Joanna Wayne - Justice for All

“Do you think the latest murder is the work of the serial killer known as the Avenger?”

“There’s no conclusive proof of anything at this time.”

“Is it true that Bernie Brusco had connections with organized crime?”

Max kept walking. “No comment at this time.”

“Will you form a serial killer task force?”

Yeah, and he was it. “Bernie Brusco’s murder will be fully investigated using every resource we have.”

“Do you think the killer could be a Courage Bay police officer?”

“It could be anyone,” Max said. “That’s it for now.”

“Will you be holding a press conference?”

“Should ordinary citizens be afraid?”

“Do you have suspects?”

The questions kept flying at him as he ducked inside the building, but he waved them off. The reporters would soon fall away, heading back to their newspaper desks and TV stations with the little they knew. A Sunday afternoon murder in the prestigious neighborhood of Jacaranda Heights would be the lead story in all the media. The Avenger would no doubt get a great deal of satisfaction from the attention.

Max dropped to the chair behind his desk, one of the reporters’ questions sticking in his mind like a gearshift that wouldn’t budge. Did he think the perp could be a cop? Not that the question surprised him. Lawmen were obvious candidates for avenger-type murders. There wasn’t a cop out there who at some point didn’t get sick and tired of putting his or her life on the line while the legal system passed more and more laws to protect the guilty and the justice system kept releasing the criminals and throwing them back on the streets.

Max knew and trusted his force down to a person. Still, knowing the facts about avenger-type killings made his choice clear. He’d go this investigation alone, and he’d be as objective as was humanly possible when it came to evidence. No one, positively no one, would be off-limits as a suspect if the evidence pointed to them. But he was definitely not buying into the mind set that this had to be a cop.

Avenger-type killings took a certain type of individual, one who could plan and carry out an execution with a sense of purpose and duty. One who accepted the role of judge and jury and had no qualms about issuing a death sentence. Historically these killers weren’t coldhearted or evil the way most murderers were.

They weren’t psychopaths, either. If anything, they were usually oversensitive to right and wrong—saw everything in black and white with no shades of gray in the mix. A lot of people with no connection to law enforcement fit that profile.

The sun was setting, and elongated shadows crawled across the room as Max walked into his office and dropped into his chair. He pulled out his notes and started the gruesome task of dissecting every detail that he’d collected at the crime scene. There was very little to go on.

Bernie lived at the highest point of Jacaranda Heights, and had a much steeper drop-off than most of the other residents. Even if the bullet hadn’t killed him, the fall would have.

There had been no exit wound, so it was a safe bet that they’d find the bullet somewhere inside the skull. Forensics would be able to narrow down the type of weapon and possibly an estimate of the distance it had traveled before making contact.

Weary now, Max got up and walked over to the file cabinet, where he pulled the four files of the previous murders. He’d go through them one by one, immerse himself in the facts surrounding each case, review them day and night until some pattern emerged.

No murder was perfect. The evidence was always there. The challenge was in finding and recognizing it.

First file, first murder—Hollywood producer Dylan Deeb. The killer obviously found Deeb’s sexual exploitation of underage actresses repugnant enough to assign Deeb a death sentence.

Max’s cell phone rang. He checked the number on the ID. Callie Baker. He stupidly raked his fingers through his hair as if she could see him, before he cleared his throat and took the call.

“Hello, Callie.”

“Max, I was hoping I could catch you.”

Her words sizzled along his nerve endings, and he wondered how a mere voice could produce that sensation. But then it wasn’t a mere voice. It was Callie’s.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked.

“I just turned on my TV for the evening news. They said Bernie Brusco was murdered.”

Damn. He could have let her know since Brusco had been her patient. “I’m sorry, Callie. I should have called you and told you about the murder.”

“Then someone did intentionally try to kill him at Mary’s party.”

“We don’t have proof of that.”

“But it makes sense. The excessive amounts of ephedra didn’t work, so someone shot him and pushed him over the cliff behind his house to damage the evidence.”

“You looking to give up medicine and become a detective, Callie?”

“No, I figure I can do both.”

She was teasing, but that didn’t make her interest in being involved in this case go down any easier. “Didn’t we have this conversation at lunch yesterday and decide that you should stay out of the investigation?”

“We did, but that was when Bernie was alive, and attempted murder was only speculation.”

The sizzle along his nerve endings cooled to caustic apprehension. “The investigation is police business, Callie. I can’t bring you into it any more than you’d have me come in and write prescriptions for your patients or dispense medical advice.”

“But you could administer first aid in an emergency if you were on the spot. That’s all I’m proposing.”

“Define your version of first aid.”

“I’ll write out a list of everyone I remember seeing at the party Friday night just before or after Bernie collapsed. I know you said it could have been one of the hired staff instead of a guest, but at least this would give you a place to start.”

“I can get the guest list from Mary Hancock.”

“Sure you can, and I know you will, but that won’t narrow down the guests who were still there when Bernie had his attack. I’ve thought about it, and I can identify a lot of the people who were standing around both before and after I went to Bernie’s aid. Besides, if you ask Mary about the whereabouts of guests at specific times, she may feel as if she’s incriminating them. It’s my guess she’ll be hesitant to do that. I, on the other hand, have no qualms about supplying you with information. And I know about Jerry Hawkins.”

“Who’s Jerry Hawkins?”

“A guest at the party who I have reason to believe is a suspect—and the reason you should talk to me.”

Damn. She was speaking his language, and there was no way he could turn down her offer for information. There should be no risk involved with that—not as long as she spoke only to him and didn’t let anyone else know that she was giving him the inside scoop.

No risk for her.

Being with Callie was always a risk for him. Tough to have a heart too stupid to know when it didn’t have a chance. Fortunately Max had a brain that did. He was meat and potatoes. Callie was caviar.

Besides, even if they got past that, he was lousy at dating, and his brief dive into the pool of matrimonial bliss had been a disaster. Things got too tangled when he tried to fit his life with someone else’s, and he hated tangles that didn’t end with an arrest.

His marriage had been years ago, when he was fresh out of college and a rookie on the force. It had lasted all of eight weeks, not even past what most would consider the honeymoon stage. She’d left him, claimed he was married to his job and had no time for a wife. He hadn’t fought the breakup since he figured she just might be right.