William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

“ ’Cause a cop can’t afford to be distracted, that’s why. You gotta be … focused.” Of course, that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason Sandstrom hated to see new cops get entangled in whirlwind romances was because they never lasted. History kept repeating itself. Another year, maybe two, and that gorgeous gal Morelli was making goo-goo eyes at would be the biggest liability in his life. But there was no telling him.

Sandstrom had been on the force for over thirteen years, but his partner tonight was an APO (Apprentice Police Officer). Just getting started. Michelangelo A. Morelli—Mike to his friends—was an English major who for some perverse reason had gone to the police academy. Go figure. Mike had all the attributes of a new recruit. A fresh face, not yet worn down by the grind and menace of the patrol. Preposterous idealism and naïveté that bordered on the comical. And an annoying habit of quoting Shakespeare to perps.

“I must be the luckiest guy in the world,” Mike said, still gazing fondly at the photo.

“Yeah.”

“You wouldn’t believe what she did the other day. I came home and she’d bought me a brand-new car. A Corvette. Can you believe that?”

“A Corvette? Christ, kid, can you afford it?”

“That’s what I asked her.” Mike beamed. “And she said, ‘Honey, where you’re concerned, money is no object.’ ”

Sweet sentiment, Sandstrom thought, but the bank might have a different opinion. “So this morning why did I see you parking that beat-up Dodge Omni?”

“Well, Julia had a lot of shopping to do, so she took the new car.”

“Ah,” Sandstrom said. “I see.” He was beginning to, anyway.

They were cruising—gliding, really—down the residential streets of Utica Hills, Tulsa’s poshest neighborhood. The exclusive enclave of the old rich. Sandstrom hated this beat. There was rarely any street crime around here at this time of night, but it gratified the well-heeled citizens to know that the boys in blue (brown, actually) were keeping an eye on their swimming pools and Ferraris. Since their bank accounts largely determined who the mayor and city council members were, and thus determined who ran the police department, they tended to get whatever they wanted.

“So how’s your lovely bride adjusting to life as a cop’s wife?” Sandstrom ventured.

Mike tucked the photo back into his breast pocket. “Oh, Julia’s very understanding. All she cares about is my happiness. She doesn’t complain at all when I come in late. Just as long as I’m not too tired to …” He flushed, suddenly embarrassed. “Well, you know.”

“Kid, I truly do not want to hear about this.”

“We’ve been trying to have a baby—”

“Aw, jeez …”

“Julia wants a girl, but I want a boy. A little curly-haired Morelli. A chip off the old block. I just hope I can be half the dad to him that mine was to me.” His head lowered, and his smile faded somewhat. “We’ve been going at it every chance we get for a solid six months, but so far, no luck.”

“Six months is nothin’. My sister Amelia and her husband tried for eight years before they got their first bundle of joy. Now they have five.”

“Really? Julia thought maybe we should see a doctor. Of course, her father’s a doctor, so she thinks they’re the solution to everything.”

Sandstrom winced. “Her father’s a doctor?”

“Cardiologist.”

“Rich?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

And you’re going to keep her happy on a cop’s salary? For the first time Sandstrom’s heart went out to the poor schmuck. This marriage was even more doomed than he had realized.

“Julia keeps buying all those home pregnancy test kits. She does about three a night, just to be sure. So far, no luck.”

Sandstrom tried to sound reassuring. “Don’t worry, pal. You’ve still got lots of time.”

Mike shrugged. “I suppose.” He sank down into his seat. “I sure would like to have a kid, though. Our kid.”

The police radio crackled. Sandstrom picked up the handset and exchanged a few words with the dispatcher. To Mike’s inexperienced ears, it all sounded like unintelligible squawks and static.

“We’re on our way.” Sandstrom snapped the handset back into place, then bore down on the accelerator.

“What’s up?” Mike asked.

“Sounds like a one-eighty-seven.”

That meant homicide. “Seriously? Who took out who?”

Sandstrom whipped around a corner, almost taking the car up on two wheels. “No one seems to know yet. On both counts.”

“Where did it happen?”

“Utica Greens Country Club.”

“Really!” Mike’s eyes glistened. “What was the weapon, a polo mallet?”

“You’re close. A golf club.”

“A golf club? How—”

Mike didn’t have a chance to complete his inquiry. Sandstrom soared through the main gates, parked in the front lot beside another patrol car, then jumped out of the car. “Ever seen a murder before, Morelli?”

Mike hedged. “Well, I’ve seen pictures.”

Sandstrom clapped him on the back. “Brace yourself. It isn’t the same.”

They were greeted by another police officer, a man only slightly older than Mike. He pointed toward a small building at the crest of a hill near the first tee of the golf course. “It’s a caddyshack,” Patrolman Tompkins explained. “The victim is still inside. I haven’t moved her. I was the first to arrive. Homicide hasn’t made the scene yet.”

As they mounted the hill Mike saw something move about fifty feet away, on the pillared porch behind the main country-club building. The moonlight glinted, and he had a fleeting impression of blonde hair.

“Look over there,” Mike said, pointing. “See? A woman, I think. Moving away from us. Fast. I think she’s wearing a white dress.”

Tompkins squinted. “I don’t see anyone.”

Sandstrom grinned. “He’s been fantasizing about his gorgeous wife all night. Now he’s having visions.”

“I saw someone,” Mike insisted. He ran into the shadows, trying to find a trace of the figure he had briefly glimpsed. But by the time he arrived, there was no one there. After running all over the general area, he returned to the other officers just outside the caddyshack.

“No gorgeous woman in white?” Sandstrom asked.

“No,” Mike replied. “A phantom of delight.”

“More literary lingo—la-di-da.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Tompkins told Mike. “We’ve already got a suspect.”

Sandstrom and Mike followed Tompkins into the caddyshack. A black teenage boy cowered near the front door. His face was streaked with tears. He seemed terrified.

“That’s the suspect,” Tompkins explained.

Mike’s eyes crisscrossed the room. “Yeah, so where’s the—”

The question caught in his throat. The north corner of the room held all the answers.

Blood was everywhere.

Sandstrom was right. It wasn’t like the pictures. Not in the least.

“Oh, my God,” Mike mouthed. His words seemed to evaporate before they were spoken. He felt his gorge rising. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

He stood there, transfixed, repeating himself until Sandstrom finally led him away to a bathroom where he could be sick.

“Hey, take it easy,” Sandstrom said gently. ‘Try to forget about it.”

Even as he hunched there over the porcelain throne, Mike knew he would never forget what he had seen in that caddy-shack. No matter how long he lived, no matter how many corpses he saw.

Never.

Gnats swarmed around her head and the thick clotted blood on her neck. Even in death, she stood erect, pinioned against the wall, as if crucified for unimaginable sins.

THREE

Now