Justice for Hire (18 page)

“Give me an hour, maybe an hour and a half,” Jake said into the phone.

“That’s great. I have to go and dig up some lunch right now, and then before you know it, I’ll be at home. I may be nappin’ when you drop by, but just ring my doorbell and I’ll have the butler show you in.”

Jake burst out laughing. “I may wait outside. Don’t know if I could fit into your castle.”

“Are you calling from a pay-phone?” Annie asked.

“Yup. Took my last quarter, so maybe you could lend me another one so I can call you back if we find out anything.”

Jake laughed. “I’m sure I can spare that much.”

“See you soon,” Sammy said, and then the phone went silent.

Annie handed the iPhone back and Jake holstered it. He touched the brakes, glanced in his mirror, and then turned the wheel and made a u-turn. “We’ll run to the copy shop now, and then I’ll drop you home and go find Sammy.” The engine roared and the tires spoke as he touched the gas.

Annie let go of her grip on the dash. “Why don’t you get him a burner phone as well?” she suggested. “That way he can contact us any time he needs to.”

“Good idea. There’s a 7-Eleven a couple of blocks away. We can stop there later.”

Chapter 36

Thursday, August 25th, 12:22 PM

THE DOOR TO Dr. Lamb’s office yawned open and Cheryl was prodded inside. The doctor rose from his mahogany desk and stepped around to face her. His expensive suit perfectly fitted his tall body, a diamond pin holding his crimson tie in place.

Bug-eyes stared down at her through dark-framed glasses resting on a long, straight nose. His mouth wore a hint of a smile, artificial, perhaps mocking her.

He looked at the guards. “Take the cuffs off.”

One of Cheryl’s escorts objected. “We can’t.”

“Take them off,” Dr. Lamb repeated. “It’s important she be comfortable. You may wait outside.”

The guard wrinkled his brow, and then the cuffs rattled as he inserted a key and the restraints fell loose.

Cheryl rubbed her wrists. The metal had felt uncomfortable, and she was relieved to have them removed. She heard the door click behind her as the guards left the room.

Dr. Lamb extended his arm toward a padded leather chair. “Please sit down.”

Cheryl sidled up to the chair and sat on the edge, her back straight, her hands in her lap.

Dr. Lamb dropped into a matching chair across from her, settled back, crossed his legs and examined her. “Sit back,” he said. “Please, try to relax.” His voice was not unkind, but not exactly pleasant either. It reminded her of a history teacher she once had.

Cheryl adjusted her bright orange uniform, slid back, her arms stiffly in front of her, her feet pushed together. She couldn’t relax.

He stared at her awhile, his eyes boring into hers as if probing her mind, maybe into her very soul.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.

She nodded and remained silent.

“Why are you here?”

“To see what’s wrong with me.”

“What do you think is wrong with you?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” Her lip quivered.

Dr. Lamb thought a moment. “Do you know why you were arrested?”

Another nod. “Because I . . . I shot someone?” Her hands worked nervously.

“Yes. And we’re here to find out why. Can you tell me why, Cheryl?”

She shook her head. “I . . . I don’t remember.”

He reached to a stand beside his chair and retrieved a notebook and pen. He placed the pad on his lap and settled back deeper into the chair, tapping the pen against his teeth, drilling into her with his eyes.

Finally he spoke. “You are here for a psychiatric assessment as well as a forensic assessment. One is to assess your state of mind, and the other, to establish whether you have the mental capacity to understand the charges against you, and to legally stand trial.”

She nodded. “I volunteered.”

“Because your lawyer told you to?”

Another nod.

He smiled slightly. “That’s because he knew the judge would order it, and he may have thought volunteering in advance would look better to the judge.” He cleared his throat. “But that won’t make a difference. I have a job to do and I hope you’ll help me. Is that fair?”

Nod.

“Try to relax, Cheryl. I’m not your enemy. We’re not here to find guilt or innocence. Just the truth.”

She tried to relax.

“It’s important you be truthful, no matter what. Is that understood?”

Nod. “Yes.”

“Very well.” He flipped through the notepad, and then stopped at a page and studied it. “I have already talked to your parents. They’ve given me some insights into you, your personality, and many of the events of your life.” He glanced at her over his glasses, and then back at the pad. He dropped it into his lap and clicked his pen.

She waited while he made a notation.

Finally he looked up, crossed his legs the other way, adjusted his pad and cleared his throat.

“Now, tell me Cheryl, what makes you angry?”

Cheryl thought a moment. Lots of things make people angry. What did he want to hear? She said, “Injustice makes me angry. Racism, or people who look down on others because of race or social status.”

He squinted through his glasses. “What about rich, or powerful people? Do you hate rich people?”

“No. I have nothing against rich people, only if their money makes them snobs, or if they think they’re better than the rest of us.”

“And then, would you wish them harm, or maybe kill them?”

“No. Absolutely not. I would never kill . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip.

“Oh, but you did, Cheryl.”

Was he trying to trick her somehow?

He looked down and scribbled something in his notepad, and then looked up, twiddling his pen while he observed her.

She held his gaze for a few moments, and then started to feel uncomfortable and dropped her head. She could feel his eyes, still watching her.

“Tell me about your nightmares,” he said.

She looked up. “They seem so real, and always the same.”

He waited.

“I am in a room, a white room, and all alone. Then, someone comes in. I can’t see his face, but he’s dressed like a doctor. You know, with those long white coats? And he sits down beside me, and then says, ‘I am the Wizard.’” She shuddered.

“Go on.”

“Sometimes I feel pain. Extreme pain, like a thousand volts of electricity going through my body. Then, I scream, and I wake up still screaming.” Cheryl closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, he was writing something in his pad. She continued, “I . . . I’m afraid to go to sleep.”

Dr. Lamb looked at her and stroked his chin. “Cheryl . . .” He hesitated, and then, “Were you ever sexually abused as a child?”

Cheryl frowned. “No, never.”

“Not by an uncle perhaps, or a friend?”

She shook her head vigorously. “No.”

The doctor looked at his pad, recrossed his legs, studied her face again, and then, “Have you ever been in a personal relationship that was emotionally, physically, or sexually abusive?”

“No, not at all.”

“Have you ever thought about injuring yourself or others?”

“No.”

“Or recurrent thoughts of death, dying, or suicide?”

Again she shook her head.

The questions went on and on. Questions about her sex life, possible drug use, her fears, wishes, hopes, dreams . . . Cheryl felt violated by his probing and prodding as he scrutinized every area of her life.

By the time he was done and the guards led her out, she felt mentally and physically exhausted. She endured the trip back to her cell, and welcomed the quiet where she could rest her troubled mind.

Chapter 37

Thursday, August 25th, 12:43 PM

DETECTIVE SIMON KING was not Hank’s idea of a perfect partner. Hank hadn’t worked with a steady partner for years, and wasn’t looking forward to the Captain’s team-up.

He’d had a variety of partners when he was a beat cop, but after he’d made detective, he’d only had one. Someone he still looked up to, a mentor of sorts, from whom he’d learned a lot before the senior cop’s retirement a few years ago.

Hank had been just fine on his own since then, and considering Hank’s stellar record, Diego had cut him some slack.

But now, working with King, no matter for how short a time, was not going to be an ideal relationship. Diego seemed to think highly of this new cop, and he came here with a good recommendation, but Hank had heard talk around the station, and had serious doubts.

The talk was about payoffs and bribes, and perhaps even planting evidence. He would have to give him the benefit of the doubt, but this was Hank’s case, and he wasn’t going to let a crass young cop like King take over.

Detective King had returned to the precinct some time ago and was slouched at his desk, one foot resting on an open drawer, when Hank approached him.

“What do you make of it?” Hank asked, as he settled into an empty chair and stretched his legs out under the desk.

King dropped his foot and looked up. He set down the open file folder he’d been browsing and motioned toward it. “Looks like a mess.”

“Any thoughts?”

King shrugged. “I see they all had been taking some drugs. Drugs’ll do that to you. They can make you crazy sometimes and do all kinds of nutty stuff, including killing people.”

“Sure, maybe, but these killers weren’t acting crazy. The murders were cold, likely premeditated. Doesn’t that seem like more than a coincidence to you?”

“Dunno. There are such things as coincidences, you know.”

Hank shook his head. “I don’t think this one is.”

King sat up and propped his elbows on the desk. “Homicide’s just not my thing.”

Hank was clearly disgusted. “But you’re a cop,” he said. “And whether it’s drug dealers or murderers, the criminal mind is always the same. Self-centered thinking, with no regard for the property or lives of others.”

“Maybe,” King said. “Maybe.”

“Look, forget about the philosophy of crime. What about the evidence?”

“There ain’t none.”

“That may be the point. The fact there’s very little evidence, is evidence in itself.”

King frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“The MO is the same, with the perpetrators leaving very little evidence, and the same type of people committing these murders. That’s evidence of similarity.”

King stared blankly for a few moments. Something finally seemed to twig in his brain, and he nodded slowly, a light dawning in his eyes. “Now what?” he asked.

“I was hoping you could answer that,” Hank said. “Or at least, come up with some ideas. That’s why Diego put you on this with me. I asked for some help, and he said you’re a good cop.”

What was wrong with this guy? Right now it didn’t seem like King knew anything about police work. Then, it dawned on him; King hadn’t read the reports.

Hank pointed to the folder. “You didn’t read that, did you?”

“I browsed it.”

King wasn’t a stupid cop. He was just lazy.

Hank changed the subject. “You married?”

“Was once. Didn’t work out. She left me for another guy.” He drew himself up, raised his chin, and held his arms out at his sides. “Can you imagine any woman not wanting a piece of this?” He laughed at his own joke.

“I can’t imagine,” Hank said dryly, and then, “Any kids?”

“Nah. The marriage didn’t last long enough to produce any of those. Good thing, too.”

Hank agreed. “Yeah, it’s a good thing.” Good for the kids, that is. He couldn’t imagine King being much of a husband, let alone a father.

“Tell me about Toronto,” Hank said. “Why were you transferred here?”

“You guys needed some more help up here. Narcotics crime is actually up in the suburbs, and down in the city, so I volunteered.”

“And here you are.”

“And here I am,” King said, and added, “I’m much better on the streets. That’s my element, dealing with the scumbags out there. Making them talk, things like that.” He whacked his fist into the palm of his other hand and grinned. “You know what I mean?”

Hank shook his head and frowned. “That’s not the way we do things here.”

“Gets the job done. I get a lot of convictions. Ain’t nobody can touch my record.”

Hank looked at King a moment, at his stringy, unkempt hair, three days worth of growth on his face, and his sloppy clothes. And he smelled unwashed. He looked more like a drug dealer than a cop. Maybe that was how he fitted into that line of work so well.

“You can keep the rough stuff for your drug dealers,” Hank said. “This is a murder investigation, and our job is to ask questions, not beat up suspects and witnesses.”

King shrugged. “Ok then, I think we need to talk to the witnesses.”

“I already did,” Hank said, pointing to the folder, frustrated. “It’s all in there.”

“I’ll take it home and look it over tonight.”

Hank glowered at King. “It’s early afternoon.” His voice took on a sarcastic tone. “What do you suggest we do until you have had a chance to browse the evidence?”

King made a sweeping motion with his arm. “Lead on,” he said.

Hank decided his partner was worse than having no partner at all. He sighed and looked at his watch. “I’m hoping to get the M.E.’s report on the latest perp soon. There may be something in it that’ll help.”

“In the meantime?”

“In the meantime, I have some calls to make,” Hank said, as he stood and pointed to the reports on the desk. “And I suggest you study that.”

Hank looked back over his shoulder as he went to his desk. Simon King had picked up the folder and was leafing through it.

Getting this case solved gave Hank another incentive. He couldn’t wait to ditch this guy.

Chapter 38

Thursday, August 25th, 1:03 PM

DAVID HAINES was counting tiles again when he heard the lock on the door screech back. He sat up abruptly, hoping at last they’d come to let him out.