William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

“This has nothing to do with it. Got a sicko chickenhawk who’s costing me a lot of sleep.”

“A what?”

“Chickenhawk. A pedophile. And, in this case, a pornographer.”

Ben’s face crinkled. “Do I want to hear about this?”

“Probably not. This perverted bastard has already snatched four little boys and he’s still at large, like a nightmare haunting every child in the city. You wouldn’t believe the disgusting things he does to these kids. It’d tear your heart out. This goes way beyond your run-of-the-mill pedophilia. We’re talking about a major-league pervert with a taste for violence. And torture.”

“Do you have a description?”

“Not yet. None of the kids was alive after this creep was done with them.”

Ben’s throat suddenly felt dry. “How does he … get them?”

“We don’t know how he picks his victims, but once he does, he grabs them, molests them, and makes them pose for dirty pictures. We found some photos in some homegrown magazines.”

Mike opened his top desk drawer, then thought better of it. “Never mind. They’d make you sick. I guarantee it.”

“Can’t you go after the publishers?”

“Not anymore. Pornography’s become a cottage industry. Anyone with a computer and a desktop publishing program, or even a typewriter and a photocopier, can print pornographic magazines. They distribute the stuff through the mail, or fax machines. Even computer bulletin boards. Makes it damn near impossible to trace.”

“How can you be sure the dirty pictures are connected to the child molestation and murders?”

“I’m sure. Every single kid snatched to date has ended up in a magazine spread. That can’t be a coincidence. And even if it was, we’d still hunt these kiddie-porn creeps. The line between child-porn fan and child molester is thin and quickly crossed. Show me a guy who’s obsessed with these pictures, and I’ll show you a guy who’s probably going to act out his dreams someday with some poor little kid. He may be fantasizing, working up his courage, but mark my words, it will happen. These pictures feed it. They whet the appetite. They make it impossible to put these ideas out of their sick little minds.”

Mike pressed a hand against his forehead. “This slime killed his first three playthings. His last victim ran out into the street and got creamed by a car on Memorial. We looked all around, but never found the pervert. We don’t know where the kid was running from. We think he might’ve jumped out of a car while it was stopped at a light. Probably trying to escape.” Mike shook his head. “He’s been in a deep coma since the accident. He’s not expected to—” Mike looked up suddenly.

Ben gripped Mike’s shoulder. “Hang in there, pal.”

Mike’s face twisted. “Yeah.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“Not to speak of. The last boy was wearing a red baseball cap when he disappeared. Wasn’t wearing it when the car hit him. What I wouldn’t give to find that cap in the trunk of some schmuck’s car.” He bit down on his toothpick. “And the odds of that are probably only about a hundred million to one.”

“I’m sure you’ll catch him in time,” Ben said. “No one works harder than you.”

“Yeah. But I want to get him before he ruins another little kid’s life. Or ends it.” He slapped the top of his desk. “But enough about my problems. How’s my favorite piano player turned pettifogger?”

“Managing. As best I can, under the circumstances.”

Ben had known Mike since their college days at the University of Oklahoma. They had been the best of friends—even roommates one year. In those days they played music gigs:—Ben on piano, Mike on guitar and vocals—in some of the Norman beer joints and pizza parlors. Everything was fine—until Mike fell in love with Julia, Ben’s younger sister.

Once married, Mike canceled his plans for graduate school and began concocting one plan after another for earning enough money to accommodate Julia in the manner to which she had become accustomed. It didn’t work. The marriage disintegrated shortly after Mike graduated from the police academy. It all culminated in a nasty, protracted divorce—with Ben caught in the middle.

“I’ve been asked to take over the Leeman Hayes case,” Ben explained.

Mike winced. “Boy, you know how to pick ’em, don’t you? You must’ve been sitting around thinking: What could possibly be grimmer than representing a white supremacist? I know! The Leeman Hayes trial!”

“So you remember the case?”

Mike’s eyes became hooded. “That, my friend, is a killing I will never forget. Never. It happened one of my first nights on patrol. First murder victim I ever saw.”

“Really? You were the investigating officer?”

“No. I was the third man on the scene. Still—” His voice dropped. “If you had seen that victim, seen her blood-soaked body skewered up—” He looked away. “Well, it’s a sight you’d never forget, I can guarantee you that. God knows I never have.”

“Sounds like this case really left its mark.”

“Changed my life, if you want to know the truth. That was the night I decided I wanted to work homicides.”

“So you could prevent more horrible murders like that?”

“No. I knew murder would always be with us. I wanted to be in a position to guarantee the inhuman scum who did these hideous things didn’t go unpunished.” Mike gradually raised his head. “Lots of luck, pal. You’re looking at a case I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”

“Who’s handling it at the district attorney’s office?”

“Last I heard Myrna Adams was prosecuting.”

Ben heaved a sigh of relief. “I was afraid Bullock might get it.”

Mike switched his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “I heard about your little run-in with him this morning.”

“Already?”

“Gossip travels fast. After all, Ben, we’re government employees. We don’t do any real work.”

“Right. So what evidence does the state have?”

“Don’t you think you should ask Myrna?”

“I will. And I know what she’ll tell me, too. As little as possible.”

Mike stood up and stretched. “Well, I suppose I could help a bit. After all, the state is duty bound to come forth with exculpatory evidence.”

“That’s what the books say. But I usually have to file a ton of motions to get anything, and frankly, I don’t have time for that rigmarole.”

Mike ran his finger through his curly black hair. “Fair enough. Do you know how this crime was committed?”

“I know the victim was a woman. And—she was killed at a country club?”

“Correct. Utica Greens. Near the golf course, in the caddyshack.”

“And the victim was …?”

“Maria Escondita Alvarez.”

“Where was she from?”

“Peru. About six months before she had applied for a visa to the United States. I guess red tape in Peru is even thicker than it is here. She didn’t get it until about a week before the murder. Then she flew to Tulsa.”

“But why?”

“We never found out. We investigated, both here and in Peru, but it all came a cropper. She had no family to speak of, and few friends. She spent almost every cent she had just to get here. And as soon as she did, she got axed.”

“Speculation?”

“You’re asking me to guess?”

Ben nodded.

“Well, a lot of illegal drugs come to the United States via the Peru connection. Especially cocaine. She might’ve been involved. They say the average life span of a drug trafficker after he—or she—starts running drugs is less than ten years. God knows those country-club types are probably the only ones who can afford to be addicted to cocaine anymore.”