William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

Mike reached back into the drawer. Pieces of a photo were strewn about. Someone had ripped a picture into shreds.

Mike didn’t have to reassemble the pieces to identify the subject. It was Abie.

Mike slammed the drawer shut and began tearing the room apart. He had to find something. Something, anything, damn it! There was no way in hell that Chris Bentley lived in this dive. It was someone else. Someone else !

He wiped his eyes and tried to think clearly. He had to focus. This man was out there, damn it! And his plan of action was clear; the torn photo left no doubt about that. Mike had to figure out who this sick bastard was before he got to Abie.

Like he had the others. The little boys in the Polaroid parade.

Smeared with blood.

Mike spent the next half hour searching every nook and cranny. While groping about in the bedroom closet, he accidentally dislodged a shoe box. When it tumbled to the floor, the lid fell off and out spilled two pairs of socks, two rolls of pennies, and two keys on a chain.

Mike clutched the keys in his hands. A piece of tape on one key read: C-D-Y-S-K.

The key chain bore a regal lion pennant. And the lettering read: UTICA GREENS COUNTRY CLUB.

There was a connection.

Mike shoved the keys into his pocket and raced out the door. Even if his big toes protested, he would run all the way back to his car. From there, he could call Tomlinson and tell him to get a warrant. With a warrant, Tomlinson could cover up Mike’s illegal search and bring in a proper crime-scene team. Surely they could find more identifying clues.

If not, they could just wait till the chickenhawk came home. But it was always possible he wouldn’t. It was possible he would realize his lair had been discovered.

It was possible he already had.

In the meantime Mike was heading to the county courthouse. He remembered Ben saying something about the importance of the caddyshack keys, but he couldn’t recall the details. Ben would know what it meant. Who it was.

That was what Mike wanted to know, what he had to know.

Who it was they were looking for. He had to know that, before it was too late.

Before Abie became just another bloody photograph.

68

CAPTAIN PEARSON LOOKED AS if he had been knocked in the face. Ben’s announcement of his next witness seemed to come as a surprise to everyone, including, to be truthful, Ben. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had decided on Pearson. The deed was done now, though. He would have to make the best of it.

Pearson was on his feet in the gallery, but he wasn’t moving. “Do I have to do this?” he asked the judge.

Judge Hawkins appeared confused. “Didn’t counsel discuss your testimony with you in advance?”

“Hell, no.”

Hawkins gave Ben a long look. “Is this true?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“You gave him no advance warning?”

“He isn’t a friendly witness.” Ben glanced at the jury, making sure they got that. “But he possesses critical information.”

“Very well,” the judge said, scowling. “But I’ll be watching you carefully. Behave yourself. I won’t have you harassing someone who didn’t even know he was going to testify.”

“No, your honor. Of course not.” Like hell!

Judge Hawkins motioned, and Pearson strode unhappily to the witness stand.

“Good afternoon,” Ben said.

Pearson grunted in reply.

“Shall I call you Mr. Pearson or Captain Pearson?”

“Mr. Pearson will be fine.”

Ben established the essential background details: that Pearson was the self-styled captain of the country-club board of directors, that he had been for years, and that he had general supervisory authority over the country club’s affairs.

“Mr. Pearson, you held the same position ten years ago, when Maria Alvarez was killed, right?”

“What are you implying? That I killed that woman? This is outrageous!”

“Please answer the question,” Judge Hawkins said firmly.

“Yes,” Pearson spat out. “I was in charge ten years ago. But I had nothing to do with this mess.”

“Were you at the club the night the murder occurred?”

“I most certainly was not!”

“What were you doing?”

“I was at home, sound asleep, with my wife.”

“Your honor, I object,” Bullock said. “This isn’t going anywhere. This is a pure and unadulterated fishing expedition.”

Ben racked his brain for a response. It was hard to come up with a good one when Bullock was basically right.

“Are we going to sit here while Mr. Kincaid calls every member of the club to the stand and tries to get them to confess?”

Hawkins leaned over the bench. “It would help if you got to the point, Mr. Kincaid. If you have one.”

Ben nodded. Time for a bold initiative. “Mr. Pearson, isn’t it true that you’ve been supplying illegal narcotics to country-club patrons for years?”

The uproar in the courtroom astounded even Ben. People rose to their feet; reporters sent messengers running toward the back door. Judge Hawkins pounded his gavel, trying to quiet everyone. ,

“That’s a serious accusation, your honor,” Bullock shouted over the hubbub. “Mr. Kincaid better have some proof.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Hawkins said. He was mad now, no doubt about it. “Mr. Kincaid?”

“I’m waiting for the witness to answer my question.”

“No!” Pearson shouted. “It’s a lie!”

“Permission to treat the witness as hostile,” Ben said.

“Under the circumstances,” Hawkins said, “we can hardly claim that he’s your bosom buddy, can we? Granted.”

“Captain Pearson, isn’t it true that your fellow board member Dick Crenshaw has a major cocaine problem?”

Pearson’s eyes darted toward the gallery. Crenshaw was there, watching him very closely. “I don’t pry into other people’s problems. …”

“The day we all played golf together, he was on a coke high. Till it ran dry. Then he was on a coke low. Right? You were there.”

“That doesn’t mean he got the stuff at the country club!”

Ben saw heads nod in the jury box. They had picked up on the implied admission. “Where else would he get it?”

“How would I know? Look, if you have questions about Crenshaw, ask Crenshaw. I don’t know where he gets it.”

“I think you do. I think you’ve been supplying it to him for years. You put that monkey on his back.” Ben paused. “I wonder if he won’t admit it when I call him to the stand, since you’ve all but admitted he’s an addict.”

Pearson hovered over the edge of the witness box. “I will not sit here and let you call me a … a drug pusher!”

Again, Ben checked the faces in the jury box. On this issue, they appeared undecided. But they were definitely interested.

“And what you can’t distribute at the club,” Ben continued, “you distribute throughout Tulsa via paid accomplices. The same people you use to collect the junk from Peruvian smugglers and run all the other risks. The Demons.”

“The what ?”

“Don’t bother acting like you don’t know who they are. I saw them in your office.”

“You’re lying!”

“No, I’m not. Captain Pearson, isn’t it true that after we finished playing golf last week, we walked back to your office?”

“Yes, but—”

“In your office I saw four black teenagers wearing jackets bearing the emblem of the largest North Side youth gang, the Demons.”

“That’s not—”

“I wasn’t the only person there that day. Should I call some of your employees to the stand?”

Pearson folded his arms across his chest. “I was interviewing those young men for jobs in the dining room. I believe I mentioned to you that I was hiring. You came in one day while I was talking to an employment agency.” He smiled thinly. ‘Those young gentlemen were part of my new affirmative-action program.”