Purge The Evil Chaps 17 - 25

PURGE THE EVIL a novel by Bill Dunn

Chapter 17

Friday, November 12th, 10:45 a.m. Victor Strasser sat in the dimly lit living room of his sister’s home. All the blinds were closed tightly so it was impossible to tell if it was night or day outside. Victor gazed lustfully at flickering images on a computer screen. If the authorities knew what he was doing at that moment, he would be back in the state prison by nightfall. Victor was well aware if this, but he didn’t care. He could not help himself. He was drawn to child pornography websites like a moth to a flame. Victor often wondered why so many people hated him so much. Yes, he had done something very bad many years ago, when he got carried away one night and molested a 10-year-old girl. But he had pled guilty to that crime and spent 22 years behind bars. He paid his price to society. Since then the only so-called “nasty” behavior he engaged in occurred mostly in his mind or in solitude behind closed doors. Why couldn’t everyone just leave him alone, he often thought. When Victor finished serving out his sentence about a year ago, he was amazed at the uproar. His sister had reluctantly agreed to let him live with her in an upscale

neighborhood off Mountain Road in West Hartford. Marlene Strasser was divorced and lived alone, so she had plenty of room in her large home. Besides, where else would a 53year-old convicted child molester live? Victor had no job skills, and even if he did, who would hire him? His sister realized if she did not take him in, he would surely end up living on the streets or in homeless shelters. In those seedy circumstances, as soon as his past history became known, Victor’s life expectancy would have been rather short. When neighbors discovered that a convicted child molester was about to take up residence in their quiet suburban setting, all hell broke loose. Protest marches and candlelight vigils were organized. Some of Marlene’s closest and oldest friends no longer spoke to her. Even the state Governor got involved, publicly declaring it was an outrage and vowing to keep Victor behind bars for life. But when it was determined that Victor had fulfilled his legally administered sentence and the state could not impose further punishment, a compromise was reached: Victor was required to wear a GPS ankle bracelet, which would be monitored 24 hours a day, and if he stepped so much as one foot off his sister’s property he would be thrown back into prison for good. Most of the time, Victor was bored out of his mind. He felt more imprisoned in his sister’s house than in the state pen. All he did each day was eat, sleep, and surf the Internet. He had gained weight over the years in prison, but since coming to his sister’s home he must have added another 40 pounds. Before Marlene arrived home from work at 6 p.m. each day, Victor would make sure to erase the cache of website addresses and image files stored in the computer. His sister was not very computer savvy and therefore was unable to tell what he had been viewing—not that she ever bothered to check. Marlene often felt just as trapped as Victor

by the probation arrangement, and as her resentment grew, she had as little interaction as possible with her pariah brother. Although Victor’s secret was safe from his sister, he knew a computer expert could examine the computer’s hard drive and easily uncover his activity. However, he decided it was worth the risk, and hoped that he never gave law enforcement officials any reason to become suspicious and seize the computer. As Victor clicked from image to image, trying to find something that would arouse him, his train of thought was interrupted by a loud knock on the kitchen door at the back of the house. Flustered, Victor scrambled to turn off the computer’s monitor. He sat still in the dark room hoping the visitor would go away. But the knocking continued. Finally, Victor got up, closed up the front of his dingy bathrobe around his ample belly, and went to answer the door. As he walked into the kitchen, the daylight made him squint. He moved a small curtain with his hand and peered through one of the window panes in the top half of the kitchen door. Standing on the doorstep was a man wearing a blue jumpsuit with a “Comcast” patch on the left breast. A photo I.D. was clipped sideways to the pocket below the patch. The man had a baseball cap on his head, a small tool box in one hand, and a clipboard in the other. Victor unlocked the kitchen door and pulled it open about six inches, leaving the screen door closed and locked. “What do you want?” he said nervously. “I’m with the cable company, sir,” Tom Wilkins said. “I’m here to do the upgrade. Is Ms. Strasser in?” “No, she’s at work,” Victor replied. “What upgrade are you talking about?”

“Ms. Strasser ordered our special upgrade package, on sale this month,” Wilkins said, easily slipping into his salesman tone and cadence. “We offer cable, phones, and high-speed Internet, all for one low price. I have an eleven o’clock appointment.” “Well, she’s not here,” Victor said. “Come back some other time.” “Are you sure?” Wilkins asked. “When she called the other day to make the appointment, she sounded in a hurry.” That’s Marlene all right, Victor thought. Always wants everything right now. He hesitated, then said, “I dunno. I mean, she didn’t say anything to me about it. I don’t know if I can let you in.” “OK, but if I can’t do it now, we won’t be able to reschedule the appointment for at least another two weeks. I don’t know if she’ll be very happy about that.” “No, she sure won’t,” Victor mumbled under his breath. “She’s never happy.” He slowly pulled the wooden door open and reached out and unlocked the screen door. “How long will this take?” he asked. “Oh, it’ll be quick. Just a few minutes,” Wilkins said as he entered the house. “Thanks for letting me in. So where is the main cable box?” “In the living room. This way,” Victor said. He walked through the kitchen toward the hallway, and then into the living room. Wilkins followed. Entering the dark living room, Victor fumbled with a lamp on an end table, and finally turned it on. Wilkins glanced around the room and noted approvingly that all the blinds were shut. Victor motioned toward a large flat-screen television sitting on top of a low book shelf. “The cable stuff should be right behind it, I think,” he said.

“OK, good,” Wilkins said. He placed the clipboard on the shelf next to the TV and then put the tool box down on top of the clipboard. He flipped the latch on the tool box. “I just need my Philips screwdriver,” he said as he reached in with his right hand. A moment later, Tom Wilkins pulled his hand out of the tool box and pivoted his entire body to the right, facing Victor. He raised his arm and pointed a blue steel .38 caliber, short-barrel revolver directly at the bridge of Victor’s nose. Victor stood motionless, his mind unable to comprehend the unexpected image before him. His surprised eyes were slightly crossed, trying to focus on the gun barrel no more than six inches away. The last thought Victor Strasser had on earth was, That’s not a Philips screwdriver… A deafening roar spewed from the gun as Wilkins pulled the trigger. The slug tore a perfectly round hole in Victor’s pudgy forehead, slightly above eyebrow level. He fell backward onto the carpeted floor with a thump. His eyes remained surprised and slightly crossed, and now pointed up at the ceiling. Wilkins lowered his right arm and took a deep breath. “Whoa,” he said softly as the boom of the gun echoed in his ears. After a momentary pause, he turned back toward the tool box and set the revolver inside. He pulled two rubber gloves out of the box and quickly put them on. Then he took a small hammer and a razor knife out of the box and hurried into the kitchen. At the back door, Wilkins opened the wooden door and swung it out of the way. He exposed the blade of the razor knife and sliced a hole in the screen near the door latch. Then he reached in the pocket of his blue jumpsuit and pulled out a small rag. He opened the screen door, reached around, and used the rag to wipe down the handle, the only surface on which he might have left a fingerprint.

Wilkins stepped back into the kitchen and turned toward the open wooden door. He used the hammer to smash a hole in one of the small panes of glass. He closed the door and used his foot to slide the broken pieces of glass closer to the door, where they presumably would’ve landed if the glass had been smashed from the back steps. Wilkins hurried back into the living room and placed the hammer and razor knife into the tool box. In a matter of a few minutes, he scampered from room to room throughout the house, yanking out bureau drawers and generally making a mess of things. He stuffed a handful of costume jewelry and spare change into his pocket. Satisfied the house now appeared as if it had been targeted by robbers, Tom Wilkins gathered up the tool box and clipboard, took one last look at Victor—whose surprised eyes still were fixed upward, looking out between rivulets of blood trickling down his face—turned off the lamp on the end table, and silently slipped out the back door. Wilkins walked around to the side of the house. He paused to see if any people or cars were in the area. The wooded, secluded street was as silent as it had been when he arrived 20 minutes earlier. He continued walking and turned right when he reached the end of the driveway. A Comcast van was parked about 200 feet down the road, in front of a neighboring house, a house which Capt. Bradford knew was unoccupied. Wilkins opened the sliding door on the right side of the van and climbed in. He quickly peeled off the blue jumpsuit and shoved it into a black trash bag. He slid the door closed from the inside, then squeezed into the driver’s seat. Firing up the engine, he carefully drove away and headed back toward his car dealership.

Chapter 18

Friday, November 12th, 11:30 a.m. Tom Wilkins steered the Comcast van into the service entrance driveway of his auto dealership. He drove to the back of the building and parked the van near the four roll-up garage doors. He looked around to see if anyone was nearby, and when he was satisfied no one was around, he climbed out of the van and walked over to a red Ford sedan. He opened the trunk of the car and put the black trash bag, the small tool box, and clipboard inside. He would dispose of all the items later that night. Then Tom Wilkins nonchalantly strolled into the Service Department. A dozen mechanics were busy working on various vehicles. The large room was a beehive of activity and noise. Tom Wilkins walk over to the service counter and nodded toward his service manager, Duane Waller, who was on the phone with a customer. When Tom was sure that Duane was not looking, he reached up and hung the keys to the Comcast van on a large pegboard, which was filled with keys, each with a little white tag identifying the car it belonged to. When Duane finished his phone call, Tom said, “Hey, Duane, how’s it going?”

“Oh, pretty good, Mr. Wilkins,” the young man replied. “A real busy day today,” he added shaking his head, indicating it would be a scramble to get everything done by 5 p.m. “Well, keep up the good work,” Wilkins said encouragingly. “By the way, Duane, when you get a chance, call the Comcast office. Tell them the brake job is done. They can pick up their van anytime.” “OK sure, boss,” Duane said. He watched his boss exit the service area and head for the offices. Duane Waller admired Tom Wilkins and felt extremely grateful toward him. Four years earlier Duane met his future employer at the Faith Cathedral. At the time both men were struggling with inner demons: Tom with booze and prostitutes and gambling; Duane with drugs and a crushing lack of self-esteem. With the encouragement of Rev. Morton and other members of the congregation, both men were able to conquer their addictions, and with a renewed and vibrant faith in God, each man turned his life around. About six months after attending the same weekly 12-step recovery meetings at the Cathedral, Tom offered Duane a job in the service department. At first Duane was just a minimum wage flunky, running errands and assisting the mechanics. But soon afterward, his high intelligence combined with a new-found work ethic, made Duane a very dependable and valuable employee. He quickly moved up the ladder of responsibility and income, and less than two years after coming to work at Wilkins FordNissan, at the ripe old age of 31, Tom proudly selected Duane to be the new service manager.

At first, the other employees resented Duane Waller. They thought he was too young and inexperienced to be the service manager, and grumbled that he got the job only because he was one of Tom Wilkins’ fellow “Jesus freaks.” But within a few months Duane’s energy and attention to detail finally won over most of his critics. Everyone except a few resentful coworkers agreed he was doing a great job. In addition to the long hours he put in at the dealership, Duane also found time to volunteer at the Faith Cathedral. He often joined in with groups that periodically protested in front of abortion clinics or adult bookstores. And having taken his cue from Tom Wilkins and Wilkins’ friend “Pit Bull” Peterson, Duane wasn’t shy about expressing his distain for the lax criminal justice system and the many lawbreakers who walked the streets with impunity. Tom Wilkins entered his office and shut the door behind him. He plopped into the large chair behind his desk and let out an audible sigh. “Man, that was awesome,” he whispered, envisioning Victor Strasser’s lifeless body staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t wait for my turn to do it again.” He could feel the adrenaline surging through his body. Unlike Rev. Morton, it was not a fearful, panicky, sweat-inducing adrenaline surge. For Tom Wilkins, his surge was filled with feelings of power and purpose. He had carried out his mission flawlessly, and now he basked in his victory. The phone on Tom’s desk indicated he had nine voice messages waiting. He didn’t care about any of those calls at the moment. Instead, he grabbed the phone and dialed Capt. Bradford’s cell number. “Yeah, it’s me,” Wilkins said. “All set. It’s done. No problem.”

He listened for a moment, then said, “Yeah, I told you, no problem. I did everything exactly as we planned, and there wasn’t a soul around. Nope, nobody saw me. OK, I’ll see you tonight.” Capt. Bradford knew there would be no instantaneous 9-1-1 call, as was the case with Jitterbug Rivera. If everything went as planned, the emergency call would not come in until around 6 p.m., when Marlene Strasser arrived home to find her brother’s dead body. Most likely, after getting over the initial shock, Marlene would conclude that someone had just done her a huge favor. Wilkins hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. A wave of satisfaction and pride swept over him. We are really doing something good, he thought. We are ridding the community of vermin, of immoral parasites. We are slowly but surely making this town safe again for normal, law-abiding citizens. Yeah, ol’ G.W. was right, if the legal system won’t do its job, then we have to it for them. We have to purge the evil from among us. Tom Wilkins jumped up from his chair and clapped his hands joyfully. What to do now, he wondered. Get some coffee? No, he was too wired for that right now. He wished it were already evening so he could celebrate his victory with the other three men. For a moment, he felt a strong urge to have a celebratory drink, but instantly the scolding face of Rev. Morton popped into his head. He murmured with a chuckle, “Don’t worry, G.W., I’m not gonna start drinking again.” Finally he decided the only useful thing he could do for the time being was go back to running his car dealership. He sat down and began to listen to his voice messages.

Chapter 19

Friday, November 12th, 6:05 p.m. Marlene Strasser steered her Audi into the driveway of her home. It had been a stressful day at the office, and all she wanted to do at this point was take the shoes off her aching feet, pour herself a large glass of wine, and think about what she might do for fun on Saturday. Anything would be fun, she thought, as long as it was something far away from her house and far away from her sex-offending pervert of a brother. As she walked in the dark toward the back door, she noticed that no lights were on in the house. He’s probably sleeping, she thought with disgust, enviously wishing she had the luxury to nap whenever she felt like it. Or else he’s locked himself in the bathroom again with his dirty magazines, doing… She couldn’t even bring herself to complete the thought, as the mental image of her lustful brother made her nauseous. For the millionth time she thought, What was I thinking when I agreed to let such a monster —brother or no brother—live under my roof? Marlene pulled open the screen door. In the darkness she did not notice the slice in the screen. She fumbled with her keys, then was surprised that the wooden door was not locked. She pushed it open and heard an odd noise, as if the door bumped against

pieces of a broken plate or coffee mug. She stepped across the threshold carefully and reach against the wall, searching for the light switch. When she flipped the switch, the entire kitchen was instantly bathed in bright light, which caused her to squint for a few moments as her eyes adjusted. Finally she was able to focus, and she saw the broken glass on the floor and the jagged hole in the small pane on the door. A wave of fear swept over her. A burglar! her mind screamed. What if he’s still in the house?! Fear urged her to run back to her car and drive away. Fear also paralyzed her. She stood motionless and listened for any sound that would indicate an intruder might still be in the house. The only thing she heard was her heart pounding in her chest. After a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity, Marlene’s fear subsided a bit. If someone broke into my house, he wouldn’t do it at this time of day, she thought. He’d do it when I was still at work. Gradually anger and curiosity replaced fear, and Marlene finally took a tentative step forward. As she completed the slow and careful journey across the kitchen, she called out in a stage whisper, “Victor? Victor? Where are you?” She stepped into the hallway that separated the kitchen from the living room. The light from the kitchen did not reach far enough to reveal what was in the living room. Marlene again reached out, her hand searching for the hall light switch. She flipped this switch, and now could clearly see the chaotic scene that was her living room. Her brother’s body lay motionless in the center of the floor, with dried streaks of blood on his head and face, originating from a single spot in the center of his forehead. Items from the bookshelves were scattered on the floor, and a couple of drawers were hanging open, their contents noticeably disheveled.

Marlene let out an involuntary scream. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” she yelled, as she scanned the horrific sight. She immediately turned to her left and ran down the hall and then up the stairs toward her bedroom. “My jewelry! My jewelry! Please, God, no! It’s not insured!!!”

#

It was almost midnight when two state troopers and a senior official from the coroner’s office zipped up a body bag and wheeled Victor Stasser’s corpse out the front door to a waiting van. Because of Victor’s infamous and high profile status, reporters and camera crews from the local TV stations swarmed the street in front of Marlene Strasser’s home, their floodlights illuminating the neighborhood as if it were high noon. At the sight of a body on a stretcher, a dozen cameramen scrambled forward for better angles while two dozen reporters hurriedly thrust microphones toward the cops demanding a comment. “Is that Victor Strasser?!” “Was he murdered?!” “Who killed him?!” “Do you have a suspect in custody?!” Yellow crime scene tape was ignored and trampled underfoot in the chaotic rush. “Damn leeches!” Capt. Ray Bradford muttered as he looked out the open front door from the living room. “We should arrest every last one of them,” he said to no one in particular. At Bradford’s words, Marlene Strasser strode across the living room and peered over his shoulder. “Oh hell!” she yelled. “They’re ruining my front yard. Can’t you do anything?” she said to Bradford.

Capt. Bradford swore under his breath, then replied, “Yes, ma’am.” He spied two West Hartford cops walking from the hallway toward the kitchen. “Wilson! McGee!” he called out, “Get over here.” The two young officers hustled to their captain. “Get those reporters off the property and back onto the street,” he ordered. Bradford and Marlene stepped aside so the cops could pass by. As they were about to exit, Bradford held up his hand; the cops paused. “Even though they deserve to be cracked over the head,” Bradford said quietly, “be gentle. There will be 20 cameras recording your every move. That’s the last thing we need, understand?” The cops nodded, then left the house. Exhausted and exasperated, Marlene swore out loud. Capt. Bradford said, “I’m very sorry, ma’am. I know you’re tired of answering all our questions, and I’m sure the death of your brother is devastating for you.” Marlene stared at the police captain. That’s the only good thing to come of this! she thought to herself. That, and the fact the jerks didn’t even find my good jewelry. After a lengthy pause, she realized glee would not be a good emotion to display at that moment, so she cleared her throat and said, “Well, uh, of course. Devastating. I feel so violated. Criminals breaking into my house, for God’s sake. Um, when will you be through? When will all these people get out of my home?” “We’re just about finished,” Bradford answered. “Let me check with my detectives. I think we have everything we need.” For the better part of five hours, beginning soon after Marlene made the 9-1-1 call, more than 40 public safety officials examined every square inch of the premises. Every surface that might contain a fingerprint was dusted; hundreds of bits of evidence were carefully tagged, bagged, and sealed; and thousands of photographs were snapped.

Capt. Bradford walked into the kitchen, where Det. Mike Cavanaugh had just finished giving instructions to three cops. “Cavanaugh,” Bradford said gruffly, “We done yet?” “Yeah, I think so,” Mike said. “We’re starting to pack up our stuff now.” “Good. Tomorrow morning, first thing,” Bradford said, “I want on my desk a list of all known B&E perps in the area, convicted or suspected.” “OK, Captain,” Mike said. “But just breaking and entering? I mean, it’s probably nothing more than a robbery gone bad. You know, they didn’t know he was here and then he startled them, and then they panicked and shot him, et cetera, et cetera. But—” “But what?” Bradford said, obviously agitated. “But Captain, this guy was real high-profile. You saw all those TV trucks out there, didn’t you? A lot of people wanted him dead. And many of those would’ve gladly volunteered to pull the trigger. Don’t you think we should widen the scope of our investigation, at least at first, until we rule out that it was nothing more than a random break-in gone bad?” “Look, Cavanaugh,” the captain growled through clenched teeth, his nose now mere inches from Mike’s nose, “I’m getting sick and tired of your insubordination crap! I give the orders around here, understand?!” Mike nodded. “And your job is to obey my orders, nothing more, nothing less. This is obviously a break-in gone bad. And that’s the way—the only way—we’re gonna investigate it. Do I make myself clear?” Mike nodded again. He weakly added, “Yes sir.”

“Good,” Bradford said. He turned and began to walk away. “First thing! On my desk!” he shouted without turning back. “Oh my God,” Mike whispered, shaking his head. “That man is truly nuts.” He looked up and noticed five young, suddenly self-conscious cops. Each quickly turned away in an attempt not to make eye-contact. They were embarrassed about what they had just witnessed. The combination of humiliation and bewilderment, mixed with a fair amount of exhaustion, caused Mike to do what he usually did in tense situations. He laughed out loud. The five cops turned their heads back toward him and smiled. Mike shrugged his shoulders, smiled at them, and said, “Welcome to the funny farm, fellas.”

Chapter 20

Saturday, November 13th, 9:20 a.m. Det. Mike Cavanaugh exited a large conference room inside the West Hartford Police Department headquarters building. He shook his head in frustration and walked back to his cubicle. Mike had not spoken during the raucous half-hour meeting. He just sat and listened as the upper brass of the WHPD, including the department’s chief and Capt. Bradford, haggled with state police brass over what should be included in a prepared statement to be released to the press. Bradford and the chief argued that the statement should be simple and clear: the crime was being treated as a break-in gone awry, and the fact the victim was a notorious convicted sex offender was purely coincidental. The state police argued the statement had to be more broad this soon after the killing, and should declare no conclusions had been drawn yet and all possibilities were being investigated. However, that would just encourage more of those insane vigilante rumors, Bradford counter-argued. The department had enough problems simply trying to do its job without the added burden of hysterical conspiracy theories and a media frenzy.

Finally it was agreed the official statement would emphasize that law enforcement was fairly certain the crime had been a botched break-in, with the victim’s notoriety a coincidence, but all avenues and all possibilities were still being investigated. The statement would emphatically declare there was no evidence a so-called vigilante was operating in West Hartford. Also included would be a request that the media cease encouraging such irresponsible talk. Det. Mike sat down at his messy desk in his messy cubical. Personally, he agreed with Capt. Bradford: all this talk about vigilantes was bunk. The town has merely experienced an unexpected streak of violent crime. Improbable, but unfortunately nowadays, not impossible. But he was convinced the official statement would not have the desired effect. It would instead fan wild speculation. The way the media blends news and entertainment these days, he thought, this is just too juicy. He made a bet with himself that one of the local news stations would include a clip from a Charles Bronson movie before the day was over. Although Mike agreed with Bradford, he was puzzled by the captain’s behavior. Not his rude and intimidating manner, of course. That was normal for the captain. It was instead his heavy-handed insistence that only the botched burglary theory was to be investigated. That was not like Bradford. If nothing else, he had always been a thorough law enforcement professional, chasing down every lead, analyzing every clue, not drawing any conclusions until all other possibilities were systematically exhausted. Speaking of exhausted, Mike thought, maybe that’s what’s going on. Maybe the Captain is as dog-tired as I am. Maybe he just wants to get this thing over with as soon as possible, and so he decided to focus on the most likely scenario.

Mike heard odd noises coming from outside the building, muffled by the sealed plate glass windows. He stood up and looked over his cubicle wall. Through the window he saw a herd of media people swarming toward the front entrance of the building. He could only see part of the crowd, but by the way they were jostling for position and pointing their cameras, Mike knew the state police spokesman was about to read the official statement while standing at the top of the front steps. State Police Lieutenant Van Paulson was a regular on the local news broadcasts. His face was on TV more often, it seemed, than the President of the United States. Whenever there was any type of crime or accident anywhere in Connecticut, from a car crash on Interstate-84 in Vernon to a shooting in Bridgeport, from a vandalized school bus in Torrington to a missing boater on Long Island Sound, Lt. Paulson was the man who presented the official statement to the media. Sometimes he would simply read from a prepared text, then add, “I cannot say anything further at this time due to the ongoing investigation,” and walk away. Other times he would answer questions from the reporters. Mike hoped he would not answer questions. He knew most of the questions would be about vigilantes, and he knew the more Lt. Paulson denied it, the more the media would talk about. Det. Mike sat back down and looked at the piles of paperwork on his desk. Where to start? he thought glumly. After a few minutes he heard a muffled roar of shouting voices from outside. Uh oh, they’re asking questions now. There was silence, then another roar. Silence, then a roar. Mike shook his head. He didn’t walk away. I bet he’s denying there’s a vigilante, and the more he denies it, the more they ask about it. That

Charlie Bronson clip will be on the air before noon! he thought, revising the terms of the wager with himself. Mike leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. Suddenly he paused, then laughed out loud. That would’ve been perfect! he thought. Instead of Paulson, we should’ve sent Capt. Bradford out to give the statement. He would’ve growled at those reporters and said, “The next person who asks about a vigilante gets shot, understand?!” Mike smiled, then added to himself, And he would’ve meant it, too. The exhausted detective cleared some space in the middle of his desk. He opened a folder that had been placed there by an officer an hour earlier. It was a list of all people in the region who had been either suspected of breaking into homes or convicted of that particular crime. The list did not include anyone currently incarcerated. “Wow,” Mike said out loud. “Look at the size of this list. Every single one of these bums is walking the streets free right now. No wonder the world is such a mess.” Mike was certain there was no vigilantes at work in his community, but if there had been, a part of him would have sympathized. He often dwelled on how conditions had changed so drastically in the years since he first became a cop. We are fighting a losing battle, he thought to himself on more than one occasion, especially after he had had a few beers and was feeling sorry for himself. Mike had lost count of the number of times he and his fellow officers had worked their butts off to make sure the police department had an ironclad case against a truly violent and anti-social criminal, only to see some slick lawyer either get the defendant off on a technicality or plea-bargain down to “time served.” The few times low-life creeps actually laughed in Mike’s face while waltzing out of the courtroom infuriated him the

most. At those moments his Irish temper caused his face to turn bright red, and no doubt caused his blood pressure to sky-rocket. Mike remembers one time glancing down at the weapon in the holster on his belt, and feeling his right hand flinch with the urge to grab the pistol and take justice into his own hands. The detective shook his head at the mere remembrance of that fleeting but powerful urge. I can understand why someone might be tempted, he thought. But as Danny taught me, that’s nothing more than playing God, and that is always bad news in the long run. Mike picked up a pencil and started marking the names on the list into groups of ten. After a few moments, he looked up and stared off in the distance. But it sure would feel good in the short run, he added, concluding his train of thought. Then he whispered to himself, “OK, concentrate, pal.” Looking at the list again, Mike realized he would need at least six of his own officers, plus a lot help from neighboring departments, to track down all the names. He leaned back and turned slightly, reaching with his left hand to turn on a small radio on top of a short filing cabinet. The first voice he heard was that of Pit Bull Peterson, who was concluding his Saturday morning broadcast. “Well, it’s been a wild morning, hasn’t it, folks? We’ve had a lively discussion during these past four hours, and the only thing you’ve wanted to talk about is the sensational murder in West Hartford. It seems many of you are convinced this is the work of a vigilante. Hmm, very interesting, very interesting indeed.” Detective Mike looked at the radio and shook his head. “Oh great, I knew this would happen.”

On the other side of town, another man sat at his desk in his office, looked at a radio, and also shook his head. “Damn fool,” Tom Wilkins muttered. “Pit Bull thinks our plan is foolproof, huh? Well, with a fool like him it sure as hell ain’t.”

Chapter 21

Monday, November 15th, 9:45 a.m. The desk of Det. Mike Cavanaugh had become even messier than he could have imagined possible. He sat behind the piles of clutter and listened as a rookie patrolman reviewed a list of breaking and entering suspects. Eight of the 10 names on the patrolman’s list were accounted for: two had been in custody in neighboring towns on unrelated charges at the time of Victor Strasser’s murder, while six had reasonable alibis, in the form of witnesses who vouched for their whereabouts during the hours when Victor most likely was shot. Only two still needed to be tracked down, and Mike encouraged the young officer to keep at it. As the officer turned to leave, Mike said, “Tell Vibbs to come see me.” Mike rubbed his temples and noted the double dose of Tylenol and black coffee were having no effect on his pounding headache. What I need, he thought, is to go on vacation and sleep for a week, then immediately go on another vacation so I can take a real vacation. But he knew there would be no vacation anytime soon, not as long as people were getting shot in the head in his town. He had worked every single day since Jitterbug Rivera was gunned

down, and virtually around-the-clock since Marlene Strasser made her 9-1-1 call sixtythree hours earlier. A few minutes later Sergeant Rich Vibberts poked his head through the doorway of Mike’s cubicle. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he said. “Yeah Vibbs, come in.” Vibberts was one of the few officers not given a list of breaking and entering suspects to track down. He had been assigned to interview Marlene Strasser’s neighbors, to determine if anyone had seen or heard anything that might help the investigation. Det. Cavanaugh was getting frustrated, and not just because of his acute sleep deprivation and headache. Three stunning murders in a span of three weeks, and the West Hartford PD had not a single suspect yet. A couple of local punks, known to be low level cocaine dealers, at first were thought to be prime suspects in the shooting of Eddie Dykes. But it quickly became clear they were nowhere near the crime scene that particular evening. Since then the PD had come up empty. Not surprisingly, pressure from the public, the media, and grandstanding politicians continued to mount, making it even more difficult for the cops to do their job. The swirling rumors about mysterious vigilantes didn’t help either. “So what’d you find out?” Mike asked. “Anything interesting?” “Not really,” Vibberts answered. “That’s a really quiet neighborhood. Most of the people were at work all day. And because the houses are so spread out from one another, and set back from the road, the ones who were home didn’t really see anything.” The sergeant read from a notebook, reciting the names of people he interviewed so far, and summarized his findings after each name with quick phrases, such as, “Saw

nothing,” “Sleeping all day,” “Was in the basement doing laundry,” “Elderly and deaf— wouldn’t’ve heard anything if a bomb went off next door,” etc. Towards the end of his list, Vibberts reported, “Mrs. Benedict—saw and heard nothing—told me she took her dog for a walk before lunch and saw a cable company van parked in front of the Feinberg house, Strasser’s next door neighbor.” “Really?” Det. Mike said, looking up. “Did you check it out? Maybe the cable guy saw something.” “Yeah, I got a call into Comcast. Haven’t heard back yet.” “OK,” Mike said. “Next.” Vibberts continued. “Mr. Aronson—really old guy—saw nothing—watched TV all day, with the sound turned up as loud as possible.” Vibberts smiled and shook his head. Just then Capt. Bradford walked into Det. Cavanaugh’s cubicle. “Where do we stand?” he asked gruffly. “Any of the B&E scum look promising?” “Um, nothing yet, sir,” Mike said, as he sat up straight in his chair, trying to appear more alert and focused than he really felt. “We still have a few more on our list to track down. The men are really working hard to get through the whole list.” “All right, keep me posted,” Bradford said. “Vibbs here has been checking out the neighborhood,” Mike added without being asked. “Nothing so far, except one neighbor saw a cable TV truck parked near the Strasser house. We’re gonna check to see if—” “Nah, don’t bother,” Bradford interrupted. The other two cops stared at the captain, their furrowed brows silently asking the question, Why not?

Bradford paused. His lips were pursed. Then he said, “Um, no need to. McGee already talked to the guy. Saw nothing. Wasn’t any help to us.” “Oh, good,” Mike said with relief. “One less guy to track down.” “Keep me posted, understand?” Bradford said. Then he turned and walked out. “Yes sir,” Mike said a bit flippantly, knowing the captain was already far out of earshot, “We will keep you posted. Sir.” He looked at the sergeant, shook his head, and said, “OK Vibbs, let me know if anything turns up.” The sergeant exited the cubicle, and Det. Cavanaugh began organizing small, neat stacks of file folders and other papers, trying to bring some order to the chaos. They’re gonna come in one morning and find me dead in here, he thought, crushed to death under a mountain of file folders that fell on top of me. About ten minutes later, Sergeant Vibberts returned. “Sir, you got a minute?” he said quietly as he entered the cubicle again. “Sure, what’s up?” “Well, uh,” the sergeant began, “Comcast returned my call. The service dispatcher. Said they were never at the Feinberg house on Friday. They didn’t have any appointments scheduled anywhere on that street.” “Really?” Mike said, rubbing his hand on his chin. “Do they keep separate records? You know, service calls versus new installations?” he asked. “I asked him,” came the reply. “The guy checked all the jobs they did on Friday. Nothing.” “Then who did McGee talk to?” Mike asked the wall quietly, knowing the sergeant had no answer. “Weird.”

“He accounted for all his vehicles,” Vibberts continued. “They were all busy on Friday—but not at the Feinbergs’ house. I dunno, maybe a truck stopped there but the guy just forgot to fill out his paperwork. Oh, all the trucks were busy except for one,” he corrected himself. “One van was in the shop for service, he told me.” Mike continued to gaze at the wall, trying to think. “Thanks, Vibbs,” he said finally. “Sure,” Vibberts said as he turned. Then he stopped and looked back. “Oh, one other thing. The Feinbergs are in Europe. I checked. They’ve been gone three weeks now, and aren’t due home till Thanksgiving.” Mike turned and looked at him, even more puzzled. The sergeant asked, “Who has the cable guy come to your house, with or without paperwork, when you’re not even home?” Mike shrugged. “Weird,” he said again. “Really weird.” “Brake job,” the sergeant offered. “Huh?” Mike grunted. “I’m trying to remember everything the Comcast guy just told me,” Vibberts said, somewhat defensively. “Um, the van that was in for service had a brake job. Wilkins Ford. That’s everything he told me, sir.” Mike nodded, signaling that the sergeant was dismissed. As he nodded, his eyes grew wide. “Damn!” he muttered under his breath. “Damn, damn, damn!” The dealer plate! he scolded himself silently in his head. My buddy at DMV! Wilkins Ford! I totally forgot to check it out! “Damn!” he muttered one more time.

Quickly he began to sort through file folders, looking for one thin file that contained exactly one sheet of paper. On that sheet of paper was written information provided by his friend at the Department of Motor Vehicles, along with the number of a dealer plate that may or may not have been—according to some anonymous kid who spoke to his brother, the priest—affixed to the back bumper of the car driven by the person who gunned down Jitterbug Rivera. “Damn,” Mike muttered again, this time a bit louder. “This always happens,” he grumbled. “When my office is a pig sty, I know where everything is. As soon as I clean up a little, I can’t find anything!” He methodically deconstructed the neat piles of folders he had just built, frantically looking in the thin ones and ignoring the thick ones. Finally he exclaimed, “Ah ha!” He closed the manila folder he held tightly in his hands, after scanning the single piece of yellow lined paper it contained. He clutched the folder to his chest with his right hand and reached for the jacket on a hook with his left. He quickly exited the cubicle, hop-scotching past file folders scattered on the floor. Mike Cavanaugh’s cubicle now truly looked like an explosion in a Staples store.

Chapter 22

Monday, November 15th, 11:15 a.m. The unmarked Ford Crown Victoria pulled around the back of the Service Department of Wilkins Ford and parked in front of one of the four closed roll-up doors. Det. Mike Cavanaugh left the keys in the car and walked into the building through the customer entrance door. Duane Waller stood behind the service counter talking on the phone. Two lines blinked on-hold waiting for Duane to pick up, while two customers stood at the counter rather impatiently, waiting to speak to the young service manager. Mike stood off to the side, quietly waiting his turn to speak to Duane and find out whether the busy shop might be able to squeeze him in for an overdue oil change. Tom Wilkins not only sold most of the vehicles owned by the West Hartford P.D., he also had an exclusive service contract with the department. Mike had been here many times before over the years with his various department-issued Crown Vics for oil changes, brakes, tune ups, tires, etc. While he waited, he scanned the bustling service area. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, he was just looking around observantly, the way he was trained many years earlier to look around, the way he and most other cops instinctively scanned a

room, whether on duty or not. Mike looked at people—what were they doing, who was talking to whom, and could he see their hands or not? He looked at the various objects within view—was anything dangerous or a potential weapon? He looked at sight lines, exit paths, lighting, barriers, doorways, and all the other things most civilians would never even notice. Over the years Mike had developed a pretty good cop’s instinct. He could sense when a person was “suspicious,” even when that person wasn’t overtly acting suspicious. Of course, once in a while his “sixth sense” caused him to slap handcuffs on a completely innocent person, but more often than not he was able to pluck a perpetrator out of a crowd after observing something barely detectable, a glance, a grimace, a clenched fist, or hands thrust into pockets a little too quickly. Mike wasn’t scanning the service area in the hopes of plucking a perp. Frankly, he didn’t know what he was hoping to do. But the name “Wilkins Ford” has surfaced twice now, and his “sixth sense” told him it was unusual enough that it needed to be checked out. Duane was making slow but steady headway with his waiting customers. There was only one phone line blinking and only one person standing at the counter. Mike decided to say hi to Pepe Colon, a longtime mechanic at Wilkins, who was in the middle of installing a new starter motor in a red pickup truck. “Pepe!” Mike called out, as he walked past a sign that read, “Authorized personnel only beyond this point.” Pepe looked up and immediately recognized Mike. “Hey boss!” he yelled back with a big, crooked smile. Pepe didn’t know Mike’s name or rank, but he knew the man in civilian clothes was one of West Hartford’s finest. Pepe was familiar with many cops in the greater Hartford area. He had been in and out of trouble as a teen. By the time he

reached his 30s he decided he was getting too old to be a street punk, so he went straight. He enrolled in night school and learned automotive maintenance. He bounced around at a few dealerships before settling in at Wilkins Ford ten years earlier, where he was now known as an above average and dependable mechanic. In his mid-40s now, Pepe Colon was wiry, with strong forearms, and a gapped-tooth smile that made him look closer to 60. Because of his connections from he prior way of life—including many relatives and former girlfriends—Pepe often supplemented his income by providing useful information to the cops. “What’s up, boss?” Pepe asked when Mike came along side the red pick up truck. “You tryin’ to find someone, maybe?” he added, hoping one of the many names or addressed in his head might be worth a quick hundred bucks cash. “Nah, I’m just here for an oil change,” Mike said. Pepe shrugged. “You guys do the work on all our cars, you know,” Mike offered. “Yeah, and you cops never bring ‘em in on time!” Pepe exclaimed. “Half the time we’re draining sludge out of the crankcase. You guys are killing those poor cars. You drive ‘em like you don’t own ‘em!” Now it was Mike’s turn to shrug. Well, we don’t own them, he thought. Then he said, “I guess you’re right. But who has time nowadays for service appointments?” He paused and then changed the subject. “So Pepe, you guys have a bunch of fleet maintenance accounts, not just with the PD, right?” Pepe thought for a moment as he tightened one of the bolts on the starter motor. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “But nothing real big, like you guys.”

“Do you do maintenance for Comcast, you know, the cable TV company, their service trucks?” the detective asked. “Yeah, sometimes,” Pepe replied. “Not all the time. They spread out the work to a few different shops.” “Did you have one of their vans in for service last week?” Pepe stopped tightening the bolt and stood up straight. “Um, good question, lemme think.” After a few moments he said, “Yeah, I think you’re right. I didn’t work on it, but I’m pretty sure one of their vans was here for a few days last week.” “When you’re working on a vehicle,” Mike asked, “who has access to the keys?” “Well, we do,” Pepe answered, as if he had been asked the dumbest question in the world. “We need to start the engine to make sure we fixed it right. And then how we ‘spose to drive it outside to make room for the next car?” he asked sarcastically. Mike shook his head and smiled. “I know, I know. That’s not what I meant. After you finish working on a car, and after you drive it outside, then who has access to the keys?” “Oh, well then we bring the keys back in, and ‘Brown Nose’ puts ‘em on the big board until the customer comes to pick up the car.” “Brown Nose?” Mike asked. “Him, over there,” Pepe nodded his head toward the service counter. “Doowayne-nee, the teacher’s pet. I mean, the owner’s pet. Once we’re done with a job, he’s the only one who can get the keys.” “What’s the matter, you don’t like him?” Mike asked.

“Ahh, I dunno,” Pepe muttered. “He’s OK, I guess. It’s just that he’s one of Mr. Wilkins’ churchy boys. You know, you go to church with the boss and you get promoted, even if you’re too young or you don’t know what the hell you’re doing.” “He doesn’t know what he’s doing?” Mike said. “Ahh, I dunno,” Pepe said with frustration. “He’s not too bad—now. He’s just a little too goody-goody for my—” Pepe stopped in mid sentence and stared past Mike. A concerned voice said, “Excuse me, sir. You’re not allowed over here.” Mike turned. It was Duane. Pepe spoke first. “He’s OK, Duane. He’s a cop.” Duane looked at Pepe sternly, as if to say, So what? “Hey, I’m sorry,” Mike said very apologetically. “I was just saying hi to my old friend here. But I’m glad you’re off the phone. I was hoping you might be able to sneak me in and do an oil change on my cruiser. It’s way overdue.” “See, what’d I tell you?” Pepe said with a laugh. “Sludge. It bet’s it’s completely sludge.” Then he added, “Hey Duane, I’ll work through lunch and do it, if you want.” Mike waved fondly at Pepe and walked back to the service counter with Duane. Five minutes later, after determining the oil change could be done rather quickly— because of Pepe’s offer—Duane got swamped with another wave of phone calls. Mike drifted over to Pepe’s work area again. “Hey, thanks,” he said. “I appreciate you giving up your lunch.” “I’ll just eat at 12:30, man,” Pepe said. “No big deal.” “Another question for you,” Mike said. Pepe shook his head and smiled. “Lot’s of questions, amigo, but no dinero.”

Mike groaned and reached for his wallet. He pulled out two 20-dollar bills, which left behind exactly four singles. “Man, I’m broke,” Mike said. “This is all I got…amigo.” Pepe quickly shoved the bills in his pocket. “OK, shoot.” “Well, I was wondering,” Mike began. “You guys have a lot of dealer plates around here. I mean, up front, the sales guys, they have those dealer plates with magnets they slap on a car so a customer can take a test drive, right?” “Yeah, of course,” Pepe said. “They got lots of ‘em up front.” “OK, my question is, do you know if there are any…” Mike paused, trying to find the right word, “…any secret plates? I mean, maybe an old dealer plate that’s not officially registered with the state anymore, so no one would know it came from this business?” Pepe gazed hard at Mike. “Why do you ask…amigo?” “Hey, I’m tapped out. I already gave you everything I have, man. So, have you ever heard about anything like that or not?” Pepe glanced around to see if anyone was nearby. Duane was still juggling phone calls. “Well,” he began slowly, “I’ve heard rumors—that’s all, really. But I’ve heard there might be a couple of old dealer plates kicking around. Plates that would never show up on any computer. I’ve never seen one, but boy, I know a lot of people who would pay a fortune to get their hands on one.” “I’m sure,” Mike said. “If they exist,” Pepe said, “then only the owner, Mr. Wilkins, would know where they are. Or the owner’s pet,” he added with a sneer. “Well, thanks for the info,” Mike said. “Do me one more favor, please?”

“Oh man,” Pepe said with a grin, “I am such a cheap date.” “Yeah, right,” Mike groaned again. “Do me a favor: keep you eyes open for a particular plate.” He fumbled for a small notebook in his shirt pocket. “Here’s the number: ‘3-1-3-5-7’.” He tore the small sheet from the pad and handed it to the wiry mechanic. “This sounds serious, man,” Pepe said. Then he looked up with his big picket fence smile, “Is Duane in trouble?” he asked hopefully. “No!” Mike said emphatically. “It’s probably nothing. But just keep your eyes open, and I’ll make it worth your while, OK?” “Now you’re talking, boss,” Pepe said. “And of course,” Mike said, lowering his voice for emphasis, “You don’t say anything to anyone about this, comprendo?” “It’s comprende, mi gringo amigo,” Pepe corrected with a laugh. “I got it, boss. You know me—I never talk.” Mike smiled. Then he turned and walked away. Yeah, right, he thought. You never talk? You make more money each year than I do just by running your mouth, mi amigo! He glanced at his watch and felt his stomach growl. Maybe he could get something to eat from the vending machine in the customer waiting area. He waved to Duane as he walked by. That Duane kid seems like he’s doing a decent job, he thought as he watched the beleaguered service manager juggle phone calls. Pepe’s just jealous, I guess.

Chapter 23

Tuesday, November 16th, 9:55 a.m. Sergeant Rich Vibberts knocked on the edge of Det. Mike Cavanaugh’s cubicle. “Got a minute?” he asked. “Sure, Vibbs. What’s up?” Mike replied without looking up from his messy desk. “I ran a check on that Waller guy, like you asked. Got a few interesting items.” “OK,” Mike said as he leaned back in his chair. “So what’s interesting about Mr. Doo-wayne-nee Waller?” The sergeant gave Mike a puzzled look at the way he pronounced the name. Then he said, “Well, seems he was pretty messed up as a kid.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket and began to read. “Dropped out of high school, arrested a few times for drugs, lived on the street for a while. But then in his mid-20s he turned it all around. Got clean and sober, joined a church, steady employment, been working real hard ever since.” “Hmm, that’s a nice story,” Mike said. “I wish more kids would turn their lives around like that. What makes it interesting?” “In the past few years, Waller has been arrested three times,” Vibberts answered. “For what?” Mike asked, tilting his head with curiosity.

“Creating a disturbance. Harassment. Resisting an officer.” Vibberts put the notebook back in his pocket and said, “It seems he is now one of those born-again fanatics who protests at abortion clinics and porn shops and same-sex marriage rallies. When the cops tell the protesters to move on, Waller digs in his heels, even if it means getting busted.” “Oh, I see,” Mike said slowly, pondering what it could mean. “Also,” Vibberts continued, “he likes to post his views on a bunch of right-wing blog sites. He was easy to track down. He doesn’t use a false name. And I gotta tell you, he’s got some pretty strong opinions about the moral state of our nation.” “Hmm, so do I,” Mike grunted. “What kind of opinions?” “Well, he’s convinced the deviants and criminals and godless hordes are now running the county—and ruining the country in the process.” Mike grunted again. “You and I kinda think that way too sometimes, don’t we, Vibbs?” The sergeant smiled, then continued. “Anyway, Waller also wrote that our entire American way of life is going down the toilet, and we’re destined to collapse in a heap unless a whole lot of immoral people are taken off the streets in a hurry.” “‘Taken off the streets’?” Mike asked. “Did he say exactly…how?” “Well, he didn’t come right out and threaten violence, if that’s what you mean,” Vibberts said. “But he did post long essays—you might call them rants—about the coming chaos, and the 2nd Amendment, and the need for godly people to stockpile canned food and guns. General stuff like that, but nothing real specific. A little wackedout, for sure, but no direct threats against anyone. What are you thinking, sir?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking, Vibbs,” Mike answered with a sigh. “I’m thinking that maybe I’ve been listening to the radio too much, and all that talk about ‘righteous vigilantes’ who gun down the bad guys. I think all those loudmouths on the radio are making me lose my focus. I should be tracking down the thugs who shot other thugs, but instead I’m thinking about who might fit a so-called vigilante profile.” “Are you thinking Waller might fit the profile?” Vibberts asked quietly. Mike slowly shook his head, then shrugged. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Richie,” he said. “Well, I guess I have to pass this info up the chain-of-command. Is Capt. Bradford in?” “Yeah, he should be in his office now. I saw him come out of a meeting with the State Police brass a few minutes ago, and he looked pretty steamed.” “Oh good,” Mike said with a mock smile as he stood up. “Then he’ll be in his typical cheery mood.” The sergeant laughed out loud, then stepped back to let the lieutenant exit the cubicle. When Mike walked past, Vibberts grabbed him by the shoulder and as seriously as possible said in a low, urgent voice, “Good luck. And good-bye.” Unable to hold his serious expression for more than a second, he blurted out a chuckle. In response, Mike laughed and scowled at the same time, then pantomimed slapping Vibberts on the side of the head. “Jeez, you young guys,” he said, also trying to be serious but failing. “Show a little respect once in a while.” Cracking small jokes about Capt. Bradford’s surly personality was one of the few morale boosters for the rank-and-file members of the force. Mike was torn between being one of the guys and being part of management. He knew it was helpful to let the young

cops occasionally express frustration about their unreasonable captain, but he never wanted them to lose sight of the chain-of-command and the need to show respect and follow orders. It was a fine line Mike walked, and he walked it fairly well, which earned him the respect of the younger cops. Before he finished rapping three quick knocks on the door, Det. Mike heard a loud, “What?” come from inside Capt. Bradford’s office. “It’s Cavanaugh,” Mike said. “I’ve got the latest updates on the investigation.” “Come in,” Bradford mutter. Mike was correct; the captain was in an especially foul mood—even for him. It was becoming more and more stressful for the man to juggle his polar-opposite missions. One the one hand, Bradford was overseeing three separate murder investigations. The State Police, not to mention the media and local community, were exerting enormous pressure to solve the crimes quickly. On the other hand, Bradford was the mastermind and architect of all three killings, so solving the crimes obviously was the last thing he really wanted to see happen. Capt. Bradford also was none too happy that wild speculation was swirling throughout the community that the murders were actually the work of a righteous vigilante. And that “loud-mouth idiot,” Bradford’s personal pet name for his fellow conspirator, Pit Bull Peterson, was doing a lot of the speculating and swirling. From the start Bradford had wanted the work of the secret group to appear as though criminals were gunning each other down. Besides permanently removing from society some truly bad apples, Bradford calculated the rise in violent crime would produce outrage in the community. Law-abiding citizens no longer would turn a blind eye and tolerate the less-than-noble behavior of their neighbors and co-workers, and begin

cooperating with law enforcement to identify the lowlife creeps who were unraveling the fabric of civilized society. The police captain was convinced half the problem was the fact that honest citizens, although not law-breakers themselves, were too apathetic. (The other half of the problem, in Bradford’s view, was the army of bleeding-heart lawyers and judges who coddled punks instead of cracking them over the head once in a while.) Unlike bygone generations, people nowadays no longer felt it was their place to insist on decent behavior by other citizens. If the killings could produce enough righteous anger in the community, Bradford was certain the troublemakers would be forced to shape up or leave town, improving the quality of life for everyone either way. Bradford was very concerned the talk of vigilantes surfaced so quickly. That was the last thing he wanted. He didn’t mind arguing that the vigilante idea was ridiculous. Most of the other cops he was working with agreed it was a very unlikely scenario, with the murders most certainly committed by drug dealers or other career criminals. What Bradford did mind, and what was fraying his nerves, was his task of squelching any investigation of the vigilante angle. He adamantly refused to allocate any PD resources, even though a senior official with the State Police offered assistance. Bradford had insisted his men were overworked already and spread too thin for such a wild goose chase—things he never seemed too concerned about in the past. He had even argued his case from a budgetary and “spending the tax-payers’ money wisely” perspective. Some of his arguments and excuses were beginning to sound ridiculous, even to himself. The captain was starting to wonder if the secret group might have to suspend operations for a while if the vigilante rumors persisted.

Mike Cavanaugh briefed his captain on the current status of the three separate murder investigations. It took over five minutes for Mike to summarize the activities and findings of the various police officers working on the cases, but the bottom line was the department was not any closer to an arrest. They didn’t even have any suspects. At the conclusion of Mike’s summary, Capt. Bradford nodded and waved his hand. Mike was dismissed. Before turning to leave the office, he paused. He really didn’t want to bring up the subject, but he thought he had to. He cleared his throat with a forced cough, then said, “Um, Captain, there’s one other thing.” Bradford looked up and peered icily into Mike’s eyes. “What?” he said in a tone of voice that made Mike gulp involuntarily. “Well, sir,” Mike began, “I know you don’t want to hear this, and I agree with you one-hundred percent. But I’m afraid all this talk—all this stupid talk—about a, a vigilante, is not gonna go away. So I know it’s a total waste of time…” Mike spoke quickly, trying desperately to convince the captain that he agreed with his point of view, “…but how about if I put together a preliminary outline of a vigilante profile?” Bradford face turned red as he clenched his teeth. He looked like he was about to explode. Mike kept talking before the captain could say anything. “I mean, just a simple little outline: young, male, loner, anti-government fanatic, you know, like a Timothy McVeigh, or something. It wouldn’t be anything official or very detailed—and I wouldn’t divert any department resources—but just something so we could tell the Staties and media and the politicians that we’re investigating every possibility.”

Bradford took a deep breath. His face regained it’s normal color. He pursed his lips and leaned back slightly as he thought. Mike felt a strong urge to turn and run before a geyser of anger spewed in his direction. Bradford wasn’t sure what a typical vigilante profile might look like. He had never given that any thought. But the brief description offered by Cavanaugh did not in any way describe him or his three other middle-aged co-conspirators. Finally he said quietly, “OK, maybe that’s not a bad idea. Just a brief outline, the traits you just listed. Maybe that will keep those jerks off our backs for a while.” The captain waved his hand again, and this time Mike took the cue and exited quickly. As he walked back to his cubicle, Mike was delighted and stunned that Capt. Bradford had actually agree with him. He didn’t want to press his luck by mentioning Duane Waller, but he figured he could bring that up later on. While Mike walked down the hallway, Capt. Bradford sat at his desk, deep in thought. Maybe we can use this to our advantage after all, he said to himself. Then what passed for a smile spread across his lips.

Chapter 24

Wednesday, November 17th, 8:40 a.m. Fr. Dan Cavanaugh entered the St. Lawrence Rectory through the kitchen door. He had just finished celebrating morning Mass, and the two cups of coffee he drank before Mass didn’t seem to wake him up much. He tossed his jacket onto a chair and went over to the coffee maker on the counter by the sink. About a cup-and-a-half of old, cold coffee sat in the glass pot. That stuff should be able to peel paint by now, he thought, so if I heat it up in the microwave, it ought to wake me up just fine—along with peeling the lining of my stomach. The coffee probably wouldn’t taste very good, but Fr. Dan figured speed was more important than quality. He poured the cold coffee into a ceramic mug, then put it in the microwave for 60 seconds. While he watched the mug rotate inside the microwave, he reached over to a clock radio, turned it on and slid the little wheel until a station came in clearly. “Thank you, Jennifer,” a voice intoned from the radio. “Let’s hope they clear that accident near exit 48 as soon as possible. It’s now seventeen minutes before nine o’clock. The Channel 3 Pinpoint Weather forecast calls for partly cloudy skies today with a high only in the upper 30s. I think winter is just around the corner, folks. OK, after these words from our

sponsors, we’ll have open lines until the top of the hour. I want to hear from you! Is this the work of a vigilante, or not?!” At the exact same time the microwave bell dinged, the front door of the Rectory rang. Fr. Dan paused for a moment in confusion, wondering why the microwave bell sounded so odd. Then he realize what happened, laughed to himself, and walked out of the kitchen toward the front door. He didn’t bother looking through the peep hole first, and swung the door open. On the top step stood Anna Rivera, looking gorgeous in a tight, form-fitting wool jacket. “Hi Father,” she said. “Can I come in.” “Sure, Anna,” Dan replied. He stepped aside to let her pass. As she walked into the building, he could see through the open door that a few of the senior citizen ladies who had just attended morning Mass were standing on the sidewalk nearby. The ladies were looking directly at Fr. Dan. He offered an embarrassed smile and nodded. The ladies did not, as far as Fr. Dan could tell, return his smile. If anything, they seemed to scowl. Or maybe he just imagined that. The priest softly muttered, “Oh brother,” and closed the door. After pushing the door closed, Fr. Dan turned and said, “Can I take your co—?” His mouth froze, while his eyes gazed at Anna, who arched her back briefly as she slipped her jacket from her shoulders. Under the jacket she wore a thin cotton sweater, which, when she arched her back, appeared to be two sizes too small. “Yes, thank you. Here’s my coat,” she said, slipping her arms from the jacket and holding it out. Fr. Dan tentatively grabbed the jacket, as if her were afraid to get too close

—which in fact he was. He could feel his face blush, and he hoped she did not think he had been staring—which in fact he had been. Fr. Dan fumbled with the jacket, putting in on a hanger inside a small closet. “So, um, can I offer you some coffee?” he said. “Oh yes, thank you,” she answered. “But only if it’s already made. Don’t go to any trouble.” “Well, I have a little bit here,” he said as they walked toward the kitchen, “but it’s already been cooked twice, and it’s about ten years old, and uh, I’ll just make a fresh batch. It’s no trouble.” Even though the priest had made so many pots of coffee over the years he could do it in his sleep—which he often did, it seemed—the process of getting a clean filter, scooping in the coffee, and filling the pot with fresh water from the sink now seemed like a task he had never attempted before. Anna had the ability to fluster most men, and Fr. Dan was no exception. As the coffee maker finally began to gurgle, Fr. Dan motioned for Anna to sit in a chair at the kitchen table. She did, and he remained standing by the sink. “So, uh, what’s on your mind?” he asked. “I was wondering if you’ve heard anything from you brother, the cop, about what Jamal told us,” she said. “You know, that’s a good question,” Fr. Dan said. He didn’t admit that he had forgotten all about it, nor was he aware that he was the second Cavanaugh brother to let the matter completely slip his mind. “If my brother was able to find out anything, he must’ve done it by now. It’s been over a week. I’ll give him a call today, OK?”

“That would be fine,” she said. “I appreciate it.” As Fr. Dan paused, trying to think of something else to say, a voice from the radio pierced the quiet kitchen. “So, Pit Bull,” the brash voice said, obviously on a phone line, “I dunno if it’s a vigilante or not, but I think it’s awesome! You got a drunk, Dykes, dead! You got a druggie, Rivera, dead! You got a child molester, Strasser, dead! It’s all good news, if you ask me, man!” “OK, Vern from Newington. Thanks for the call,” the announcer said with a chuckle. “I tell you, folks, you people are fired up today. You’re making my head explode!” The sound of an explosion came out of the small speaker. The announcer could be heard laughing in the background. Fr. Dan looked at the clock radio with puzzlement. What in the world is that all about? he wondered. Then he looked back toward the table and saw that Anna was crying. Suddenly he got it. He turned back toward the radio. They’re talking about Jitterbug! They’re laughing at the fact that he was murdered! He lunged across the counter and shut the radio off. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Oh Father, you don’t know what it’s like,” Anna sobbed. “People who never even met Luis, who don’t know him at all, are laughing and joking and celebrating that he’s, he’s dead! Oh Father.” She seemed to melt onto the kitchen table, with her head slumped forward onto her crossed arms, her back and shoulders heaving with each sob. Fr. Dan stepped toward her and leaned down. He tentatively put his right arm around her shoulders and whispered, “It’s OK, Anna, let it out. Don’t worry about those

people. They’re ignorant. They never met Jitterbug. They’ll never know what a good and kind boy he was,” he continued. “They don’t understand; they never will. Please don’t let them bother you, Anna. They’re just…ignorant. We really need to pray for them, because ‘they know not what they do.’” Anna lifted her head off the table, and turned to look directly at Fr. Dan. Despite the tears and the runny mascara, she still looked beautiful. “Oh Dan,” she hoarsely, “You’re so kind. You’re always thinking about the needs of others. You’re so unselfish.” Guess I fooled you, the priest thought, as all of his self-centered desires of the past few weeks suddenly leapt to the front of his mind. He was still bent forward at the waist, with his arm cradled around her shoulders. Without warning she pushed the chair away from the table, stood up, and clutched Fr. Dan in a powerful bear hug. She embraced him so suddenly and forcefully, he actually gasped as she squeezed the air our of him. But once he caught his breath and returned her hug by gently wrapping his arms around her back, he thought that this feeling must be what Heaven is like. They stayed locked in their warm and tight embrace for almost two minutes. Fr. Dan’s mind started to wander again, as it had on the night Jitterbug died. The more he hugged Anna, the more he wanted her. And the more he wanted her the more a voice screamed in his head, This is wrong, pal, wrong, wrong, wrong! Fr. Dan now knew why the cartoonish figures of a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other was such a universal image. He truly felt a war raging within himself, with one voice urging him, “Go for it!” while another voice pleaded, “No, don’t do it!” Just then the front door bell rang. Both of them flinched at the sound. “I, uh, I have to get that,” Fr. Dan said, as he separated himself from Anna.

“Yes, yes,” she said as she wiped her tear streaked face. “I should go now. Thank you again, Dan, uh…Father.” They both walked to the front door as the bell rang again. Fr. Dan opened the door and saw Mrs. Mullen standing on the top step. “I’m not interrupting anything am I?” she asked. “No, no,” Fr. Dan said, “Mrs. Rivera was just leaving.” Anna slipped her jacket on, gave a quick wave, and exited the Rectory. Mrs. Mullen stared at Anna with distain as she hurried down the steps and walked away. She then turned to Fr. Dan and muttered, “Well!” Fr. Dan closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, then said as pleasantly as possible, “So, Mrs. M., what can I do for you?” “Well, Father,” the woman said as she strode into the building without being invited, “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I have to speak to you about the music as Mass last Sunday. It was simply unacceptable!” Fr. Dan smiled and shook his head again. Mrs. M., he thought to himself, You’ll never believe this, but I am actually glad you came here. I think you prevented me from doing something I would regret for the rest of my life.

Chapter 25

Friday, November 19th, 2:05 a.m. A brand new Ford Escape SUV was parked in a dark area of the parking lot at Lowell Acres Condominiums, located along the West Hartford-New Britain town line. Tom Wilkins sat behind the wheel. Pit Bull Peterson sat in the passenger seat and did what he did best: talk a mile a minute and fidget. He was especially fidgety this particular night. Part of his nervousness was caused by the SIG Sauer pistol, model P232, fitted with a Bowers silencer, which he cradled in his hands. The other part of his nervousness was caused by the task he planned to carry out using the pistol. The weapon was selected by Capt. Bradford for this evening’s mission for a couple of reasons. First, the target, 26year-old Archie Nathan, lived in a condo complex where the units were closely packed together, and someone would likely hear a gunshot, even at 2 a.m. Second, Bradford was worried that Pit Bull did not have the cool temperament needed to carry out a one shot, point-blank-range mission. The silencer would allow him to fire multiple times from a further distance away. When he could get a word in edgewise, Wilkins tried to calm Pit Bull down and get him to approach his task with a methodical, matter-of-fact frame of mind. Pit Bull

was too hyper for that. He ignored Wilkins’ soothing advice and continued to speed-talk. He talked about the weapon, how comfortable it felt when he fired it at the gun range. He talked about the group’s overall plan, how noble it was. He talked about his target and how the world was soon to be much better off without him in it. Archie Nathan’s name recently appeared on one on Det. Mike Cavanaugh’s lists of breaking and entering suspects. He was well known to law enforcement officials in the Hartford area. Nathan was a bold and daring “smash and grab” thief. He had been arrested three times over the years, but convicted only once, which resulted in a ninemonth prison sentence. The cops knew he was responsible for upwards of a hundred break-ins during the past eight years. There were probably another hundred they didn’t connect to him. Unfortunately, the cops had a tough time catching him red-handed. As soon as Capt. Bradford saw his name on Det. Cavanaugh’s list, he made the decision that Archie would be the guest of honor for the group’s next mission. Archie lived in unit D12 of Lowell Acres, often referred to as “Low Life” Acres. The structures were first built in the early 1970s as apartments, then went condo in the mid- ‘90s. The development was a step up from a low-income housing project, but not much of a step up. The development probably needed security cameras more than most condo complexes, but as Capt. Bradford knew very well, it had none. The Ford Escape was backed into a parking space in the guest area of the lot. It faced Building D, and was about 40 feet from an empty parking space, labeled “D12” in faded yellow paint on the pavement. The two men had been sitting there for about 25 minutes, and had seen four vehicles come and go.

Pit Bull recapped for Wilkins the discussion from the previous evening’s secret meeting. After twice saying, “I know, Pit Bull, I was there,” Wilkins rolled his eyes and gave up trying to remind his friend that he knew exactly what had been discussed at the meeting. It had been a fairly significant meeting of the four conspirators on Wednesday evening. For the first time Captain Bradford eased up on his anger regarding the vigilante rumors. He described the profile outlined by one of his detectives, and all four men immediately recognized that they did not match that profile. A clergyman, a police captain, a radio personality and a respected businessman—middle-aged family men all— were simply not the type of folks the authorities would search for, if they ever did decide to investigate the vigilante angle. The group had listed the pros and cons of having vigilante rumors swirl through the community. The most obvious con, of course, was the fact they were in fact a vigilante group. The primary pro, however, was very attractive. The notion of secret vigilantes might scare criminals in a unique way. All law-breakers know the dangers posed by the activities they engage in and the people with whom the associate. Most drug dealers, for example, are more afraid of the violent tendencies of their customers and suppliers than they are afraid of the police. But the idea of total strangers, “avenging angels” as it were, swooping in suddenly and blowing away criminals without warning, just might cause many undesirables in town either to move out or curtail their illegal behaviors. The secret group also had long-term hopes of someday seeing their mission expand, possibly with the formation of separate independently operating groups engaged

in similar actions. The four men were convinced there were plenty of decent, law-abiding citizens who were quite concerned about society’s chaotic and lawless situation. The trick would be to convince them to see the wisdom of engaging in extreme measures in order to take back their community. If the missions continued to succeed, if criminals were scared straight or fled town, causing a noticeable reduction in crime (not counting vigilante murders, of course), then public opinion would be on their side. It would not take much, they reasoned, to recruit new comrades in arms—carefully screened and thoroughly trustworthy new comrades. The one part of the previous evening’s meeting that Pit Bull neglected to recap was Capt. Bradford’s harsh warning. The vigilante topic was no longer taboo, but the police captain had put his nose within inches of Pit Bull’s nose and warned the radio host, in no uncertain terms, not to say something stupid. Tom Wilkins worried that might not be possible. At 2:16 a.m. Tom Wilkins cell phone rang. It was Capt. Bradford, alerting the two men in the Ford SUV that the subject was on the move. Wilkins closed the phone, and said flatly, “He’s on his way.” The Ford became very quiet as the two men waited. Three minutes later they noticed headlights turning into the parking lot. As the vehicle came toward them, they could see from the shadowy outline that it was a Jeep. When it turned into parking space D12, they could see by the dim glow of a distant street light that it was a red Wrangler with black canvas top and oversized tires: Archie Nathan’s car. Pit Bull watched the Jeep and quivered. Wilkins coolly looked to the left and right to see if any other vehicles or people were around. Satisfied all was quiet, he put his right hand on Pit Bull’s left shoulder and said, “Do it.”

Pit Bull slipped out of the Ford. His legs were stiff and achy from sitting in the car for so long. He saw the driver’s side door of the Jeep open. He walked quickly in the darkness toward the rear of the Jeep, his tennis shoe-clad feet quiet on the pavement. The driver of the Jeep got out and closed the door. As he took a step toward the front of the vehicle, Pit Bull quickened his pace. When he was within five feet of the back of the Jeep, he raised the gun and pulled the trigger twice. Two soft “phut-phut” sounds came out of the pistol. Two hard slugs went into the target’s back, causing him to lurch to the right and lean against the hood of the Jeep. The stricken man turned and faced the source of his distress. His eyes were as wide as saucers. Pit Bull took a large step forward and fired two more rounds, one into the stomach, the other in the center of the chest. The four slugs caused the figure to slide down the side of the Jeep and crumple to the pavement next to the front left tire, lying flat on his back and softly groaning. Mortally wounded, death from blood loss would occur within ten minutes. But Pit Bull hastened the time-line by stepping forward again and firing the fifth and final round into the victim’s throat, which shattered the spinal cord at the base of his skull. Tom Wilkins started the Ford and moved it forward, slowly steering to the left. Pit Bull turned and ran back, and clambered into the passenger seat. Wilkins drove away quickly but carefully, so as not to squeal the tires. Pit Bull was chattering even quicker and louder than usual, triumphantly describing the successful mission. Wilkins congratulated his friend and tried to calm him down at the same time. Wilkins took the weapon from Pit Bull and placed it under his seat. Capt. Bradford had asked him to hold onto the SIG, as a pistol with a silencer could come in handy in the future.

When the Ford was about a mile away from Lowell Acres, Pit Bull’s non-stop yapping and adrenaline-fueled euphoria caused him first to hyperventilate, then to vomit all over Wilkins’ brand new vehicle.

#

Later that same day, at about 3 o’clock in the afternoon, after hosting his radio show in the morning—surprisingly well, the other group members thought—Pit Bull saw a special news flash on television, which identified the most recent murder victim, gunned down in the parking lot of the Lowell Acres Condominium complex in the early morning hours, as 24-year-old Walter Nathan. Walter was Archie’s law-abiding brother, who fatefully and tragically chose the previous evening to borrow his sibling’s Jeep. As he watched the TV, Pit Bull’s head began to swim, then his hands began to shake uncontrollably. Then he vomited again, this time all over the Persian rug in his living room.