BELOVED ENEMIES

BELOVED ENEMIES(MC BECHUM) BELOVED ENEMIES


Mayor Sam Blocker stood at the podium with a solemn expression and addressed the parents who’d assembled at the Cornelius Bethune High School auditorium for the fifteenth annual New Directions Award Ceremony. The Mayor shared the stage with five prominent members of the community. They were there to present citations to various teachers, merchants and neighborhood volunteers. Those citizens had already received their accolades. The final prize of the night belonged to the youngster Mayor Blocker was about to introduce. One of the local professionals on that esteemed panel was the Brickhearst Police Department’s Chief of Homicide, Lieutenant Bess Watson.

To Watson, the line that separated right from wrong was broad and plain to see. Twenty years of fighting crime had taught the forty-eight-year-old survivor the importance of clinging to the values she learned as a child. In many ways, the street wise investigator personified the grassroots principles she strived to instill in the hearts and minds of every cop who served under her command.

Perfectly postured beneath a huge banner with her silky blond hair in a chignon, the Lieutenant represented the best municipal law enforcement had to offer. There wasn’t a wrinkle in her midnight blue uniform. The shine on those rubber-soled shoes was practically blinding. A .357 Magnum and nightstick complimented her statuesque frame with every stride. It would’ve been easy for an uninformed observer to presume such a consummate overachiever was vain and self-absorbed, but nothing could have been farther from the truth.

Though she endeavored to conceal the most basic emotions behind the piercing gaze of those stunning green eyes, Watson had genuine affection for her fellow officers. She wasn’t afraid to lay it all on the line when she believed her people were in the right. The Lieutenant’s loyalty knew no boundaries. It was even at the disposal of her former Captain’s nephew.

The strapping young officer with the wave maker haircut was doing everything in his power to sit calmly in the audience and forget the problems that plagued his fledging career with the Brickhearst P.D. His name was Darius Carter. Although the handsome patrolman had joined the force three years earlier, he was no rookie. Half a decade with the Duval County Sheriff’s Department had prepared him for the rage and desperation that can infect the character of a sprawling southern city. He’d engaged some of the most ruthless outlaws in the state. On more than one occasion, the brawny flatfoot had risked his own life to save others. His skill and dedication to duty were incomparable. He was fearless. Unfortunately, containing the memories that haunted his thoughts would prove to be his greatest challenge.

Living up to the legend of a prominent public servant like Roosevelt Nelms would have been a monumental task for most second-generation cops, but for Carter, it bordered on the neurotic. Born into one of the wealthiest families in Jacksonville, the hopes and dreams of this introspective visionary were often dismissed by an overbearing father. His brother had made a fortune in the entertainment field and his sister was in medical school. Both had earned the praise and respect of the old man.

After the death of his mother, Carter grew up feeling like an alien in his own home. The discouragement he felt seemed to contaminate other facets of his life. A cloud of uncertainty darkened every achievement. Nothing could take the place of the love and acceptance his family denied him.

His father’s disappointment wasn’t the only burden weighing heavily upon the shoulders of this tormented outsider. He’d been assigned to desk duty for the past month. A domestic disturbance that resulted in the deaths of four children affected him in ways he never thought possible. The traumatized patrolman had been relegated to pushing papers and working closely with Lieutenant Watson.

Carter didn’t begrudge a minute spent in the presence of the Lieutenant. She did all she could to nurture his desire to make detective. He couldn’t have chosen a better mentor. Though Watson’s friendship with his uncle compelled her to go the extra mile, she didn’t coddle her ambitious pupil. He was treated like everyone else. With a commanding officer like Bess Watson, that was the best any cop could expect.

The view from the front row wasn’t very pleasant for an embattled peace officer who dreaded what tomorrow might bring. As he paid careful attention to every word the Mayor said, Carter wondered what this portly politician had in store for him. His affinity for courting the press was no secret. He didn’t tolerate cops who made him look bad. It was hard for the officer to believe a double-dealing bozo in a three-piece gray suit had the power to end his career, but Blocker’s record spoke for itself.

Although keeping a vigilant eye on the Mayor may have been in order, Carter didn’t want to dampen the spirit of this special occasion. He wanted everything to be perfect for the broad-shouldered seventeen-year-old girl waiting backstage.

Bridgett Donaldson struggled to maintain her composure as the Mayor paid homage to the miraculous improvements she’d made in her life. When he invited her to come out and tell her story, the curvaceous brunet approached the podium dressed in a Retro short-sleeved ruched wrap V neck party pencil dress. The audience erupted into a standing ovation.

The grateful young woman wiped her eyes and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.” When the crowd settled down, she took a deep breath. “All of this is really overwhelming. I never imagined I’d ever see my name on a banner with these beautifully arranged roses and azaleas on the stage. I don’t know everyone up here with me. I’ve seen the Fire Marshal and the Superintendent of Schools on the news. Unfortunately, I’m better acquainted with Lieutenant Watson and Judge Breland.” A few people politely chuckled. “For those of you who don’t know, life hasn’t been easy for me. When I was eight, my parents were killed in a car accident. I spent three years in foster care with people who didn’t know how to love. I was exploited and abused. At the age of twelve, I struck out on my own and learned to survive on the streets. I did everything you can imagine to stay alive. After getting involved with a gang, I was arrested and placed in a juvenile facility. A year later, my father’s sister, Grace, retired from the military and moved here to Brickhearst. Taking me in was more than an act of charity. She literally saved my life. Getting free of those streets is the best thing that can happen to a kid. So you can bet I’ll be making the best of the scholarship that comes with this award. I want to thank Mayor Blocker and all of you for allowing me to be here tonight. I especially want to thank Aunt Grace for giving up so much for me. And I’m going to make her proud.”

As the audience applauded, the Mayor returned to the podium with the New Directions plaque. Friends and well-wishers approached the stage to embrace this extraordinary teenager.

Carter would have been happy to express his sentiments, but he and Lieutenant Watson had a mountain of paper work to sort through before shift-change. So amid the gracious smiles and bellowing benevolence, the officers made their way outside. An hour later, they’d arrived at the station and were hard at work in Watson’s office.


CHAPTER 2

There were only a few detectives in the adjoining squad room and they were in a frenzy trying to complete reports the commissioner wanted ASAP. Carter watched in amazement as the diligent investigators toiled at full throttle. Though the lights were on, an eerie darkness loomed within the deepest chambers of the pensive patrolman’s heart. He wondered if he would ever be the kind of cop his uncle took pride in training. Peering at the wall behind Watson’s desk provided little comfort. Commendations and newspaper clippings chronicled the valor of a woman so many rookies sought to emulate. Photographs of her and the Captain attending community events portrayed the affection Nelms felt for this exceptional crime fighter.

Sitting at a round table in the corner of the room with his head buried in work, Carter was certain his inhibitions were safely tucked away. However, as he was about to discover, the Lieutenant didn’t earn her bars by overlooking the obvious.

“What’s going on, Darius?” Watson asked, getting up and walking toward him.

“What do you mean, Lieutenant,” he asked.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Officer,” she said, sitting down across the table from him. “Now what’s up?”

Carter placed his hands to his head and sighed. “I guess I’m just wrestling with doubts,” he said. “I haven’t been out there in a month. Do I still have what it takes?”

“You’re the only one who can answer that question. I know you’re a good cop who cares.”

“But is that enough, Bess? I watched Cal Weaver shoot four of his children before I could get off a round.”

“That wasn’t your fault. You were injured while attempting to enter the residence. Under the circumstances, you did everything you could.”

“When I close my eyes, I can see their frightened faces. What must a kid be thinking when he looks into the angry eyes of a father like Weaver?”

Watson folded her arms and looked at the officer. “Darius, as long as you enforce the law in an imperfect world, you’re going to see innocent people suffer,” she told him. “Wearing this badge obligates us to protect and serve the public, but we’re not super-heroes. You just can’t save everyone. You certainly won’t stop every mad man with a gun.”

Carter stood up and walked to the window. “I know I can’t run from this,” he said, staring down at the deserted street. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’ll be ready for my shift in the morning.”

“That’s just what I’d expect from the nephew of Roosevelt Nelms.”

“Was he as tough as everyone says?”

“Are you kidding? He would have sent you home the minute he saw that brown T-shirt of yours.”

“What’s wrong with my T-shirt?”

“Patrolmen are required to wear black regulation crew-neck T-shirts with only the top button of the uniform left open.”

“You’re right. I’ll have to remember that when I hit the streets.”

“Yes you will. You don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the iron horse.”

“How did Sergeant Principal get that name?”

Watson smiled and lowered her head. “We were fresh out of the academy,” she explained. “Our units responded to a disturbance call at some bar near the state line. A couple of hoodlums named Mayonnaise Munson and Skyscraper Lewis were trashing the place. They wanted to show the owner what would happen if he didn’t pay them protection money. My partner and I subdued Munson and cuffed him. Principal and her partner didn’t have it so easy. Skyscraper kicked them around like a couple of rag dolls. I don’t know how she managed to time her attack so precisely, but your Sergeant waited until the big man was in perfect position. She charged him like a speeding locomotive and planted her head into the pit of his stomach. The two of them went crashing through the bathroom door. Needless to say, the suspect was rendered unconscious.”

“Wow!” Carter exclaimed.

“Now don’t misunderstand me. Lena Principal is a good cop and a decent person. She has devoted her life to the pursuit of justice.”

The officer noticed the expression of doubt on the Lieutenant’s face. “Is there something else I should know?” he asked.

Watson got up and joined him at the window. “Lena has been my dearest friend for almost thirty years,” she said. “But lately a change has come over her. She has a short fuse these days. Her sense of humor has all but disappeared. I don’t know what might happen if some wise guy pushes her too far.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Yes, but she’s in denial. I’ve thought about ordering her to seek help, but something like that has to be her decision.”

“Counseling makes all the difference in the world. It sure helped me.”

“That’s because you knew you needed help. I can see the difference the sessions with Dr. Gainer have made in your life, but you don’t know how Lena’s mind works. That chick is one complicated redhead. She’ll do something when she realizes how far she’s fallen. So don’t mention any of this to her. Believe me, the time spent in that patrol unit will be a lot less painful if you concentrate on your job and leave the iron horse to me. Is that clear?”

“Clear, Lieutenant.”

“Now, there is one more question I have for you. Are you sure you’re ready to return to duty?”

“Ready, willing and able, Lieutenant.”

“Your beat is waiting for you,” Watson told him, as she returned to her desk and picked up the telephone. “I’ve got to call the Night Watch Captain.” She dialed the extension. “Captain Coleman, this is Watson in Homicide….Sir? Do you know who made the 911 call? I understand. I’ll get someone over there as soon as possible.” She hung up.

“What’s up?” Carter asked.

“A homicide at 3619 Clover Street,” she said, checking the chamber of her revolver.

“Why do I know that address?”

“It’s Bridgett Donaldson’s place.”

“Oh no.”

“Listen, the Captain didn’t give me a lot of information, but something bad has obviously gone down at that house. I can’t spare any of those detectives in the squad room, so I’ll have to respond personally. I can handle it alone if you don’t feel up to coming with me.”

“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. I’m ready to roll.”
Though she didn’t let it show, Watson’s apprehensions involved more than her young subordinate. A tragedy at the home of a girl who’d just received one of the city’s highest honors was bound to garner negative publicity. With a mayor whose first priority was to cover his own hide, any officer acquainted with this investigation could soon find his or her head on the chopping block.


CHAPTER 3

Grace Donaldson’s single-story brick house at the corner of Fletcher and Clover was about a two-hour drive from the angry streets Bridgett escaped a few years earlier. Sadly, the advantages of suburban living hadn’t shielded the residents of this quiet middle-class neighborhood from the cruelty and violence of a troubled generation.
The ambient glow of a cloudless moonlit sky gave testament to the loyalty and commitment the retired Navy Ensign had invested in her little brother’s child. Beautifully tended daffodils and Japanese magnolia made this picturesque lot the talk of the block.

The strobe lights of the Brickhearst P.D. patrol units illuminated every inch of the property when Lieutenant Watson and Officer Carter arrived on the scene. The veteran investigator and her protégé stepped out of the vehicle as determined patrolmen scurried about the manicured lawn, endeavoring to keep inquisitive neighbors at a safe distance. Crime Scene Investigators snapped photographs and probed the ground for possible traces of DNA. Sergeant Brent Morgan was taking notes near the Medical Examiner’s wagon.

After twenty-seven years of patrolling a beat and securing crime scenes, Morgan thought he’d seen it all, but the battle-zone he discovered inside the Donaldson residence left the veteran flatfoot wondering what had become of mankind.

The Sergeant’s reaction came as no surprise to those who knew him well. Twelve years had passed since the night this devoted family man’s daughter was murdered in her college dorm room. Since then, every day he’d managed to get through without falling apart was a victory. The plight of other parents who’d do anything to protect their children was the only thing that kept him from surrendering his badge and gun.

It would have been easier for a cop who’d been on the job for so long to take shortcuts and let the younger patrolmen carry the load, but that wasn’t Morgan’s way. Though years of keeping the peace had taken a toll on his weathered visage, the salt-and-pepper haired blue knight was still in excellent condition. He looked forward to the day when he would take his uniform off for the last time. Until then, he’d spend his working hours helping the Homicide Division track down the monster that victimized the Donaldson household.

“How does it look, Brent?” Lieutenant Watson asked, as she and Carter approached the Sergeant.

“It’s bad, Bess,” Morgan replied, shaking his head.

“I don’t know how Bridgett’s going to take this,” Watson said.

“Bridgett?” the Sergeant repeated.

“Don’t tell me she was home,” the Lieutenant said.

Realizing the Chief of Homicide hadn’t been sufficiently informed; Morgan folded his arms and looked her in the eye. “Bess, Bridgett is the victim,” he said.

Watson lowered her head and groaned. “It never occurred to me that Bridgett could have been the one who was murdered,” she said.

“Have you established a motive, Brent?” Carter asked.

“Hard to say,” the Sergeant responded. “This is a strange case. We found no traces of tissue under her fingernails, but her knuckles are definitely bruised. Dr. Crawford is inside. He’ll be able to provide a more detailed report.”

“Have any of your sources said anything about the gangs wanting revenge on Bridgett for getting out?” the Lieutenant inquired.

Before Morgan could respond, he was interrupted by the sound of someone gagging.

“What’s that?” Carter asked.

“It’s one of the Medical Examiner’s attendants,” the Sergeant explained. “I think this is the first time he’s ever seen that much blood. But to answer your question, if the street gangs do have a vendetta, they’ve kept it quiet.”

“Thanks, Brent,” Watson told him, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “We’re going in to have a look at the body.”

Masterfully harnessing her emotions, the Lieutenant took a deep breath and fixed her gaze on the front door. Fearful that the slightest expression of empathy would be perceived as weakness, she endeavored to conceal the anguish and disillusionment a big city detective couldn’t avoid. A symbol of hope and survival had been ripped from a community in dire need of a better way. As far as this veteran detective was concerned, finding the culprit was her number-one priority.

Watson touched Carter’s arm. “It looks like the brutality of our mean streets has overtaken us with a vengeance,” she said. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“My hands are on the plow, Lieutenant,” he responded. “I’m not going to turn back now.”

After witnessing the carnage in the Donaldson’s living room, no one could have denounced the young man had he chosen to turn back. The place was in shambles. Puddles of blood saturated the couch and carpet. Framed photographs of smiling relatives appeared crushed beyond recognition. A couple of potted plants on the floor beneath the window had evidently been toppled when the overturned recliner struck the sill. Assorted magazines were scattered about the demolished coffee table. For these murderers, killing Bridgett wasn’t enough. They wanted the child to suffer.

The actual amount of punishment that had been inflicted would be determined by the reflective gentleman in the vintage M-65 field jacket. He was Dr. Walter Crawford M.E.
To a man who’d witnessed the horrors of war, the slaying of a gifted teenager was even more senseless than the bloodshed he left on the battlefield. Although the aging loner had abandoned the hope of ever becoming a father, he cringed at the thought of someone brutalizing this girl. It wasn’t the first time he’d examined the remains of a youngster whose life came to a violent end. The silvered-haired pathologist understood the remnants of human cruelty emerged from realities a doctor couldn’t change.

With zestful curiosity and the energy of a man half his age, Crawford didn’t mind burning the midnight oil. Uncovering the truth was his first obligation. He was soft-spoken and shy. Relating to cadavers came easier for him than interacting with living humans. Sadly, his experiences with the latter had left open wounds that couldn’t be hidden.

Like any man, Dr. Crawford craved the love of a kind and understanding woman. He sought someone who’d be inclined to look beyond the outer shell and cherish a heart that would never take her for granted. Regrettably, the object of his affection was a magnificent beauty who didn’t share his feelings. She was also the Lead-Force supervisor of the Homicide Division.

Lieutenant Watson knew the doctor was fond of her, but she’d always been careful not to encourage him. The change in Crawford’s demeanor was evident when he looked up and caught sight of Watson.

“What’s the situation, Walter?” the Lieutenant inquired, as she and Carter approached.

“It doesn’t get much worse than this, Bess,” Crawford responded, unzipping the body bag so the officers could have a look. “Seventeen-year-old female sustained multiple contusions and abrasions. There’s bruising and swelling around both eyes. The zygomatic bone and the mandible were fractured. I counted at least five broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. I won’t be sure until the autopsy is complete, but I’d be willing to bet the cause of death was internal hemorrhaging.”

“What kind of animal could’ve done this?” Watson wondered aloud.

“The Crime Scene Investigators found a footprint in the victim’s blood,” the Doctor told them. “The track was distinctive and may have been made by an expensive basketball sneaker. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a match.”

“Can you tell us anything about the attackers, Doctor?” Carter asked.

“The only thing I can be sure of at this point is that these assailants knew how to fight,” Crawford said.

“I agree,” Watson concurred. “I’ve seen Bridgett take three cops off their feet before anyone could restrain her. This kid was tough. It would have taken more than a weekend burglar to inflict this kind of beating on her.”
Dr. Crawford showed her a plastic bag containing five of the victim’s teeth. “Three of these were discovered on the living room floor,” he said. “The other two were in the bathroom sink.”

Carter observed the trail of blood on the bathroom floor a few feet behind Crawford. “She must’ve tried to wash her face,” he said. “There’s blood on the plumbing and the mirror.”

“Who made the 911 call?” the Lieutenant asked.

“She did,” the Doctor replied, pointing at the bloodstained telephone on the arm of the couch. “She evidently passed out before naming her attackers. CSI found a partially dissolved pill in the bathtub. I’ll make sure Toxicology puts a rush on identifying it for you.”

“There is one more thing I need, Walter,” Watson said.

“Sure, Bess,” he responded.

“Don’t release the details of your autopsy to anyone but me,” she said. “No other officers need to know what we discovered here or in the Morgue. I’ll make sure my detectives stay off your back. And please don’t talk to the press. I know I’m taking liberties here, but I believe it’s our best chance of solving this homicide.”

“It’s not a problem, Bess,” Crawford said, zipping the bag and motioning for his ailing attendants to come in and help him take the corpse out. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Taking care not to touch anything, Carter stepped down the hall and peered into one of the bedrooms while the Lieutenant observed the Medical Examiner’s team exit the house.

“What’s your assessment?” Watson asked.

“This was no robbery,” Carter responded, returning to the living room.

“How do you figure?”

“The television is still here. There’s a stereo in the bedroom and someone left a considerable amount of change on the dresser.”

“Anything else?”
“An assault this brutal has to be personal. The killer knew the victim.”

“Astute deductions, Officer.”

“Bess, why did you muzzle Dr. Crawford?”

“Considering Bridgett’s past, we might be dealing with someone connected with a street gang,” Watson explained, reaching into her pocket for her cell phone. “With limited access to the details of the case, one of those punks is bound to trip himself up.”

The Lieutenant was about to make a call when she and Carter were startled by a woman screaming! They raced outside where they encountered Bridgett Donaldson’s only living relative.

Convincing the Department of Children and Families that she would be able to provide a stable home for her brother’s orphaned daughter was one of the greatest obstacles Grace Donaldson had ever confronted. They didn’t believe this 5 feet 4 inch asthmatic was capable of controlling a street-hardened juvenile delinquent, but to everyone’s surprise, the resolute sailor made her case and won custody of her teenage niece.

For Grace, rising to the occasion was a way of life. After surviving a near-fatal explosion in Afghanistan, this intrepid heroine was decorated for saving the lives of six of her fellow crewmen. She barely weighed a hundred pounds, but her heart was bigger than any challenge that crossed her path. Regardless of the sacrifice, the former GI had weathered the storm with a will of iron. Yet, even she couldn’t hide the pain of losing a child.
Sergeant Morgan opened the rear door of his unit and sat Grace down. The distraught aunt brushed her raven locks back and reached up to take the bottle of water a patrolman offered.

Morgan could hear a faint wheezing noise as Grace clutched her chest. “Where is your inhaler?” he asked.

“It’s in my purse,” she said. “I left it in the front seat of the car.”

When Morgan darted down the driveway to retrieve the medication, Watson and Carter approached Grace.

“Grace, I’m so sorry,” the Lieutenant told her.

“I don’t guess I’m acting like a hero tonight,” the bereaved guardian responded.

“You’ve just heard that someone you love was brutally murdered,” Carter said. “You don’t have to explain anything to anyone.”

Morgan returned with Grace’s inhaler. “Here you go, girl,” he said.

Grace placed the inhaler to her mouth and applied the Albuterol. “Thanks, Brent,” she said, as she began to breathe normally.

“I realize this is the worst possible time, Grace,” Watson said. “But I’ve got to ask you a few questions.”

“I understand, Bess,” Grace replied.

“Can you think of anyone who might have done this?” the veteran homicide detective inquired.

“Except for those punks she used to run with, no one comes to mind,” Grace responded.

“What’s the name of her former street gang?” Carter asked.
“They call themselves the Southside Cripplers,” the distempered aunt remembered. “The thugs were into everything you can imagine. But Bridgett promised me that she was done with them.”

“Did Bridgett have a boyfriend?” Watson asked.

Grace looked away and thought for a moment. “Well she wouldn’t admit it, but I think Bridgett had it bad for a boy who used to help her with her homework,” she said. “His name was Paul Fisher. He’s a tall skinny kid who wears big glasses.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Carter asked.

“He was at my diner about a week ago,” she recalled. “It’s strange.”

“What’s strange?” Morgan inquired.

“He acted like he wanted to tell me something,” Grace explained, with tears streaming down her cheeks. “But it was early in the morning and I was getting ready for the breakfast crowd. What if he was trying to tell me something that would have saved Bridgett’s life?”

“You can’t think like that, Grace,” the Lieutenant advised. “You’ll drive yourself crazy. Bridgett’s death wasn’t your fault. She was killed by depraved animals that need to be put away for good.”

“Is there someone we can call for you?” Carter asked.

“She’s going to stay at my house,” Sergeant Morgan interceded. “I just called my wife. She’s a nurse. Grace will be in good hands.”

“Do you think that’s wise, considering the circumstances?” Watson asked.

“That was the first thing I asked her,” Morgan replied. “But despite all she’s been through, helping someone else is what gives her the strength to contend with her own pain.”

“She must be an amazing lady,” Carter commented.

“Doris is the best,” the enamored husband declared with a smile, as he motioned for a patrolwoman to come and escort Grace to her unit at the end of the driveway. Morgan closed the rear door of his vehicle and walked around to the driver’s side. “I’ll drop by the Fisher residence on my way back.”

“Thanks, Brent,” Watson told him.

As he watched the vehicles head out, Carter scratched his head and sighed. “Lieutenant,” he said.

“Yeah,” she responded.

“You told Dr. Crawford that you didn’t want anyone to know the details of his autopsy. Does that include Principal?”

“It includes everyone. Is that clear?”

“Clear, Lieutenant.”

“Speaking of Principal, you’d better head home and get some sleep. The Sergeant’s evaluations are brutal. I want you to be at your best tomorrow. Take the unit and drive it back to the station in the morning.”

“Thanks, Bess. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Officer Carter.”

A good night’s sleep would have been preferable to five hours of tossing and turning, but it was already past midnight. Carter couldn’t afford to make a bad impression. He’d heard a vast array of thrilling anecdotes about the iron horse and he was looking forward to learning the real story.

It wouldn’t have been very advantageous for the patrolman to dismiss everything he’d heard about Sergeant Principal. After all, the buxom brawler was a maze of contradictions. To the men and women whose lives were saved as a result of her daring antics, she was a champion of the innocent. On the other hand, there were more than a few crime bosses around town who would have been happy to set fire to her curly red hair. Like her old friend, Lieutenant Watson, the Sergeant went into law enforcement with a love for her fellowman and an unwavering commitment to justice. For the cops who began their careers in a decade of disproportionate affluence and social unrest, Principal represented the standards to which every young officer could aspire. Her record was impeccable. Yet, as those who knew her best had come to realize, time has a way of changing a person.

As far as anyone had determined, the Sergeant hadn’t stepped over the line. However, the reverence for due-process that once illuminated her path was no longer the most important element of police work. The rage in those impervious hazel eyes mirrored the frustration and disappointment of a cop who’d seen too many unscrupulous power mongers construct their empires on the desecrated dreams of law-abiding citizens. Although she had no trouble maintaining a considerable measure of professional decorum, no one could predict how far Principal would go to achieve her own brand of law and order.


CHAPTER 4

By morning, news of the Donaldson murder had spread through the Brickhearst Police station like gangrene. The Lead-Force homicide detectives began their day with a dark cloud of uncertainty hovering over the squad room. The killing of a young woman with so much promise was bound to spark chaos. In the meantime, there were other unsolved murders to investigate.

Along with the usual drudgery of ringing telephones and Xerox machines, detectives endeavored to concentrate on the duties at hand. While intoxicated suspects struggled to remember their own names, several scantily clad women demanded to know why they were being detained. Attempting to type incoherent statements and restrain delusional perpetrators had some of the best police officers on the force believing the bedlam that spawned from the Donaldson killing couldn’t get worse. Of course, that was before Sergeant Lena Principal stepped off the elevator.

Principal gaited toward Lieutenant Watson’s office with more attitude than a Gulf Coast hurricane in the middle of October. A couple of reporters tried to provoke a comment, but she wasn’t in the mood. Moreover, a cop who’d been around as long as the Sergeant knew better than to render an opinion before she had the complete scoop.

“Sergeant, can you tell us anything about the murder of Bridgett Donaldson?” one of the newshounds asked.

“No,” she responded.

The second reporter tried to engage her as they turned the corner and approached the squad room. “Do you have any suspects in mind?” he inquired just before Principal stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

The Sergeant wasn’t always so short with the media, but after a week of teaching at the police academy she was irritable and anxious to hear the details of Bridgett Donaldson’s murder. The inquisitive instructor had no doubt Lieutenant Watson would be hard at work. However, her assumptions didn’t include bumping into Mayor Blocker. He was exiting the Chief of Homicide’s office.

“Don’t forget what I said, Bess,” the Mayor admonished Watson. “I want a lid on this pot before it boils over.”

Principal could see the concern on Blocker’s face. She was certain this investigation would place everyone under a microscope. Yet, she appreciated the importance of maintaining her composure under fire. “Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” she said.

“Principal,” he grunted on his way out.

Watson saw her old friend appear in the doorway. “Come in, Lena,” she said. Darius Carter was sitting in a chair at the end of the Lieutenant’s desk. “I believe you’re already acquainted with your new partner.”

The patrolman stood up. “Morning, Sarge,” he said.

“Carter,” she responded. “So this is why you weren’t at roll call.”

“The Mayor wanted to speak with both of us,” Watson explained. “He also wanted me to know who he and the Commissioner have chosen to head the investigation into Bridgett Donaldson’s murder.”

“Who’s the detective in charge?” the Sergeant inquired.

“You’re looking at her,” Watson responded.
“You, Lieutenant?” Principal repeated with a hint of surprise in her voice.

“Is there a problem, Sergeant?” Watson asked.

“Not at all, Lieutenant,” her treasured contemporary assured the venerable Chief of Homicide. “It’s just that you’ve been at the helm for a long time.”

“Don’t let this desk and uniform throw you,” Watson told her. “I still know how to work a homicide.” She opened one of the files on her desk. “Close the door for me Darius.” When the officer complied, she invited them to take a seat. “I’ve already got the ball rolling. Some of my detectives are canvassing the streets where the Southside Cripplers are known to hang out. Bridgett was a member of their gang before she straightened her life out. I also received a call from the lab. They told me the pill that was found in the bathtub is Flecainide.”

“What’s that?” the Sergeant asked.

“It’s a medication prescribed for an irregular heartbeat,” Carter said.

“That’s right,” the Lieutenant confirmed. “Now we know that Grace Donaldson has asthma, but to my knowledge, she has never complained of heart trouble. Moreover, we have no way of knowing when that pill was dropped in the tub. We’ve got to cover all the bases on this one. We can’t afford to wind up on the six o’clock news with egg on our faces.”

“As if it mattered,” Principal grumbled.

“What do you mean by that, Sarge?” Carter asked.

“Do you think those perverted news hawks who tried to squeeze me for information care about our side of the story?” she asked.

Lieutenant Watson was about to chastise her cherished comrade when she was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in,” she said.

Sergeant Brent Morgan turned the knob and entered the room. “Lieutenant, I dropped by the Fisher residence to speak with Paul, but his mother said she hadn’t seen him since yesterday,” he said.

“Did she have the slightest suspicion that Paul might be involved in gang activity?” the Lieutenant asked.
“Not this kid,” the Sergeant assured her. “In fact his mother told me that six colleges have offered him a full ride.”

“How is Grace?” Carter inquired.

“I called home about an hour ago,” Morgan responded. “Doris said it took some doing, but Grace is now resting comfortably.”

“Alright, Brent,” Watson said. “I appreciate the good work. Now go home and get some sleep.”

“Thanks, Bess,” the exhausted patrolman said on his way out. “I sure hope the boys on Lead-Force can find this kid. He could be running out of time.”

“What do you mean?” the Lieutenant asked.

“His mother told me that he didn’t take his medication with him,” Morgan explained. “That could mean bad news for a boy with a heart problem.”

A haze of tension swept over the officers like fog. Though his role in the death of Bridgett Donaldson had yet to be established, Paul Fisher had a lot of questions to answer.

“If our young scholar was involved in that massacre at the Donaldson home, we need to get him off the streets,” the Lieutenant said. “On the other hand, if he merely witnessed the crime, his days could be numbered. I’ll put out an APB. In the meantime, I want him found.”

Principal and Carter didn’t say a word as they walked out. There was no mistaking the pickle they were in. A vibrant young woman had been murdered and a potential eyewitness might have taken part in the crime. Finding Paul Fisher was a matter of life and death. After all, the cops weren’t the only people with guns who wanted to find him.

Principal got the ball rolling by driving to a pool hall on Grant Street. She instructed Carter to stay in the vehicle while she went in to check with an informant. Five minutes later, she returned to the unit pumped and ready for action.

“Did you get a lead on Paul Fisher?” Carter inquired.

“My source didn’t have anything to tell me about Fisher,” the Sergeant told him, pulling away from the curb and speeding down the street like a mad woman. “But he did have a possible location on those drug dealers who escaped from custody last week. Make sure you have a full clip in your sidearm. There might be trouble.”

“I’m calling for backup,” the sagacious patrolman said, reaching for the radio receiver. “Where are we headed?”

“To an abandoned hardware building at 6123 North Street.”

“Five-Toledo-thirty requests backup at 6123 North Street; possible 419. Code 3.”

Located about a hundred feet from the tall wire fence that marked the boundary of a dead end street, the shelves of Dunnaway’s Hardware Store hadn’t been stocked since the first Gulf War. Time and the elements had defaced the picturesque character of this rustic structure. After the twelfth break-in, the owner saw no reason to keep replacing the glass doors. There were multiple cracks in the storefront window and the floor was littered with anything the wind could displace. That asphalt shingle-roof was a catastrophe waiting to happen. Even the average vagabond would have sought a safer place to crash. Of course, that’s what the suspects inside were counting on.

There was a mild chill in the air and the sun was shining when the officers made it to North Street. Rows of buildings on both sides of the road had been boarded up and deserted. Those sidewalks hadn’t felt the weight of steadfast pedestrians in nearly two decades. Yet, as Carter and Principal were about to discover, it doesn’t take a mob to ignite disaster.

Principal killed the engine a few yards from the ramshackle structure and checked the chamber of her .44 special. “This is how it’s going to play out,” she said to her partner. “There’s an open door on the side of that building. I can see it from here. I want you to cover me from the back of the unit. If I can get to that door, we may be able to wrap this up with a minimum amount of bloodshed.”

“Why don’t we just wait for backup?” Carter asked.

Before the Sergeant could respond, a blast from the barrel of a .12 gauge shotgun exploded through the front windshield and destroyed the dash cam!

“Got any other bright ideas?”

Carter opened the door and stayed low until he maneuvered around to the rear of the unit. When Principal made a dash for the building, the officer discharged three rounds.

Principal’s plan might have worked if she’d been able to take her position before the masked assailant with the shotgun spoiled the plan. The perp thrust the butt of his gun into her abdomen and took the veteran crime fighter off her feet with a searing backhand!

Carter aimed his 9mm at the slender felon, but before he could pull the trigger, a second shooter emerged from the rubble with a semiautomatic handgun. The cornered flatfoot got off the first round, striking his target in the upper torso!

With the most immediate danger under control, Carter ran to his partner to render assistance. “Sarge!” he exclaimed.

“I’m alright, kid,” she told him.

Clinging tightly to the shotgun in his hand, the fleeing culprit ran toward a hole he and his accomplice had made in the fence. Carter prepared to fire, but Principal ordered him to stand-down.

“But Sarge!” he protested.

“Don’t worry about him. I’m more interested in who might be hiding in this building. Now let’s go.”

The officers entered the store with their weapons in hand. As they stepped over piles of scattered debris, Carter was prepared to stumble upon crates of narcotics the dealers left behind. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find illegal weapons or counterfeit money. Instead, he discovered the lifeless body of Paul Fisher lying on the floor of what used to be the storeroom.

Lieutenant Watson was on her way to interview a private investigator whose business card was found in Bridgett Donaldson’s room when she heard Carter’s dispatch. Her unit was the first to respond. She entered the building with her revolver at the ready. When the astonished Chief of Homicide saw her prime suspect lying on the floor, she couldn’t believe her eyes. “What happened?” she inquired.

“We found him like this,” Principal reported, clutching her rib cage.

“You apparently did more than stumble upon a body,” Watson argued, examining the Sergeant’s battered eye. “When the paramedics arrive, I want them to have a look at you. And I’d better not hear you gave them a hard time.”

“Will do, Lieutenant,” Principal replied. “One of my informants put us on the trail of those escaped drug dealers. Unfortunately, the punk we did find got away.”

“I shot the thug out front,” Carter said.

There was a confused expression on Watson’s face. “What thug?” she asked.

“The guy I shot,” the patrolman insisted. “You must’ve seen him on the ground.”

“No one’s out there, Darius,” the Lieutenant told him.

The officer exited through the side door and hurried to the spot where his suspect fell. Principal radioed for the Medical Examiner while she and Watson made their way through the sullied interior of the store. The women met Carter outside.

“This is where he went down,” the young man asserted, pointing at the pavement. “I shot him point-blank in the chest. He had a gun.”

Watson reached down and picked up a toy pistol. “Is this what you saw, Officer?” she asked.

“All I can tell you is that the suspect pointed a gun at me and I fired,” the embattled crime fighter repeated. “Tell her, Sarge!”

“I’m sorry, big guy,” Principal said. “I was focused on the clown with the shotgun. I did hear shots, but I couldn’t say how many.”

“This is crazy,” Carter said, walking toward the unit.

“What are you doing?” the Lieutenant asked.

“I’m looking for the shell casings,” he responded. “I know I fired four shots.”

The patrolman searched the area like a hound on a hunt, but he only found three shell casings. “This can’t be happening,” he spoke aloud. “I know how many times I fired.”

Watson could hear the wail of approaching sirens. “Lena, I want you to stay here and bring CSI up to speed,” she instructed. “I’ll drive Darius back to the station. And don’t forget what I said about the paramedics.”

“Understood, Lieutenant,” Principal said.

Carter sat down in the passenger seat of Watson’s unit and buckled his seatbelt. The hollow gaze in those befuddled eyes betrayed the anguish of a tormented child who’d never found his place in the world. Despite the fear and disappointment in his own heart, the officer bemoaned the stress Watson would endure once the press got wind of what happened at that abandoned hardware store. The expressions on the faces of his superiors were quite familiar to a perplexed cop who’d formerly succumb to the pressures of life on the streets. He knew his mental state would be called into question if he didn’t recant. Hanging on to an uncorroborated story would leave a blot on his record that could end his career. Though it was the last thing the Lieutenant wanted, her mentor’s nephew appeared to be on the verge of digging his own grave.


CHAPTER 5

By the time Carter returned to the station and completed his report, the Medical Examiner placed a call to Lieutenant Watson. His preliminary findings were rather baffling.

“I faxed you a copy of the note we found in Paul Fisher’s pocket, Bess,” Dr. Crawford said. “CSI is going over the original now. Fisher admits to killing Bridgett and apologizes for the pain his mother will suffer as a result of his actions.”

“This is typed,” she said. “Are you making any headway on the signature?”

“The signature is legitimate.”

“Is it possible that the kid’s medication could have set him off somehow?”

“Which one? This boy has more holes in his arm than a slice of Swiss cheese.”

“It certainly doesn’t sound like a young genius with the world at his feet.”

“No it doesn’t. And the bruises on his knuckles aren’t consistent with the injuries one would sustain in a brawl. It’ll take me a while to get to the bottom of all this. Do you want me to keep a lid on this autopsy report, too?”

“I’d appreciate that, Walter.”

“Alright, Bess,” Crawford agreed. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said as she hung up.

The Lieutenant leaned back in her chair and stared at the report Officer Carter had left on her desk. The ambivalent supervisor had already read it, but she wanted to give the patrolman an opportunity to make any changes he deemed necessary. In plain language, she intended to make one final effort to save his career. She was heading out to find her stubborn protégé when he knocked on the door.

“Come in and have a seat, Darius,” she said.

Carter had a file in his hand. “The desk sergeant asked me to deliver these expense reports,” he said, sitting down.

“Darius, I know you’re idealistic and honest. It’s the reason why I have so much respect for you. But this is serious, man. If this report makes it to the Chief’s desk, Mayor Blocker will have all the ammunition he needs to boot you out of here. I’m not saying you didn’t see someone come out of that old building, but there was no blood at the scene. You only found three shell casings. You’ve already suffered one breakdown, Officer. Don’t get a reputation for shooting at invisible men.”

“I realize you’re trying to protect me from myself, Lieutenant, but I’m not insane. A suspect stood in the morning sunlight and pointed a gun at me. I didn’t have time to determine whether or not he was bulletproof. I’m not taking a dive here. I stand by my report.”

“Alright, Officer,” Watson conceded as she stood up. “It’s your decision. However, I’m not going to turn your report in right now. You and I can stop for lunch on our way to Chance Wolford’s office.”

“Who’s Chance Wolford?” Carter asked, following the Chief of Homicide out.

“He’s a private investigator. His business card was found in Bridgett’s bedroom.”

Though Carter was pleased Watson was willing to table her objections and move on to other important matters, there were still a lot of questions in the patrolman’s mind. Had the Lieutenant resigned herself to the reality that one of her cops was about to fall on his sword? Or was there a secret plan in the works she didn’t want to reveal until the last possible moment? It wasn’t beyond the realm of probability that the seasoned investigator actually believed the noble young martyr. At any rate, the Department’s highest-ranking homicide detective was a complicated woman surrounded by a wall of suppressed despair and mistaken aloofness. She didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve, but Watson was no bureaucratic robot. That was a fact Carter would come to appreciate in the days ahead.


CHAPTER 6

Lunch at Catfish O’Connor’s Seafood Haven didn’t include the best food Carter had ever eaten, but the taste seemed to improve when his superior offered to pick up the check. The famished civil servants devoured one-dozen shrimp and a plate of crab legs before pronouncing sentence on four hot potatoes. Neither of them was accustom to downing a heavy midday meal, but an audience with Chance Wolford would require all the stamina they could muster.

Lieutenant Watson had intended to be at Wolford’s office at 1:00pm, but a violent downpour prompted a change in plans. The officers were a block away from their destination when the Lieutenant pulled off the road and parked in the lot of a neighborhood bakery.

“I can’t even see where we’re going,” Watson said.

“I’m glad I decided to bring my jacket,” Carter said. “That stuff looks like it’s going to turn to sleet out there.”
“Darius, I wanted you to know I checked with the lab. The sneakers Paul Fisher was wearing were stained with Bridgett’s blood. They were also a perfect match for the footprint on the crime scene floor.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“The phone call I received when we left the restaurant was from Dr. Crawford. The kid’s system was full of heroin and codeine, but the cause of death was heart failure.”

“Man! Somebody really had his number.”

“There was a suicide note in Paul’s pocket. Yet, you seem convinced he was murdered.”

Carter lowered his head and squinted. “It’s all too convenient, Bess,” he said. “Everything was wrapped in a neat little package for us to find.”

“I thought about that, too,” she admitted. “According to witnesses, Bridgett left the high school auditorium around 9:30. She placed the 911 call at 11:44. I took another look around after you left the residence. There was no sign of forced entry and all the windows were secure. Bridgett had to have let her attackers in.”

“So they were obviously people she knew.”

“Paul’s sneakers were Adidas Men’s Pro Zero basketball shoes. I went to his home to inform Mrs. Fisher that we had found her son. She told me that Paul never wore sneakers. He only liked dress shoes.”

“All roads lead to the Southside Cripplers. These punks are slick and dangerous, Bess. How are we going to take them down?”

“For a start, I’m having some of them brought in for questioning. If Paul Fisher did kill Bridgett, he would have needed their help. And you can bet that Bridgett got a few good shots of her own in. If any of those boys were involved you can be sure their bodies will tell us all we need to know.”

“What would make a straight-laced kid get involved with a gang?”

“He wasn’t as straight-laced as you think,” the Lieutenant told him. “Four months ago, he was admitted to the Emergency Room with four cracked ribs and a broken collar bone.”
“What happened to him?” Carter asked.

“He told the investigating officers that he was attacked on his way home from the library.”

“Did he get a look at the assailants?”

“He said it was too dark to see their faces.”

“It sounds like Fisher might have had a few secrets of his own.”

“It gets worse. A month after that beating, he was arrested for stealing a car.”

“Did he do any time?”

“The case was thrown out at his arraignment.”

“I’d like to have a talk with that judge.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“A few days after that ruling, he resigned from the bench and left the country.”

Carter peered through the windshield as the freezing rain subsided. “Everything about this stinks,” he said. “I’ll bet Principal will be glad she pulled desk duty today.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Watson said, starting the engine and heading toward the street. “About twelve of her students at the academy didn’t get evaluated and Inspector Porter is climbing the wall. Trudging through sleet would probably sound pretty good about now. At any rate, we’re two blocks from Chance Wolford’s office. Maybe he’ll tell us something that can make the case smell a little sweeter.”


CHAPTER 7

Watson had spent several hours researching the exploits of the duplicitous gumshoe she was about to confront. In certain circles, his reputation was well established. For Wolford, circumventing the law was an occupational necessity. During the past decade, he’d amassed a substantial fortune running errands for some of the most notorious kingpins in town.

The lanky player was quite a spectacle in his Kent hand-tailored wool Gabardine suit and Greggo lace-up leather shoes. He had a habit of caressing the band of his Cartier wrist watch. There wasn’t a strand of gray in those silky sable waves. For a man who’d betrayed the values he was obligated to uphold, this rapacious hired-gun was considerably laid-back. Although he didn’t physically murder Bridgett Donaldson, Watson and Carter would soon discover what the life of a teenager was worth to a scheming opportunist like Chance Wolford.

Never one to let others see him sweat, Wolford paced back and forth across his violet Berber carpet endeavoring to contain his apprehension before the police arrived. The PI had a lot of skeletons in his closet and Watson didn’t tell him why she was coming.

When the authorities entered the reception area, Wolford came out to greet them. “I’d almost given up on you,” he said, escorting them into his office.

“The rain caught us by surprise,” Watson told him. “I gather your secretary is out to lunch.”

“No,” the investigator replied. “She had an emergency.”

The officers sat down in front of Wolford’s Classic Cherry Executive desk. “This is Officer Carter,” the Chief of Homicide said.
“Mr. Wolford,” Carter spoke with a nod.

“Pleased to meet you, Officer,” the meticulous equivocator responded. “Can I get either of you a drink?”

“No thank you,” Watson replied. “We’re on duty.”

Careful not to sound too curious, Wolford got down to business. “So what brings Brickhearst’s finest to my doorstep?” he asked.

“It concerns the murder of Bridgett Donaldson,” the Lieutenant explained. “Your business card was found at her home.”

“My cards are all over town,” the composed fabricator shrugged. “She could have picked it up anywhere.”

“Were you acquainted with her at all?” Carter asked.

“I knew she’d been chosen to receive the New Directions Award, but we weren’t friends,” the gumshoe contended. “May I ask if you have any suspects in mind?”

“We wanted to question her boyfriend, Paul Fisher, but he was found murdered this morning,” Watson told him.

A terrified expression came over the private investigator’s face, as he stood up and stumbled to the bar. “Paul’s dead?” he repeated before filling a shot glass with whiskey.

“So you did know Paul Fisher,” Carter concluded.

Wolford guzzled his drink down and returned to the desk. “About six months ago, a young woman volunteering at a Southside soup kitchen was robbed and brutally beaten,” he said. “She’s still in a coma.”

“I remember hearing about that case,” Watson recalled. “Her name was Sheila Whitney. The Gang Task Force investigated the crime.”

“That’s right,” Wolford confirmed. “Witnesses reported that the Cripplers kept coming around to harass her. And she wasn’t shy about telling them off.”

“That’s no reason to beat a person senseless,” Carter commented.

“It is for the Cripplers,” Wolford continued. “Anyway, the girl’s father hired me to bring the punks in. That’s when I hired Paul to infiltrate the gang.”

“You did what?” the Lieutenant vociferated.

“During the course of my investigation, I interviewed the kid,” the shamus explained. “It was his idea to go undercover. He believed the conversations he’d had with Bridgett gave him the edge he needed to survive on the streets. He was also planning to propose to Bridgett. That’s why he wanted such a big chunk of cash to do the job.”

“So the beating that put him in the hospital was his initiation into the gang,” Carter deduced.

“That’s right,” the shameless bagman concurred.

“I suppose the events at his arraignment were also engineered by you,” Watson said.

“That scenario didn’t exactly play out as I intended,” Wolford confessed. “When Paul was arrested, I approached the judge in private and explained the situation. Ironically, there was some dirt in his past that could have erupted into a full-blown scandal. I was aware of these secrets, but I didn’t threaten him. Still, he was afraid I’d expose him. So after a few witnesses came forward and testified that they’d seen Paul somewhere else the night the car was stolen, the judge threw the case out. A week later, he resigned.”

“What did you learn from Paul’s adventure?” Carter inquired.

“Paul didn’t dig up too much about Sheila Whitney’s assault,” he admitted. “But he did say the Cripplers are no ordinary street gang. An adult with a lot of money and influence is pulling their strings. They’d planned a meeting with the boss two days before Bridgett’s death.”

“So you don’t know who this individual is,” the Lieutenant stated with an angry glance.

“That’s true,” the devastated detective replied.

“Have you ever spoken to Bridgett?” Carter asked.

Wolford rubbed his temples and sighed. “She came to see me three days ago,” he told them. “She found out about my arrangement with Paul and begged me to let him go.”

Watson stood up and looked into the investigator’s eyes. “Mr. Wolford, I’m going to be honest with you,” she said. “The fact that you put a teenage boy in harm’s way is deplorable. Bridgett and Paul may well have gotten killed because of your greed. I’ll be sending a report to the FDACS. A private investigator that gets kids killed doesn’t deserve to have a license.”

It would have been prudent to let the Lieutenant have the last word, but the conceited henchman wasn’t about to be chided by a municipal employee. “Let me tell you something, Lieutenant!” he snapped. “A considerable number of powerful people in this town have a lot of bodies buried in their backyards and I know where to dig. Now you can get on your soapbox and spout all the righteous indignation you like. But if you take me on, you’ll be sorry!”

“We’ll see about that!” Watson replied, as she and the patrolman took their leave.

On the way back to the police station, Carter thought about the bizarre direction this case had taken. Being told that Paul Fisher was actually working undercover for that insufferable private detective confirmed Lieutenant Watson’s initial suspicions. Although keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the Southside Cripplers could eventually bear fruit, the involvement of an adult who was calling the shots complicated matters. Uncovering the identity of that Fagin was now the primary focus.


CHAPTER 8

By the end of the week, Paul Fisher’s body had been laid to rest and many of the mourners who’d attended his funeral gathered to convey their condolences to the guardian of Bridgett Donaldson. Understandably, the day was particularly heartrending for Grace. Wandering the halls of a crowded police station after the ceremony was the last thing she wanted to do. Nevertheless, she needed to find out when the Chief of Homicide would allow her to return home.

Carter was in the lounge when he saw Grace walk past the window. “Grace,” he said, stepping out to greet the distraught survivor in the formfitting black dress. “Come in and sit down awhile.”

Her mascara was running and her hands were trembling. “I’m tired, Darius,” she whispered, taking the patrolman’s arm.

Carter escorted the grieving aunt to the table where he was sitting and pulled out a chair for her. “I haven’t touched it,” he said, referring to the cup of coffee in front of her. “It’s still hot.” The compassionate officer retrieved a container of moist towelettes from the cabinet and sat down beside her. “These ought to do you some good. Are you looking for Bess?”

“Yes,” she said, taking a mirror from her purse and wiping her face with one of the towelettes. “I wanted to know when I can go back to my house. There are some things I’d like to take with me.”

“Ah, it sounds like you’re planning a vacation.”

“No, I’m moving to Washington D.C. With my military background, I should be able to get a decent job. I’m selling the diner.”

“I see.”

Grace took a sip of coffee. “I feel like I’m living a nightmare, Darius,” she said. “Wednesday morning I went to Paul’s funeral. He was only sixteen. The future was his for the taking. I touched his mother’s hand, but I doubt she even knew it was me.”

“I heard she was taken to the hospital.”
“It wasn’t anything life-threatening. The doctors released her yesterday, but the family is keeping a close eye on her just in case.”

“Bess and I went to her home earlier this week to let her know what we’d learned about Paul. We realized the truth wouldn’t alleviate her pain, but at least she knows her son didn’t die a murderer.”

“I’ll be sure and leave an address so you can get in touch with me,” Grace said, finishing her coffee as she stood up.

Carter escorted her out. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call,” he told her. “It’s going to take time, but you will get through this.”

“Thank you for everything,” Grace said, embracing the officer.

Carter looked down the hall and caught sight of Watson going over some paper work with a patrolwoman. “There she is,” he said.

Grace hurried to the Chief of Homicide. “Bess,” she softly called out.

Watson signed the papers and dismissed the officer. “Grace,” she said.

Carter couldn’t hear everything the women were saying, but the discomfort on the Lieutenant’s face was evident when Grace gave her a hug. Ever cognizant of his superior officer’s nature, he returned to the lounge and poured himself another cup of coffee. A few minutes later, Watson walked in and found her old friend’s nephew in the break room perusing a magazine article. She took a seat across the table from him.

“Bess,” Carter said. “Did Grace get everything worked out?”

“Yes,” the Lieutenant confirmed. “She’ll be able to return home Monday morning.”

“That’s good. I hate to see what she’s going through, but I have every confidence she can pull through anything.”

“How do you do it, Darius?”

“How do I do what, Lieutenant?”

“You know all the right things to say when people are in crisis. You comfort the bereaved with such tenderness. You have a real gift.”

“It’s not that complicated. I simply show others the warmth and kindness I was denied. I loathe the thought of anyone hurting the way I have. Unfortunately, there are people who’ve gone through more than you or I ever will. That’s where being a good listener comes into play.”

Watson leaned back and looked away. “You have a lot of character, Officer,” she said. “And you’ll make a great detective.”

“The fact that you’ve given this so much thought reveals more about your character than you realize,” he told her. “You have the respect of every cop in this department.”

“That may change if we don’t make some headway on these murders.”

“It looks like we’ll have to march over to the Southside and run a few Cripplers in.”

“I know where you can find at least seven of them.”
“Where?”

“In Interview Room B.”

“You’re no slouch yourself.”

After taking a few minutes to discuss their strategy, Carter and Watson headed down the hall to confront seven young monsters who neither feared nor revered the law. The savage murders of Paul and Bridgett solidified that point. To make the thugs understand the exigency of their crimes, the authorities would have to resurrect the sparsest trace of human remorse. Pulling that miracle off would require long-suffering and restraint. Regrettably, Sergeant Lena Principal was significantly lacking in both respects.

Principal was standing outside the interview room when Watson and Carter came around the corner. She wanted to be present when the Cripplers were questioned. However, the expression on the Lieutenant’s face didn’t look very accommodating.

“What are you doing here, Lena?” Watson asked.

“I want to hear what those punks have to say about the deaths of Paul and Bridgett, Lieutenant,” the Sergeant responded.

Watson thought for a moment. “This may be our last chance to get at the truth,” she said. “I can’t afford to let that hair-trigger temper of yours blow the case.”

“I know I haven’t been a model of protocol when it comes to interrogation etiquette,” Principal admitted. “But I want justice for those kids. Now I can control myself.”

“Alright,” the Lieutenant conceded, as they prepared to enter the room. “Don’t let me down, Lena.”


CHAPTER 9

Most teenagers who’d been hauled in for questioning concerning a high-profile homicide would have a hard time concealing their trepidation, but the Southside Cripplers were cut from a different cloth. They just sat defiantly around the table as Principal, Carter and Watson walked in. Four additional patrolmen also stood guard in the room.

The raven-haired bundle of dynamite in the leather jacket was the only female member of this degenerate seven the police could find. Her name was Allison Grant, but her comrades in crime called her Alley Cat. Though the scars that would have implicated her in the murder of Bridgett Donaldson weren’t visible, her adolescent visage was clearly distorted by the merciless afflictions of a mutilated spirit. This svelte young swindler had been on the streets since she was ten. Memories of neglect and abuse were now the remnants of her turbulent beginning. Craving the warmth and acceptance of someone who wanted her, the streetwise fourteen-year-old sought refuge from the Cripplers. The gang gave her food, clothes and a place to belong. Sadly, the brown-eyed orphan couldn’t see what they were taking away.

The scraggy youngster to Allison’s right was Ratboy Mendoza. Abandoned by his parents at the age of six, the pimply-faced waif had spent the majority of his life in the foster care system. His large front teeth made him the object of two-faced contemporaries who derived pleasure from the misery of others. The neglect and brutality of people who wanted to be parents for all the wrong reasons still haunted him. Aside from the jet black crew cut and nervous twitch, he appeared to be the typical American teenager. Of course, it would have taken more than a passive encounter to sense the danger that lurked behind those callous ebony eyes.

In elementary school, Ratboy was the target of every bully he stumbled across. Numerous fights and humiliating pranks seared his conscience. Virtues like mercy, patience and forgiveness were now foreign concepts. He was a driven street warrior who never failed to get even. The airbrushed image of a blood-soaked dagger on his T-shirt reflected the belligerence of an aimless soul stranded in a mire of blind revenge. After studying his history, no one could rule this kid out as a murder suspect.

Yet, despite his disenchantment with the milk of human kindness, there was someone Mendoza did respect. The good-looking kid with the vexing gaze and French crop haircut was Ramrod Hodges.

It was hard to understand why a boy who seemed to have everything would forsake the advantages of Miami society to traverse a course that would only lead him to prison. With his trim physique and chiseled features, he could have pursued a career as an actor or model. Instead, he turned his back on all his family had to offer for the fleeting glory of social rebellion.

Ramrod’s looks weren’t the only incredible facet of his character. The precocious adolescent possessed the uncanny ability to identify an individual’s weakest traits. He was particularly proud of the way he was able to manipulate his subordinates. For example, that quilted canvas work jacket he wore was a gift from a lonely widow who’d fallen victim to the gigolo’s charm, but he led his crew to believe he broke into the police commissioner’s house and stole the garment. With a proficient conspirator like Hodges running the show, Watson knew it would take a calculated roll of the dice to convince the others to come clean.

Perhaps the most bewildering link in this rusty chain of latent delinquency was a broad-shouldered whiz kid who answered to the name of Guttersnipe Gunderson. Like the late Paul Fisher, Gunderson was once on the fast-track to academic success. He graduated from high school when he was thirteen. Colleges all over the country offered him the world. Principals, teachers and fellow students seized every opportunity to express their admiration for this pubescent genius. Even the local media attempted to propel the image of a hometown boy who made his community proud. No one could have imagined the consequences of that kind of adoration.

After two years of college, Guttersnipe felt burned out and ostracized. A yearning for the camaraderie of youngsters his own age impelled him to betray the values his parents tried to instill in him. In time he was selling drugs for rich classmates who didn’t want to get their hands dirty. It felt good to know some of the most popular guys on campus had his number programmed into their cell phones. The lonely boy from Sarasota had finally made it to the ball. Regrettably, the party ended and the sophomore was left holding the bag. Expelled from school and ashamed to face his family, he embarked upon a life-style of self-preservation and vagrancy.

Leaning back in his chair with his hands in the pockets of his suede leather Bomber, Gunderson appeared less concerned than anyone. His story wasn’t as common as most, but it was just as tragic. He’d grown weary of running the streets and taking orders from Ramrod. With the connections he’d made since arriving in Brickhearst, the scheming hustler felt poised and ready to replace his fearless leader the moment the opportunity presented itself.

The oddest members of this folly of fallen flesh were a pair of fraternal twins named Licorice Lenny and Randy “The Rogue” Jefferson. Other than their caramel complexions, there weren’t many features that suggested these fifteen-year-old high-tech bandits shared the same DNA.

Unlike his lanky sibling, Randy was short and chubby. He kept a pick in his medium-sized afro. The way he fiddled with the zipper of his Atlanta Braves jacket revealed the apprehension he struggled to conceal. The Rogue couldn’t run very fast and he’d often been the target of rival gang members. The majority of street warriors who depended on the speed and strength of the kids who had their backs would have gotten rid of this nervous craven a long time ago. Nevertheless, Ramrod wasn’t about to lose a computer hack with the skills that Randy possessed. With a soft-spoken cyber-bandit at the keyboard, security systems, payroll information and private emails were in serious jeopardy. The Southside Cripplers had reached the porthole of a new frontier and Ramrod was depending on Randy to show them the way.

No one could ever mistake Licorice Lenny for his brother. The narrow-faced bruiser was loud and impertinent. He had an affinity for fast cars and older women. With a silky black ponytail that reached halfway down his back, the self-absorbed playboy enjoyed flashing his four gold teeth at any woman foolish enough to give him the time of day. He periodically raked through the hairs of his budding goatee with a tiny comb. That Moschino shirt had more than likely been stolen from one of the boutiques on Latimer Avenue. Lenny was known for breaking hearts and cracking skulls, but there was another skill that made him more dangerous than an army of terrorists.
This rancorous offender had an incomparable knowledge of firearms. He was acquainted with most of the underground dealers who facilitated their lavish lifestyles by putting handguns and assault weapons into the wrong hands. When the Cripplers were in need of fire power, they could depend on the thug who knew more about illegal munitions than most policemen, Licorice Lenny Jefferson.

The goon responsible for protecting and enforcing the will of this dominion of deadly disrepute was Ramrod’s 280 pound cousin, Ox Patterson. The reasons why a twenty-year-old loner would take a back-seat to a younger relative in a criminal enterprise that offered little more than a bullet to the head or a stint in the state penitentiary were a mystery to every mental health professional who’d endeavored to understand him. Though a few details were still sketchy, the big man’s record revealed an unexplained chemical accident that caused his hair to fall out. By the age of twelve, he was completely bald.

Perched at the other end of the table like a crafty vulture, the menacing spectacle stared at the wall. He occasionally raised a hand to stroke his bushy black mustache. Ameliorated scars on his forehead gave testament to the anguish and humiliation that plagued his thoughts. His huge extremities and prominent nose had been the object of ridicule for most of his life. Seeking shelter among people who depended on his strength and aggression made him feel important. Ramrod couldn’t have chosen a more suitable enforcer to do his bidding. Combined with the rage and detachment of a tumultuous childhood, the towering crusher’s proclivity for violence made the Southside Cripplers the most feared street gang in town. If the cops had the slightest chance of making one of these kids sing, they would have to contend with a brute that could snap a man’s neck without breaking a sweat.

A scarlet bandana was visible on the person of each hoodlum. As Lieutenant Watson approached the table she noticed something else they had in common. Every suspect in the room was wearing a brand-new pair of Filas DLS Sneakers. It was obvious the adult who was teaching them the finer elements of criminal artistry was no amateur.

With her arms folded, the Lieutenant walked over and stood in front of Ramrod. “You’re to be congratulated, Mr. Hodges,” she said. “There are criminals twice your age who’d give anything to trade places with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant,” the teenager responded.

“Then let me clarify,” the lead homicide investigator continued. “Aside from your usual destructive activities, you masterminded the murders of two kids. Paul and Bridgett were on their way to a better life until they ran into you.”

“Don’t even try it, cop!” Guttersnipe Gunderson exclaimed. “We’re not stupid. If you had proof, we’d be in a cell.”

“Alright, Gunderson,” Watson said. “Let’s cut to the chase. We know there’s an adult calling the shots for the Cripplers.”

An expression of utter shock swept over Sergeant Principal’s face as she turned and looked at Carter. Realizing an unexpected inquiry would weaken the Lieutenant’s hand; Principal’s partner just put his fingers to his lips and looked away.

“You people are crazy!” Ratboy insisted. “Instead of tracking down the real killers, you’d rather drag us down here for nothing. Well I’ve got news for you, lady. We didn’t have anything to do with those murders and you can’t nail us for them.”

“I think I understand the problem,” Ramrod said. “You’re a very lonely woman, Lieutenant. That’s why you come up with these fantasies to occupy your time. You need the warmth and approval of a good man who’ll sing you to sleep at night. That’s the kind of affection that makes a woman like you feel special. Having us arrested creates the opportunity for you to decide which one of us best suits your needs. It happens to a lot of older women.”

“Are you kidding me?” Watson responded. “Do you honestly think I’d risk my career for some two-bit hood barely out of diapers?”

Ramrod shrugged. “Calm down, Lieutenant,” he told her. “A woman your age shouldn’t get so excited.”
Principal began circling the table. She looked like she was going to explode. It wouldn’t have taken more than a chuckle to set her off and Licorice Lenny Jefferson just happened to pull the pin from that grenade.

“Do you think this is funny, Jefferson?” the enraged patrolwoman shouted, snatching the teenager from his chair and shoving him into the wall. “Let me tell you something, kid. Two very special people have been murdered, so we’re not interested in your comedy! Next time, you may be the one lying on the floor spitting your teeth out!”

Two of the officers moved closer as other gang members prepared to join the fray.

Carter put his hand on Ox Patterson’s shoulder. “Keep your seat, mustache,” he admonished.

“Everybody just calm down,” the Lieutenant instructed the jumpy juveniles as she stepped toward Lenny and Principal. “Let him go, Lena.”

The Sergeant complied. “Little punk,” she muttered.

“There are some forms on my desk that need your attention,” Watson said, attempting to tactfully dismiss her old friend.

“But Lieutenant,” principal protested.

“Now Sergeant!” the superior officer asserted.

The Sergeant raised her hands and nodded before exiting the room.

“Sit down, Jefferson,” Watson told the seething young twin. “Get yourself together. You won’t be here much longer.” Even though an air of peculiar serenity seemed to replace the confounding tension that emerged when Principal lost her head, the department’s highest-ranking homicide detective was still reeling from her exchange with the veteran flatfoot. Though she had argued with half the brass at one time or another, reprimanding her closest friend left a knot in the Lieutenant’s stomach that made her miserable. The agitation on her face was unnerving. She couldn’t afford to fall apart in front of the gangbangers, so she decided to hurry things along. “Alright punks; this is how it’s going down. I want Paul and Bridgett’s killer. The first one who gives me the murderer and reveals the adult who’s pulling the strings walks. The State Attorney promises protection.” She looked over and caught Alley Cat rolling her eyes. “Am I boring you, little girl?”

“Back off, old lady!” the insolent street urchin snapped. “Do you think I’m too stupid to see what you’re trying to do? You might as well save your breath because we’re not turning on each other. The Cripplers are my family. So you can just take your little show on the road. We don’t want any tickets.”

“I don’t even want to imagine what you had to do to earn your place in this family,” the Lieutenant commented. She turned her attention to Randy Jefferson. “What about you, genius?”

The terrified hacker struggled to avoid making eye contact. “I don’t know what you mean,” he muttered.

“You’re the most pathetic of all,” Watson told him. “With your talent, you could discover ways to improve the lives of people all over the world. Instead, you’d rather waste your life with these clowns. You may think you’ve got it all figured out now, my boy. But I’d advise you to sleep with one eye open. Your buddies won’t hesitate to throw you and Miss sassy pants to the dogs once you’ve outlived your usefulness.”

Lenny’s rage finally boiled to the top. “What do you know about it, cop?” he snarled, springing from his chair. “You talk a lot of bull, but that badge won’t protect you on the Southside!”

“Don’t even try it, kid,” the Lieutenant demanded. “You’ve got a long way to go before you’ll be ready to take me on.” She moved closer to Ox Patterson. “I don’t understand you at all, Patterson. You’re twenty-years- old. You should be working and planning your future. But you’d rather take orders from teenage kids. What’s wrong with you, big guy? Are you one of those animals who needs to torture and terrify the weak? It’s all a farce, son. You’ll never have the respect you crave until you learn to think for yourself. And you call yourself a man.”

Thus far, Ox had managed to keep a lid on his emotions, but the Lieutenant’s last remark lit his fuse. The furious henchman sprang to his feet, kicking his chair toward the wall behind him, as he pounded the table with both fists! “You cops think you know everything,” he said. “One of these days I’ll get to show you what our world is really like. When you have to cringe under a bridge some cold winter night, or walk up and down the sidewalk because some fool took everything you had, I doubt you’ll be so high and mighty.”

The officers behind Patterson were about to move in, but Watson ordered them to stand-down. “We’re finished,” she said. “I’ve been around a long time, my friends. And there is one thing I know for sure. You’re going to slip up. And when you do, we’ll be there. So don’t say I didn’t give you a chance. Now get out of my sight!”

This was the first time Carter had witnessed the Lieutenant engage a suspect with such aggression. The patrolman couldn’t decipher what was going on inside her head. Did the exchange with Principal ignite dormant emotions that Watson was helpless to contain? Of course, there was the possibility that the savvy homicide cop was trying to trigger a reaction that would make one or more of the juvenile offenders spill the beans. At any rate, the attempt had been made and the gangbangers were back on the street. For the time being, the only thing the authorities could do was watch and wait. As for Sergeant Principal, her date with destiny was only a shift-change away.


CHAPTER 10

There were only nine detectives in the squad room when Principal knocked on the Lieutenant’s door. Watson wanted to speak with the veteran patrolwoman about a half-hour before roll call.

“Come in, Lena,” the Chief of Homicide said, rising from her desk. Watson appeared to be in a more placid state of mind than she portrayed during the interview with the Southside Cripplers. “Please sit down.”

“Are your detectives on strike?” the Sergeant asked, taking a seat across the desk from her oldest friend.

“A traffic fatality just occurred on Highway 231. Half my detectives were investigating crime scenes when the 911 call came in. They’ll be rendering assistance until state troopers relieve them.”

“I gather the rest of your conversation with the Cripplers wasn’t a homerun.”

“I can’t figure out when this investigation became a circus act. Your partner shoots suspects who disappear and you think you’re the marshal of Dodge City.”

“Lieutenant, I know I crossed the line yesterday, but raw aggression is the only thing punks like Hodges and the Jefferson Brothers understand.”

“You are a seasoned police officer, Sergeant! I expect you to keep your head and obey orders. By getting thrown out of that interrogation room, you compromised the strategy I was trying to establish. We may not get another chance.”

“What about the footprints?”

“Every one of those kids had on a brand-new pair of sneakers.”

“Couldn’t we get a warrant to search their places of residence?”

“You know a judge who’d like to be tarred and feathered? We don’t have enough evidence to detain that band of misfits for spitting on the sidewalk. If the Cripplers did kill Paul and Bridgett, they just might get off scot-free.”

Principal lowered her head and ran her fingers through her hair. “I guess I really messed things up this time,” she sighed. “I’m sorry, Bess.”

Watson stepped around the desk and knelt in front of her dearest friend. “Lena, you’re the best cop I’ve ever known,” she said. “I couldn’t bear to see you throw your career away. You can’t let the shenanigans of teenage creeps get your goat. You’re too good for that. The publicity in this case is only going to intensify. Don’t get caught making a drastic mistake on the 6 o’clock news.”

Before Principal could respond, Carter knocked on the door.

“Come in,” the Lieutenant said, rising to her feet.

“The desk sergeant said you wanted to see me, Lieutenant,” the officer said.
“That’s right, Darius,” Watson replied. “Close the door please.”

“Morning, Sarge,” the patrolman said to Principal.

“Carter,” she responded.

“Darius, I received a call from Inspector Holden last night,” the Lieutenant said. “Needless to say, he’s having trouble with your version of events at that hardware store. So if you want to remain on active duty you’ll have to attend regular sessions with the department psychiatrist.”

“Alright,” he agreed. “It doesn’t seem fair, but I’ll submit.”

“I won’t stop fighting for you,” Watson pledged. “But this investigation has been a hard row to hoe. I think you need to concentrate on something else for a while.”

“What are you saying, Bess?” Principal asked.

“I want you two to report to Lieutenant Wagner,” she explained. “He’ll be at the scene of that car crash on Highway 231 near the Bay County line. You’ll probably be out there until the end of your shift.”

“Is this some kind of punishment?” Carter inquired.

“Not at all,” Watson assured him. “We can’t always get the assignments we want, Darius. This is the job. Now you have your orders.”

Though Carter was a bit disoriented, his partner seemed uncharacteristically resolved to the idea of taking a break from the Donaldson investigation.

“Let’s go, kid,” the Sergeant said on her way out.


CHAPTER 11

Neither officer spoke a word as they took the elevator to the first floor and made their way back to the patrol unit.

“You want me to drive, Sarge?” Carter asked.
“No,” she responded with a Machiavellian glint in her eye. “I’ve got a stop to make.”

“The Lieutenant wants us to get to that crash site.”

“We’ll get there,” she said, clicking her seatbelt on and starting the engine. “When did you say Bess was going to let Grace back into her house?”

“Monday. Why?”

“I want to have a look at the place. A fresh perspective in the light of day could make all the difference.”

“But the house is locked.”

“That’s not a problem. I borrowed Grace’s key.”

“Why are you doing this, Sarge?” the uneasy patrolman asked.

“You heard what Bess said back there,” Principal responded. “Saying we need a break from the case was just a polite way of telling us where we stand.”

“And where do we stand?”

“We’re in a tiger’s cage with a couple of T-bone steaks tied to our backs.”

“How will going to the crime scene improve our situation?”

“It may not. I just want to take a look around.”

Carter hadn’t known the intrepid redhead long, but he could sense that something wasn’t right. At any rate, Principal was his superior officer and so far, she hadn’t ordered him to do anything illegal.

The perplexed patrolman had to admit the Sergeant was right about one thing. The Donaldson residence did look different in the light of day. The plants hadn’t been watered in a week and the front lawn needed a trim. The mailbox was filled to capacity and several daily newspapers were scattered about the yard. Trudging through the home of a teenage murder victim was the last thing the patrolman wanted to do on a misty overcast morning. Nevertheless, it had to be done. Examining crime scenes was an important facet of a policeman’s job and everyone knew homicide was a messy business.

The death of Bridgett Donaldson had left a hole in the heart of this quiet community. For years to come, it would feel as though nothing could ever fill the space. Even the dogwood at the corner of the house seemed to mourn the loss.

Principal parked the unit on the side of the road and accompanied her partner up the driveway. They were halfway to the house when Carter noticed the door was cracked open.

“Someone’s been in there,” the vigilant officer observed, reaching for his semiautomatic sidearm.

Principal lifted her revolver from its holster and moved closer to the dwelling. “Who’d have the nerve to break into this place?” she wondered aloud.

The Sergeant pushed the door all the way open while Carter switched on a light. The discovery they made was a first for both of them. Instead of burglarizing the home or smashing everything in sight, an intruder had broken in and cleaned the place from top to bottom.

The blood-drenched floor first-responders meticulously maneuvered over the night of the murder was now immaculate. The smell of pine cleaner and bleach was hard to miss. Someone had gotten rid of the smashed picture frames and the demolished coffee table. They’d stacked the blood-stained magazines against the wall. The couch was covered with clean blankets and the recliner was back in place. Even the bathroom was spotless. The officers couldn’t imagine why anyone would clean a crime scene after CSI had completed its investigation. There was the possibility the Cripplers returned to find something they’d lost during the struggle with Bridgett, although there was no feasible reason why they would have stuck around to give the place a makeover. At this point, nothing appeared to make sense, but Principal and Carter had no intention of leaving without answers.

“Didn’t you tell me this place looked like a disaster area?” the Sergeant asked.

“It did the last time I was here,” Carter told her, as he scanned the room.

“What’s with you?”

“A section of carpet under the couch has been cut away.”

“Even though it’s a little late, I’d imagine they wanted to get rid of anything with blood on it.”
“They did more than that. The land-phone is gone.”

They weren’t sure what the missing phone meant, but the mere suggestion seemed to place both cops on heightened alert.

“You look around in the bedrooms,” Principal instructed. “I’ll check the kitchen and bathroom.”

Carter crept down the hall to the last room on the left and opened the door. The light was on and the bed hadn’t been disturbed. He knelt to look under anything some wise guy might have been hiding under. The buff-colored carpet had been steamed and the waste basket by the lamp stand was empty. The only place left to search was the closet. Ever cognizant that a booby trap could be set off by the turning of a knob, the patrolman stepped across the room. He’d almost made it to the closet when he was startled by what sounded like breaking glass!

Pondering every scenario he would likely confront, the ambivalent marksman retreated from the room and peered down the scantly lit hallway. “What happened, Sarge?” Carter cried out, tramping forward with his weapon trained on the open door a few feet ahead.

“Everything is under control, Carter,” Principal responded. “Hold your position.”

The Sergeant emerged from the bathroom with her hands cuffed behind her back. That’s when her partner discovered she wasn’t alone. Guttersnipe Gunderson followed her out with a 45 ACP Big Bore revolver pressed against her head.

“That’s far enough, pretty boy,” the insolent gangbanger said, tugging the handcuffs to manipulate his prisoner’s every move. “Now there’s a parked car at the edge of the lawn. I’m taking psycho mama for a little ride. I’d rather it had been that loud mouth Lieutenant of yours, but her day will come.”

“Give it up, Gunderson,” Carter said, following them outside. “You don’t have a chance.”

“Don’t even try it, quick-draw,” the self-assured juvenile replied, making certain Principal’s body remained between him and the cop’s 9mm. “Everybody knows you’re a good shot, but you’re not going to risk your partner’s life.”

The Sergeant could see the apprehension on Carter’s face. “Remember your training, Officer,” she said. “Take the shot!”

“If I were you, I’d save those bullets,” Gunderson advised. “You’ve got bigger problems.”

When Carter heard the engine of an approaching vehicle, he understood what the burgeoning mobster meant. Helpless to rescue his partner, the patrolman watched Gunderson shove Principal into the back seat of an awaiting Lexus. The tented windows made it impossible to see how many people were in the car. Although the cautious flatfoot was more than willing to do everything possible to save his partner, when a masked assailant emerged from the passenger side with an M-16 assault rifle, his only option was to take cover. Sprinting toward the house at full speed, the hefty human target leaped through the open doorway in time to elude a haze of automatic gunfire that shattered windows and peppered the wall!

Carter retrieved his radio. “Five-Toledo-Thirty; request backup at 3619 Clover Street!” he cried. “Officer under fire and my partner has been abducted. I repeat; officer abducted!”

When his partner’s captors sped away, Carter could see a brown S-10 pickup truck turn the corner. With so much at stake, the Cripplers couldn’t afford to leave the job half-done. The embattled peace officer knew they were coming for him. However, he didn’t know Ramrod Henderson had sent Alley Cat Grant and Randy “The Rogue” Jefferson to accomplish the mission.

It was ironic that the warning Lieutenant Watson gave Allison and Randy at the police station should come to fruition so soon. The gang’s blatant lack of concern for their welfare was evident. Fourteen-year-old Allison was illegally operating a motor vehicle while Randy played assassin in the bed of the truck with an Uzi submachine gun. Although his brother had given him some pointers, sending Randy to do battle with a trained cop was nothing less than murder.

Waiting for his would-be executioners to approach, Carter tried to map out a strategy, but the patrolman’s emotions began to overwhelm him. He hadn’t completely let go of the guilt that plagued him when Cal Weaver killed his own children. Now his failure to act had resulted in the abduction of his partner. The nightmare of facing self-serving superiors and vindictive reporters was an experience he didn’t want to relive. This time, he was determined to defeat his demons or die trying.

Checking the clip in his sidearm, the beleaguered sitting duck prepared for battle. With his gaze fixed ahead, Carter stormed out and charged the speeding vehicle, firing repeated rounds into the windshield! The tormented marksman discharged five shots before diving to the ground and tumbling across the grass.

A bullet to the sternum compelled the teenage driver to lose control of the wheel and steamroll into the side of the house! Randy was catapulted from the bed. The inept gangbanger landed face-down on the concrete driveway with the Uzi in his hand.

Bruised and disheveled, Carter struggled to his feet and staggered toward the barely conscious teenager who’d come to take him out. After prying the Uzi from Randy’s clinched fingers, the disillusioned survivor reached down to check for a pulse. Suddenly, the wail of sirens filled the air!

Sergeant Brent Morgan was the first to arrive. He exited the vehicle and trotted toward Carter with his semiautomatic handgun drawn. “What happened, youngblood?” He asked the stunned patrolman.

“The Cripplers kidnapped Principal, Brent,” Carter said, limping around to the driver’s side of the pickup to look at Allison. Although the timely deployment of the truck’s airbag had protected the girl’s tiny face, her blood-drenched shoulder made the officer physically ill. He clutched his forehead and cringed. “She’s still alive.”

“What about the boy?”

“He has a pulse.”

Along with three additional patrol units, Fire/Rescue descended upon the scene and proceeded to render assistance to the fallen assassins.

While Morgan rushed over to brief the other officers, Carter made his way to the side of the house. When the Sergeant returned he could see the anguish in the patrolman’s eyes.

“You’ve got to hold it together, Darius,” he told him. “If you’d hesitated, those paramedics would be treating you right now.”

“I let them kidnap my partner, Brent. She ordered me to take the shot, but Gunderson was using her for a shield. I just couldn’t risk hitting her.”

“What’s with your knee?”

“It’s just a little sore,” Carter said, looking around the property.

“Did you lose something?” Morgan asked.

“My unit is gone.”

“What?”

“I’m not kidding. The punks kidnapped Principal and stole our unit.”

Morgan headed back to the other officers with his radio in hand. “Nine-Eagle-Twenty to Dispatch,” he said. “Patrol unit 519 missing from the crime scene at 3619 Clover Street. The vehicle is believed to have been illegally appropriated by members of the street gang known as the Southside Cripplers.”

As Carter observed the Fire/Rescue professionals attend to Randy and Allison, he wondered what the next few hours would bring. He had too much respect for his family’s name to falsify a report. That meant putting the events of the morning in writing. It wouldn’t take Lieutenant Watson long to decipher the patrolman’s intentions during the altercation. So far, she’d gone out of her way to give her mentor’s nephew every reasonable concession. However, this time, the impulsive maverick may have drifted into waters too treacherous for her to help him navigate.

Carter spent the rest of the morning in the deputy chief’s office endeavoring to explain how a gang of teenage thugs managed to abduct a veteran patrol sergeant. Though no one would say it, the bewildered officer soon realized the brass didn’t believe his version of events. The last superior he had to convince was a cop he’d respected since childhood.

Lieutenant Watson was working at her desk when Carter appeared in the doorway. She looked tired and worried. It was a quarter past one and she hadn’t touched the plate of food on top of the microwave. This was one homicide investigation that had tested her mettle and everyone who knew her wondered whether or not she was going to emerge victorious.

“Come in, Darius,” she said, rising from her seat. “Sit down. I know you’ve had a busy morning.”

The nephew of Roosevelt Nelms had heard enough of his uncle’s stories to discern what that mild twitch in the Lieutenant’s eye meant. She was torn between loyalty and duty. The young man’s explanation of what happened to his partner was a hard pill to swallow.

“Have you heard anything about Allison and Randy?” Carter asked, taking a seat.

“Right now they’re in serious condition, but the doctors feel the prognosis is promising.”

“I shot a couple of teenagers, Lieutenant.”

“You actually shot one teenager. Randy was thrown from the back of the truck. Whether or not he’ll be able to walk again will be determined in the days to come.”

“If only I could have that moment back.”

“You would’ve done the same thing. The Cripplers wanted you dead. You had no choice. However, I am concerned about the way the incident occurred.”

“What do you mean?”

Watson picked up a file and sat on the corner of the desk in front of him. “You didn’t have to challenge the suspects the way you did,” she told him. “You could’ve taken cover inside the house until backup arrived.”

“There was obviously more than one option,” he admitted. “But I didn’t have time to analyze every possibility.”

“Was suicide one of the choices?”

Carter stood up and went to the window. “My partner had been abducted,” he said, staring down at the midday traffic. “No one believes I shot the perp at the old hardware store. I guess I thought biting the dust in a shootout would at least prove to my family that I’m not a loser.”

“How does your patrol unit play into all of this?”

“One of those punks must’ve stolen it while Principal and I were in the house. Has it been found?”

“Oh yes. A couple of patrolmen located it about a block away from the Donaldson residence. It was in the garage of an unoccupied rental property.”

“How much did the dash cam pick up?”

“The dash cam was gone.”

Carter leaned against the wall and groaned. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What’s going on here, Bess?” he asked. “Is someone trying to set me up?”

“I don’t know, stud,” she responded. “But I can tell you what the Mayor is suggesting.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“Blocker thinks you should be arrested and interrogated until you come clean.”

“Come clean about what?”

“It has been suggested that you may be the puppeteer controlling the Cripplers.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“There’s more. Lena’s gun was found in the bathroom.”

“That’s where Gunderson must’ve caught her by surprise.”

“There were no bullets in the chamber. Even if she’d had time to put up a fight, the boy could’ve killed her. What went on at that house, Darius?”

Carter stepped back to his chair and sat down. “Bess, you know as much as I do,” he told her. “The Sarge wanted to take a look at the crime scene.”

“Why?” Watson asked.

“She believed your endeavor to give us a break from the investigation was an unspoken reprimand. She thought we might stumble across something your detectives overlooked and restore our credibility with you.”

“In your report you stated the place had been cleaned.”

“That’s right. I went down the hall to one of the bedrooms. That’s when I heard what sounded like breaking glass.”

“A shattered drinking glass was found on the floor.”

“I had my weapon aimed at Gunderson, but he kept the Sarge in front of him. She ordered me to fire. Maybe I should have risked the shot.”

“You didn’t want to make a fatal mistake. No one can fault you for that.”

“What if my experience with Cal Weaver has made me ineffective? If that’s the case, my career is over.”

Watson approached the officer and put her hand on his shoulder. “You need someone to help you through this,” she said. “Dr. Gainer, the department psychiatrist, expects you to keep your 2pm appointment today. He knows how to help you confront your demons. Now I want you to go downstairs to your squad room and catch up on the paper work that keeps Inspector Holden on my back.”

Carter stood up and looked at Watson. “May I ask you something?” he inquired.

“Of course.”

“If the brass suspects me of being dirty, what made you feel comfortable enough to let me know?”

“I’ve known your family since I was a rookie and I believe you are just as devoted to justice as your uncle. I trust you, Darius. I know you won’t let me down.”

Anchoring her faith on the mores of an impetuous patrolman was a gamble Watson couldn’t afford to lose. Though it was out of character for the veteran investigator to take the side of an accused individual before all the evidence had been collected, she just couldn’t believe the nephew of Roosevelt Nelms would abandon the fundamental elements of law and order to line his pockets with dirty money. Informing the besieged officer of her superiors’ suspicions had put the Chief of Homicide in a precarious position. If the aspiring detective wasn’t playing it straight, the mayor would have both their heads on a silver platter.

Carter was well aware of the sword dangling above Watson’s head. He felt beholden to the compassionate mentor who’d gone out of her way to share what she knew with him. Even if it meant resigning, her virtuous student was going to do everything possible to protect the Lieutenant.

Half the patrolmen assigned to the first-floor squad room were out responding to dispatches when Carter stepped off the elevator. The bedlam around him made it evident that he wasn’t the only cop enduring a chaotic day. The desk sergeant was trying to field eleven telephone calls at once. Esteemed professionals in double-breasted suits were on the verge of hyperventilating as they placed calls to their attorneys. A towering woman with blood on her blouse boisterously declared her innocence while officers attempted to subdue her. Four teenagers who’d taken a joy ride in a stolen automobile sat contemplating their uncertain futures. Those fellows dancing around in togas and making shadow puppets on the wall should have just said no. Amid this madhouse of dispiriting depravity, Carter trudged to his desk and sat down. He was nursing a headache and the crackling of constant radio dispatches did little to improve his condition. Even the tempered drones of fax machines and copiers seemed louder than usual. Nevertheless, the peevish crime fighter was determined to find his partner. So he picked up the telephone receiver and prepared to call an informant who was bound to know where the Southside Cripplers had stashed an abducted cop, but before he could begin dialing, his cell phone rang. He couldn’t believe the name on the caller ID. It was Principal!

“Where are you, Sarge?” the elated officer inquired, only to be disappointed when he heard the despicable voice of Ramrod Hodges.

“Relax, tough guy,” the conceited gang leader advised. “Your partner is alive and well. We don’t want to hurt her.”

“Then why don’t you let her go?”

“We will if you cooperate.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple, Hercules. All you have to do is drive to the Chipola Bridge and wait for instructions.”

“This is crazy! What are you punks trying to pull?”

“I’ve already told you. When you get to the bridge, your partner will be waiting for you. If you do what we say, she’ll get in your car and the two of you can split. Don’t let her down, big man.”

The juvenile ended the call, but the patrolman tried to continue the conversation. “Hodges!” Carter exclaimed. “Don’t hang up on me. Hodges!”

Though he’d tried to keep his voice down, the officer realized a few heads were turning, so he put the cell phone away and tried to gather his thoughts. Carter knew he had to develop a fool-proof strategy before going anywhere near that bridge. Despite his flustered deportment, the weary law enforcement official had been around long enough to know when he was being lured into a trap. He didn’t know what to do. The time was 1:30pm. If he missed that appointment with Dr. Gainer, Lieutenant Watson would have him for breakfast. He thought about going back to Homicide and telling Watson about the call from Hodges, but he couldn’t be sure the Cripplers weren’t watching him. A blatant police presence was sure to get Principal killed. The safest move was to head for the Chipola Bridge.

Carter opened his lower left drawer and retrieved three clips. He was on his way out, when the telephone on his desk rang.

Reluctant to place the receiver to his ear, the officer answered. “Carter,” he said.

“Darius,” the caller said. “It’s Mud-flap Mackenzie. I’ve got something to tell you about Principal.”

As eerie as it sounded, Mackenzie was the informant Carter was about to call before Ramrod thwarted his plans.

Life hadn’t been very kind to Mud-flap. He’d spent the better part of his youth in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Though he was only forty-six, he could have easily been mistaken for a man several years older. Since his release in 2019, the diminutive hustler had spent most of his time soliciting handouts and hanging around places where potential employers were on the lookout for day laborers. His talent for being seen and not heard made him invaluable to cops who’d hit a brick wall in an investigation. Standing in a crowded mission at the end of his rope, this hungry derelict relayed the knowledge Carter needed to rescue his partner.

“What have you found out, Mud-flap?” Carter asked.

“The Cripplers have her stashed at some abandoned hardware store on North Street,” Mud-flap replied. “They’re going to leave her there when they go to the Chipola Bridge to take some cop out.”

“Did you learn anything else?”

“No, this information just happened to fall into my lap.”

“Alright…Thanks, Mud-flap. You may have saved two lives.”

“Ah…I don’t mean to be a pain, Darius, but I’m kind of strapped.”

“I’ll have something for you by the end of the week. Just keep your nose clean until you hear from me.”

“Thanks Darius.”

“Thank you,” Carter responded before hanging up.

The call from Mud-flap confirmed Carter’s suspicions. The Cripplers were planning to ambush him. Yet, despite that timely discovery, he still didn’t know how he was going to rescue his partner from the clutches of a violent street gang. His face was laden with trepidation. The committed pursuer had to get to North Street, but he didn’t want any other cops involved. CSI still had his patrol car and signing another one out meant letting the desk sergeant know where he was going. Utilizing his personal vehicle was the only solution. So he headed for the parking lot and sat down in the driver’s seat of his Impala LTZ. With his partner being held hostage and some of the city’s most sadistic criminals aching to take him out, Carter began his journey into the unknown.

The address on North Street sounded familiar, but it didn’t ring a bell until Carter was about a block away from his destination. The old hardware building at 6123 was the place where he shot a perp who seemed to vanish into thin air.

The officer remembered the hole in the fence behind the store. One of the suspects made his getaway through it the last time he and the Sergeant were there. So he took an adjacent street and parked his car in a vacant lot. As the husky beat pounder jogged toward the fence, it didn’t look as though he’d be able to get through the makeshift porthole, but with a few carefully executed movements he was able to manage.

Beneath the foreboding gloom of an overcast sky, Carter checked the time and took a moment to examine his surroundings.

The manicured tract of grass would make it easy for someone in the patrolman’s shape to safely reach the rear of that roach-infested eyesore. A green Cadillac was parked near the side entrance. Fortunately, the time was 2:44pm. The streets on this part of town were usually quiet until 4:00pm. Carter couldn’t predict what the Cripplers had in store for him, but he didn’t want to provoke a shootout while the sidewalks were flooded with unsuspecting pedestrians. Ramrod could have stationed a few of his gorillas close by to pick him off before he reached the hardware store. Doing what was necessary to free his partner involved a flurry of uncertainties. Nevertheless, the determined officer took his mark and sprinted toward the dilapidated structure.

When Carter’s feet struck the asphalt, he drew his weapon and took cover on the passenger side of the automobile. He didn’t see anyone hiding inside the recently waxed and detailed set of wheels. All four doors were locked and the temperature of the hood suggested no one had driven the car for a while.

Paying vigilant attention to his environment, Carter approached the side entrance convinced he was prepared to confront any surprises the Cripplers might throw at him. Yet, when he stepped inside, the startled patrolman discovered the building had undergone a transformation he never expected. Like the crime scene at the Donaldson residence, someone had come along and cleaned the forgotten temple of gloom. There wasn’t a scrap of garbage to be found. Even the walls reeked of bleach.

With the events of the last stand he’d taken at the store still fresh in his mind, Carter contemplated his next move. The absence of cluttered rubbish and broken glass made observing the entire back room achievable from the doorway. Regrettably, learning what was in the storeroom required a little more effort.

Flashes of Paul fisher lying on that filthy floor kept popping into the aspiring homicide investigator’s head as he reached out to turn the knob. After taking a deep breath, Carter snatched the door open and dropped to one knee with his weapon extended forward!

As he found the last time, the stagnant body of a rangy teenage boy was face-down on the floor. Carter recognized the juvenile. It was Randy Jefferson’s brother, Lenny. Uncertain of the boy’s condition, the officer took a few steps toward him and reached down to check for a pulse. That turned out to be a bad idea.

Without warning, Jefferson rolled over and staggered the patrolman with a punch in the mouth! Springing to his feet, the nimble thrasher ejected his hoodwinked opponent from the storeroom with a kick to the abdomen.
As Carter’s back hit the concrete floor, Jefferson advanced forth to continue his assault, but the resilient peace officer reclaimed his equilibrium and stifled the teenager’s enthusiasm with the business end of his nightstick. The assailant groaned in agony and fell to his knees. Had Licorice Lenny been the only hoodlum in the building, this painful ordeal would have been over in a matter of minutes. However, that wasn’t the way the Southside Cripplers played ball.

While Carter was attempting to place the handcuffs on Lenny’s wrists, Ramrod Hodges and Guttersnipe Gunderson came charging in like soldiers on a mission!

Quick to stand his ground, the instinctive cop clocked Guttersnipe with a quaking left hook. He then turned around to take a swing at Ramrod, but the street-savvy gang leader ducked and put the hulking scrapper on the canvas with a targeted right cross!

Guttersnipe cleared the cobwebs and subdued Carter with a full nelson. Ramrod belted his bruised and bleeding nemesis with a series of punches to the face. The fury in the eyes of this demented duo made their intentions clear. A few strategically distributed blows would end this man’s career. The anticipating executioner laughed out loud as he took hold of the policeman’s hair and prepared to finish him off. Consequently, neither Ramrod nor Guttersnipe realized how severely they’d underestimated their adversary.

With all his energy, Carter lifted his legs and planted both feet into Ramrod’s torso! The stunned perpetrator hit the floor like a sack of fertilizer. Continuing his offensive, the tenacious flatfoot kicked Guttersnipe in the shin and put him away with a fist to the solar plexus.

Instead of dashing out the side entrance, Carter decided to make his way through the store’s interior and beat a hasty retreat toward the main highway. He’d almost made it out when Ratboy Mendoza appeared from behind the counter! The wiry kung-fu dreamer somersaulted across the room and landed in front of Carter. Poised in his martial arts fighting stance, Ratboy charged his foe, intending to take him down with a flying kick. The move would have been devastating if the cop hadn’t dove to the floor. The disillusioned misfit soared past the adroit contender and went crashing through what was left of the storefront window! Mendoza didn’t appear to be critically injured, but he wouldn’t be launching anymore aerial assaults for a while.

Carter had gone toe-to-toe with four of the most vicious criminals in the Florida Panhandle. His vision was blurred and his face felt like ground chuck. The marred defender needed medical attention and he couldn’t afford to wait much longer. So using the counter’s edge for balance, he reached up and emerged erect.

Every bone in Carter’s body ached. He wasn’t sure what the future held for his fragile career. In the days to come, he’d be subjected to the cruelty and disloyalty of colleagues who would have risked their lives to save his a month earlier. Whispers and glares of contempt would soon darken his world like an impending thunder storm. Yet, despite the bleakness of his predicament, he was about to learn the only enemy more malicious than a friend turned traitor was an enormous brute with a score to settle. Judging from the smirk on Ox Patterson’s face, the sadistic crusher was really going to enjoy extracting the pound of flesh he’d come to collect.

The patrolman didn’t know how Patterson entered the structure and the lurid bruiser didn’t appear to be in the mood for twenty questions.

In his present condition, Carter was no match for an adversary the size of Ox Patterson. His best bet was to take the big man off his feet and hit the road. So wasting no time, he planted his fist into the gangbanger’s stomach and tried to take him down with a shoulder-block! Though it took all the strength the well-trained blue knight had, Patterson barely budged. Turning to make a run for it, the pummeled peace officer was caught before he reached the doorway.

Patterson wrapped his massive arm around Carter’s neck and proceeded to drag him outside with his back to the parking lot.

The vengeful hulk relished his day of reckoning. In fact, he was too involved to pay heed to the Brickhearst patrol unit that came to a screeching halt a few feet away.

Lieutenant Bess Watson opened the passenger side door and stepped out of the vehicle with her revolver in hand. “Let him go, Sasquatch!” she admonished. “You’ve already lost your hair; I’d hate for your head to be next.”

As three other units and Fire/Rescue descended upon the scene, Patterson released his victim and backed away with his hands up.

While officers secured the suspect, Watson rushed to Carter’s side. “Darius!” she exclaimed. “Can you hear me? Say something, kid.”

“Bess,” he muttered.

The paramedics strapped Carter to a gurney and hurried him into the ambulance. Even from a distance, the valiant patrolman could see one of his colleagues popping the trunk of that Cadillac near the side entrance. The expression on his face was very familiar. A body had been discovered. Carter could only pray it wasn’t his partner.


CHAPTER 12

Two days of X-rays, cat scans and reality television hardly constituted a trip to Brigadoon, but they made it possible for the doctors to conclude that Carter hadn’t suffered any major damage. The prognosis was excellent. That made the load on Lieutenant Watson’s shoulders a little lighter.

Watson entered Carter’s room a few minutes before breakfast. Although she was grateful to find him awake and lucid, the brace around his neck was rather menacing.

“How’s it going, champ?” she whispered. “Are they treating you alright in here?”

“I’m fine, Bess,” he said, touching the large bandage on his forehead.

“That’s good. How much do you remember?”

“I remember fighting with those punks. I also recall a lot of activity around the Cadillac.”

“That’s right. I suspected the Cripplers had left Lena’s slain body in the trunk.”

“Was she in there?”

“No, but we did find someone else. It was an informant named Mud-flap Mackenzie.”

Carter looked away and closed his eyes. “So it wasn’t a coincidence,” he said.

“What wasn’t a coincidence?” Watson inquired.

“After leaving your office, I received a call from Ramrod Hodges. He wanted to meet me at the Chipola Bridge. He promised to release Principal and let us leave.”

“It had to be a trap.”

“I was sure of it, but I didn’t want to pass up a chance to bring my partner back. A few minutes later, Mud-flap called and told me where they were holding the Sergeant.”

“At that old hardware store.”

“Right. With my suspicions confirmed, it never occurred to me that the Cripplers had hired my own informant to set me up. Now I’ve been beaten to a pulp and my partner is still missing.”

Watson stepped around to the other side of the room and sat down in a chair beside Carter’s bed. “None of this is your fault, Darius,” she said. “Your efforts have landed five members of the city’s most dangerous gang behind bars. They won’t be getting out for a very long time. However, there is something I don’t understand.”

“What’s that, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you call for backup?”

“I was afraid a blatant police presence might force Ramrod’s hand. By the way, how did you know where to find me?”

“Don’t tell me the Brickhearst Police Department’s rising star has forgotten the most beneficial tool at a detective’s disposal.”

“The GPS on my car.”

“Now you’re learning,” she said. The Lieutenant stood up when she heard the kitchen staff knock on the door with Carter’s breakfast. “I’m going to take off and let you eat, kid.”

“Thanks for dropping by, Bess,” Carter told her, as one of the ladies placed his meal on the over-bed tray and moved it closer to him. “The doctors tell me it shouldn’t take more than a week to recuperate.”

“Take all the time you need. I’ll be in touch.”

Although Watson was pleased her old friend’s nephew would be back on his feet in a few days, the weight of his present situation was getting harder to lug around. She’d known Carter since he was a child and she didn’t want to believe he was a dirty cop. Yet, the evidence kept gathering at his feet. No one could predict how it was all going to end.

At any rate, nothing was going to get sorted out until the patrolman returned. The guillotine was about to drop and Carter’s head was on the line. Nevertheless, the concerned murder maven was certain the light was about to prevail and expose the enemies of all that was sacred.


CHAPTER 13

True to his capricious nature, Carter didn’t wait until the end of the week to report for duty. Though he was compelled to pop the occasional pain pill or two, the uncompromising minion felt rejuvenated and fit. So he put on the uniform he cherished and drove to the police station believing he could touch the sun. Ironically, he wouldn’t have to travel quite that far to get burned.

The squad room was uncharacteristically quiet when Carter approached Lieutenant Watson’s office. He could see her mulling over a stack of documents. The Patrolman had become very familiar with the somber expression on his mentor’s face. He knew he was the cause of her anxiety. It was hard to fathom that anyone would suspect he’d take such a terrible beating to throw the authorities off his trail. Moreover, the evidence against him was mounting and he didn’t know how long it would take Mayor Blocker to convince his loyal protector that she’d been betting on the wrong stallion.

Carter tapped on the Chief of Homicide’s open door. “Lieutenant,” he said.

“Darius!” she exclaimed, standing up and walking around the desk to greet him. “Why aren’t you at home resting?”

“I feel well enough to come back to work. Besides, the State Attorney wants me to chronicle the events that occurred between me and the Cripplers at that old hardware store. She wants to make sure my personal account coincides with the initial report.”

“Sit down, tiger,” she told him, returning to her seat. “How did you get here?”

“I rented a car,” he explained, as he sat down. “The desk sergeant said CSI is still looking mine over.”

The hesitation on Watson’s face was unnerving. With her hand under her chin, she looked the officer in the eye. “Principal’s jacket was found in your car,” she said.

“I can’t tell you how it got there. The Sarge has never been in my car.”

“CSI also dusted the vehicle for prints. Lena’s were inside the trunk.”

Carter leaned back and folded his arms. “It’s a frame, Lieutenant,” he told her. “Anyone could have found a way to plant that jacket in my car.”

“And the prints?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a crafty grafter used some kind of trick to transfer a set of finger prints from one place to another.”

“That’s true, but I’m not sure the Chief will accept that answer.”

“What’s with the Chief?”

“The Mayor has ordered the Chief to take a personal interest in this case. Blocker wants you gone, Darius.”

The patrolman shook his head and grimaced. “What can I do?” he asked.

“Check with the desk sergeant. Let him know you’re only here to complete your paper work. Take a walk over to Dr. Gainer’s office before 2:00pm. Be honest with him and work out a schedule. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep every appointment. Is that clear?”
“Clear Lieutenant.”

“Most importantly, I need your report as soon as you can put it in my hands. I want to know everything that happened at that old hardware store. Even if I have left for the day, bring it to my house. Once all our ducks are in a row, we’ll confront Internal Affairs together. I want to help you, Darius. But you’ve got to meet me halfway.”

“I would never hurt a fellow officer, Bess.”

Watson was about to stand up when the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver. “Homicide,” she said. “Tom! How’s it going? Are you serious? That’s the best news I’ve heard all week….I’ll be there in forty minutes….Thanks Tom.”

It had been quite a while since Carter recognized that hint of jubilation on Watson’s face. Something wonderful must’ve happened. “What’s up, Bess?” he asked.

“That was Tom Sanders with the Department of Law Enforcement. They found Lena. She’s alive.”

“At least something good has come out of this insanity.”

“I’m on my way across town,” the Lieutenant said, on her way out. “Don’t forget what I said, Darius. One way or another, we’re going to get to the bottom of all this.”

If all Carter needed to restore his good name was a devoted friend with exceptional character, his conduct concerning the Donaldson investigation would never have been called into question. The besieged police officer appreciated how hard Lieutenant Watson was working to save his career. Nevertheless, he wasn’t about to sit back and watch the benevolent Chief of Homicide get consumed by the wall of fire encircling him. If it all came down to saving his career or protecting Watson, the valiant blue knight was more than ready to fall on his sword.
Though the physical pain that plagued Carter’s battered body limited his ability to concentrate, he managed to complete the mountain of paper work on his desk before noon. After having a burger at the café across the street, he contained his inhibitions and paid Dr. Gainer a visit. Their conversation lasted less than an hour, but the troubled policeman left the office believing the department psychiatrist could help him dispel the roots of his impulsive behavior. He’d taken the first step toward a new beginning. Now all he had to do was stay off the Mayor’s radar until Watson could clear his name.

Although bearing his soul to Dr. Gainer wasn’t easy, writing the report that portrayed his encounter with the Cripplers was traumatizing. Recounting an experience that came close to ending his life was like pouring salt on an open wound. Still, Carter understood his responsibility to the citizens of Brickhearst. He couldn’t allow the anguish of a personal ordeal to derail his commitment to justice. So the dedicated guardian of the innocent defied the mental strain and soldiered on. An hour and a half after shift-change, the report was ready for the Lieutenant’s perusal.

Like the Lieutenant had predicted, she was nowhere to be found when Carter clocked out. He wouldn’t be able to make it to her house before midnight, but she was adamant about seeing that report and the beleaguered whipping boy didn’t want to risk alienating the only ranking officer who still believed in him. So after filling the tank of his rental car at the nearest convenience store, he headed for Watson’s house.


CHAPTER 14

Certain detractors around town found it hard to believe Lieutenant Watson could afford a Sunbelt Style home on a cop’s salary. The low-pitch tile roof with its exaggerated overhangs kindled suspicions of shameless misconduct that made this brilliant crime fighter the talk of Wimberly Street. Through the eyes of vindictive neighbors, the strategically placed archways and covered patio provided the perfect setting for a cop on the take to entertain and influence the most prominent members of the community. Her most callous opposers would have been willing to forfeit a year’s pay to peer into those large windows and catch her in the act of bribery or extortion. Driven by a tidal wave of self-righteous indignation, these vicious accusers let their imaginations run wild with theories of payoffs and departmental corruption. As far as they were concerned, the Chief of Homicide was dealing from the bottom of the deck. Regrettably, none of them knew the real Bess Watson.

The authentic elements of the Lieutenant’s character could never be distinguished through the eyes of vindictive deprecators who preferred to lurk in the shadows and hurl their stones from a sheltered distance. Had any of them bothered to knock on her door, they would have discovered the reasons why this reclusive resident possessed the means to maintain her elaborate tastes. To a reasonable individual with pure intentions, the answer was evident. Moreover, they would’ve known why the price Watson had paid could never be calculated in dollars and cents.

The photographs atop the Shoal Creek chest with the Jomocha Wood finish chronicled this woman’s painful history from a somber corner of the living room.

The auburn-haired gentleman sitting on the hood of his brand-new Chrysler was her loving husband, Lloyd, whose life was cut short by a drunk driver. Although he’d made certain his family was taken care of, his passing shattered Watson’s world in a way from which she’d never recovered.

The pretty young brunette in the sailor’s uniform was Watson’s only child, Velda. At the age of nineteen, she joined the military with the fortitude of a charging bull and the credulity of a Pollyanna. When her life was taken in Iraq, the joy in her mother’s heart died with her.

A decade of keeping her daughter’s memory alive by donating to charitable causes and volunteering to help the needy hadn’t healed the pain, but it was comforting to reflect on the pride Velda would’ve had for the efforts her mother was making.

With the money she received from the insurance company and profitable investments her husband made, this city employee was able to enjoy an affluent lifestyle. For some, accepting what had happened and getting on with the business of living would have been enough, but the Lieutenant’s battleship of bereavement had yet to drop anchor in tranquil waters.

A Luna Mineral sofa and loveseat could be quite impressive. However, it was a poor substitute for the laughter that once echoed through the Watson home. Although Vintage Victorian lamps perched upon Coaster Evans Contemporary end tables enhanced the ambience of this elegant show place, the light paled in comparison to the gleam in Velda’s eyes. For years after their deaths, Watson spent half her nights pacing across her Saxony carpet and wondering how she was going to go on without her family. Triumphantly, with the passing of time, life became bearable again.

Even though it was easy for nosy neighbors to condemn this astounding survivor, taking a walk in her shoes would have brought the entire picture into focus.

It was close to midnight when Carter arrived at Lieutenant Watson’s house. He dreaded having to wake her at this hour, but to his surprise, the veteran investigator was parking her car in garage. After a long day of interviews and examinations, she’d taken Sergeant Principal across town for a late supper.

Beneath the glimmer of outdoor security lights, Principal immediately recognized her burly young partner. “It’s Carter!” she exclaimed, exiting the vehicle.

Carter killed the engine and stepped out of his car with a file in his hand. Unable to contain the euphoria of seeing Principal, the patrolman ran up and embraced her. “It’s good to have you back, Sarge!” he told her.

“Alright, Stud,” the Sergeant responded, patting him on the back. “I’m still in one piece.”

“If the two of you are finished,” Watson said, reaching into her pocket for the house key. “I’ll walk around and unlock the front door. It’s getting a little chilly out here.”

“It’s going to get worse,” Carter said, following the ladies. “The weatherman predicts sleet tomorrow.”

When the three of them entered the house, Carter switched on the lights.

It had been a grueling day for Sergeant Principal. She’d spent most of the afternoon with counselors, physicians and any other professionals the commissioner deemed relevant to her situation. Consequently, she was still wearing the department issue sweats she changed into at the police station.

“I’m sure glad this day is over,” Watson said, taking her gun belt off and approaching the staircase. Contrary to her methodical nature, the Lieutenant placed her holstered revolver on the nearest accent table.

“Are you always so conscientious?” Carter asked.

“Oh give me a break, TJ Hooker,” she responded. “I’m beat. Besides, we’re the only three in here. I believe the two of you are trustworthy.”

“You always were a maverick, Lieutenant,” Principal commented, flopping down on the sofa and removing her sneakers.

Carter could see the fatigue in his partner’s eyes. He didn’t want to compound her troubles, but a cloud of distrust hovered overhead and the desperate patrolman realized the sun wouldn’t shine again until Principal cleared the air.

“Sarge, did the Cripplers put you in the trunk of a car?” Carter asked.

“They kept me blindfolded most of the time,” she explained. “But I do remember being locked in a trunk once. I must have tried to push my way out of that thing for at least two hours. Eventually, I passed out.”

The disillusioned beat cop couldn’t make eye-contact with the Chief of Homicide. Though he’d played no part in Principal’s abduction, the former hostage had provided a feasible explanation for the fingerprints found in Carter’s car. He wandered over to the foot of the stairs and sat down.

Either unable or unwilling to engage the officer at that moment, Watson endeavored to change the subject. “I feel like something to drink,” she said. “How does hot chocolate sound?”

Principal sat up and looked in Carter’s direction. “Hot chocolate sounds great,” she said. “What do you think, kid?”

With a distant glare in his eyes, the patrolman shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “I don’t know what to think,” he muttered.

“We’ve all had a turbulent week, powerhouse,” the Sergeant said to Carter. “I got myself kidnapped. My ego led me right into a trap. I’ll have to sit home for a week.”

“Make that three weeks,” Watson told her.

“The doctor said I could return to work in a week,” Principal argued.

“I understand that,” the Lieutenant concurred. “But you’re suspended for two weeks.”

“Of course,” the Sergeant responded. “I should’ve guessed. That’s the way it goes. I knew better than to disobey a direct order. I don’t know what came over me. I just had to get a look at that crime scene.”

Watson was on her way to the kitchen when she suddenly remembered the last time someone mentioned the events that took place at the Donaldson residence. An expression of sheer dread swept over her countenance. “Darius, I’d like to see that report,” she said. “Join me in the kitchen, please. Lena, I’ll have something to warm you up in no time.”

“I certainly hope so,” Principal responded.

Carter entered the kitchen with the report in his hand. He was about to speak when Watson put two fingers to her lips and pointed toward the back door. As the officer stepped out into the midnight breeze, he observed the Lieutenant.

She filled a pot with water and sat it on the stove. After selecting the desired temperature, the distracted Chief of Homicide joined her colleague outside and closed the door behind her. “We don’t have much time,” she said.

“What’s going on, Bess?” Carter inquired.

“Do you remember when I asked Dr. Crawford not to discuss certain elements of the crime with anyone?”

“Sure.”

“Did you mention any part of that conversation to Lena or anyone else?”

“Of course not. What’s the deal, Lieutenant?”

“Do you have your cell phone with you?”

“Right here,” he said, removing the smart phone from the pouch on his belt.

Watson took a deep breath and squeezed his hand. “I want you to call Brent Morgan and tell him we need backup at this address,” she instructed.

“Why do we need backup?”

“Because I know who killed Paul and Bridgett.”

“Who?”

“Your partner.”

Carter wasn’t sure he heard what Watson said. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Did you just tell me that Lena Principal killed those kids?” he asked.

“Keep your voice down,” the Lieutenant admonished, retrieving a set of keys from her pocket. “We can’t let Lena know we’re on to her.”

“You’ve got to be mistaken, Bess,” Carter insisted. “You’re talking about an exceptional cop with a phenomenal record. This is crazy. You’ve known her for close to thirty years.”

“Don’t you get it, man? That woman killed two teenage kids and orchestrated the attempts on your life. The Lena I knew is gone. Now take these keys and head around back. The big key unlocks the sliding glass door. Walk through the laundry room and turn right. You’ll see the back stairs a few feet ahead. Once you’re on the second-floor, you’ll be able to hear everything Lena and I say in the living room. With two guns pointed at her, she’ll have to stand-down. Now keep your head. You’ll know when it’s time to move. I know it stinks, but it’s the only way, Darius. You’ve got to trust me.”

Carter placed the call to Sergeant Morgan and made his way around to the rear of the house. Although he had his doubts concerning Principal’s role in the deaths of Paul and Bridgett, experience had taught the loyal idealist the value of taking the Lieutenant’s instincts seriously. He knew it wasn’t the kind of accusation the Chief of Homicide would make without proof. Moreover, if her suspicions turned out to be correct, Watson would be compelled to expose the darkness that had overtaken her oldest and dearest friend. That was a responsibility no one wanted.
From the second-floor landing, Carter had a bird’s-eye view of the living room. The officer remained silent and stayed out of sight, as he watched the Lieutenant emerge from the kitchen with a Melamine serving tray. By this time, Principal had put her sneakers back on.

“Here you are, sister,” the Lieutenant said, placing the refreshments on the coffee table. “This ought to warm you up.”

“Where’s Carter?” Principal inquired.

“He’s in there mulling over that report. I’m not going to let him lose his job over a misplaced adjective.”

“After all these years, you’re still taking up for the underdog. No wonder so many cops respect and admire you.”

“Someone has to enlighten the next generation of heroes who think they can change the world with good intentions and a semiautomatic,” Watson responded, nonchalantly ambling toward the accent table where she’d left her sidearm.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan until Carter noticed the gun was missing. When the Lieutenant picked up the empty holster, the patrolman knew the cat was out of the bag.

“Looking for this?” Principal asked, rising from her seat with the revolver trained on her old friend. “Did you think I’d forgotten the look that comes over your face when you finally put it all together?”

“You don’t know how badly I wanted to be wrong this time. What happened, Lena? When did you decide to betray everything you once held sacred?”

“Oh, spare me your sanctimonious malarkey, Lieutenant. Even you can’t turn a blind eye to what’s happening out there. Angry people with big signs are walking around calling us murderers. The media’s having a field day. Entertainers are singing lyrics that vilify us. Look around you, super broad. It’s open season on flatfoots!”

“Is that what this is about for you? I can’t believe you killed two kids because you were offended. You’re the one who needs to look around. We live in an imperfect world. Everyone has to weather a little bad press at one time or another. This can’t be happening. You’re better than this.”

“Poor little Bess; you still think everything will fall into place if you do the best you can and treat everyone with respect. Well I’m tired of living in your fantasy world, girlfriend. The time comes when you have to take what you want and that’s exactly what I’ve learned to do.”

Watson was in a tight spot, but Carter had too much confidence in his resilient mentor to retreat into a frantic state of counterproductive mayhem. Moreover, he’d been around long enough to understand what the Lieutenant had to do.

Careful not to give herself away, the veteran homicide detective had to engage the Sergeant in conversation until her focus was toward the other side of the room. Once her back was to the staircase, Carter would be able to creep down and compel his partner to drop the gun. So he waited.

“I don’t know you anymore, Lena,” the Lieutenant said.

“You knew me well enough to finger me for two homicides,” the Sergeant responded, clinging to the handle of the weapon and adjusting her stance with every subtle move her captive made. “I’m curious. Where didI slip up?”

“You put on an excellent show when we questioned the Cripplers back at the station. You even had me fooled. But telling Lenny Jefferson he could be the next one lying on the floor spitting his teeth out was a monumental blunder.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You see, I asked Dr. Crawford not to reveal any specifics about the case. You couldn’t have known about Bridgett’s missing teeth, unless you were there when she was killed.”

Principal sighed and shook her head. “Everyone knew I was supposed to be at the academy,” she said. “With the difference in time zones, it was about a two-hour drive. Instead of staying at a nearby hotel, I checked into a roach motel on the outskirts of Tallahassee. Can you believe I stole a car? A state trooper could have pulled me over, but I wasn’t concerned. I can’t describe how invincible I felt. I finally had everything I wanted and I wasn’t about to let some stupid kid rain on my parade.”

“So you’re the adult who’s been taking care of business for the Cripplers.”

“That’s right, Lieutenant. After all the barroom brawls, abused children, hostage situations and shootouts, I found a way to make the criminals work for me. And it’s been a blast if I do say so myself.”

The disappointment on Watson’s face revealed a broken heart she’d take to her grave. “How could you do it?” She asked. “What kind of woman are you? You killed a teenage girl and drove back to the academy like nothing happened.”

“That’s exactly what I did,” the Sergeant confirmed. “I met three of the Cripplers at Bridgett’s house. Killing her wasn’t on the agenda. I just wanted to find out how much she knew about Paul Fisher and a PI named Chance Wolford.”

“You knew Paul was working for Wolford?”

“I had my suspicions. We roughed him up, but he refused to talk. I didn’t know about his heart condition.”

“So you killed Paul first.”

“I didn’t mean to, Bess. We were just going to make him tell us what he told Wolford. After that, we planned to shoot him up with heroin. Who was going to believe the ramblings of an addict?”

“Where did Bridgett fit into all of this?”

“One of the Cripplers saw her coming out of Chance Wolford’s office building. The plan was to frighten her into keeping her mouth shut, but she threw those morons around like rag dolls. Things were getting out of hand, so I took control. I must’ve hit her too hard. It wasn’t what I wanted, but the girl was dangerous. One of my bumbling road warriors stepped in a puddle of blood. It cost me a pretty penny to put all the Cripplers in new sneakers, but I couldn’t leave anything to chance. Just to be extra careful, I made sure Paul was wearing the bloody sneakers when his body was discovered.”

“You really know how to cover your tracks.”

“I was working double-time trying to stay a step ahead of you and the wonder boy. That’s why I tried so hard to get rid of him.”

“What do you mean?”

“That little drama at the abandoned hardware store was meant to drive him closer to the edge. At the very least, his version of the story should’ve gotten him suspended for a while.”

“I can’t believe this! You were trying to drive Darius insane.”

“It should have worked. I just misjudged the depth of your commitment to the great man’s nephew.”

“But if someone was actually shot, how did he get away?”

“Body armor. While Carter was coming to my aid, the bullet proof perp picked up a shell casing and hid out in one of those dilapidated buildings along the street. You were so concerned about the mental health of your conflicted protégé you didn’t even consider canvassing the area. You’ve got to admit that toy pistol was a stroke of genius.”

Watson took a step backward and placed her hand to her forehead. “This can’t be happening,” she lamented. “What happened to the idealistic rookie who had my back all those years ago?”

“She grew up, Bess,” Principal responded with a self-satisfied smirk. “The taxpayers of this fair city don’t concern themselves with our plight until some kid gets blown away. Sure, I tried to drive Carter crazy. He stood between me and the lifestyle I’d come to enjoy. He had to go.”

“You were willing to destroy a fellow officer so you could keep filling your pockets with tainted money. You’re rotten to the core. You even faked your own kidnapping.”

“I was sure your boy couldn’t get out of that one. I looked just as perplexed as he did when we entered the Donaldson home. It was an Oscar winning performance. A couple of the boys cleaned the place up before we arrived.”

“What was the purpose of that?”

“I thought it would mess with Carter’s head.”

“That’s why you cleaned up the old hardware store and destroyed the dash cams.”

“That plan should’ve worked. When Ramrod called him, I knew he’d be on-guard. That’s why I had Mud-flap Mackenzie call and tell him the Cripplers were keeping me at the store on North Street. We would’ve had him if you and the others hadn’t shown up.”

“What about Mud-flap?”

“Once he served his purpose, I put the poor lush out of his misery.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Yes, but I’m a rich monster. You can be rich, too. Come on, Bess. We can share the wealth. Pack a bag and let’s get out of here. We’ll be in Mexico by morning.”

Realizing the Lieutenant had maneuvered his partner’s attention away from the staircase; Carter moved into position and took aim. “Drop that gun, Sarge,” he admonished. “No one has to get hurt.”

“So that was your plan,” Principal said to Watson. “You’re still the same old sly fox who took on six hired guns twelve years ago. Of course, one would be tempted to presume you’d forgotten how good I am with a gun.”

“Nobody’s that good, Lena,” Watson told her.

“Are you willing to bet the big man’s life on it?” the Sergeant asked.

“It’s over, old friend,” the Lieutenant declared. “Put the gun down and give it up.”

An expression of reflective contrition replaced the defiant scowl on Principal’s face. She stepped toward the accent table and laid Watson’s weapon down. The subtle glimmer in the Lieutenant’s eye suggested she recognized a trace of the light that used to fortify her misguided confidant’s heart. Carter was relieved he didn’t have to fire on the Sergeant. He holstered his sidearm and leaned on the banister. Lowering his guard in that kind of situation was a mistake the young officer would never make again.

With methodical precision, Principal raised the leg of her sweatpants and produced a .32 caliber revolver! The cornered patrolman attempted to take cover, but it was too late. The maniacal murderess discharged a round into his torso!

Carter fell to his knees and lost consciousness, as he tumbled down the stairs.

“Darius!” Watson shouted, rushing to the aid of her wounded protégé. She unzipped his jacket and placed her ear to his chest. He’s still alive.” Carter’s cell phone was on the floor beside him. The Lieutenant was about to pick it up when she heard Principal pull the hammer of her revolver back.

“Don’t even think about it,” the Sergeant told her. “You’re not calling anyone until I’m miles away from here.”

Watson stood up and peered at her old friend like it was the first time she’d ever seen her. “Is this what it’s all come to?” She asked. “I can’t believe you’d let a fellow officer die so you can make your getaway.”

“I don’t have a choice. You can dial 911 once we’re on the road.”

“What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you? You’re a disgrace to the badge. An animal would have more compassion. Did killing those kids make you feel like something special?”

“Shut up, Bess!”

“Or what?” the seasoned homicide detective responded, as she made a second attempt to retrieve Carter’s phone.

Fear and desperation marred the Sergeant’s countenance. “Don’t do it, Bess,” she admonished with her weapon trained on the woman who’d loved her like a sister for nearly three decades. “I don’t want to kill you, but I will.”

“What happened to you Lena? When did you stop caring? We’ve been through so much. Sift through the darkness that has overtaken your heart. I can’t believe every trace of that young spitfire I remember is gone. You still know what’s right.”

Lieutenant Watson had taken too much for granted. When she picked up Carter’s phone and proceeded to dial, Principal pulled the trigger!

Realizing what she had done, the Sergeant dropped the gun and hastened to her fallen comrade’s side. She knelt and cradled Watson’s head in her arms. “Bess!” she cried. “I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry. Please don’t die.”

It had taken the demise of the person she loved more than her own life to rescue Principal from the depth of greed and selfishness that distorted her ability to distinguish what was truly valuable. The terrifying wail of converging patrol units made no impression on the broken woman who’d ended the life of a loyal and respected heroine. She just sat there rocking and sobbing, as she cradled the Lieutenant’s head.

Sergeant Brent Morgan kicked in the front door and entered the residence with his .45 automatic in hand! The veteran flatfoot had witnessed violence in its cruelest forms, but the carnage he encountered in that living room shook him to the core. He saw Carter lying at the bottom of the stairs. After collecting the revolver on the accent table and the one on the floor, he examined his wounded young colleague. “Nine-Eagle-Twenty,” he said. “I have a 429 at 6123 Wimberly Street. Two officers down; crime scene secure.” The Sergeant took Carter’s arm and helped him sit up. “What happened here, young blood?”

Barely conscious and wracked with pain, the injured patrolman struggled to speak. “Bess figured out that Principal was the adult who ran interference for the Cripplers,” he said. “She killed Paul and Bridgett.”

Before Carter could continue, he passed out.

“Darius!” Morgan exclaimed, tapping the officer’s face. “Stay with me, man.”

Principal hadn’t stopped rocking and muttering to herself since Sergeant Morgan forced his way in. The compassionate beat cop reached down and attempted to take her hand, but she vehemently opposed him.

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted. “Bess and I are going to Mexico. We’re going to clean out our bank accounts and buy a big house. She’ll be alright. I can always count on my best friend. She and I are closer than sisters. So you just stay back and leave us alone.”

Taking care not to upset Principal further, Morgan touched Watson’s neck, praying the wounded detective was still alive, but it was too late.

Morgan realized it would take someone more qualified than he to help Principal come to terms with her actions and confront the enormity of what she had done. In the meantime, she’d have to remain a prisoner inside her own mind, as everyone who loved Bess Watson struggled to understand how such a committed officer of the law could forsake the love and virtue that gave her life meaning, only to end up losing everything.


M.C. BECHUM

Denise Arnault

07/19/2024

Either you are a great researcher or you have lots of experience in law enforcement. You really captured the everyday life of the subject. Great story! I could not stop till the end.

Either you are a great researcher or you have lots of experience in law enforcement. You really captured the everyday life of the subject. Great story! I could not stop till the end.

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MC BECHUM

07/22/2024

Thank you, Denise;
It really means a lot to know you enjoyed the story. Best wishes.

M.C. BECHUM

Thank you, Denise;
It really means a lot to know you enjoyed the story. Best wishes.

M.C. BECHUM

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