William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

“Sir…I heard you had a skull fracture.”

“Very minor. Nothing that could take me out of commission. Work is really the best thing for it. You can’t let incidents like this slow you down. You’ve got to get right back on that horse again and ride.”

Ben wondered if Crichton subscribed to some sort of cliché service. “Surely you should at least try not to move any more than necessary.…”

“Can’t be helped. I’ve got work to do.” He pointed toward the imposing file on Ben’s desk. “And so do you.” He pivoted abruptly and left.

Ben fingered the manila folder on his desk. For a new case, the quantity of paperwork was immense. He scanned a few of the documents. It was an antitrust case involving dozens of parties, price fixing, RICO, and restraint of trade. Ben was stunned—he didn’t know anything about antitrust litigation, an incredibly rarified, specialized field of practice. There were probably half a dozen people in Crichton’s department better qualified to handle this case. Why on earth would he give it to Ben?

Before Ben had a chance to dwell on this new mystery, he saw a familiar figure in an unseasonably heavy overcoat step into his office.

“Mike! Glad to see you. I tried to call you last night but—”

Ben froze in mid-sentence. Chief Blackwell followed Mike into the office.

“Greetings, Kincaid. I came to check on your progress.”

Ben rose. “Now, wait a minute. You gave me a week. I still have another day.”

“I know, I know. I just wanted to see if you were making progress. After all, if you haven’t gotten anywhere yet, what’s the point of waiting till the last moment?”

“Especially when you’ve been unable to come up with a suspect on your own, right?”

Blackwell made a snarling noise. “You’re treading on thin ice, Kincaid. I’ve already got more than enough to bring you in.”

“I thought we had a deal.”

“We did.” He strode forward. “I just want you to understand that I’m serious.”

Mike edged in between them. “I got the message that you tried to call me, Ben. Why don’t you tell us what you’ve got?”

Ben told them about the computer file Jones discovered. “I’ve made a copy for you.”

Mike scanned the list. “And you and Christina haven’t found any connection linking the names on this list?”

“Other than the fact that they’re all Apollo employees, no.”

“Hmm,” Blackwell said. “Maybe we should interview these jerks.”

“I think that’s a bad idea,” Ben said. “No one is going to tell you anything unless you have more ammunition to throw at them than we have at the moment. All you’ll do is raise their defenses.”

Mike nodded. “I concur. I’m going to put a tail on each of them, though, if we can. spare the manpower. Maybe we can learn something from where they go, what they do. Maybe they’ll hold a meeting of this Kindergarten Club.”

“That would be great,” Ben said.

“I’m not convinced there’s any link between this so-called club and the murders,” Blackwell said gruffly, “and I’m not going to divert men from proven police procedures to chase some wild goose.”

“I showed you the photo we found at Hamel’s home,” Mike said. “What more proof of a connection do you need? Surely we can spare a few men to follow up on this. We already have so many undercover officers planted in the red-light districts they’re picking up one another.”

“Red-light districts?” Ben said. “What’s this about?”

Mike eyed Blackwell. Blackwell hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“This is top secret stuff,” Mike said. “It has not been released to the press yet.”

“I can keep a secret,” Ben said. “Shoot.”

“We’ve found the link between the victims. They were all teenage prostitutes.”

Ben nodded appreciatively. “That should advance the investigation. How did you figure this out?”

“Through one renegade sergeant who couldn’t follow orders,” Blackwell cut in gruffly.

“That one renegade sergeant came up with more dope than the rest of us have in three weeks,” Mike said curtly. “Ben, have I ever introduced you to Sergeant Tomlinson?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Decent guy. Real straight-shooter. Very by-the-book. Lovely wife, cute daughter. I liked him.”

“You had a funny way of showing it,” Blackwell said.

Mike twisted his neck uncomfortably. “I was just giving him a bad time, trying to make him work harder. He’s dedicated, but a bit pedestrian. I was trying to make him stretch.”

Blackwell smirked. “You were riding him like a saddle.”

“He had applied for a transfer to Homicide,” Mike explained. “He was qualified, sure, but I didn’t want him to think it was easy. So I spun him around some. Just to push him.”

“And now he’s in a hospital bed,” Blackwell said. “Practically dead.”

“What!” Ben’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

“We think he had a run-in with our killer,” Mike said. “Someone had him in a choke hold—plastic trash bag tied around his head with a silken cord. One of the residents of the building they were in—a lady of the evening—happened to walk in on them before Tomlinson was altogether dead. The killer had to flee. But before he did, he tossed Tomlinson down a flight of stairs, just for good measure.”

“Oh, my God,” Ben said. “And he’s still alive?”

“Just barely. The woman who walked in on them had the guts to call the police, even though she risked being picked up herself, and an ambulance took him to St. John’s. He’s still on a respirator and he hasn’t regained consciousness. There’s a chance he never will, or that when he does, he’ll have severe brain damage from oxygen deprivation.”

“Jesus.” Ben steadied himself against his chair. “Do you have any idea what he was doing? How he tracked down the killer?”

“He made some notes we found in his desk. They’re sketchy, but they’re better than nothing. Apparently Tomlinson recognized a tattoo on the second victim’s body and traced that back to a red-light district. We’re not sure which district, though Tomlinson used to work Eleventh Street, so I’d say that’s our best bet. Anyway, he started investigating and eventually deduced that all the victims were teenage prostitutes. He seemed to think there was a pattern to the killings, a connection other than the fact that the victims were hookers. Unfortunately, he doesn’t explain the connection in his notes. Like I said, they were very sketchy. All the last entry says is that he’s looking for someone named Trixie.”

“So you have a name? Great! Then all you need to do is round up every teen prostitute in town named Trixie.”

“Believe me, Ben, we’ve tried. We’ve systematically quizzed every streetwalker we could find. No one fesses up to being Trixie. In fact, no one will even admit to knowing someone named Trixie.”

“She must be hiding. She may have left town.”

“That’s possible, but I think it’s unlikely. We’ve been watching the traditional exits carefully, and besides, most teen hookers are on a very short leash. I think she’s still here. She’s just keeping a low profile.”

“Any idea why?”

“Only speculation. It’s not all that unusual for a teen prostitute to keep her distance from the police.”

“Good point.” But, Ben thought silently, it’s just possible someone not associated with the police might have better luck. His eyes met Mike’s. He could tell he wasn’t the only one in the room having the thought.

“Do we have a description of Trixie? Or the killer?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve been assuming the killer is a man—because the murders and mutilation required strength and because all the victims have been female prostitutes—but I could be wrong. And it could be a man working for someone else. Serial killers come in all shapes and sizes.”