entire neighborhood. He gritted his teeth and opened the back door.

"Lobo, hup-hup."

Lobo took one last slurp of the water and jumped into the car.

Chapter Four

The courtrooms were all the same—pale wood paneling on the walls, uncomfortable cherry-wood spectator benches, then the bar, past which were tables for the prosecution and defense, a witness stand, jury box, and the judge’s bench. In the left corner were the Canadian flag and Alberta’s provincial flag. A portrait of the Queen was hung behind the judge’s bench. It was the third day of the trial. Crown Prosecutor Jenni Blighe had completed the prosecution’s case yesterday. As she waited for the judge to reach a verdict, she picked lint off her navy-blue skirt and brushed wrinkles on her jacket. With this case, she’d been too busy to get her clothes to the dry cleaners. At least she’d had time to wash and iron her white blouse. She crossed her toned legs, dangled a black shoe off her toes and glared at the judge.

The victim, Laura Turner, a petite, blond, sixteen-year-old, sat behind Blighe. She was sobbing and being comforted by her mother.

The judge was taking his sweet-ass time deciding the verdict. Blighe stared at her notes in the folder on the prosecution table, tapping one French-tip nail against the pages. The seventeen-year-old, accused of raping his high school classmate at a party, was going free. Blighe’s blue eyes blazed in his direction.

The accused was Burke Bailey Baldwin, a handsome young man with a firm jaw, dimpled chin and wavy jet-black hair. All of that concealed the sick person he was inside. Smarmy little bastard.

During the trial, he had leaned back in his chair at the defense table, lips twisted into a smirk as his lawyer brought the girl to tears. His parents, seated behind him, showed no emotion. On the visitor benches in the courtroom were a dozen of his high school friends, who spent most of their time whispering and laughing as they stared at the victim. One teen rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, then blew a kiss to the girl. Another repeatedly stuck the index finger of his right hand into a circle created with the thumb and index finger of the second hand. This had the other boys snickering, but it had garnered only a stern glare from the judge.

The defense had made Laura the subject of the trial. Nothing Blighe tried could turn the focus back to the accused.

Her objections were overruled by the judge, whose obvious bias oozed from his pores. His ‘boys will be boys’ attitude twisted her stomach.

In her summation she’d stood and given it one last shot. Your Honor. While my learned colleague—a term that meant anything but learned—"has portrayed this as the victim’s fault, this is a sixteen-year-old, naïve girl, who repeatedly tried to get away from the accused who screamed ‘no’ until the accused put his hand over her mouth, pinched her nose, and rendered her unconscious. A young girl who trusted a classmate and then was viciously raped. She did everything she could to tell this … this predator she was not a willing participant. Yet the accused refused to listen to her pleas. Your Honor, the facts speak for themselves. The accused is guilty of not only assault, but rape. The evidence presented is clear."

The judge waved his hand at Blighe, frowning. Ms. Blighe, please take your seat and save your arguments for your appeal. The facts, as you say, are not clear. This girl went willingly with the accused to a bedroom. She was at a party and had been drinking. Despite her protests and tears, there is reasonable doubt in this case, and I find the accused not guilty.

The judge rose and left the courtroom. Blighe put her head in her hands, strands of short blond hair slipping free and hanging in her face. She breathed deeply, but her muscles were tense and her head throbbed. This was not justice, far from it. Predators like the accused should not be allowed back on the street. She had missed something. Could she have presented the case differently? Not with this judge. His decision was made before court started. If the court system didn’t protect young girls, then who would? This was her worst defeat in five years as a crown prosecutor.

As a victim of a stalker, she knew firsthand the terror a male could bring into the life of a female. She still had nightmares about Jeter Wolfe. Eventually, he’d left her alone and found other victims. But those events changed her life. Already divorced, her ex-husband had petitioned the court for sole custody of their two children, citing that Blighe’s job as a crown prosecutor had put the children’s lives at risk. Blighe hadn’t had the heart to fight in court. She’d installed a security system in her house, purchased a gun, and practiced multiple times a week. Months of self-defense courses had her prepared for an assault. But it was no way to live, always on edge, not trusting anyone.

Two months ago, outside a courtroom, a man put his hand on her shoulder. With her new instincts from self-defense training, she’d grabbed his wrist, bent it back, and had him on his knees screaming. The man was searching for courtroom 202. She profusely apologized. She had mixed emotions. First, she’d responded to a threat with decisiveness and had protected herself. But the man’s screams brought attention in the hallway. Court security had raced toward her until she waved them off.

If the courts couldn’t protect young girls, who would? Being a skilled prosecutor wasn’t enough.

She slid her tailored jacket off her chair, draped it over her arm, grabbed her files, and headed back to her office. Tonight’s workout would be intense—there was a lot of stress to release.

Chapter Five

After Brad’s fiancée was killed in his house by Jeter Wolfe in July, Brad demolished the house and sold the lot. Now he lived with Lobo on a farm west of the city. The house was seventy or eighty years old and under a thousand square feet.

Brad changed into an insulated gray Calgary Police Service sweatsuit, a fleece jacket, a watch cap, and his favorite white North Star sneakers with three red lines up the sides and a good grip for running in snow and on ice. He slid on his black leather gloves, then he and Lobo followed their familiar path down the lane from the farmhouse and into the forested hill toward Bearspaw Dam. Several times he hit a patch of ice and fought for balance. Fortunately, he didn’t crash onto the ice or into a tree. Lobo raced ahead, sniffing for squirrels, checking out piles of crap, probably from coyotes, and tracking other scents only he could smell.

They took a break at the bottom of the hill. Lobo sprinted to the river and tentatively placed a paw in the water. He withdrew it quickly, then bent over and drank. He tested the water again, then lay down under a tree.

Brad stretched beside Lobo and worked out the problems with the murder of the dealer. On the one hand, a dealer getting killed was not a newsworthy event, and it was a low priority for Homicide. But since there were no active cases to occupy his time, he’d keep busy with this one. The method of killing was unusual. Stabbings